A Long Delayed Christmas Testimony

A Long Delayed Christmas Testimony

By Joseph Boutwell

Over forty years ago, I had a life-altering encounter.  Until now, I have shared my experience with four ministers, my wife and a few friends.  Why did I wait so long to tell others about my experience?  My delay is part of my story.  It happened Christmas Day, 1971.  I was living in Nepal a dozen miles south of Dhaulagiri Mountain, the seventh highest peak in the world.

First, to appreciate what happened to me it will be helpful to have some background information.  In 1970, when I graduated from college, the world was a frightening place full of war, violence and unrest.  There were riots on college campuses and in the streets of America.  Every night, the news showed bloody scenes of violence in Vietnam, demonstrations in the streets of most of our major cities and hatred around the world.  Our military draft was destroying the lives of thousands of young men across the country, including me.  Before my graduation, I had already been selected by my “friends and neighbors” to serve. In Clarksburg, I endured a humiliating “pre-induction” physical.  However, before becoming a soldier, I wanted to do something constructive with my life.  I eventually joined the Peace Corps, which only postponed my induction until I returned.

After weeks of training in both California and Kathmandu (the capitol of Nepal), I was stationed in Balewa, a small village in the foothills of the Himalayan Mountain Range.  The village nestled above the Kali Gandaki Gorge, a huge slash in the earth from a high mountains pass through the Himalayas to the Mahabharata plain that bordered India.  The pass provided access through an area known as the “Mustang” to the Tibetan Plateau beyond.  On both sides of the gorge, cliffs up to five-hundred feet high plunged down to the rapidly racing river below.  Above the cliffs, terraced fields created giant steps that marched up the steep slopes.   During part of the year, torrential monsoons swept from the south drenching the land with rain that hit so hard it hurt, and every day the deluge caused flash flooding across the roads and fields.  At other times of the year, the land was parched and dry.  The terrain was so rugged that travel throughout the area was only by well-worn footpaths following the edge of the gorge or snaking up the steep hillsides.  

Natural springs scattered around Balewa, protected by small alcoves, provided fresh water and places where people bathed in public.  Most of the houses were made of fieldstones cemented together and coated with a mixture of red clay and dung.  Builders used bamboo for stringers, lintels and a variety of supports.  Doors and shutters were made from roughly hewn wood planks.  It was a remote, primitive village lacking electricity, modern conveniences, plumbing and toilet facilities.  In the early hours of the morning, women would go out and use the fields as a bathroom.  When the women returned and started the wood fires for making breakfast, the men would use the fields.  Often, men would also stop by the local teashops to gossip.  Life was simple, uncomplicated and difficult.

Balewa was an all Brahman village.  Other castes of the Hindu system formed smaller clusters nearby.  Because I was not of the right caste, I was not allowed to enter a Brahman’s home.  While other volunteers stayed with host families that help them adjust and cope in their culture, I lived alone in a small apartment over an empty “medicine shop” that was attached to a group of sleeping quarters for resident students.  Because I was alone, I had to hire a local man to carry water from the closest spring, a metal pipe protruding from a stone-wall about a quarter of a mile away.  For health reasons, I had to fastidiously boil and filter all the water I used.  Most of my meals I cooked for myself using kerosene stove.  The stove used round wicks much like those I used in my lamps at night.  All my meals were of boiled rice accompanied by whatever was in season.  Sometimes I ate rice with boiled potatoes or cauliflower.  Often, hot chili peppers were the only relief from a very bland vegetarian diet. 

During the long trip from America, I purchased a shortwave radio in Hong Kong to keep me company at night.  Unfortunately, I discovered that I could not receive very many stations.  Most of what I tuned in offered unappealing music.  Because of that, I soon became a voracious reader.  Along with Tolkien’s “Hobbit” and his trilogy of the ring, which I read many times over, my library included biographies, paperback novels, my Bible and a good number of C. S. Lewis’ books.  I read and re-read all seven books of the Narnia series, “The Problem of Pain”, “The Great Divorce”, “Out of the Silent Planet” and “Mere Christianity”.

I lived in a Hindu society of contradictions and traditions.  I learned about the seven-stranded thread of Brahman men, witnessed live animal sacrifices, idol worship, polygamy and people who believed in a number of gods.  I accepted Christ when I was very young and graduated from a Baptist college, but my immersion into the culture, beliefs, attitudes and behavior of Nepal was a shock and revelation that made me ask questions and seek answers.  Why did God create us?  Why was Christ’s life and sacrifice necessary?  Why does God allow illness, pain, suffering and death?  What does God want me to do?  How do I do God’s will?  I am still coping with some of the same kind of questions, and struggling with answers I have already found. 

After getting to Nepal, I quickly realized that those around me had a fundamentally different understanding of life.  I came to understand that fatalism is a key to understanding the Hindu belief system and behavior.  It is a quick, easy way to accept what happens in the world without facing any responsibility for your actions.  Fatalism, in the form of cause-and-effect, is also a cornerstone of much of humankind’s understands of the universe.  The problem with the concept of fatalism is that it is in direct opposition to our “free will.”  C. S. Lewis explains that man’s “free will” is so important that He allowed sin to enter the world.  He wants us to use our “free will” to choose to love Him.  For most of us, that means that God’s actions in our lives usually have other explanations.  We can claim something was “lucky”, “Coincidence”, “Fate”, or “God’s Providence”.   We have a “free will” to choose but must accept the consequences of our decisions.

A good example of our “free will” to choose an explanation happened to me soon after getting to Balewa.  At that time, I had very few resources other than what was needed to survive.  One night, I was lying on my wooden sleeping platform reading my Bible by the light of a single candle that I had precariously perched on an overhead shelf.  I fell asleep reading a genealogy list in the Old Testament and awoke to the smoke and flames of my burning Bible.  I quickly put the fire out and lit my only remaining candle. By its flickering light, I discovered that only a few charred pages were left.  I was devastated. 

The next afternoon my first care package arrived from home.  Amongst the little treats and treasures was a new KJV Bible with an inscription from my mother that included a few key passages.  Was my awakening before the fire did more damage just “luck” or “fate”?  Was my mother mailing a Bible to me two months earlier a “coincidence”?  God gave me the “free will” to choose, and I chose to believe God was working in my life.

A few months after the Bible incident and a brief summer working on science curriculum materials in Kathmandu, I returned to Balewa with enough supplies to be comfortable.  I settled into a reasonable routine that included a monthly trek northward to visit with my friends Keith and Ann, a nurse/missionary couple in the town of Tato Pani.  During my last stay, they invited me to celebrate Christmas with them.  The name Tato Pani literally means “Hot Water” and refers to the natural hot springs found nearby.  It was a more developed town than Balewa with little physical separation between the castes.  Forty years later, the town would be a trekking destination for tourists. 

To get to Tato Pani I would first descend to the well-traveled “Baglung Road” a few hundred feet below my apartment.  The “road” was actually a dirt path that wound northward along the rim of the gorge.  The pathway would sometime climb further up the steep, terraced slopes and at other times skirt the edge of the chasm.  Before reaching Baglung, the path dropped down to the floor of the gorge and crossed an ancient stone bridge spanning a feeder stream at the base of the Baglung Plateau.  From the end of the bridge, I could take a long switchback climb up the steep southern side of the plateau, or I could climb an almost vertical route up the cliff’s east face.  Either choice led to the eastern most outskirts of the town of Baglung, the district’s capitol city.  My trek took me through the city to where an unbelievably old stone stairs, its hundreds of steps worn down and smoothed by thousands of years of use, led down to the bottom of the gorge. The rest of the way to Tato Pani was a comparatively easy walk along the banks of the Kali Gandaki Rriver.  The entire trip took about ten hours.

Keith and Ann operated a medical clinic that was sponsored by a missionary group from England.  Officially, they were nurses providing humanitarian aid to the area.  Privately, they were witnessing to the people and teaching about salvation.  This was very dangerous because proselytizing was illegal in Nepal.  The first time I saw Keith a mob was dragging him to the military base in Baglung.  They were accusing him of distributing Bibles and witnessing for Christ.   The instigators wanted to stone Keith to death and brought him to Baglung for permission.  Pointing out to the officer that the Bibles were at the bottom of his chest and had yet to be unpacked, Keith proved he was innocence of the charges.  The military police protected him until the mob had dispersed and then allowed him to go free. Of course, within a few days he was sharing the Good News, handing those Bibles out and doing what he had been accused of doing.  About a month after that, I met both Keith and Ann when I trekked to their clinic for medical help.  After that, I made an effort to visit them every month.

At daybreak on December 24, I started my long trek northward.  In my backpack was my drinking water, iodine tablets, knife and sleeping bag.  I wore a light jacket and had my walking stick with me.  As I trudged along the path, I pondered the nature of idols.  G. C. (a fellow teacher who never told me his full name claiming it was too difficult for westerners to use) had shared with me his understanding of Hindu worship.  Idols were made to exacting dimensions that conformed to the shape of the god they represented.  The chanting and readings from the Mahābhārata were to entice and trap the god within the idol.  Once the worshipers had captured the god, demands were made of that god.  After their “prayers”, they released the god.  Sacrifices were to placate the god and encourage compliance with man’s demands.  I was told that, “If the demands were not met, it is because that god was not faithful or was untrustworthy.”  I slowly realized that G. C. was describing a man-centered belief system that gave man control over his gods.  My thoughts wandered through all I had learned while I enjoyed my walk.  It was a bright, cool day perfect for travel and from the north side of the Baglung Plateau it was an easy trek to the clinic.

That night, Christmas Eve, I had “dal bhat” (literally lentil soup and steamed rice – but also used to describe any meal) on the second floor of Keith and Ann’s clinic.  I no longer remember exactly what I ate, but I remember sitting cross-legged on a straw mat along with Keith, Ann and a number of Christian Nepali men.  They were from a local leprosy colony and had lost all their possessions and citizenship because of their disease.  As far as the government was concerned, they did not exist.  We ate, sang and celebrated the birth of our Savior and Lord together.  Keith and Ann were gracious hosts and even gave me a number of unexpected gifts including a pair of much needed socks.  We all talked long into the night primarily using the Nepali language until almost midnight when we finally retired for the night.

On Christmas day, I arose before sunrise and ate the morning dal bhat with my hosts.  Keith then walked with me across the stone bridge south of town and sat with me on a small hillside watching the sun slowly light the white crests of the mountains with a morning glow.  Keith knew I was struggling with a number of issues and was there to offer a listening ear and perhaps some counseling.  Once again, I thanked him for the gifts he and Ann had given me (over forty years later I still have the little calendar they gave me).  We discussed the nature of faith, belief and God’s will and I shared with him my frustration at not knowing what God wanted me to do.  Keith reminded me of Ecclesiastes, “there is a time for every season.”  He reminded me that there are times when God wants us to serve Him one way, and at other times another way.  There will also be times when God wants us to enjoy the life He has given us and spend time in fellowship with Him.  At other times, we need patience to wait on the Lord.  There are also times we need to take action.  We are to be patient and listen for God’s guidance.

I complained to Keith that, although I spent a lot of time in prayer, I never heard a response.  He asked me, “What do expect when you pray?”  That was a good question.  What did I expect, and why?  Together we explored how to listen and discern God’s voice.  Keith led me to understand that I must first want to hear and be obedient to God – putting His will above my own.  I also needed to stop telling Him what I wanted and listen for what He wants.  We talked until the sky was bright enough to travel in safety and I began my long journey home.

It was a beautiful Christmas day with a bright blue sky clear of clouds.  The cool, crisp air was invigorating and I let my mind muse about the last few days wondering about the lepers, the nature of prayer and C. S. Lewis’ ideas and insights. Foremost in my thoughts was how I might be obedient to God.  Around noon, I stopped at a favorite teashop in Baglung for tea and a chutney snack, but I quickly continued my trek because the days were short and I still had a long way to go.

A few hours after leaving Baglung, I was trudging along a part of the Baglung Road along the edge of the Kali Gandaki Gorge.  It was late afternoon, the sun was beginning to disappear behind the hilltops and the air was cool. The only sound was the rhythmic metallic creak of my backpack’s aluminum frame.  To my left was the chasm’s cliff edge and the raging river hundreds of feet below.  To my right was a steep hillside leading to a small, unseen pasture high above.  As I approached a place where the dirt pathway curved to the right, I suddenly heard a loud and distinct command over my left shoulder.  In response, I immediately dropped my walking stick and jumped off the cliff.

I was surprised when my feet struck a hidden outcropping of rock and a sudden cascade of boulders crashed over my head and plunged into the chasm behind me.  I slowly regained my wits and carefully climbed back up to the path.  I looked back along the road wanting to thank my savior, but no one was there.  I looked up the hillside, but only saw a grazing cow that I guessed had caused the landslide.  There was no one around.  Who had saved me?

Standing in the middle of the road, I was determined to recapture and remember every word and inflection of that command.  Did the person who saved me use my name?  I heard a name that was so personal that it reached the core of my being, but I could not remember what it was.  It was a name unknown to me.  I remembered that a single command was given, “jump,” but in what language?  That imperative somehow carried a full meaning of what I was to do and much more.  Foremost in my thoughts was the question, “who spoke to me?”

My mind swirled with dozens of questions as I walked home.  What possible explanations did I have for my experience?  I immediately ruled out “luck”, “coincidence” and “fate”.  I kept coming back to one quest: “If there were no alternatives to “God’s Providence”, what should I think?”  The voice had been over my left shoulder from the direction of the gorge and I had no way of anticipating the landslide.  I could not see the cow until after I had made the turn, but I heard the command to jump before I had reached it.  What was the name I heard that had reached into the depths of my soul?  Heavy on my heart was the question, “Was I saved by my Savior, a heavenly messenger, or someone else?”  1 John 4:1-6 warns us to “test the spirits”, and2 Corinthians 11:14 tells us “Satan disguises himself as an angel of light”.  Could Satan appear to do something good in the sight of man yet accomplish an evil or sinful goal?  Are “premonitions” real and did I have one?  How do rational, God-loving people explain apparent “premonitions”?

I was certain of two things: my encounter on the road was real and very personal.  I knew that someday I would need to share what had happened, but that day was in the distant future. For some reason, I felt that I needed to wait.  I do not know how to explain why I felt that way, but somehow it was implicit in the command I was given.  In my heart, I knew that I needed to resolve many of the questions I had raised and to mature in my own faith first.

A few years after returning to the United States, I shared my story with a minister in hopes that he would help me resolve some of my questions.  Unfortunately, his response was to tell me the story of Balaam and his talking donkey found in Numbers 22.  I do not know why he thought this might help.  First, the cow was too far away to hear, even if it shouted.  Second, the cow was on my right, ahead and above me, not to my left and behind me.  From his tone of voice, I doubted that that minister actually believed my encounter happened and was just humoring me.  The second minister I told believed me and was sure it was God or His messenger who spoke to me.  Years later, he encouraged me to tell others of my experience.  The third minister was neutral and quickly changed the subject, perhaps fearing that I was a mad man.  A fourth minister pelted me with obscure questions of faith and seemed determined to prove that nothing had really happened.  Through the year, I kept silent about my Baglung Road Encounter and only ineptly shared it with my wife and a few close friends.  I never shared this experience with either of my parents.  After forty-three years, I did finally tell my brother and sister and a few of my relatives.

Over the years, I have felt a growing need to share the experience of my Baglung Road Encounter, but I remained hesitant because of the questions that I still needed to answer.  Eventually, I decided to hide my testimony within a memoire of my Peace Corps experiences.  I believed it would be easier to share the story of my Encounter if I hid it among stories of a “bagha” or tiger, a rabid dog in Pokhara, wild dogs hunting me down in the streets of Kathmandu, rats jumping on me while I slept or wakened by a giant (size of my hand) spider crawling into my mouth.  I am still struggling to organize my recollections and plan my book, rewriting the first chapters many times.  I easily dredge up distant memories and still clearly see starving children, partly cremated bodies floating down a river, flies crawling in and out of a dead baby’s mouth while her mother silently held her, and monkeys pelting me with feces.  At times, my family has strongly reprimanded me for spoiling a mean with one of my more disturbing images. Yet, there are experiences in Nepal that I have kept to myself, and there are things I have suppressed and desperately tried to forget.  When the banished memories of those painful events begin to appear in my mind, I stop writing for months or year – and then start all over.

I still had problems with what happened to me that Christmas day that kept made me hesitant to tell others about it.  Even after forty years, there was an important question, “Why was there no alternative explanation for my Encounter?”  Then, in 2011, I discovered the phenomena called “Third Man factor” or “Third Man syndrome”.  Experts describe it as a “coping mechanism” or an example of “bicameralism”.  Sir Ernest Shackleton, Reinhold Messner, Peter Hillary, Ann Bancroft and many others have reported such experiences.  Sometimes writers have called such voices “guardian angels” or “imaginary friends”.  John G Geiger’s book “The Third Man Factor” cites many examples.  After forty years, I finally had an alternative to choose.  I chose “God’s Providence”.   I must point out that a common part of the experiences of others is that the voices they heard seemed to be over their right shoulders, the voice I heard was over my left.  The others were under great stress but I was feeling joy.  Never the less, with the discovery of an alternative explanation, I felt freed to share the story of my salvation on the Baglung Road.

I now realize that I am not to embed my “Baglung Road Encounter” inside a tome of other stories but to share it as a testament to God’s direct involvement and personal interest my life and in the lives of each of us.  We are to use our “free will” to choose what to believe and have faith in our beliefs.  We are not to be “fatalists”, believe in “luck” or simply accept “coincidence”, but recognize God at work in the world!   Do you have faith in what you believe?  Do you look for God in your life, or do you say, “Que Sera Sera” and wander about in a chaotic, ungodly world?

I do not know why God wants me to share my Baglung Road Encounter with others at this time.  All I need to know is that it will serve God’s purpose.  Please understand that I am not a writer and there are better and more elegant ways to express what I have tried to share.  Please feel free to copy, share and/or distribute my testimony as God leads you.  I only ask that nothing be changed, deleted or added to this testimony.  If there are serious issues with grammar, structure or spelling, please let me know so that I may make the appropriate corrections and share an edited version.