Silence Can Be Golden

Amos 5:13

Holman Christian Standard Bible (HCSB)

¹³ Therefore, the wise person will keep silent at such a time, for the days are evil.

We had been called to teach at Ikizu in Tanzania. I finished my Master in Mathematics degree in January 1967. The mission board was anxious to get me out to Africa because the school year starts in January there. Only one thing was lacking: a Tanzanian work permit. The mission board was also anxious to get me on African soil because my salary would be cut to a third of what they were paying me in the U.S. They discovered that American citizens didn’t need a visa to go to Zambia, which is adjacent to Tanzania, and, furthermore, my parents were working at Rusangu in Zambia. So they flew us out to Zambia.

I was getting very restless sitting at Rusangu and twiddling my thumbs. We had been there six weeks already with no sign of progress in getting the work permit. The mission board had not paid me anything for six weeks because they weren’t sure whether I would actually get the permit and didn’t know which organization to charge my salary to.

Then by the action of some personal acquaintances in Dar es Salaam, they at last got the permit and faxed me a copy. I had to go from Rusangu down to a Zambian consulate in Livingstone to get a Tanzanian visa. It didn’t make sense to me then, nor does it make sense to me now. With very few kwacha in my wallet, I took the train down to Livingstone

It was nine o’clock, opening time, when I walked, permit in hand, into the consulate. It was one very large room with one small ancient wooden desk over near the window. Four straight-back wooden chairs sat over against an adjacent wall. Otherwise the room was bare. I walked up to the consul, greeted him politely, explained my mission, and handed him my permit. He smiled warmly, took the permit, and told me to return at four o’clock (closing time) to pick up the visa. Not yet used to recently independent African countries’ bureaucracy, I was disappointed. Nevertheless I thanked him and walked out the door.

Since I hadn’t been paid for over six weeks, I barely had enough money for one night at the hotel, the train fare back to Monze (Rusangu), and a meal or two. No one used credit cards in that part of Africa at that time. So I felt concerned but not overly so.

The consulate closed at four o’clock, so I arrived at 3:45. I walked in and greeted the consul cheerfully. He returned my greeting cheerfully and told me that it was impossible to get the visa today; I needed to come back tomorrow. I explained my financial problems to him, and he listened sympathetically.

“Sorry!” he said, “It’s impossible to get it today. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.” He turned back to his desk and sat staring vacantly at it. Stunned, I didn’t know what to do. It was obvious that more talking would probably just get his back up. After standing silently near his desk for a couple minutes, I walked over to one of the chairs against the wall and sat down and prayed.

About two minutes before closing a South African truck driver walked in. He requested his permit to transport goods up to Lusaka. He waxed eloquent in how badly the load was needed at the capitol. The consul rifled through a pile of papers on his desk and pulled out the one for this shipment. He looked at it briefly and said, “I’m very sorry, but this one is not ready. Come back tomorrow.”

The truck driver explained how he had been coming in there for three weeks now, and things were getting desperate. The consul was sympathetic but unyielding. My heart sank into my boots as I read what my future might be. I prayed silently as I sat there. It was obvious that he expected a bribe but equally obvious that he couldn’t blatantly ask for one.

Closing time came and went. I sat, prayed silently, and looked at the floor. The consul sat silently and stared at a bare part of his desk. Finally about 4:20, he began to get fidgety. It was obvious he wasn’t used to having someone just sit there silently. It was also evident that he didn’t know how to get me to leave his office.

He picked up his phone and dialed one digit on it. After waiting an appropriate length of time he said, “What is the number for Clarke?” He listened some more, and it was obvious that this was purely an act. He pulled out my paper from the pile, wrote a number on it, stamped it. Then turning towards me he smiled, “Your visa is ready.”

Thanking him profusely, I picked up the visa and permit and walked out the door.

Truly, Lord, there is a time when silence is the only appropriate action. Grant me the wisdom to know when that is.