Clever Cats are in Control

On the bus to the prayer house, I notice billboard after billboard proclaiming, "Clever Cats are in Control." 

Indeed.  The Maltese cats, at least in Valletta, seem to have conquered their unsuspecting citizens:  

Park Cats

Port Cats

Refugee Center Cats

The Cat Cafe

Even Art has its place in the Cat Cafe: The Matisse Salmon and Tuna Show

Outfitted with food, drink, houses, blankets, toys and art, the Maltese cats have indeed played their cards right.  Whenever I come across a 'street cat,' they show little of the the usual feral, fearful behavior, but coming running, expectant, looking for a handout!   They have captured the hearts of the Maltese, or at least enough of them, to know they may receive a treat.

I arrive at the prayer house expectant...may I 'conquer' the King.  May I capture his heart.  May I be as spoiled as these clever cats.  Surely the Father of heaven has more than a makeshift house, a few kibbles and bits, and a windowsill.  I have nothing to fear. 

Colin the Lion-Killer

It is a long hot drive out to the family camp, where we’ll have a dance workshop and art class.

We ride singing “Jesus love the little children” to the adorable Annabelle, two-year-old daughter of our host family.

“Jesus loves the little children, all little children of the world…”

Past the airport, past the cactus, bourganvillea and broken-down walls, past the many roundabouts…it is much further out than any of us anticipated, and we arrive dripping in sweat, at 10 am. 

A suspicious guard and a shy, playful boy watch us from the gate, the boy hiding behind a stone pillar, checking us out, hide-and-seek style.

“Be they yellow, black or white, they are precious in His sight…”

“Say hello to the little boy, Anna!”

“Hello lit’el boy!”

We park, unload art supplies, food, drink, boom box and the swing flags, and bring them into the room we’ve been given—the only room available to the camp families to use communally, a room smaller than a Starbucks coffee shop, and with a fraction of the amenities.  Eve goes off to collect children, Michelle sets out her flags and scarves, I pull out the art supplies.  Linda fidgets with boom box.

Within minutes, children are arriving, and one pregnant mother, who sits passively while the children burst into what will be a two-hour rampage of acting out.

Colin is my first ‘customer’—four years old, with a nose that looks like it got sawed off and healed perfectly.  After a few minutes—a very few—of coloring with markers in a book, Colin hurls the pen cap across the room, looks at me and runs, scrawling marker on furniture, floor, and walls.  Someone grabs him, and the marker.  Colin flees across the room, only to scream at us and show us he is going to swallow the cap.  Agh.  Someone else rescues the cap and dance class begins.

I go get Colin and bring him back to the table, where he sits peacefully on my lap, applying stickers into the book…for about 30 seconds.  Then he charges into the dance circle screaming.  Someone hands him a balloon, I go on to my next ‘art student’ and a fight breaks out.  Someone has stolen someone else’s favorite scarf.    

Balloons are soon bursting in air, to delighted squeals or terrified screams.  Scarves are being tugged and pulled and spit on.  Crayons are flying, and a baby is crying.  Blocks are being hurled through the air, and the boom box is now off—we are all in ‘crowd control’ and the mother leaves.  I wonder what Sudanese/Somalian/Eritrean discipline of children looks like under ‘normal’ conditions, and what it looks like in the camp, when visitors aren’t around.

I begin sketching the children, which brings a few of them in a line, each wanting me to draw them.  Someone brings out the snacks and that draws another crowd of grasping hands.  Colin hurls a fist at Linda.

I am drawing and affirming each child, praying for them as I go, praying for us.  Some of the younger members of the team are overwhelmed. 

Our time is up.  I turn to find Colin pointing a metal bar at me (where did he get that?!), fierce anger in his eyes.  I stare him down, wondering which one of us can move faster, and that unless I want a shiner, I better win this one.

“You are not to hit me, Colin.” 

Colin brandishes the bar.  

“Let me have that." 

“NOOOOO!!!!” he screams and slashes it to the side, then aims it back at me.

“Colin….”

“I HAVE TO KILL THE LIONS!”

He roars, and I seize the moment to jump behind him, grab both his shoulders and roar back, “Kill the lions, Colin!  Save me!”

Colin springs into action.  With amazing (disturbing) skill, he wields that metal bar like a Ninja at an imaginary lion a few feet from us, and returns to me smiling. 

“There, Colin!  Get that one!!!”  I point, he charges, the sword flies, and Colin runs back beaming.

“Another one, Colin!” 

This scenario repeats until Colin is fairly bursting with pride, and I am able to tell him how brave he is, how he will grow into a strong warrior, a mighty protector of women and children from lions, and he is glowing.   And then I have to leave.  Colin bursts into tears, and Linda whispers to me as we get in the car, “I think I need trauma counseling.”  

 It is a quiet ride home.

“Jesus loves the little children of the world…”

 

All Along the Watchtower

24/7 prayer means just that, and so each night there has been a night crew, worshiping and praying until dawn, when the 6:00 crew (which may only be one person) arrives.

Last night I joined the night crew.  After a few hours just quietly praying to ourselves, reading, writing, or strumming the guitar, we headed out to walk the streets of Valletta, praying as we went—one way to stay awake!

First stop: the park overlooking Fort St. Elmo, site of a 15^th C. watchtower and 16^th C. fortress, famous for withstanding the invading Turks for one month in 1551.  Eventually all were massacred in The Great Seige.  In 1565 the Turks attempted to take the entire archipelago and use it as a base to penetrate Europe—48,000 Turks against 8,000. 

Epic Fail, for the Turks.  

The Maltese fought off the invaders long enough for reinforcements to arrive from Sicily.  Together, they expelled the Turks and forced them to withdraw.  Malta was saved, and Europe too.

Next stop: the port.  We prayed for the drugs and human trafficking which were surely rampant here.  An extraordinarily beautiful site at night, with amber lights illuminating the fortressed walls and city, reflecting off the black water, with boats in the shipyards, and houses huddled densely on the opposite shore.  

We walked along the bay praying our way over to the Seige Bell Tower, erected in 1992 to commemorate the award of the George Cross to Malta, to honor over 7000 Service Personnel and Civilians who gave their lives during the Siege of Malta, 1940 - 1943. We took communion at its base, continuing to pray while our dancers broke out swing flags --introduced to us by one of our dancers, from IHOP.  They snapped authoritatively in the wind while we danced, and added a colorful splash of color in the dark night.  

Climbing up then to the bell, we stood under its expanse, marveling.  The city was quiet, except for the occasional rowdy car full of partiers, the barking dog (gotta have the barking dog) and a street chase after a taxi.  The views, even in the dark, were spectacular.     

Next stop: Freedom Square, in front of the Parliament, where the dancers danced in the dawn with Misty Edwards "Awaken the Dawn."
 

We prayed for government, financial systems, and the diplomats and heads of state that come and go from these buildings.  We left via Merchants Street, where the enormous statues of a number of Catholic saints were arrayed under beautiful heraldic banners and flags.  It was an eerie site; we stopped and prayed in their midst for the True God to be heralded into Malta, and blessed the night workers taking down some for repair. 

We left through the City Gate—under restoration—and prayed for the spiritual restoration of the city.  And then we headed back to the prayer house.

We had two hours to go before the first bus back to Siggiewi, where we are staying; we crashed on the floor or on one of the two beds upstairs.  Susan rounded us up at the appointed hour, and off we stumbled.  On the way, we passed Ab (pronounced Up!) from Holland, on his way to relieve Graham, holding the fort at the prayer house.  If Graham hurried, he could make the bus too…and yes, up he trotted in time, and we set off together, to crash into our real beds, knowing nothing for the next several hours, in spite of the rest of our group of 18 coming and going for breakfast and early shifts and other assorted activities. 

Weather Report

Opening night at the House of Prayer: the house had scheduled 24/7 to coincide with our time here: prayer was to run continually throughout the time, with the 30+ people on our team, along with the local church.  And so it began…and so did the rain.

Our host Ben stood to greet us all and kick off the two-week 24/7 prayer.  While the goal of 24/7 is not reality yet, the way forward is to build these pockets of 24/7 prayer throughout the calendar year.  Teams, couples and individuals, visitors as well as local saints, take portions of the calendar gaps in the meantime.  And our OM Prayer Director, also looking for a House of Prayer for the Mediterranean, when he discovered Ben's project and heart, committed to help.  This is the third year of OM's involvement in sending prayer teams.   

Ben began by talking about the rain.  His core team of pray-ers, stirred to pray for rain as a visible sign of God's presence with them in their desire for a 24/7 house of prayer for the Mediterranean, had begun praying for rain.

Did you know that it doesn’t rain in Malta between May and September? 

Three times in the past two years, he recounted, it has rained when a significant moment has begun surrounding the establishment of this house of prayer.  We arrived on the third one.  An older Maltese couple—60 something—assured us that in their 60 years, they have not known rain in Malta in the summer.  

"In Malta there are two kinds of rain, no rain at all or very strong rain."

Two years ago, when Ben (and others) had been stirred to pray for the rain of God’s presence, he had a dream: he was outdoors in the rain.  He woke to clouds, which was not unusual.  They dissipated, burned off by the heat, as usual. And then, unusually, they came back. 

During the day, Ben had met with a local pastor; that meeting proved to be the beginning of a deeply significant relationship between the two men--unusual in the fractured church scene of Malta.  Ben prayed again for a confirming rain, and watched from the door of his home as the first rain in memory fell.  It seemed that God was blessing Ben with confirmation in his desire to establish a house of prayer on Malta.

In spite of that, a year passed with no fruit, no developments, and plenty of discouragement.  Ben was discouraged personally, but more grieved by the lack of interest in people to worship and pray.  He no longer had the heart to pray for rain to confirm anything.

Then a couple from Sweden happened through…they blessed Ben and his family in many ways, including financially, but especially as they prayed God would establish Ben and the house of prayer, and to confirm it with rain.  No, they knew nothing of this prayer of Ben's heart, and yep, it rained. 

Ben closed with a psalm, and a simple affirmation: "The Lord sends rain." The worship team--a young couple from Australia--began a session of jazz worship that lasted well into the night.  I snuck out early, on the first car back to the house, jet lag overtaking me physically, but all ears open spiritually.    

“When you went out before your people, O God, when you marched through the wasteland, the earth shook, the heavens poured down rain, before God, the One of Sinai, before God, the God of Israel.

"You gave abundant showers, O God; you refreshed your weary inheritance.  Your people settled in it; and from your bounty, O God, you provided for the poor.”--Ps. 68:7-9

Salt & Light, Ants & the Men's Camp

Salt air, a very light light, and a comfortably hot day—my first impressions of Malta.  (Artists, this is a light to end all lights.) 

I’m not dripping in sweat yet—even as a wait several minutes on the tarmac for my friend to deplane.  I just close my eyes and breathe that delicious salt air and warmth.  I’m here!

An immaculate airport, with a spectacular sculpture in white—second impressions.  No one is at the customs booth, and we walk out into the lobby where Linda spots me first and rushes to greet me with a bear hug—yay!!!!  We’re here!!!!

A bit more of a wait as her husband arrives on another plane, and then we head off to our lodgings—but not before nearly being killed in the parking lot.  A Maltese plate.  So pedestrians are targets, like in Italy.  Note to self.

Now it’s hot.  The car is hot, the air is hot, people are hot.  A blanket is spread on the back seat, so we don’t burn our legs.  Haven’t seen that since I was a kid going to Jones Beach. 

The sights are glorious.  I feel like I’m in Jerusalem more than anywhere else—olive trees, low, very light beige buildings, cactus, Mediterranean flowers and shrubs I’m not that familiar with—but recognize oleander, bougainvillea…lovely. 

The light is compelling.  How would I paint it?  Light the color of the lightest sand.

The Big House: this is where we’ll live for the next two weeks—with a family of 5, and 13 of us, with the rest of the team scattered I know not where.  Open plan, two bathrooms, three floors, umpteen balconies, alcoves and fans.  Thank God for the fans.

A few ants seemed to have followed me over, and grown larger.  Fly on my bed.  Flies swarming a fir tree across the street.  Nowhere near the flies in Bobbio.  Thank God for that.

The Maltese strike me as small of stature, and oppressed.

We go to the men’s camp, so the manager can look us over, check our passports, and give us paperwork to fill out.  We get a look at some of the refugees, clinging to shade, and mostly looking Somalian. 

Most touching moments of the day: a guard the size of Yogi Bear and looking quite intimidating on entrance is found on exiting to be feeding a stray cat he took in.  He smiles shyly, and scoops more kitty chow on the floor.  We shake his hand and bless him. 

Pack to the prayer center, where chicken curry, a Maltese pasta dish, salad and fruit await.  And then the dancers are off to rehearse (another flash mob!) and the rest of us begin a time of prayer and worship.  A couple from Australia lead off in the most relaxing and meditative jazz—perfect for jet lag…or…is it….zzzzz….

Three hours later, I’m in bed, staring at the bare overhead bulb, while housemates find their way through showers, drinks, chat and some back to the prayer room.  We will attempt to cover prayer 24/7 for the next two weeks, but no schedule is fixed.  The dancers arrive later and I finally fall into the sleep of the dead…day 1 and 2 of arrival over.  

Some History...aka Airplane Reading

Ready for a little Maltese history?  A bit dry but fascinating: 

"Malta is one of Europe’s smallest and most densely populated countries...a group of seven islands in the Mediterranean Sea, about 97km south of the southeast tip of Sicily.  Only the three largest islands - Malta, Gozo and Comino - are inhabited. The terrain is low and rocky with coastal cliffs.

"Malta, in the heart of the Mediterranean, is a melting pot of civilizations with a history stretching back thousands of years. The country has been inhabited since around 5200 BC and a significant prehistoric civiliation existed on the islands prior to the arrival of the Phoenicians who named the main island Malat, meaning safe haven. Later the islands were for centuries the seat of the Order of Knights of the Hospital of St John and then part of the British Empire.

"The strategic importance of Malta was recognized by the Phoenicians, who occupied it as did, in turn, the Greeks, Carthaginians, and Romans. The apostle Paul was shipwrecked there in A.D. 60. Malta's position in the Mediterranean, midway between Europe and Africa, has made it a strategic prize. Here, in the 16th century, the Knights of St. John repelled 30,000 soldiers of Süleyman the Magnificent's Ottoman Empire. It withstood Axis bombs during World War II. In 1964, after almost 150 years as a British colony, the Maltese islands won independence. Tourism is the cornerstone of the nation's economy, and it joined the EU in 2004. 

Throughout history, Malta's location has given it great strategic importance and a sequence of powers, including the Phoenicians, Greeks, Romans, Fatimids, Sicilians, Knights of St. John, French and British, have all ruled the islands. Malta gained independence from Great Britain in 1964 and became a Republic in 1974, whilst retaining membership in the Commonwealth of Nations. It is a member of the United Nations (since 1964) and the European Union (since 2004)."