The Great American Cowboy
09/2008
Cowboy Mike
Growing up in the 1950’s in Southern California was close to paradise. The weather, the ocean, the innocence of the 1950’s, the promise of the American dream for everyone, the nucleus of the intact family–all made for a sense of security and enjoyment while everyone went about his or her school, work, or leisure. California Dreaming.
In that decade the heroes appeared before me every night in black and white, and finally, in color, because most middle class Americans discovered the excitement of the Television. The programs included variety shows like Ed Sullivan, Perry Como, Andy Williams, Jackie Gleason and others. There were captivating family shows like Father Knows Best, Ozzie and Harriet Nelson, the Donna Reed Show, Leave it to Beaver, and many others.
But for a kid in his early years there was nothing as captivating as the Western hero. I saw them all: Have Gun will Travel, Tombstone Territory, Wyatt Earp. The Rifleman, Bonanza, Johnny Yuma, Bat Masterson, Wanted Dead or Alive, and others. I dreamt about them. I bought the toy guns that were replicated. And I anticipated the weekly shows with eagerness. I rehearsed their impressive exploits and I imagined myself in their shoes, or boots, as it were. I wanted to be an American cowboy hero.
Two shows in particular inspired me:
Rawhide. Wow. Each week there were the challenges from the Native Americans, ok, I’ll let down–indians, the cattle rustlers, the gunslingers, and more. I watched, glued to the set as my hero made the right decisions, basically when to fight, and how to fight. Clint Eastwood as Rowdy Yates became a fan favorite. But the leader of the cattle drive was the man I watched. The man I imagined myself to be: Gil Favor. He wore the cool leather chaps, had the chiseled face, steely eyes, the right rigid demeanor–slow to anger, observing everything, a man of few words, and, ah, the leader everyone looked to.
The vigilant, watchful Gil Favor, was my first role model.
Then a new kind of western hero emerged in a series called Maverick. Bret Maverick, James Garner, was not only a cowboy, but a funny one who could also fight. He was well dressed, classy, but most significantly, funny. His wise alec remarks to the common cowboy, his playfulness with even the most grizzled villain, made Maverick exciting to watch. While he played, he overcame. While he engaged evil, he had fun. Ah, Maverick. The cowboy as hero.
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So, now, here I am 5 decades later processing the great American hero in a land in need of heroes. And I don’t know how much they know about cowboys.
There are no indians, no cattle rustlers, and no villains that are clearly marked.
But a different kind of adversity. There is disease, poverty, unemployment, domestic violence, drugs, prostitution, alcolholism, witchcraft, tribal ancestry worship, resentment, unforgiveness, and rage. Percolating below and above the surface.
I have discovered that there is no place for heroes that I am used to.
But there is a place for an advocate. An advocate is someone who commits to helping someone.
Recently, each of our house churches were matched up with 5 families who lost everything in a horrible fire. Some young kids started a fire for a thrill and it wiped out thousands of acres and destroyed 75 shanties. But for those who lived in them: homes. We arrived the day after the fire to help.
The city municipality provided (3) 3 X 10 pieces of sheet metal for roofing and 4-6 wood posts. The idea was to rebuild using the charred metal and whatever could be salvaged from the former home. I saw the burned mattresses the charred ceramics, decimated wires and containers of things that 24 hours ago were their entire belongings.
To build with the limited amount of tools we had (shovels and rakes) took time. We had to pound through layers of small rock and sand to dig a hole for a post.
We targeted 2 separate single ladies first. It took us a week to just clear, dig, and reconstruct. Our CPx group of 65 individuals donated funds to buy more building materials so that we could enclose their lean-to’s into meager dwellings. All of them had dirt floors.
Then at the end of the first week someone told me that Themba (pronounced Temba) was asking for me. Great, I thought. We had forgoten Themba in our focused plan. He was in a different section of the camp. I felt guilty that I had not seen Themba. What limited time we did have we used to fix the 2 ladies’ homes first.
But his name came up again. Yesterday I went looking for Themba to let him know that I had not forgotten him, but our time, and resources were limited, but we would try to help him. I walked across the sandy areas filled with burnt trees and shrubs, over knolls, side stepping trash, debris of all kinds, wires, rocks, and tree roots. Themba’s neighborhood. Along way from paradise. Then we arrived at what was Themba’s site.
I was with another young man who was on our team. Several people near his site (neighbors) said that Themba had to leave because he had to go pick up something offered to him. I will never forget what I saw when I walked into the doorway of what Themba had constructed as his home.
He may have received 2 new posts from the municipality. Inside his home he had constructed some very very crude posts from felled tree branches. The area of his home was about 8 feet X 10 feet. Dirt floor with immovable stones on the ground and some deep looking roots made it difficult step. The walls of his place were patches of all kinds of scavenged wood: slats from pallets, or crates, or discarded scraps of lumber. There were gaps between the uneven, broken boards on each side. Scraps of charred, discolored, ragged corrugated sheet metal filled in at places. I looked closely and he had an assortment of bent, rusty nails that he had used and pouded slats into the tree branches until they could go no further, then he bent the nails over in some kind of resignation.
This picture of Themba’s home is for me. The Lord wanted me to see it. It is imprinted now because the Lord is trying to align my heart with His. The thought came to me when I saw this pitiful, meager dwelling: Themba had no advocate. There was no one standing for him.
So I am resolved. It had been too long til we got to Themba. I am not sure how to improve his home and do it in such a way that he receives dignity out of it. I am going to take a couple of Africans with me to give me an idea on what to do. But I think the Lord is asking me to be an advocate Themba.
And I feel that all of us have had one or more advocates in our lives. Someone standing and fighting for us when we could not fight any longer. I believe it is a simple, doable step. Heroes are for television. But anyone can be an advocate.
I will remember, Themba had no advocate. And I will see his home.
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THE NEXT DAY
I woke up early Sunday morning with Themba on my mind. I told Kalyn and she volunteered to go with me to Red Hill. None of our team planned on going so it was just she and I as we arrived early to the decimated township. We parked off the stony dirt road, and walked down the rocky hillside to the scattering of shanties that were being rebuilt.
When we walked up to the front of Themba’s home he was stirring in the early morning, getting ready to start his day. He did not expect me. I told him that I was there to help and that I had a hammer, saw, and a few tools. Themba came out of his bleak home and told me in limited English that he was given lots of wood the night before. I didn’t understand. Then he showed me.
Apparently a builder had donated to the Red Hill township 3 large truckloads of building material, primarily wood siding. Long 1 X 12 wooden boards and 2 x 4’s, perfect for a home. I was amazed. What an unexpected gift! This material was nicer than anything I had seen throughout the entire township. And somehow Themba ended up with some of it!
We had something to work with! I was charged up. We spent the morning digging new posts and starting to frame up a new addition to his just rebuilt patched-up shanty. What a contrast.
Midday I had to stop because we had to go to a meeting in town. I told Themba that we would be back in 2 days (Tuesday) with others to finish his house. I felt an unction that we needed to complete his house on behalf of the Lord.
But Father had an even better plan. Monday is the day of rest for our house church and our entire CPx group. Everyone was exhausted from the Red Hill experience and other responsibilities. Monday was a day to do all of the necessary shopping, household jobs, catch-ups, errands, etc. Kalyn and I had several stops to make.
Then we stopped at one couple’s house who we had not seen in a few weeks.
After visiting with them, the friend told me that he was taking 3 other guys with him to work up at Red Hill. He said that they wanted to work but they did not have a specific house/shanty to work on. He is a builder (b-u-i-l-d-e-r) from the state of Washington now with YWAM. He built and remodeled houses for 20 years.
Ding. Even I made the connection.
I told him about Themba’s house. I told him that I would be glad to drive up to Red Hill and show them where his house was so that his crew could spend the afternoon working on it. He agreed. He followed us up to Red Hill with his team and his tools. He was excited to have an opportunity to work. And I was excited to see this kind of help come alongside to assist.
Themba was away at work for the day doing some labor at a household. I knew that when he came back that he would be shocked by the transformation. I was so charged up as I left Themba’s neighborhood.
Walking up the stony hillside back toward the car, the thought came to me, this is what an advocate does.
