Cross Reference
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I am reading an excerpt from Bruce Olson's testimony a missionary to the S.A. Motilone Indians. This part is from when he was captured revolutionaries back int 70's and 80's who considered him a threat that either had to persuaded to join them or be eliminated. This bit takes place after about 5-6 mos into his captivity and after he had persuaded several guerrillas, by the example of his life, to Christ with rest to trusting him. [The full account explains the "how" of all of this that is quite amazing]. He fell seriously ill with no hope but God. I hope you will take the time to read the whole account by the Link at the bottom:
***** "Once, for example, during the latter part of my captivity, I suffered a severe attack of diverticulitis -- one of several attacks that involved severe hemorrhaging. I lost about two quarts of blood this time, was in excruciating pain and eventually lost consciousness. When I awakened I was being examined by a doctor the guerrillas had brought into the jungle. He said only a blood transfusion could save my life.
******* Immediately a fight broke out among the guerrillas over who would win the "honor" of giving their blood for me. A young Christian guerrilla was one of those chosen. After the transfusions were completed, he sat with me for a while. "My blood now flows in your veins, Papa Bruchko," he told me. There were tears in his eyes. And in mine, too.
******* Later that night I awakened in terrible pain. I tried to separate myself from it, but this time I couldn't. I was too weak, too exhausted. I felt empty and hollow, and the intensity of the physical pain increased my enormous sadness over the things I'd experienced in the previous months. There was no comfort for me, I thought. None. I had never experienced such total anguish.
******* Then an absolutely amazing thing happened: A bird known in Colombia as the mirla began to sing. I looked up and saw the full moon pouring down through the thick jungle vegetation and felt, inexplicably, that it was shining for me. The mirla's song was the most hauntingly beautiful sound I'd ever heard. As I listened, I wondered why it seemed so familiar, why it soothed me so deeply .
******* The bird's song soared through the damp, moonlit air as I clung to consciousness.
******* The music was incredibly complex, set in a minor key. The notes never repeated; they reminded me more and more of something achingly familiar, something comforting -- but I just couldn't put my finger on it. An ancient Aramaic chant -- was that it? Yes, it was reminiscent of that -- but why did it make me think of the resurrection of Christ?
******* The familiarity puzzled me, but I had no real need to understand it. The music was the most exquisite I had ever heard; I was sure of that. It was communicating something profound to me, something I needed desperately but couldn't identify. I let the song carry me for a long time. Then I lost consciousness again.
******* When I came to, the bird was still singing. I wondered whether I might be hallucinating. After all, everyone knew mirlas never sing at night. And I was desperately ill, barely hanging on to life. It wouldn't be unusual to hallucinate in my condition. But what I was more intent on trying to understand was why this song -- real or imagined -- was having such an amazing, restorative effect on my spirit. I could feel myself coming back to life with each note.
******* Then, as the bird's song continued to penetrate the quiet night air, I knew: I knew why this song seemed so hauntingly familiar, why it spoke to me of the resurrection, why it comforted me like familiar, loving arms. The mirla was singing a Motilone minor-key tonal chant, mimicking the traditional sounds with such amazing accuracy that I could almost hear their words, could almost see my friends Kaymiyokba and Waysersera and ll the other Motilones I loved, singing the prophecies of the resurrection of Christ in the timeless Motilone way, our hammocks swaying together in the rafters of a communal home in the jungles as they had for the 28 years I'd lived among them. I could almost feel their warm, reassuring hugs.
******* In that moment I was lifted above my agony in a way I'll never be able to describe adequately. I didn't even care whether it was real or imagined. The Motilones were with me; I knew it now. I had not been abandoned. And I was going to survive to be with them again, because God had used the mirla's song to transfuse His lifeblood into me.
******* One of the guerrillas walked over to my hammock as I opened my eyes at dawn. The pain was subsiding a little.
******* "So," he said softly, "how did you like your personal concert last night?"
******* I questioned him with my eyes. "The mirla," he said. "His song kept us awake all night long. We've never heard anything like it!* The boys wondered whether it was a special angel sent to sing for you. Did you hear it?"
http://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=...r__7Bvk2nZiYsGTmoKYlb6g&bvm=bv.87611401,d.cWc
***** "Once, for example, during the latter part of my captivity, I suffered a severe attack of diverticulitis -- one of several attacks that involved severe hemorrhaging. I lost about two quarts of blood this time, was in excruciating pain and eventually lost consciousness. When I awakened I was being examined by a doctor the guerrillas had brought into the jungle. He said only a blood transfusion could save my life.
******* Immediately a fight broke out among the guerrillas over who would win the "honor" of giving their blood for me. A young Christian guerrilla was one of those chosen. After the transfusions were completed, he sat with me for a while. "My blood now flows in your veins, Papa Bruchko," he told me. There were tears in his eyes. And in mine, too.
******* Later that night I awakened in terrible pain. I tried to separate myself from it, but this time I couldn't. I was too weak, too exhausted. I felt empty and hollow, and the intensity of the physical pain increased my enormous sadness over the things I'd experienced in the previous months. There was no comfort for me, I thought. None. I had never experienced such total anguish.
******* Then an absolutely amazing thing happened: A bird known in Colombia as the mirla began to sing. I looked up and saw the full moon pouring down through the thick jungle vegetation and felt, inexplicably, that it was shining for me. The mirla's song was the most hauntingly beautiful sound I'd ever heard. As I listened, I wondered why it seemed so familiar, why it soothed me so deeply .
******* The bird's song soared through the damp, moonlit air as I clung to consciousness.
******* The music was incredibly complex, set in a minor key. The notes never repeated; they reminded me more and more of something achingly familiar, something comforting -- but I just couldn't put my finger on it. An ancient Aramaic chant -- was that it? Yes, it was reminiscent of that -- but why did it make me think of the resurrection of Christ?
******* The familiarity puzzled me, but I had no real need to understand it. The music was the most exquisite I had ever heard; I was sure of that. It was communicating something profound to me, something I needed desperately but couldn't identify. I let the song carry me for a long time. Then I lost consciousness again.
******* When I came to, the bird was still singing. I wondered whether I might be hallucinating. After all, everyone knew mirlas never sing at night. And I was desperately ill, barely hanging on to life. It wouldn't be unusual to hallucinate in my condition. But what I was more intent on trying to understand was why this song -- real or imagined -- was having such an amazing, restorative effect on my spirit. I could feel myself coming back to life with each note.
******* Then, as the bird's song continued to penetrate the quiet night air, I knew: I knew why this song seemed so hauntingly familiar, why it spoke to me of the resurrection, why it comforted me like familiar, loving arms. The mirla was singing a Motilone minor-key tonal chant, mimicking the traditional sounds with such amazing accuracy that I could almost hear their words, could almost see my friends Kaymiyokba and Waysersera and ll the other Motilones I loved, singing the prophecies of the resurrection of Christ in the timeless Motilone way, our hammocks swaying together in the rafters of a communal home in the jungles as they had for the 28 years I'd lived among them. I could almost feel their warm, reassuring hugs.
******* In that moment I was lifted above my agony in a way I'll never be able to describe adequately. I didn't even care whether it was real or imagined. The Motilones were with me; I knew it now. I had not been abandoned. And I was going to survive to be with them again, because God had used the mirla's song to transfuse His lifeblood into me.
******* One of the guerrillas walked over to my hammock as I opened my eyes at dawn. The pain was subsiding a little.
******* "So," he said softly, "how did you like your personal concert last night?"
******* I questioned him with my eyes. "The mirla," he said. "His song kept us awake all night long. We've never heard anything like it!* The boys wondered whether it was a special angel sent to sing for you. Did you hear it?"
http://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=...r__7Bvk2nZiYsGTmoKYlb6g&bvm=bv.87611401,d.cWc
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