I arrived safely in Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of Congo (formerly Zaire) on Thursday night (May 10). As I stepped through the cabin door to leave the aircraft, the equatorial night air slapped me in the face like a towel soaked in hot water. There was no jet-way through which passengers entered the terminal. Instead, we snaked our way through a “parking lot” of aircraft that more resembled an airplane graveyard than the arrival point at an international airport. Just after deplaning I was greeted by a man who waived a small blue piece of paper to get my attention. He pointed to my image on the small handbill and pressed a cell phone to my ear so I could hear “Doctor, go with this man.”

My escort accompanied me as I cleared Immigration, then navigated me through the press of bodies at the terminal exit door—men vying to be my taxi driver, children offering cigarettes and other items for sale, uniformed policemen carrying sub-machine guns. I was whisked into a side room where Pastor Obese Israel greeted me in French. Among the people in this crowded room were other travelers waiting for luggage, clusters of people talking with one another while they mopped perspiration from their foreheads, and a host of pastors who came to welcome me to their nation. I was humbled and honored that they would go to the trouble to come.

After initial introductions, I asked for the quickest of language lessons so that I could say “hello, thank-you, nice to meet you, and God bless you” in Lingala (the native language spoken here). I was then led to a truck in which we made an hour-and-a-half journey to cover the few miles to where I would be staying. My host family was a part of one of the churches. Following a late-night meal of local foods shared with the pastors, we prayed together for Father's purposes during our time in this war-torn city.

One of my first impressions as we drove from the airport was the lack of infrastructure. Very few dwellings appeared to have electricity. The roadway was pockmarked with gaping holes that could swallow automobiles. The resulting traffic pattern looked like drivers and pedestrians were engaging in a rhythmic free-form dance where they would flow together—then apart—each seeming to know exactly where they should be without colliding with the other.

Note the “bullet wounds” on the administration building of the Open University in this photo.

These impressions were reinforced throughout the two weeks I lived and ministered among the people of Kinshasa. Open sewers seemed to be the standard in the city. Massive piles of garbage and dirt lined many of the streets, and people tended gardens where they had flattened the tops of the piles and planted vegetables. One day I observed an old man bending over one of the open-ditched sewers to harvest thumb-sized leaves of a plant that were destined to become either his evening meal or a food item to be sold to make a little money.

On Friday and Saturday I was interviewed on two television stations. The first Sunday I preached in a local church in the morning, “lectured” to an English club at the University in the afternoon, and in the evening preached the first meeting of a convention for pastors, leaders, and other believers here in Kinshasa. On the following morning I spoke to students and faculty at Universitie Theologique Asico, then preached again Monday night.

Each day I saw more hungry hearts—whether they were in the morning sessions of the pastors’ conference, schools of theology, or evening mass meetings. And in each moment of ministry, Father worked in marvelous ways.

During the second night meeting, a crowd of over a thousand spilled out of the building and into the street where loudspeakers carried the message beyond church. But imagine that the “building” has only three and a half walls, is powered by a generator, and the metal roof sits almost four feet above the top of the walls. Speakers and benches are already set up half way into the street, which the previous night had been a sea of mud following a torrential downpour.

After I preached from Hebrews 12:1-4, many in the crowd raised their hands when I gave the invitation for people to be saved. I hesitate to offer a number, but it was more than I easily could estimate. Even as I write this tears of gratitude for God’s goodness fill my eyes again.

The remaining days of ministry became a whirlwind of events—from street meetings to Sunday worship in primitive buildings.  I witnessed wonderful outpourings of Father's love. The open hearts and joy of the beautiful Congolese people stood in stark contrast to the disease and poverty-ridden neighborhoods where these meetings took place.

The last Friday night the pastor asked me to pray for the sick. Men, women and children lined up for over an hour to have me pray for them. Sunday morning when this pastor asked if someone had anything to share, a mother tearfully testified to her baby being healed after I prayed for him. Through the interpreter

I understood that the baby had a deformed neck that caused great pain, but now the protrusion is gone, the baby's neck is straight, and the child has no more pain. Another woman testified of a healing in her legs and feet with the pain completely gone and total freedom of movement. It was a wonderful joy to be able to celebrate with the Church these special tokens of God's grace. I also rejoice because at every meeting people accepted Christ and had life-changing encounters with the love of God.

Heaven alone will reveal all that the Lord Jesus did during the two weeks of ministry in the DRC. And you—through your prayer support, encouragement, and financial gifts to Impact Ministries—have been a significant part of the team effort to minister to the people of Democratic Republic of Congo. Thank you for standing with me in what the Lord Jesus has called me to do.