Pastor Moses 04/02/2011
When I came to Ghana on a trip in January of 2009, I met this pastor named Moses. When I heard his story it was like something out of a book on great heroes of the faith. Later, I saw a copy of his own version of his story that the Nichols posted on facebook and sent out in an email. This past weekend we spent a few hours with Pastor Moses and members of his family and I wanted to share about it. First I have copied and pasted that testimony below.
“I was formally known as Musah Mohamadu was born as a Moslem and received Islamic training and completed the Quran at the age of twelve years.
One night in 1997 as a prayer meeting was going on at the church in my area, I heard a still small voice telling me to go into His house. I thought it was Satan, so I started rebuking it . I kept hearing the voice over and over and hurried to the church and asked for repentance. The following Sunday would be the first time I would ever go to a service. During the service an angry mob showed up that had been organized by my father. They beat me and dragged me to my father. He told them to kill me and he took out a cutlass (machete) and cut my feet.
I still went to church the following Sunday and when I arrived home all of my things in my room were burned. My father summoned the family and told them that I was not his child any longer and they drove me out of the house.
I settled in Bawku because the Christians in my village were too frightened of my father and wouldn’t help me. A retired pastor treated me and encouraged me in Bawku.
December 31rst I was attacked again by men my father had sent. I was beaten, killed and taken for burial. They dug a hole, not a grave, and buried me there but fortunately an old lady reported them to the military so I was take out from the hole and taken to the hospital so they could pronounce me dead. The retired pastor prepared a coffin and everything for my burial. When they came to take my body from the mortuary they saw that my fingers were moving. They immediately took me to the hospital. I survived. After I was released from the hospital I was attacked again. This time my father told the men to blind me so then I would become a Muslim again because I would need to beg for Alms outside the Mosque. They beat me and I was taken to the hospital. I was declared N.P. L. (no perception of light) or legally blind. I couldn’t see and it seemed my father’s plan had worked. The retired pastor took me back to my father’s house and left me. I was like that for an entire year (2002). Laid up in my room. I prayed and prayed for a miracle. Then one night while Moslem leaders were there reading to me and teaching me from the Q’uran, I heard that still small voice again. I head it say that he was going to use what happened to me for good. I did regain my sight in December of 2002. The same retired pastor that had taken care of me before took care of me again. He said that God had a calling on my life. I was accepted into Northern Ghana Bible College and graduated in 2006.
Currently I am pasturing in Dabia A/G with struggles for survival of my family. There was no good drinking water, no clinic, and no food until God raised another Man of God who is moved by divine guidance to the aid of Dabia community and provided a clean drinking “pump” for us. He is in the person of Rev. Nichols and the family.
In all these things what then shall I say? If God is with me who can be against me? “
By Pastor Moses Delma Mohamadu .
Through circumstances which I will not detail, Pastor Moses, his wife Rachel and their little daughter, Florence are not currently in Dabia. The place we met Pastor Moses this past weekend was in a village called Widana. It is the village where he grew up. His father’s immediate and extended family comprises most of the residence of the small village from what I could see. The village is approximately 98% Muslim. I use this percentage as a guess. Pastor Moses pointed out the only 2 households besides his own that were Christian. Although there is an Assemblies of God church just outside of the village that is mentioned in the story above (we did not walk that far). As we walked through the village, we counted 4 mosques all within short walking distance (even by U.S. standards) of each other. Later in the day, Moses told us that there were 4 because they were each different sects. It made me think of all the churches I would drive by on a Sunday morning in the U.S. just to get to my church. This village may be almost totally Muslim but not all the same. I don’t know how this village played out but I have seen here in Ghana that there are sects were women not only participate in the prayers but lead the calls to prayer. Many Muslim women are not even required to cover their heads--this seemed to be true of the women related to Pastor Moses. We did walk by a women who was completely covered head to toe in black. Her face was completely veiled--not even her eyes were showing. This is the setting where the story above played out.
This is the moment I find myself thinking things like, “Wow! I get to see in real life something you only hear in missionary stories! . . . Oh my word! I am a missionary! I am the one that is going to tell this story!” At this point, I have been in Ghana almost 6 months. I wonder how long it will be until I actually get it.
The day was incredible! The women were sweet and welcoming even though most of them couldn’t understand a word we said or vice versa. The children were shy and beautiful. I just wanted to pick up every one of them and hug them tight if I could ever convince them to stop hiding behind their mother’s skirts. We were led to a place outside under a thatch canopy. Under it was a plank set on two stumps to serve as a bench, another stump a couple of resin chairs and a small cushioned bench that looked like something you would find on someone’s screened-in porch in the U.S. The cushioned bench was obviously a seat of honor and was offered to Garret and Kelly. They had place one of the resin chairs right next to it and offered it to me. We sat and talked with Pastor Moses and Rachel as mostly women and children crowded around. We were able to talk freely as we were speaking in English although we were frequently interrupted by people from the village wanting to come and greet the white people visiting. Rachel was trying to teach us the typical response to their standard greeting. I’m not sure we ever got it quite right but they seemed to appreciate our efforts at trying. The part we did get because it seemed true throughout the North is that as you greet the people, you take their hand and bow, trying to drop you head lower than the other person’s. In fact I have seen people greeting someone they greatly respect, crouch all the way to the ground when greeting them. I like this because as soon as it is over those greeting each other behave immediately like equals. They rise up from out of their bowed position and begin talking like old friends (depending on the situation, of course). I will admit it was a little different with us because they were coming to look at us. So, they would greet us and then stand around observing what was going on. While all of this was going on, Pastor Moses was telling us many things. I listened intently and tried not to stare to hard at the scars I could see on his face and feet. I wondered how many more scars there were to see. He is a tall man and stands above most anyone you meet here in Ghana. As discreetly as I could, I angled my camera and snapped a picture of him from my chair beside him so as not to interrupt his story (the pic. at the top). He pointed out a thin white tree several feet from where we were sitting. He told us that he planted that tree over his own grave. There, in the place where death was supposed to reign was instead a growing, living tree (pictured at the bottom). I wondered what his father must think to see that tree there every day. Then, I met him. You never expect to meet the villains from the stories you hear. Thanks in part to Disney, you half expect if you ever do meet them, they will be dark and evil looking and dressed in a heavy cloak--maybe even laughing an evil laugh. Moses’ father was just a man like any other man I have met here in Ghana. In fact, he had a pleasant face and wrinkles that seemed to show that he has smiled often in his life. As I took his hand and bowed in greeting, I had no idea what to think. He sat down on the stump and we continued our conversation. Since he was facing away from me (which I just realized meant he had his back to his son), I was able to observe him a little in profile. At one point he was playing with one of his grandchildren, half tickling her and making her smile. Since we did not speak the same language, no words were exchanged. I was struck by the fact that this man was much smaller in build than his son and wondered where Pastor Moses got his height and broad shoulders. Later when Rachel pointed out that one of the women we had already met was his mother, we saw where it came from--she is a tall woman.
As we left that day, I hugged Rachel tight. I realized they were in a dangerous situation living there in Widana and I vowed to pray for them. I smiled, shook hands and bowed to everyone I could as we left. They brought us a large amount of onions as a gift. Since onions have become so expensive where we live and they are a common crop in the North, we were grateful. Though it still kills me a little when these people we meet, who have nothing want to give gifts to us who have everything. That night I wrote emails to people asking them to pray. I was and am concerned for the safety of this family. One of the precious ladies that I wrote to sent me back this reminder and prayer.
“The Lord prepares a table for him in the midst of the enemy. His cup runneth over. He anoints his head with oil. Surely goodness an mercy will follow Moses and his family all the days of his life and he will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
Our God is greater and love WILL conquer.
May any evil that is plotted against this family be repelled by the shield of faith and turn back upon the one sending it such that the people are filled with a fear of the true God.”
When you think of me and are praying for the work that is being done here, pray for Pastor Moses, his wife Rachel and their daughter Florence. Pray for his father! Pray for his family! Pray for the village of Widana!
“I was formally known as Musah Mohamadu was born as a Moslem and received Islamic training and completed the Quran at the age of twelve years.
One night in 1997 as a prayer meeting was going on at the church in my area, I heard a still small voice telling me to go into His house. I thought it was Satan, so I started rebuking it . I kept hearing the voice over and over and hurried to the church and asked for repentance. The following Sunday would be the first time I would ever go to a service. During the service an angry mob showed up that had been organized by my father. They beat me and dragged me to my father. He told them to kill me and he took out a cutlass (machete) and cut my feet.
I still went to church the following Sunday and when I arrived home all of my things in my room were burned. My father summoned the family and told them that I was not his child any longer and they drove me out of the house.
I settled in Bawku because the Christians in my village were too frightened of my father and wouldn’t help me. A retired pastor treated me and encouraged me in Bawku.
December 31rst I was attacked again by men my father had sent. I was beaten, killed and taken for burial. They dug a hole, not a grave, and buried me there but fortunately an old lady reported them to the military so I was take out from the hole and taken to the hospital so they could pronounce me dead. The retired pastor prepared a coffin and everything for my burial. When they came to take my body from the mortuary they saw that my fingers were moving. They immediately took me to the hospital. I survived. After I was released from the hospital I was attacked again. This time my father told the men to blind me so then I would become a Muslim again because I would need to beg for Alms outside the Mosque. They beat me and I was taken to the hospital. I was declared N.P. L. (no perception of light) or legally blind. I couldn’t see and it seemed my father’s plan had worked. The retired pastor took me back to my father’s house and left me. I was like that for an entire year (2002). Laid up in my room. I prayed and prayed for a miracle. Then one night while Moslem leaders were there reading to me and teaching me from the Q’uran, I heard that still small voice again. I head it say that he was going to use what happened to me for good. I did regain my sight in December of 2002. The same retired pastor that had taken care of me before took care of me again. He said that God had a calling on my life. I was accepted into Northern Ghana Bible College and graduated in 2006.
Currently I am pasturing in Dabia A/G with struggles for survival of my family. There was no good drinking water, no clinic, and no food until God raised another Man of God who is moved by divine guidance to the aid of Dabia community and provided a clean drinking “pump” for us. He is in the person of Rev. Nichols and the family.
In all these things what then shall I say? If God is with me who can be against me? “
By Pastor Moses Delma Mohamadu .
Through circumstances which I will not detail, Pastor Moses, his wife Rachel and their little daughter, Florence are not currently in Dabia. The place we met Pastor Moses this past weekend was in a village called Widana. It is the village where he grew up. His father’s immediate and extended family comprises most of the residence of the small village from what I could see. The village is approximately 98% Muslim. I use this percentage as a guess. Pastor Moses pointed out the only 2 households besides his own that were Christian. Although there is an Assemblies of God church just outside of the village that is mentioned in the story above (we did not walk that far). As we walked through the village, we counted 4 mosques all within short walking distance (even by U.S. standards) of each other. Later in the day, Moses told us that there were 4 because they were each different sects. It made me think of all the churches I would drive by on a Sunday morning in the U.S. just to get to my church. This village may be almost totally Muslim but not all the same. I don’t know how this village played out but I have seen here in Ghana that there are sects were women not only participate in the prayers but lead the calls to prayer. Many Muslim women are not even required to cover their heads--this seemed to be true of the women related to Pastor Moses. We did walk by a women who was completely covered head to toe in black. Her face was completely veiled--not even her eyes were showing. This is the setting where the story above played out.
This is the moment I find myself thinking things like, “Wow! I get to see in real life something you only hear in missionary stories! . . . Oh my word! I am a missionary! I am the one that is going to tell this story!” At this point, I have been in Ghana almost 6 months. I wonder how long it will be until I actually get it.
The day was incredible! The women were sweet and welcoming even though most of them couldn’t understand a word we said or vice versa. The children were shy and beautiful. I just wanted to pick up every one of them and hug them tight if I could ever convince them to stop hiding behind their mother’s skirts. We were led to a place outside under a thatch canopy. Under it was a plank set on two stumps to serve as a bench, another stump a couple of resin chairs and a small cushioned bench that looked like something you would find on someone’s screened-in porch in the U.S. The cushioned bench was obviously a seat of honor and was offered to Garret and Kelly. They had place one of the resin chairs right next to it and offered it to me. We sat and talked with Pastor Moses and Rachel as mostly women and children crowded around. We were able to talk freely as we were speaking in English although we were frequently interrupted by people from the village wanting to come and greet the white people visiting. Rachel was trying to teach us the typical response to their standard greeting. I’m not sure we ever got it quite right but they seemed to appreciate our efforts at trying. The part we did get because it seemed true throughout the North is that as you greet the people, you take their hand and bow, trying to drop you head lower than the other person’s. In fact I have seen people greeting someone they greatly respect, crouch all the way to the ground when greeting them. I like this because as soon as it is over those greeting each other behave immediately like equals. They rise up from out of their bowed position and begin talking like old friends (depending on the situation, of course). I will admit it was a little different with us because they were coming to look at us. So, they would greet us and then stand around observing what was going on. While all of this was going on, Pastor Moses was telling us many things. I listened intently and tried not to stare to hard at the scars I could see on his face and feet. I wondered how many more scars there were to see. He is a tall man and stands above most anyone you meet here in Ghana. As discreetly as I could, I angled my camera and snapped a picture of him from my chair beside him so as not to interrupt his story (the pic. at the top). He pointed out a thin white tree several feet from where we were sitting. He told us that he planted that tree over his own grave. There, in the place where death was supposed to reign was instead a growing, living tree (pictured at the bottom). I wondered what his father must think to see that tree there every day. Then, I met him. You never expect to meet the villains from the stories you hear. Thanks in part to Disney, you half expect if you ever do meet them, they will be dark and evil looking and dressed in a heavy cloak--maybe even laughing an evil laugh. Moses’ father was just a man like any other man I have met here in Ghana. In fact, he had a pleasant face and wrinkles that seemed to show that he has smiled often in his life. As I took his hand and bowed in greeting, I had no idea what to think. He sat down on the stump and we continued our conversation. Since he was facing away from me (which I just realized meant he had his back to his son), I was able to observe him a little in profile. At one point he was playing with one of his grandchildren, half tickling her and making her smile. Since we did not speak the same language, no words were exchanged. I was struck by the fact that this man was much smaller in build than his son and wondered where Pastor Moses got his height and broad shoulders. Later when Rachel pointed out that one of the women we had already met was his mother, we saw where it came from--she is a tall woman.
As we left that day, I hugged Rachel tight. I realized they were in a dangerous situation living there in Widana and I vowed to pray for them. I smiled, shook hands and bowed to everyone I could as we left. They brought us a large amount of onions as a gift. Since onions have become so expensive where we live and they are a common crop in the North, we were grateful. Though it still kills me a little when these people we meet, who have nothing want to give gifts to us who have everything. That night I wrote emails to people asking them to pray. I was and am concerned for the safety of this family. One of the precious ladies that I wrote to sent me back this reminder and prayer.
“The Lord prepares a table for him in the midst of the enemy. His cup runneth over. He anoints his head with oil. Surely goodness an mercy will follow Moses and his family all the days of his life and he will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
Our God is greater and love WILL conquer.
May any evil that is plotted against this family be repelled by the shield of faith and turn back upon the one sending it such that the people are filled with a fear of the true God.”
When you think of me and are praying for the work that is being done here, pray for Pastor Moses, his wife Rachel and their daughter Florence. Pray for his father! Pray for his family! Pray for the village of Widana!
