Pastor Moses 04/02/2011
When I came to Ghana on a trip in January of 2009, I met this pastor named Moses. When I heard his story it was like something out of a book on great heroes of the faith. Later, I saw a copy of his own version of his story that the Nichols posted on facebook and sent out in an email. This past weekend we spent a few hours with Pastor Moses and members of his family and I wanted to share about it. First I have copied and pasted that testimony below.
“I was formally known as Musah Mohamadu was born as a Moslem and received Islamic training and completed the Quran at the age of twelve years.
One night in 1997 as a prayer meeting was going on at the church in my area, I heard a still small voice telling me to go into His house. I thought it was Satan, so I started rebuking it . I kept hearing the voice over and over and hurried to the church and asked for repentance. The following Sunday would be the first time I would ever go to a service. During the service an angry mob showed up that had been organized by my father. They beat me and dragged me to my father. He told them to kill me and he took out a cutlass (machete) and cut my feet.
I still went to church the following Sunday and when I arrived home all of my things in my room were burned. My father summoned the family and told them that I was not his child any longer and they drove me out of the house.
I settled in Bawku because the Christians in my village were too frightened of my father and wouldn’t help me. A retired pastor treated me and encouraged me in Bawku.
December 31rst I was attacked again by men my father had sent. I was beaten, killed and taken for burial. They dug a hole, not a grave, and buried me there but fortunately an old lady reported them to the military so I was take out from the hole and taken to the hospital so they could pronounce me dead. The retired pastor prepared a coffin and everything for my burial. When they came to take my body from the mortuary they saw that my fingers were moving. They immediately took me to the hospital. I survived. After I was released from the hospital I was attacked again. This time my father told the men to blind me so then I would become a Muslim again because I would need to beg for Alms outside the Mosque. They beat me and I was taken to the hospital. I was declared N.P. L. (no perception of light) or legally blind. I couldn’t see and it seemed my father’s plan had worked. The retired pastor took me back to my father’s house and left me. I was like that for an entire year (2002). Laid up in my room. I prayed and prayed for a miracle. Then one night while Moslem leaders were there reading to me and teaching me from the Q’uran, I heard that still small voice again. I head it say that he was going to use what happened to me for good. I did regain my sight in December of 2002. The same retired pastor that had taken care of me before took care of me again. He said that God had a calling on my life. I was accepted into Northern Ghana Bible College and graduated in 2006.
Currently I am pasturing in Dabia A/G with struggles for survival of my family. There was no good drinking water, no clinic, and no food until God raised another Man of God who is moved by divine guidance to the aid of Dabia community and provided a clean drinking “pump” for us. He is in the person of Rev. Nichols and the family.
In all these things what then shall I say? If God is with me who can be against me? “
By Pastor Moses Delma Mohamadu .
Through circumstances which I will not detail, Pastor Moses, his wife Rachel and their little daughter, Florence are not currently in Dabia. The place we met Pastor Moses this past weekend was in a village called Widana. It is the village where he grew up. His father’s immediate and extended family comprises most of the residence of the small village from what I could see. The village is approximately 98% Muslim. I use this percentage as a guess. Pastor Moses pointed out the only 2 households besides his own that were Christian. Although there is an Assemblies of God church just outside of the village that is mentioned in the story above (we did not walk that far). As we walked through the village, we counted 4 mosques all within short walking distance (even by U.S. standards) of each other. Later in the day, Moses told us that there were 4 because they were each different sects. It made me think of all the churches I would drive by on a Sunday morning in the U.S. just to get to my church. This village may be almost totally Muslim but not all the same. I don’t know how this village played out but I have seen here in Ghana that there are sects were women not only participate in the prayers but lead the calls to prayer. Many Muslim women are not even required to cover their heads--this seemed to be true of the women related to Pastor Moses. We did walk by a women who was completely covered head to toe in black. Her face was completely veiled--not even her eyes were showing. This is the setting where the story above played out.
This is the moment I find myself thinking things like, “Wow! I get to see in real life something you only hear in missionary stories! . . . Oh my word! I am a missionary! I am the one that is going to tell this story!” At this point, I have been in Ghana almost 6 months. I wonder how long it will be until I actually get it.
The day was incredible! The women were sweet and welcoming even though most of them couldn’t understand a word we said or vice versa. The children were shy and beautiful. I just wanted to pick up every one of them and hug them tight if I could ever convince them to stop hiding behind their mother’s skirts. We were led to a place outside under a thatch canopy. Under it was a plank set on two stumps to serve as a bench, another stump a couple of resin chairs and a small cushioned bench that looked like something you would find on someone’s screened-in porch in the U.S. The cushioned bench was obviously a seat of honor and was offered to Garret and Kelly. They had place one of the resin chairs right next to it and offered it to me. We sat and talked with Pastor Moses and Rachel as mostly women and children crowded around. We were able to talk freely as we were speaking in English although we were frequently interrupted by people from the village wanting to come and greet the white people visiting. Rachel was trying to teach us the typical response to their standard greeting. I’m not sure we ever got it quite right but they seemed to appreciate our efforts at trying. The part we did get because it seemed true throughout the North is that as you greet the people, you take their hand and bow, trying to drop you head lower than the other person’s. In fact I have seen people greeting someone they greatly respect, crouch all the way to the ground when greeting them. I like this because as soon as it is over those greeting each other behave immediately like equals. They rise up from out of their bowed position and begin talking like old friends (depending on the situation, of course). I will admit it was a little different with us because they were coming to look at us. So, they would greet us and then stand around observing what was going on. While all of this was going on, Pastor Moses was telling us many things. I listened intently and tried not to stare to hard at the scars I could see on his face and feet. I wondered how many more scars there were to see. He is a tall man and stands above most anyone you meet here in Ghana. As discreetly as I could, I angled my camera and snapped a picture of him from my chair beside him so as not to interrupt his story (the pic. at the top). He pointed out a thin white tree several feet from where we were sitting. He told us that he planted that tree over his own grave. There, in the place where death was supposed to reign was instead a growing, living tree (pictured at the bottom). I wondered what his father must think to see that tree there every day. Then, I met him. You never expect to meet the villains from the stories you hear. Thanks in part to Disney, you half expect if you ever do meet them, they will be dark and evil looking and dressed in a heavy cloak--maybe even laughing an evil laugh. Moses’ father was just a man like any other man I have met here in Ghana. In fact, he had a pleasant face and wrinkles that seemed to show that he has smiled often in his life. As I took his hand and bowed in greeting, I had no idea what to think. He sat down on the stump and we continued our conversation. Since he was facing away from me (which I just realized meant he had his back to his son), I was able to observe him a little in profile. At one point he was playing with one of his grandchildren, half tickling her and making her smile. Since we did not speak the same language, no words were exchanged. I was struck by the fact that this man was much smaller in build than his son and wondered where Pastor Moses got his height and broad shoulders. Later when Rachel pointed out that one of the women we had already met was his mother, we saw where it came from--she is a tall woman.
As we left that day, I hugged Rachel tight. I realized they were in a dangerous situation living there in Widana and I vowed to pray for them. I smiled, shook hands and bowed to everyone I could as we left. They brought us a large amount of onions as a gift. Since onions have become so expensive where we live and they are a common crop in the North, we were grateful. Though it still kills me a little when these people we meet, who have nothing want to give gifts to us who have everything. That night I wrote emails to people asking them to pray. I was and am concerned for the safety of this family. One of the precious ladies that I wrote to sent me back this reminder and prayer.
“The Lord prepares a table for him in the midst of the enemy. His cup runneth over. He anoints his head with oil. Surely goodness an mercy will follow Moses and his family all the days of his life and he will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
Our God is greater and love WILL conquer.
May any evil that is plotted against this family be repelled by the shield of faith and turn back upon the one sending it such that the people are filled with a fear of the true God.”
When you think of me and are praying for the work that is being done here, pray for Pastor Moses, his wife Rachel and their daughter Florence. Pray for his father! Pray for his family! Pray for the village of Widana!
“I was formally known as Musah Mohamadu was born as a Moslem and received Islamic training and completed the Quran at the age of twelve years.
One night in 1997 as a prayer meeting was going on at the church in my area, I heard a still small voice telling me to go into His house. I thought it was Satan, so I started rebuking it . I kept hearing the voice over and over and hurried to the church and asked for repentance. The following Sunday would be the first time I would ever go to a service. During the service an angry mob showed up that had been organized by my father. They beat me and dragged me to my father. He told them to kill me and he took out a cutlass (machete) and cut my feet.
I still went to church the following Sunday and when I arrived home all of my things in my room were burned. My father summoned the family and told them that I was not his child any longer and they drove me out of the house.
I settled in Bawku because the Christians in my village were too frightened of my father and wouldn’t help me. A retired pastor treated me and encouraged me in Bawku.
December 31rst I was attacked again by men my father had sent. I was beaten, killed and taken for burial. They dug a hole, not a grave, and buried me there but fortunately an old lady reported them to the military so I was take out from the hole and taken to the hospital so they could pronounce me dead. The retired pastor prepared a coffin and everything for my burial. When they came to take my body from the mortuary they saw that my fingers were moving. They immediately took me to the hospital. I survived. After I was released from the hospital I was attacked again. This time my father told the men to blind me so then I would become a Muslim again because I would need to beg for Alms outside the Mosque. They beat me and I was taken to the hospital. I was declared N.P. L. (no perception of light) or legally blind. I couldn’t see and it seemed my father’s plan had worked. The retired pastor took me back to my father’s house and left me. I was like that for an entire year (2002). Laid up in my room. I prayed and prayed for a miracle. Then one night while Moslem leaders were there reading to me and teaching me from the Q’uran, I heard that still small voice again. I head it say that he was going to use what happened to me for good. I did regain my sight in December of 2002. The same retired pastor that had taken care of me before took care of me again. He said that God had a calling on my life. I was accepted into Northern Ghana Bible College and graduated in 2006.
Currently I am pasturing in Dabia A/G with struggles for survival of my family. There was no good drinking water, no clinic, and no food until God raised another Man of God who is moved by divine guidance to the aid of Dabia community and provided a clean drinking “pump” for us. He is in the person of Rev. Nichols and the family.
In all these things what then shall I say? If God is with me who can be against me? “
By Pastor Moses Delma Mohamadu .
Through circumstances which I will not detail, Pastor Moses, his wife Rachel and their little daughter, Florence are not currently in Dabia. The place we met Pastor Moses this past weekend was in a village called Widana. It is the village where he grew up. His father’s immediate and extended family comprises most of the residence of the small village from what I could see. The village is approximately 98% Muslim. I use this percentage as a guess. Pastor Moses pointed out the only 2 households besides his own that were Christian. Although there is an Assemblies of God church just outside of the village that is mentioned in the story above (we did not walk that far). As we walked through the village, we counted 4 mosques all within short walking distance (even by U.S. standards) of each other. Later in the day, Moses told us that there were 4 because they were each different sects. It made me think of all the churches I would drive by on a Sunday morning in the U.S. just to get to my church. This village may be almost totally Muslim but not all the same. I don’t know how this village played out but I have seen here in Ghana that there are sects were women not only participate in the prayers but lead the calls to prayer. Many Muslim women are not even required to cover their heads--this seemed to be true of the women related to Pastor Moses. We did walk by a women who was completely covered head to toe in black. Her face was completely veiled--not even her eyes were showing. This is the setting where the story above played out.
This is the moment I find myself thinking things like, “Wow! I get to see in real life something you only hear in missionary stories! . . . Oh my word! I am a missionary! I am the one that is going to tell this story!” At this point, I have been in Ghana almost 6 months. I wonder how long it will be until I actually get it.
The day was incredible! The women were sweet and welcoming even though most of them couldn’t understand a word we said or vice versa. The children were shy and beautiful. I just wanted to pick up every one of them and hug them tight if I could ever convince them to stop hiding behind their mother’s skirts. We were led to a place outside under a thatch canopy. Under it was a plank set on two stumps to serve as a bench, another stump a couple of resin chairs and a small cushioned bench that looked like something you would find on someone’s screened-in porch in the U.S. The cushioned bench was obviously a seat of honor and was offered to Garret and Kelly. They had place one of the resin chairs right next to it and offered it to me. We sat and talked with Pastor Moses and Rachel as mostly women and children crowded around. We were able to talk freely as we were speaking in English although we were frequently interrupted by people from the village wanting to come and greet the white people visiting. Rachel was trying to teach us the typical response to their standard greeting. I’m not sure we ever got it quite right but they seemed to appreciate our efforts at trying. The part we did get because it seemed true throughout the North is that as you greet the people, you take their hand and bow, trying to drop you head lower than the other person’s. In fact I have seen people greeting someone they greatly respect, crouch all the way to the ground when greeting them. I like this because as soon as it is over those greeting each other behave immediately like equals. They rise up from out of their bowed position and begin talking like old friends (depending on the situation, of course). I will admit it was a little different with us because they were coming to look at us. So, they would greet us and then stand around observing what was going on. While all of this was going on, Pastor Moses was telling us many things. I listened intently and tried not to stare to hard at the scars I could see on his face and feet. I wondered how many more scars there were to see. He is a tall man and stands above most anyone you meet here in Ghana. As discreetly as I could, I angled my camera and snapped a picture of him from my chair beside him so as not to interrupt his story (the pic. at the top). He pointed out a thin white tree several feet from where we were sitting. He told us that he planted that tree over his own grave. There, in the place where death was supposed to reign was instead a growing, living tree (pictured at the bottom). I wondered what his father must think to see that tree there every day. Then, I met him. You never expect to meet the villains from the stories you hear. Thanks in part to Disney, you half expect if you ever do meet them, they will be dark and evil looking and dressed in a heavy cloak--maybe even laughing an evil laugh. Moses’ father was just a man like any other man I have met here in Ghana. In fact, he had a pleasant face and wrinkles that seemed to show that he has smiled often in his life. As I took his hand and bowed in greeting, I had no idea what to think. He sat down on the stump and we continued our conversation. Since he was facing away from me (which I just realized meant he had his back to his son), I was able to observe him a little in profile. At one point he was playing with one of his grandchildren, half tickling her and making her smile. Since we did not speak the same language, no words were exchanged. I was struck by the fact that this man was much smaller in build than his son and wondered where Pastor Moses got his height and broad shoulders. Later when Rachel pointed out that one of the women we had already met was his mother, we saw where it came from--she is a tall woman.
As we left that day, I hugged Rachel tight. I realized they were in a dangerous situation living there in Widana and I vowed to pray for them. I smiled, shook hands and bowed to everyone I could as we left. They brought us a large amount of onions as a gift. Since onions have become so expensive where we live and they are a common crop in the North, we were grateful. Though it still kills me a little when these people we meet, who have nothing want to give gifts to us who have everything. That night I wrote emails to people asking them to pray. I was and am concerned for the safety of this family. One of the precious ladies that I wrote to sent me back this reminder and prayer.
“The Lord prepares a table for him in the midst of the enemy. His cup runneth over. He anoints his head with oil. Surely goodness an mercy will follow Moses and his family all the days of his life and he will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
Our God is greater and love WILL conquer.
May any evil that is plotted against this family be repelled by the shield of faith and turn back upon the one sending it such that the people are filled with a fear of the true God.”
When you think of me and are praying for the work that is being done here, pray for Pastor Moses, his wife Rachel and their daughter Florence. Pray for his father! Pray for his family! Pray for the village of Widana!
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Heartbreak on Lake Volta 02/23/2011
When it was decided how early we should start our day, no on knew how little sleep we would get the night before. It was “Lights off” as the Ghanaians say when there is no power. As I lay in bed that night, there was no relief from the heat. I would lay on my back until it was soaked with sweat and then roll to one side. When that side was wet, I rolled over to the other side and then to my stomach. I repeated this process over and over throughout the entire night. All the while my body ached all over from the violently bumpy drive to Kete Krachi that day. I still had a knot on my head from bouncing my head against the ceiling of the car as we hit one of the larger ruts in the road. As I lay in the suffocating darkness, I had one simple prayer. I wanted the fan above my bed to start turning. I contemplated lying on the cool tile floor. It was a small room and I knew the relief would be short-lived as I would quickly run out of space as my body heated up the tiles. Then it happened. The power came on and the fan began to move.
“Thank you, Jesus!” I whispered and drifted off to sleep. I woke a little while later to complete stillness, still drenched in sweat. The next day, no one else remembered the power coming on at any point during the night—it was only a dream. When my alarm sounded before 5am, I groaned inwardly. I wanted to whimper. Instead I started to drag my hot, tired, aching body out of bed. As I sat up, my head throbbed. I quietly convinced myself to get up. Our plans for the morning fulfilled one of the main reasons I fought so hard to come to Ghana. There are those who would consider my night luxury and I would be meeting some of them today. Tears stung my eyes as I stumbled to the bathroom. I refused to be the one to make us late heading out.
Later, as I looked around the breakfast table, I saw 5 pairs of weary eyes belonging to the men who comprised our group. Even Seth’s normally fresh looking face was limp with exhaustion. He told me he had dreamed of a pool the night before. I laughed. It was too bad we hadn’t all had that dream—we might have slept better. Garret said he had tried to flip his pillow over to the cool side and it was actually the hotter side. Somehow as we shared our experiences from the night before, our spirits grew lighter. We had all been through it together. We started to smile and laugh at our difficulty.
Soon we climbed into the car to drive the short distance to the shore of Lake Volta. There sat the faded blue and red boat, with the chipped lettering in white that said, “Africa’s Children.” Mohammad and Morrow were ready and waiting to pilot the boat to wherever we needed to go. George Jr. and Koffi helped us on board and we began our voyage across the lake. We were heading to an island that was far from where we started. George Jr. said it would be his 1st time to visit this particular island. At times, I found myself dozing. The gentle rocking of the boat combined with the cool breeze was like a drug. I glanced across the boat to find Garret sleeping also. We were all so very tired.
Along the way we pulled up along side every fishing boat that had children in it. Each boy’s face broke my heart anew. George Jr. would strike up conversations with the man in the fishing boat. Most conversations would start cheerful with typical Ghanaian greetings that I have grown accustomed to hearing. Quickly the discourse would take on a more serious tone as George Jr. would get down to the point. They would go on to discuss the young boys in the boat. There were usually at least 2 boys. The smaller of the two would be scooping water out of the bottom while the larger would be manning the oars or helping pull fish out of the nets. Each man would claim that the boys were his sons. Even if true it is still against the laws here. The practice has gone on in this area for many generations. The laws have been in existence for only a few years. If no one steps in, this will continue for many more generations to come. This is why we are here—to step in. Our hope is to not just change things for the few children that we are able to rescue. Our hope is to find a way to set into motion a course of events that will bring this practice of slavery to an end in this area.
As we drew closer to the far-away island, we came in to view of another fishing boat. Mohammad turned the motor to push us in that direction as we had done with every other boat we had encountered that day. Yet, this one took off the other direction. The occupants began paddling as fast as they could to get away from us. Since we had a motor, we overtook them quickly. All we could see were 2 adult men but we knew there had to be a child in that boat. Otherwise, they had no reason to run. George Jr. quickly hopped into their boat and began moving the nets. We heard the boy before we saw him. He began screaming out of fear in his own language. He was calling for his mother. Most likely, his mother would be far from there since this child was working as a slave. George Jr. pushed aside the nets to reveal a small, naked boy. He could not have been older than 4. I quickly turned around as the tears spilled over. The pain in my heart was more than I could handle and I couldn’t look. One of the men on the team placed his hand on my shaking shoulder. I know from stories told by the boys previously rescued that they strip down when they are diving into the water to untangle the nets. No one teaches these boys to swim. They have to learn by doing and sometimes die trying. This boy was smaller than my nephew! At this point we were close enough to the shore that the boy got out of the boat and ran to shore. George Jr. told me later that along with calling for his mother, the boy was screaming, “I’m dying! I’m dying!” The masters tell the children that anyone that comes for them will treat them worse and kill them. I cannot imagine the fear that must have consumed that child.
George Jr. and Garret began speaking to the man who was obviously in charge of the boat. George Jr. sat down in the boat, faced the man and leaned in until their faces were only inches apart. He did not want this man turning away from him at this moment. I did not follow the conversation as it was not in English. By the end of the conversation an agreement had been reached. I do not know all the details except the promise that George Jr. could come soon and collect the boy. I wanted to be excited but my heart still felt raw from earlier. Also, earlier that morning we had come across a boat with a boy that had also been promised to George Jr. weeks before—that master had gone back on his agreement. So, hope was not close to the surface for me.
All through the rest of the day, the boy’s screams haunted me. Although the power returned that afternoon and stayed through the night, I still had difficulty sleeping. I tried to think of moments in my life where I had experienced the most fear and misery and it doesn’t compare. I wonder how many times my heart can break in a single moment. I pray for that boy! There has been more than one time since I have come here that I have doubted and considered returning home. This was not one of those moments. This was a moment that the doubts disappear—I know why I am here. I have a part to play in this. I have many more heartbreaks to face and I am sure many more sleepless nights. It is all worth it if I can help make the tiniest difference.
“Thank you, Jesus!” I whispered and drifted off to sleep. I woke a little while later to complete stillness, still drenched in sweat. The next day, no one else remembered the power coming on at any point during the night—it was only a dream. When my alarm sounded before 5am, I groaned inwardly. I wanted to whimper. Instead I started to drag my hot, tired, aching body out of bed. As I sat up, my head throbbed. I quietly convinced myself to get up. Our plans for the morning fulfilled one of the main reasons I fought so hard to come to Ghana. There are those who would consider my night luxury and I would be meeting some of them today. Tears stung my eyes as I stumbled to the bathroom. I refused to be the one to make us late heading out.
Later, as I looked around the breakfast table, I saw 5 pairs of weary eyes belonging to the men who comprised our group. Even Seth’s normally fresh looking face was limp with exhaustion. He told me he had dreamed of a pool the night before. I laughed. It was too bad we hadn’t all had that dream—we might have slept better. Garret said he had tried to flip his pillow over to the cool side and it was actually the hotter side. Somehow as we shared our experiences from the night before, our spirits grew lighter. We had all been through it together. We started to smile and laugh at our difficulty.
Soon we climbed into the car to drive the short distance to the shore of Lake Volta. There sat the faded blue and red boat, with the chipped lettering in white that said, “Africa’s Children.” Mohammad and Morrow were ready and waiting to pilot the boat to wherever we needed to go. George Jr. and Koffi helped us on board and we began our voyage across the lake. We were heading to an island that was far from where we started. George Jr. said it would be his 1st time to visit this particular island. At times, I found myself dozing. The gentle rocking of the boat combined with the cool breeze was like a drug. I glanced across the boat to find Garret sleeping also. We were all so very tired.
Along the way we pulled up along side every fishing boat that had children in it. Each boy’s face broke my heart anew. George Jr. would strike up conversations with the man in the fishing boat. Most conversations would start cheerful with typical Ghanaian greetings that I have grown accustomed to hearing. Quickly the discourse would take on a more serious tone as George Jr. would get down to the point. They would go on to discuss the young boys in the boat. There were usually at least 2 boys. The smaller of the two would be scooping water out of the bottom while the larger would be manning the oars or helping pull fish out of the nets. Each man would claim that the boys were his sons. Even if true it is still against the laws here. The practice has gone on in this area for many generations. The laws have been in existence for only a few years. If no one steps in, this will continue for many more generations to come. This is why we are here—to step in. Our hope is to not just change things for the few children that we are able to rescue. Our hope is to find a way to set into motion a course of events that will bring this practice of slavery to an end in this area.
As we drew closer to the far-away island, we came in to view of another fishing boat. Mohammad turned the motor to push us in that direction as we had done with every other boat we had encountered that day. Yet, this one took off the other direction. The occupants began paddling as fast as they could to get away from us. Since we had a motor, we overtook them quickly. All we could see were 2 adult men but we knew there had to be a child in that boat. Otherwise, they had no reason to run. George Jr. quickly hopped into their boat and began moving the nets. We heard the boy before we saw him. He began screaming out of fear in his own language. He was calling for his mother. Most likely, his mother would be far from there since this child was working as a slave. George Jr. pushed aside the nets to reveal a small, naked boy. He could not have been older than 4. I quickly turned around as the tears spilled over. The pain in my heart was more than I could handle and I couldn’t look. One of the men on the team placed his hand on my shaking shoulder. I know from stories told by the boys previously rescued that they strip down when they are diving into the water to untangle the nets. No one teaches these boys to swim. They have to learn by doing and sometimes die trying. This boy was smaller than my nephew! At this point we were close enough to the shore that the boy got out of the boat and ran to shore. George Jr. told me later that along with calling for his mother, the boy was screaming, “I’m dying! I’m dying!” The masters tell the children that anyone that comes for them will treat them worse and kill them. I cannot imagine the fear that must have consumed that child.
George Jr. and Garret began speaking to the man who was obviously in charge of the boat. George Jr. sat down in the boat, faced the man and leaned in until their faces were only inches apart. He did not want this man turning away from him at this moment. I did not follow the conversation as it was not in English. By the end of the conversation an agreement had been reached. I do not know all the details except the promise that George Jr. could come soon and collect the boy. I wanted to be excited but my heart still felt raw from earlier. Also, earlier that morning we had come across a boat with a boy that had also been promised to George Jr. weeks before—that master had gone back on his agreement. So, hope was not close to the surface for me.
All through the rest of the day, the boy’s screams haunted me. Although the power returned that afternoon and stayed through the night, I still had difficulty sleeping. I tried to think of moments in my life where I had experienced the most fear and misery and it doesn’t compare. I wonder how many times my heart can break in a single moment. I pray for that boy! There has been more than one time since I have come here that I have doubted and considered returning home. This was not one of those moments. This was a moment that the doubts disappear—I know why I am here. I have a part to play in this. I have many more heartbreaks to face and I am sure many more sleepless nights. It is all worth it if I can help make the tiniest difference.
I choose Ghana--In sickness and in health! 01/15/2011
So, after bragging in my newsletter about how healthy I had been since I've been here, I have been very sick for the past few days. It all started while traveling (we do this often). On our last night on the road, I could barely make myself eat. As I headed back to my room that night, I was afraid that the food I did eat was coming back up. I was sweating profusely while shivering with cold. I shook my head thinking, “I have to find some kind of blanket!” Ha! I am in Ghana and I’m freezing! I did keep my dinner down but my night was miserable. I lay in a room that I’m sure anyone else would have thought was sweltering, huddled under a blanket. I was scared! This is what malaria acts like! The ride home the next day was miserable! My body ached like the flue and I wanted to whimper but there was no point. So, instead I slept in a pool of sweat.
When we arrived home, I was more than disheveled! My skirt and shirt hung on me almost dripping they were so wet. Much to my dismay there was people there to help us unload. Paulina and Evelyn have worked for Garret and Kelly since they arrived here in Ghana. So, I expected them to be there but I wasn’t planning on James. James has been painting our house and has been trying to teach me some Twi (the native language here in Kumasi and other regions). I really did not want to be seen like this. I just wanted to crawl to my room and collapse in my bed. I knew I couldn’t do that anyway because Garret has said that I needed to go to the medilab today to get tested for malaria. SIGH!
So, after putting my stuff in my room and grabbing my purse, I headed with Paulina by my side to the medilab. I had no idea what to expect. When we got there, there were all these people that wanted to sell me trinkets and jewelry. I was in a haze and didn’t know why they were there. I just kept waving my hand to show I wasn’t interested in shopping. Paulina pushed our way through telling the sellers that we were headed to the medilab. She led me up 4 flights of stairs (seriously! They hardly ever use stairs in Ghana). At the top were two men leaning on the wall just watching everything below. That is until they started watching the white woman shuffling by. I would have given anything at that moment to not draw so much attention to myself. I followed Paulina through the door into the waiting room. It was nicer than I expected. There were actually couches there and they looked clean. On those couches were 6 Ghanaians (two woman and four men) waiting. We walked up to the counter where a man asked what I wanted. I really had no clue what to tell him. I wanted to know what was wrong with me and to make sure it was not malaria! I had no idea how to say that with 6 pair of eyes and ears trained on me. He asked me my name and entered it into the computer and then asked me where I was from. I thought he wanted my address, which I didn’t know.
“Paulina, where do we live?” I asked her.
The man just wanted to know where in the U.S. I was from and he didn’t even need the information. It was just like a Ghanaian to be social at this moment. I looked at him helplessly.
“Mama!” he called out. He went on talking to a woman in a room on the right where the door was halfway open. He then looked at me and told me to go in that room.
“Tell her everything you are struggling with and she will know what tests to run.”
I was relieved to walk away from all those people staring at me. To my dismay, the lady did not shut the door. She kept insisting on talking in a loud voice that I was sure could be heard in the other room. I needed help though so I pushed ahead. I told her all my issues. She wrote something on a small pad of paper and ripped it off. She indicated that I should follow her and walked out of the room. She handed the paper to the man behind the counter and I looked at her questioningly. There was now only the four men in the waiting room. The lab tech turned to look at me and said loudly that they would test my blood and my urine. As she was talking she pointed to the inside of her elbow for the blood and then her crotch for the urine. I was horrified! I should have known it would be like this. Nothing is private here. I turned back to the man at the counter. He handed me a tiny key and a tiny specimen cup. I was still in too much shock to respond much. He told me that I would give them a urine sample. I looked at the tiny jar in disbelief.
“Just try.” He said and I think I actually heard compassion in his voice.
Paulina took the key and the cup and guided me out the door and across the hall. Through a curtain, I could see a man standing at a sink washing his hands (this is a good sign). Paulina walked right up to him and asked him a question. He indicated a door directly behind him. She unlocked it for me and handed me the specimen cup and stepped aside. I think she was wondering if I would kick myself in gear or if she was going to have to come in with me. I walked in thinking that just maybe this toilet would be clean since they kept it locked and this was a medical facility. That thought left when I entered the room and looked around. I sighed as I grabbed toilet paper to wipe of the driblets that had been left on the toilet seat by someone before me. When I finished, I had to carry it out to the sink to wash my hands. It took me several tries to figure out how to put the tiny lock back on the door. Finally, I carried the key and my sample passed the men sitting in the waiting room to the man at the counter. The lady stepped out of the other room and motioned for me to come back in there. They still had to take my blood.
Let me tell you that drawing blood has always been a difficult experience for me. I have problem veins. It is a common occurrence for me to go home having been stuck more than once and have bruises in each arm. I have had veins roll out of the way of the needle or just collapse and leak into my arm. To top it all off, I have a tendency to faint when having blood drawn. These things all happened to me in top-notch medical facilities in The United States. So, I was terrified how this might turn out. Before I even sat down again, I tried to explain my situation to the lady.
“Oh! So, you have a blood phobia!” She said loudly and laughed. She really was a charming lady in spite of my embarrassment. Her laughter wasn’t mean at all but she did find it funny. Somehow I found myself laughing with her. “I only do this with small children.” She said, still laughing. She had me lay on the table there and I told her that my veins were difficult. “I will get it!” she said confidently. “Now close your eyes and it will all be over soon.” She just kept telling me to close my eyes and then I wouldn’t see the blood. So, I lay there with my eyes tightly shut and my head turned toward the wall. I waited for the rubber band that is usually placed around your upper arm but it never came. The needle hurt going in but that has never been the part that bothered me. “See! I do it slow, so I don’t miss!” She said with glee. I was glad because she was done. I sat up as she stuck a cotton ball on my arm with a tiny piece of tape. She asked me if we would wait for the results or if I would send Paulina back later. I asked how long it would take. She thought about an hour. Hoping that wasn’t typical Ghanaian timekeeping, I said we would wait. She said I could take the results to a doctor and my heart sank. I thought I would take care of everything there! It was just a lab. I sank down on the couch next to Paulina.
While we were waiting, the lady lab tech left for the day and someone else took her place. The lady that replaced her brought me a sealed envelope about an hour later. It was right on time. I ripped it open and scanned over the results hoping I would understand them. Four words jumped off the first page, “No Malaria Parasites Found.” I sighed with relief until it occurred to me that I was still sick! I scanned the two pages to see if anything else made sense to me to no avail. I shrugged my shoulders and followed Paulina back down the stairs. At the bottom a man all but begged me to look at his paintings. I wish he could have understood that I could have cared less about him or his paintings at that moment. I just wanted to find the taxi and go home to my bed. When I, finally got home, I knew what I needed to do. I picked up my phone and called my mom. That is what you are supposed to do at these times, right? I asked her if she could sign on to Skype (because it’s free and I could see her face) and she agreed. I read her the results and she called a friend who is a nurse. Her friend confirmed what she and I both suspected at this point. I had a urinary infection! Well goody!
Later I learned that I would not have to go to a doctor! That made me smile! Garret (who has raised three daughters of his own) gallantly went to the pharmacy to get the antibiotic that I needed. Thankfully, I am on the mend. Now, if I can get over some of the embarrassment . . . ha ha! I guess that is what this blog is for. If I can share it with you, then it seems not at bad to me. Although I am not enjoying being sick, I know God’s hand has been protecting me through all of this!
When we arrived home, I was more than disheveled! My skirt and shirt hung on me almost dripping they were so wet. Much to my dismay there was people there to help us unload. Paulina and Evelyn have worked for Garret and Kelly since they arrived here in Ghana. So, I expected them to be there but I wasn’t planning on James. James has been painting our house and has been trying to teach me some Twi (the native language here in Kumasi and other regions). I really did not want to be seen like this. I just wanted to crawl to my room and collapse in my bed. I knew I couldn’t do that anyway because Garret has said that I needed to go to the medilab today to get tested for malaria. SIGH!
So, after putting my stuff in my room and grabbing my purse, I headed with Paulina by my side to the medilab. I had no idea what to expect. When we got there, there were all these people that wanted to sell me trinkets and jewelry. I was in a haze and didn’t know why they were there. I just kept waving my hand to show I wasn’t interested in shopping. Paulina pushed our way through telling the sellers that we were headed to the medilab. She led me up 4 flights of stairs (seriously! They hardly ever use stairs in Ghana). At the top were two men leaning on the wall just watching everything below. That is until they started watching the white woman shuffling by. I would have given anything at that moment to not draw so much attention to myself. I followed Paulina through the door into the waiting room. It was nicer than I expected. There were actually couches there and they looked clean. On those couches were 6 Ghanaians (two woman and four men) waiting. We walked up to the counter where a man asked what I wanted. I really had no clue what to tell him. I wanted to know what was wrong with me and to make sure it was not malaria! I had no idea how to say that with 6 pair of eyes and ears trained on me. He asked me my name and entered it into the computer and then asked me where I was from. I thought he wanted my address, which I didn’t know.
“Paulina, where do we live?” I asked her.
The man just wanted to know where in the U.S. I was from and he didn’t even need the information. It was just like a Ghanaian to be social at this moment. I looked at him helplessly.
“Mama!” he called out. He went on talking to a woman in a room on the right where the door was halfway open. He then looked at me and told me to go in that room.
“Tell her everything you are struggling with and she will know what tests to run.”
I was relieved to walk away from all those people staring at me. To my dismay, the lady did not shut the door. She kept insisting on talking in a loud voice that I was sure could be heard in the other room. I needed help though so I pushed ahead. I told her all my issues. She wrote something on a small pad of paper and ripped it off. She indicated that I should follow her and walked out of the room. She handed the paper to the man behind the counter and I looked at her questioningly. There was now only the four men in the waiting room. The lab tech turned to look at me and said loudly that they would test my blood and my urine. As she was talking she pointed to the inside of her elbow for the blood and then her crotch for the urine. I was horrified! I should have known it would be like this. Nothing is private here. I turned back to the man at the counter. He handed me a tiny key and a tiny specimen cup. I was still in too much shock to respond much. He told me that I would give them a urine sample. I looked at the tiny jar in disbelief.
“Just try.” He said and I think I actually heard compassion in his voice.
Paulina took the key and the cup and guided me out the door and across the hall. Through a curtain, I could see a man standing at a sink washing his hands (this is a good sign). Paulina walked right up to him and asked him a question. He indicated a door directly behind him. She unlocked it for me and handed me the specimen cup and stepped aside. I think she was wondering if I would kick myself in gear or if she was going to have to come in with me. I walked in thinking that just maybe this toilet would be clean since they kept it locked and this was a medical facility. That thought left when I entered the room and looked around. I sighed as I grabbed toilet paper to wipe of the driblets that had been left on the toilet seat by someone before me. When I finished, I had to carry it out to the sink to wash my hands. It took me several tries to figure out how to put the tiny lock back on the door. Finally, I carried the key and my sample passed the men sitting in the waiting room to the man at the counter. The lady stepped out of the other room and motioned for me to come back in there. They still had to take my blood.
Let me tell you that drawing blood has always been a difficult experience for me. I have problem veins. It is a common occurrence for me to go home having been stuck more than once and have bruises in each arm. I have had veins roll out of the way of the needle or just collapse and leak into my arm. To top it all off, I have a tendency to faint when having blood drawn. These things all happened to me in top-notch medical facilities in The United States. So, I was terrified how this might turn out. Before I even sat down again, I tried to explain my situation to the lady.
“Oh! So, you have a blood phobia!” She said loudly and laughed. She really was a charming lady in spite of my embarrassment. Her laughter wasn’t mean at all but she did find it funny. Somehow I found myself laughing with her. “I only do this with small children.” She said, still laughing. She had me lay on the table there and I told her that my veins were difficult. “I will get it!” she said confidently. “Now close your eyes and it will all be over soon.” She just kept telling me to close my eyes and then I wouldn’t see the blood. So, I lay there with my eyes tightly shut and my head turned toward the wall. I waited for the rubber band that is usually placed around your upper arm but it never came. The needle hurt going in but that has never been the part that bothered me. “See! I do it slow, so I don’t miss!” She said with glee. I was glad because she was done. I sat up as she stuck a cotton ball on my arm with a tiny piece of tape. She asked me if we would wait for the results or if I would send Paulina back later. I asked how long it would take. She thought about an hour. Hoping that wasn’t typical Ghanaian timekeeping, I said we would wait. She said I could take the results to a doctor and my heart sank. I thought I would take care of everything there! It was just a lab. I sank down on the couch next to Paulina.
While we were waiting, the lady lab tech left for the day and someone else took her place. The lady that replaced her brought me a sealed envelope about an hour later. It was right on time. I ripped it open and scanned over the results hoping I would understand them. Four words jumped off the first page, “No Malaria Parasites Found.” I sighed with relief until it occurred to me that I was still sick! I scanned the two pages to see if anything else made sense to me to no avail. I shrugged my shoulders and followed Paulina back down the stairs. At the bottom a man all but begged me to look at his paintings. I wish he could have understood that I could have cared less about him or his paintings at that moment. I just wanted to find the taxi and go home to my bed. When I, finally got home, I knew what I needed to do. I picked up my phone and called my mom. That is what you are supposed to do at these times, right? I asked her if she could sign on to Skype (because it’s free and I could see her face) and she agreed. I read her the results and she called a friend who is a nurse. Her friend confirmed what she and I both suspected at this point. I had a urinary infection! Well goody!
Later I learned that I would not have to go to a doctor! That made me smile! Garret (who has raised three daughters of his own) gallantly went to the pharmacy to get the antibiotic that I needed. Thankfully, I am on the mend. Now, if I can get over some of the embarrassment . . . ha ha! I guess that is what this blog is for. If I can share it with you, then it seems not at bad to me. Although I am not enjoying being sick, I know God’s hand has been protecting me through all of this!
Gideon & God’s Way 12/05/2010
I am finally posting the next installment on the trip I blogged about in “From Fetteh to Krachi.” So, if you have not read that last blog entry, you may want to check it out since I am starting right where I left off.
The next morning we launched right in without hesitation. George Achibra Jr. said he would take us and this team of ladies out on Lake Volta to see what is going on there. Let me stop for a moment for those who don’t know and talk a bit about Lake Volta. It is the largest manmade lake in the world. It was created many years ago when the Akosombo Dam was built that provides hydroelectricity to Ghana and other surrounding West African Countries. If you were to look at an overhead view you would see just how much of the country of Ghana that Lake Volta covers. You would see numerous tributaries and rivers branching off and snaking their way into the country. If you go out on the lake you find many dug-out canoes with men and even more boys fishing with nets. These men live on several islands found on the lake with their families. These island-dwellers make their living fishing tilapia out of Lake Volta. I don’t yet have a full grasp on what happens to the fish but I do know that at least a portion of it is dried and exported and some of it even makes it way to the U.S. I’m sure at this point, if you don’t already know, you are wondering why this group of Americans would head out o the lake to see this. The reason would be the boys you see in the canoes and some of the children you find on the islands. These children are slaves. They have been sold by their families to the fishermen to work for them. Some of them start as young as 3 years old. I could go on about the conditions but I think you get the point. If you do want to read more about it, check out this link: http://nicholsministry.org/Child_Slavery.html We were out there that day to show these women what the children they had spent so much time with the past several days had been rescued from.
George Jr. did not think we would do much more that observation that day. It was market day and he wasn’t sure how much fishing would be happening or who would be left on the islands. Market day is when they come across the lake to sell their wares in the market in Kete Krachi. We all loaded up on a faded blue and red, wooden boat. On the side you can see the fading words “Africa’s Children” in white paint. Africa’s Children is the name of the organization that raised the money to purchase the boat. The boat’s function is to help in the rescue of these slave children. The motor started up and we headed out. We actually came across several canoes that day. We pulled up beside each one so George Jr. could talk with those inside. If it were only children in the boat, he would ask them questions about their age and where they came from. The women would give them pieces of candy and after awhile we would move on. You could see the doubt and fear written on their faces. If there was an adult (a master) in the boat, George Jr. would talk to them about how what they were doing was illegal. It was fascinating to watch. George would sit back in the boat in a non-aggressive posture and keep his tone calm as he spoke with these men. He was building relationships! He does not want to make enemies of these men because his efforts to rescue children could come to a grinding halt if he does.
After some time on the lake, George Jr. had the drivers of the boat take us to one of the islands. Though it was not as crowded as they usually are, there were people there. It was mostly children, a few women and I think I saw a total of 3 men. We had not been on the island but a moment when George Jr. called a small, skinny boy over to talk to him. After talking to the boy for a moment, George Jr. raised his head to tell us why this particular boy caught his attention. He told us that this boy had been rescued once before by another organization. Since he was back on the island it was apparent that he had been returned to his family and re-sold into slavery. He told us the boy’s name—Gideon. I was guessing that he was about 9 years old. As he stood there next to George Jr. I noticed an open sore on his leg below several newly formed scars. His face had blotches on it that looked white scabs. He was so thin it looked like one wrong move could snap one of his bones. I was positive I had seen larger bones on the chicken we had eaten the night before. The leader of the team of women asked George Jr. if we could take him with us that day. So, George Jr. and Gideon walked off hand-in-hand to see what could be done. The rest of us hung back so as not to interfere with what was happening. I slipped back to the women in the group near the back that had not heard the exchange. I told them what was going on and that we wanted to take Gideon with us today. I told them to start praying for that to happen. So we wondered the island, praying and waiting. Several moments later, Seth came running to me asking were two of the women were. They wanted the two women to pray for this woman who was sick . . . then he said words that brought a surge of joy to my heart. “We are taking two boys with us today!” Two! I was excited but I didn’t understand. I asked Seth what was going on. “Gideon has a little brother—we are taking them both today!” When we got to where George Jr. and others were standing I found out the rest of the details. Gideon’s little brother’s name is God’s Way. Really?! What a name for a child sold into slavery. As I looked at him I tried to guess his age—he was so tiny! I was told that the lady being prayed for had taken these boys from their master because he was beating them so badly. She had said that we could take them with us. So, we quickly gathered everyone up and headed for the boat.
The ride back across the lake was incredible. A couple of the women gave the boys power bars to eat and water to drink. The boys were completely unsure of what to expect. I could see the questions in their faces and the trepidation in their eyes. Once across and on shore, we loaded up on the bus, taking the boys with us. They sat, so small in the seats just staring at all of us (pictured above: God’s Way on the left and Gideon on the right). We drove to the market and the women started shopping. They found shirts, shorts, pants, shoes and flip-flops for the boys in about 30 minutes flat. I watched as the women would come back to the bus with something else for the brothers and saw the smiles spread wide and light come into their eyes. We gave them some food to eat and they grinned more. I kept blinking hard to keep the tears from flowing down my face. I felt so privileged to just be there for this moment. Finally we took them back to Village of Life where they were fed a meal with the other children. The women cleaned them up and bandaged Gideon’s leg wound. Then they were simply allowed to play with the other children. I expect that they had not ever had much time to just play in their short lives.
Some of us sat in a circle of chairs outside near several bicycles that were parked near a building. The bicycles were being used as transport by the older children at Village of Life. I watched as the older children would chase the small children away from the bikes. They were not toys. Besides that the little children could easily hurt themselves on them. God’s Way had crept over to the bikes unnoticed until on of the older boys spoke to him. He tried to convince him to leave the bikes alone but God’s Way did not leave and the boy moved on. Not wanting to see him get hurt or for something to happen to the bikes, I got up from my chair and walked over there. I tried to call God’s Way to come away and what happened next froze me in my tracks. The small boy curled up on the ground and began to whimper. He covered his head with his arms and went into the fetal position. He was waiting for the blows of a beating. I felt the rush of compassion and anger surge through my body and I moved again. This time I reached down and scooped the child into my arms. I had to communicate to him that I was not angry—that he would not be beaten. I took him with me back to my chair and held him there in my lap. I leaned him back on my chest and began to hum to him softly. As I swayed back and forth, I actually managed to rock him to sleep. There was no where else in the world I would have rather been at that moment. As I held him I prayed. I prayed that this boy would no longer live in fear. I prayed that he would know that he was free. I prayed that he would know he was loved and how precious he is! I prayed and prayed and prayed. I sat there with him until I was stiff and sore and had to move. Kelly took over for awhile and he clung to her as if his life depended on it. Kelly held him until she too had to move and she passed him back to me. As I took him back, we moved inside. The team was gathering all the children together. As I sat down I noticed Gideon sitting in a chair staring at me holding his brother. I couldn’t read his face but something was bothering him. One of the women tried to hold him in her lap and he sat stiff as a board, staring at me the whole time. Someone else tried to talk to him and he wouldn’t respond. Finally, Garret sat beside him and convinced him to tell what was wrong. Garret told me that Gideon was afraid that God’s Way was going to get into trouble because he wets the bed when he sleeps. I looked at Gideon and said, “He can urinate all over me! I don’t care!” Garret explained to him further that his brother would no longer get into trouble for wetting the bed. That it was okay because he couldn’t help it. He told him that they were safe there. I watched him physically relax all the muscles that had been tensed and the tears I had tried to hold back all day overflowed uncontrolled. Gideon told me later that God’s Way is 6 years old. Gideon is most likely 10.
The next morning we launched right in without hesitation. George Achibra Jr. said he would take us and this team of ladies out on Lake Volta to see what is going on there. Let me stop for a moment for those who don’t know and talk a bit about Lake Volta. It is the largest manmade lake in the world. It was created many years ago when the Akosombo Dam was built that provides hydroelectricity to Ghana and other surrounding West African Countries. If you were to look at an overhead view you would see just how much of the country of Ghana that Lake Volta covers. You would see numerous tributaries and rivers branching off and snaking their way into the country. If you go out on the lake you find many dug-out canoes with men and even more boys fishing with nets. These men live on several islands found on the lake with their families. These island-dwellers make their living fishing tilapia out of Lake Volta. I don’t yet have a full grasp on what happens to the fish but I do know that at least a portion of it is dried and exported and some of it even makes it way to the U.S. I’m sure at this point, if you don’t already know, you are wondering why this group of Americans would head out o the lake to see this. The reason would be the boys you see in the canoes and some of the children you find on the islands. These children are slaves. They have been sold by their families to the fishermen to work for them. Some of them start as young as 3 years old. I could go on about the conditions but I think you get the point. If you do want to read more about it, check out this link: http://nicholsministry.org/Child_Slavery.html We were out there that day to show these women what the children they had spent so much time with the past several days had been rescued from.
George Jr. did not think we would do much more that observation that day. It was market day and he wasn’t sure how much fishing would be happening or who would be left on the islands. Market day is when they come across the lake to sell their wares in the market in Kete Krachi. We all loaded up on a faded blue and red, wooden boat. On the side you can see the fading words “Africa’s Children” in white paint. Africa’s Children is the name of the organization that raised the money to purchase the boat. The boat’s function is to help in the rescue of these slave children. The motor started up and we headed out. We actually came across several canoes that day. We pulled up beside each one so George Jr. could talk with those inside. If it were only children in the boat, he would ask them questions about their age and where they came from. The women would give them pieces of candy and after awhile we would move on. You could see the doubt and fear written on their faces. If there was an adult (a master) in the boat, George Jr. would talk to them about how what they were doing was illegal. It was fascinating to watch. George would sit back in the boat in a non-aggressive posture and keep his tone calm as he spoke with these men. He was building relationships! He does not want to make enemies of these men because his efforts to rescue children could come to a grinding halt if he does.
After some time on the lake, George Jr. had the drivers of the boat take us to one of the islands. Though it was not as crowded as they usually are, there were people there. It was mostly children, a few women and I think I saw a total of 3 men. We had not been on the island but a moment when George Jr. called a small, skinny boy over to talk to him. After talking to the boy for a moment, George Jr. raised his head to tell us why this particular boy caught his attention. He told us that this boy had been rescued once before by another organization. Since he was back on the island it was apparent that he had been returned to his family and re-sold into slavery. He told us the boy’s name—Gideon. I was guessing that he was about 9 years old. As he stood there next to George Jr. I noticed an open sore on his leg below several newly formed scars. His face had blotches on it that looked white scabs. He was so thin it looked like one wrong move could snap one of his bones. I was positive I had seen larger bones on the chicken we had eaten the night before. The leader of the team of women asked George Jr. if we could take him with us that day. So, George Jr. and Gideon walked off hand-in-hand to see what could be done. The rest of us hung back so as not to interfere with what was happening. I slipped back to the women in the group near the back that had not heard the exchange. I told them what was going on and that we wanted to take Gideon with us today. I told them to start praying for that to happen. So we wondered the island, praying and waiting. Several moments later, Seth came running to me asking were two of the women were. They wanted the two women to pray for this woman who was sick . . . then he said words that brought a surge of joy to my heart. “We are taking two boys with us today!” Two! I was excited but I didn’t understand. I asked Seth what was going on. “Gideon has a little brother—we are taking them both today!” When we got to where George Jr. and others were standing I found out the rest of the details. Gideon’s little brother’s name is God’s Way. Really?! What a name for a child sold into slavery. As I looked at him I tried to guess his age—he was so tiny! I was told that the lady being prayed for had taken these boys from their master because he was beating them so badly. She had said that we could take them with us. So, we quickly gathered everyone up and headed for the boat.
The ride back across the lake was incredible. A couple of the women gave the boys power bars to eat and water to drink. The boys were completely unsure of what to expect. I could see the questions in their faces and the trepidation in their eyes. Once across and on shore, we loaded up on the bus, taking the boys with us. They sat, so small in the seats just staring at all of us (pictured above: God’s Way on the left and Gideon on the right). We drove to the market and the women started shopping. They found shirts, shorts, pants, shoes and flip-flops for the boys in about 30 minutes flat. I watched as the women would come back to the bus with something else for the brothers and saw the smiles spread wide and light come into their eyes. We gave them some food to eat and they grinned more. I kept blinking hard to keep the tears from flowing down my face. I felt so privileged to just be there for this moment. Finally we took them back to Village of Life where they were fed a meal with the other children. The women cleaned them up and bandaged Gideon’s leg wound. Then they were simply allowed to play with the other children. I expect that they had not ever had much time to just play in their short lives.
Some of us sat in a circle of chairs outside near several bicycles that were parked near a building. The bicycles were being used as transport by the older children at Village of Life. I watched as the older children would chase the small children away from the bikes. They were not toys. Besides that the little children could easily hurt themselves on them. God’s Way had crept over to the bikes unnoticed until on of the older boys spoke to him. He tried to convince him to leave the bikes alone but God’s Way did not leave and the boy moved on. Not wanting to see him get hurt or for something to happen to the bikes, I got up from my chair and walked over there. I tried to call God’s Way to come away and what happened next froze me in my tracks. The small boy curled up on the ground and began to whimper. He covered his head with his arms and went into the fetal position. He was waiting for the blows of a beating. I felt the rush of compassion and anger surge through my body and I moved again. This time I reached down and scooped the child into my arms. I had to communicate to him that I was not angry—that he would not be beaten. I took him with me back to my chair and held him there in my lap. I leaned him back on my chest and began to hum to him softly. As I swayed back and forth, I actually managed to rock him to sleep. There was no where else in the world I would have rather been at that moment. As I held him I prayed. I prayed that this boy would no longer live in fear. I prayed that he would know that he was free. I prayed that he would know he was loved and how precious he is! I prayed and prayed and prayed. I sat there with him until I was stiff and sore and had to move. Kelly took over for awhile and he clung to her as if his life depended on it. Kelly held him until she too had to move and she passed him back to me. As I took him back, we moved inside. The team was gathering all the children together. As I sat down I noticed Gideon sitting in a chair staring at me holding his brother. I couldn’t read his face but something was bothering him. One of the women tried to hold him in her lap and he sat stiff as a board, staring at me the whole time. Someone else tried to talk to him and he wouldn’t respond. Finally, Garret sat beside him and convinced him to tell what was wrong. Garret told me that Gideon was afraid that God’s Way was going to get into trouble because he wets the bed when he sleeps. I looked at Gideon and said, “He can urinate all over me! I don’t care!” Garret explained to him further that his brother would no longer get into trouble for wetting the bed. That it was okay because he couldn’t help it. He told him that they were safe there. I watched him physically relax all the muscles that had been tensed and the tears I had tried to hold back all day overflowed uncontrolled. Gideon told me later that God’s Way is 6 years old. Gideon is most likely 10.
From Fetteh to Krachi 11/28/2010
I want to tell you about the first part of the most recent trip we were on. It all started on a Thursday as we packed up the car and headed south to a place called Gamoa-Fetteh (a little bit northwest of Accra). There is a large orphanage there named Village of Hope (such a great name). In that orphanage are close to 50 children who are not simply orphans. Their lives are so much more complicated than that. In fact many of these children's parents are still alive but going home is not an option. The reason is that their parents sold them into slavery. Usually this happens because of the sheer poverty these families live in. Their options are limited. These children have been rescued from slavery but kept here instead of sent home to their parents who are likely to sell them again. Garret and Kelly are working alongside a ministry called Touch A Life (www.touchalifekids.org). This ministry works to rescue these children from slavery, give them freedom, give them schooling and vocational training and show them the love that Christ would have shown to every precious child. These approximately 50 children are Touch A Life (TAL) kids. When we got there we met up with a team of incredible women who had aligned themselves with TAL to come minister to these children using art, music and good old fashioned love. Each of these women has an incredible story of their own that I wish I had the time to tell you.
After our short time there we had quite a journey to head out on. Before the sun even started to light the horizon, we gathered up this team of women, us, and 10 of the TAL kids and headed for Kete-Krachi. We were 22 in all. I was pleased to be assigned a seat next to a sweet-mischievous-ever-smiling boy named Freeman. You see, I had been privileged to be there a year and 10 months before when Freeman, his brother and three other children were first rescued. He looks so good now! My heart just about bursts to see him. Each of the kids we had with us had possible hernias located right at their navels. We were taking them to meet up with a team of doctors that would be traveling from The States the next day.
So, we headed out! The first leg of the trip was not too difficult but we were just heading over to a place named Tema. In Tema we picked up two Ghanian women and a lot of food. The one lady’s name is Erika Achibra. She is an amazing woman who has poured her heart out for these children. They love her. She was traveling with us to help out in any way she could and to cook for all of us. So we loaded all the food she had gathered to take with us (there would be no purchasing it at the end of our journey). The entire journey took around 14 hours and we were all exhausted when we arrived. Remember that Ghana is only the size of Oregon. The distance we were traveling would not even cover half of that from south to north. Imagine for a minute what would have to happen for it to take that long to travel such a short distance in The States. I could take quite awhile to describe the roads to you and talk about all the times we had to stop for these children to be sick or relieve themselves and then there are us Americans that are not used to traveling on roads without rest stops and fast food stops along the way. I haven't even mentioned the ferry that we have to take to get there.
When we pulled into our destination, I felt drained. I looked around at the faces in the bus and guessed that the weariness in them reflected my own. We were in Kete Krachi, a town near to Lake Volta. We were going to another orphanage called Village of Life. This orphanage is run under the authority of a man named George Achibra. All of the children are former slaves he has rescued from the islands on the lake. Most of the children are older and are going through vocational training. It was pure darkness as our bus rumbled up to the gate to enter the orphanage grounds. Someone on the bus called for us to listen, “Do you hear the drums?” I looked out the window and listened. I could hear them. Then I saw the teenage children playing them. They were all either running, jumping, cheering, singing, dancing or pounding out rhythms on drums. There was joy on their faces. I know this is so often my response but all I could do was cry. As each of us got off the bus we were greeted with hugs from at least 10 sets of arms and cheers of joy. You would have thought we were a bus full of famous movie stars that these kids wanted to meet their whole lives. Never in my life have I experienced a welcome like that. We had arrived in Kete Krachi for several days of beyond amazing experiences. I will blog about some of those separately.
After our short time there we had quite a journey to head out on. Before the sun even started to light the horizon, we gathered up this team of women, us, and 10 of the TAL kids and headed for Kete-Krachi. We were 22 in all. I was pleased to be assigned a seat next to a sweet-mischievous-ever-smiling boy named Freeman. You see, I had been privileged to be there a year and 10 months before when Freeman, his brother and three other children were first rescued. He looks so good now! My heart just about bursts to see him. Each of the kids we had with us had possible hernias located right at their navels. We were taking them to meet up with a team of doctors that would be traveling from The States the next day.
So, we headed out! The first leg of the trip was not too difficult but we were just heading over to a place named Tema. In Tema we picked up two Ghanian women and a lot of food. The one lady’s name is Erika Achibra. She is an amazing woman who has poured her heart out for these children. They love her. She was traveling with us to help out in any way she could and to cook for all of us. So we loaded all the food she had gathered to take with us (there would be no purchasing it at the end of our journey). The entire journey took around 14 hours and we were all exhausted when we arrived. Remember that Ghana is only the size of Oregon. The distance we were traveling would not even cover half of that from south to north. Imagine for a minute what would have to happen for it to take that long to travel such a short distance in The States. I could take quite awhile to describe the roads to you and talk about all the times we had to stop for these children to be sick or relieve themselves and then there are us Americans that are not used to traveling on roads without rest stops and fast food stops along the way. I haven't even mentioned the ferry that we have to take to get there.
When we pulled into our destination, I felt drained. I looked around at the faces in the bus and guessed that the weariness in them reflected my own. We were in Kete Krachi, a town near to Lake Volta. We were going to another orphanage called Village of Life. This orphanage is run under the authority of a man named George Achibra. All of the children are former slaves he has rescued from the islands on the lake. Most of the children are older and are going through vocational training. It was pure darkness as our bus rumbled up to the gate to enter the orphanage grounds. Someone on the bus called for us to listen, “Do you hear the drums?” I looked out the window and listened. I could hear them. Then I saw the teenage children playing them. They were all either running, jumping, cheering, singing, dancing or pounding out rhythms on drums. There was joy on their faces. I know this is so often my response but all I could do was cry. As each of us got off the bus we were greeted with hugs from at least 10 sets of arms and cheers of joy. You would have thought we were a bus full of famous movie stars that these kids wanted to meet their whole lives. Never in my life have I experienced a welcome like that. We had arrived in Kete Krachi for several days of beyond amazing experiences. I will blog about some of those separately.
Too much to tell . . . 11/07/2010
So, I’ve sat down so many times in the month I have been here and attempted to write some blog entries and have come to one conclusion. There is just too much to tell. My heart actually broke when I realized this. I sat and tried to figure out why this one fact would make me cry. It should be incredible—that means there are amazing things going on here all the time! It means that I have lots to do and that there isn’t time to be bored. When the tears dried-up; I began to write an email to my best friend. I was trying to explain to her some of the details of what is going on here. All I could manage was to ramble on about snippets of what is going on here. It is all so big! Then I saw why I was struggling so much with writing a simple blog. I knew who would be reading this blog. It would be people who have been intertwined in my heart throughout my life. It would be all of those that I love so much. I have no way to express the things that have been happening here. This world is so different. I struggle for every way to explain and it is never enough. I have chatted with friends online and spent time on Skype with my family and my best friend and every story I tell seems to fall short. I want these people who love me, who are cheering for me to know every detail but the words just are not enough! So, I give up! I cannot tell you everything! So, below are a few blog entries that no where near cover my experiences here. At least you can get some glimpses into what life is like for me here in Ghana, West Africa.
How do I tell you about Jacob? 11/07/2010
Jacob is a slave-child who was rescued from an island in the middle of Lake Volta. Right now he is living at one of the most well-run orphanages I have seen. The organization that rescued him is paying this orphanage to take care of him and 38 other children they have rescued. It is a good place! It is designed so that the children have access to adults that care about them. The children are broken into smaller groups, placed in houses and assigned house parents. All of these houses are on a large compound where the children can also go to a good school. It would be awesome if all orphanages could be run this way. Yet, the harsh reality is that it is still an orphanage.
I learned that these former slave children are ostracized by the other children. For the most part, that is not too bad because there are 38 of them—they have each other. Then there is Jacob. I have never had a child attach himself to my side so instantly as this boy did the moment I climbed out of the car. Other children came as well and wanted to touch my skin, my hair and play with my sunglasses but Jacob was different. It was like he was holding on to a lifeline. Other than a boy who was making rude sounds and faces at him that I chased away, I could not figure out what the issue was. It wasn’t until the next day that I learned what was up with this child.
That morning as I jumped out of the car, he found me again. I looked at his face and my heart melted. How could anyone resist? He held onto my upper arm and stroked the soft skin on the inside of my arm, next to my body. This is a favorite place for the children to touch me and I don’t mind at all—they like how if feels and I am a strong believer in the power of physical contact. If only for a moment I can make this child feel that he is loved and special than there might be something he can hold onto tonight at he falls asleep. He started to lead me away from everyone else and I asked him where we were going. He brought his hand to his mouth to indicate that he was going to eat. I was unsure if I was supposed to leave the group so I told him that I could not come with him. His face became desperate. He started to pull on my arm and tried to coax me to go with him. I promised him over and over that I would be right there when he finished and finally he let go.
I was told a few minutes later that it was fine to follow Jacob, so I did. I walked inside and quickly realized that I was in the way and had to step outside and wait. The room was filled with tables, children and a couple of workers. Since I was not part of the action there, I was a hindrance. As soon as he finished eating and washing his dishes, Jacob showed up at my side and once again latched onto my arm. The same boy that was tormenting him the day before started in again. This time Jacob retaliated. He started after him with fists flying. One of the house parents (Mathias) stepped in. He pulled the boys apart and gently got face to face with Jacob to talk to him. I was thrilled! Most adult authority that I have observed in this country is not gentle with children. I was pulled aside and told that Jacob is practically deaf. He struggles with anger because he cannot communicate with the rest of the children and they are mean to him because of it. I knew immediately why he was having ear troubles. He was a slave working on the fishing boats on Lake Volta. The boys are expected to dive under the water to untangle the nets. I am guessing that time under that water has damaged his ears.
It took everything in my power to not just pick that boy up and run off to the car and demand that we take him home with us. Instead I sat on a chair and pulled him into my lap. I gave him my camera to play with and chased away any of the other children that tried to take it away from him. The picture at the top of this entry is one that Jacob took of me that day. As we got back in the car, my heart felt like it was being ripped in two. I rolled down the window and reached out my hand to him. I sat and held his hand until it was time for us to pull away. I will see him again soon and most likely, many times while I am here. I am hoping to have a small gift for him the next time I see him—I want him to know that I love him and am thinking about him even though I am not there. I pray for him every time I think about him. Will you pray for Jacob as well?
I learned that these former slave children are ostracized by the other children. For the most part, that is not too bad because there are 38 of them—they have each other. Then there is Jacob. I have never had a child attach himself to my side so instantly as this boy did the moment I climbed out of the car. Other children came as well and wanted to touch my skin, my hair and play with my sunglasses but Jacob was different. It was like he was holding on to a lifeline. Other than a boy who was making rude sounds and faces at him that I chased away, I could not figure out what the issue was. It wasn’t until the next day that I learned what was up with this child.
That morning as I jumped out of the car, he found me again. I looked at his face and my heart melted. How could anyone resist? He held onto my upper arm and stroked the soft skin on the inside of my arm, next to my body. This is a favorite place for the children to touch me and I don’t mind at all—they like how if feels and I am a strong believer in the power of physical contact. If only for a moment I can make this child feel that he is loved and special than there might be something he can hold onto tonight at he falls asleep. He started to lead me away from everyone else and I asked him where we were going. He brought his hand to his mouth to indicate that he was going to eat. I was unsure if I was supposed to leave the group so I told him that I could not come with him. His face became desperate. He started to pull on my arm and tried to coax me to go with him. I promised him over and over that I would be right there when he finished and finally he let go.
I was told a few minutes later that it was fine to follow Jacob, so I did. I walked inside and quickly realized that I was in the way and had to step outside and wait. The room was filled with tables, children and a couple of workers. Since I was not part of the action there, I was a hindrance. As soon as he finished eating and washing his dishes, Jacob showed up at my side and once again latched onto my arm. The same boy that was tormenting him the day before started in again. This time Jacob retaliated. He started after him with fists flying. One of the house parents (Mathias) stepped in. He pulled the boys apart and gently got face to face with Jacob to talk to him. I was thrilled! Most adult authority that I have observed in this country is not gentle with children. I was pulled aside and told that Jacob is practically deaf. He struggles with anger because he cannot communicate with the rest of the children and they are mean to him because of it. I knew immediately why he was having ear troubles. He was a slave working on the fishing boats on Lake Volta. The boys are expected to dive under the water to untangle the nets. I am guessing that time under that water has damaged his ears.
It took everything in my power to not just pick that boy up and run off to the car and demand that we take him home with us. Instead I sat on a chair and pulled him into my lap. I gave him my camera to play with and chased away any of the other children that tried to take it away from him. The picture at the top of this entry is one that Jacob took of me that day. As we got back in the car, my heart felt like it was being ripped in two. I rolled down the window and reached out my hand to him. I sat and held his hand until it was time for us to pull away. I will see him again soon and most likely, many times while I am here. I am hoping to have a small gift for him the next time I see him—I want him to know that I love him and am thinking about him even though I am not there. I pray for him every time I think about him. Will you pray for Jacob as well?
What about Hannah? 11/07/2010
I met Hannah in a place called Basyonde. Basyonde is about as far north and east in Ghana as you can go. Garret and Kelly have an ongoing ministry in this region. They enjoy bringing teams from the United States up there to further their ministry. That is what we were doing there. Just after I arrived in Ghana, a team had arrived from Raleigh, North Carolina and we all hit the road together. Two of the members of that team are pastors at their church and had been here before. They had a desire to return work with the people in the northeastern region.
Our first day there was a Sunday. We were privileged to attend and experience the church service in Basyonde. Just as the sermon began, some of us slipped out to go to the school building behind the church. Waiting there was a large group of Muslim children that wanted to see us. We got them together and the team started teaching them Bible stories and acting them out. It isn’t the first time I have had the chance to minister to the Muslim children there in Basyonde but it had as big of an impact on me this time as it did before. The next day we returned for the two-day regional pastor’s conference. The team spent the whole time pouring into the lives of the people in the north.
On our last day there we learned there was a girl who really wanted to see us but was unable to. I wanted to cry as I listened to her father stand and tell Kelly about his little girl who wanted to come see the Americans but was stuck at home. He said that she could no longer walk. Kelly asked some of us if we wanted to go see her. Everyone jumped at the chance. So we walked over to her house to see her. We brought a stuffed animal and a few pieces of candy. As you can see from her picture, she is very frail looking. They believe that she has polio. She came down with it after getting her polio vaccination. This is a fairly common occurrence around here. We laid our hands on her and prayed for her. I was praying for healing. The man who was leading out in prayer had a much more well-worded prayer than that. I just kept thinking to myself God PLEASE heal her! Her father showed up a few minutes later and thanked us profusely for coming to see her. We asked him if we could pray for him and his wife as well and he thankfully accepted. As usual I had a hard time walking away. Hannah and her family are among my ever growing list of people I am praying for here.
Our first day there was a Sunday. We were privileged to attend and experience the church service in Basyonde. Just as the sermon began, some of us slipped out to go to the school building behind the church. Waiting there was a large group of Muslim children that wanted to see us. We got them together and the team started teaching them Bible stories and acting them out. It isn’t the first time I have had the chance to minister to the Muslim children there in Basyonde but it had as big of an impact on me this time as it did before. The next day we returned for the two-day regional pastor’s conference. The team spent the whole time pouring into the lives of the people in the north.
On our last day there we learned there was a girl who really wanted to see us but was unable to. I wanted to cry as I listened to her father stand and tell Kelly about his little girl who wanted to come see the Americans but was stuck at home. He said that she could no longer walk. Kelly asked some of us if we wanted to go see her. Everyone jumped at the chance. So we walked over to her house to see her. We brought a stuffed animal and a few pieces of candy. As you can see from her picture, she is very frail looking. They believe that she has polio. She came down with it after getting her polio vaccination. This is a fairly common occurrence around here. We laid our hands on her and prayed for her. I was praying for healing. The man who was leading out in prayer had a much more well-worded prayer than that. I just kept thinking to myself God PLEASE heal her! Her father showed up a few minutes later and thanked us profusely for coming to see her. We asked him if we could pray for him and his wife as well and he thankfully accepted. As usual I had a hard time walking away. Hannah and her family are among my ever growing list of people I am praying for here.
Power or the Lack thereof. 11/07/2010
Below is a slightly re-worded email that I sent to my best friend on October 25th
I had an awful night last night and I am about to get out of bed and start my day. I stayed up too late fighting with the internet. I couldn’t get it to work right and instead of giving up and going to bed I just kept fighting with it. Then, just as I was going to take a shower and go to bed, the power went out yet again. I have taken a few showers in the dark since I have been here but only because I was already IN the shower when the lights went out! If the lights go out before I get in, I just won't get in.
It's a bit of a frightening thing to be standing naked in the shower when everything goes pitch black and eerily quiet. I mean, really--Africa is not a place you want to be standing anywhere naked having to feel around for any reason. This happened to me once on the trip I just came back from. That night as I had walked back to my room, Seth had shown me a dead scorpion! Now picture that in your mind in this moment of pure vulnerability! Somehow I mustered up the courage to continue my shower. I told myself that I knew where I had left everything. I was kind of slow but I succeeded. I wanted to do a victory dance. Just as I was finishing up and wondering how I would find my towel and pajamas and thinking that stepping OUT of the shower was even more frightening, I heard the generator rev up and the lights popped back on. Sigh! This is life in Africa. Most of the time I do not mind and it is part of the adventure. Some moments though, the girl in me wins and I have to hold back the blood curdling scream that is just dying to come out! I tell myself that I want to be here (which is so true), take a deep breath and move forward. I've learned that standing still never solves the problem anyway. Standing still and doing nothing while naked in a shower, in pitch blackness really isn't any less scary than deciding to finish your shower.
So, last night when the lights went out (and the fan) I found my pajamas and simply crawled into bed. I didn't sleep well at all. I needed the fan because the air was really stale in my room. I kept waking up! Then the power came back on and I forgot that the light by my bed was still on. That woke me up! Then the fan made me too cold! Then the power went off again. Then it came right back on. Then it went off . . . I think you get the idea. I woke up early to the power being off and decided to write in my journal since I hadn't done it the night before in the dark. Light was coming through my window now and I didn’t think I would be getting any more sleep anyway. Then I moved on to write this email to my friend. At that point it was 7am here in Ghana and 2am back home in Minnesota. As I finished up, I asked God for strength for the day and got out of bed to begin my day. We were all tired from the night before but we pushed through the day. Somehow it was a bit easier because we had all been through the same, difficult night and were all short on sleep. I was so thankful that the response was to have mercy on each other instead of acting as crabby as I am sure we all felt. Learning to live here is an interesting journey.
I had an awful night last night and I am about to get out of bed and start my day. I stayed up too late fighting with the internet. I couldn’t get it to work right and instead of giving up and going to bed I just kept fighting with it. Then, just as I was going to take a shower and go to bed, the power went out yet again. I have taken a few showers in the dark since I have been here but only because I was already IN the shower when the lights went out! If the lights go out before I get in, I just won't get in.
It's a bit of a frightening thing to be standing naked in the shower when everything goes pitch black and eerily quiet. I mean, really--Africa is not a place you want to be standing anywhere naked having to feel around for any reason. This happened to me once on the trip I just came back from. That night as I had walked back to my room, Seth had shown me a dead scorpion! Now picture that in your mind in this moment of pure vulnerability! Somehow I mustered up the courage to continue my shower. I told myself that I knew where I had left everything. I was kind of slow but I succeeded. I wanted to do a victory dance. Just as I was finishing up and wondering how I would find my towel and pajamas and thinking that stepping OUT of the shower was even more frightening, I heard the generator rev up and the lights popped back on. Sigh! This is life in Africa. Most of the time I do not mind and it is part of the adventure. Some moments though, the girl in me wins and I have to hold back the blood curdling scream that is just dying to come out! I tell myself that I want to be here (which is so true), take a deep breath and move forward. I've learned that standing still never solves the problem anyway. Standing still and doing nothing while naked in a shower, in pitch blackness really isn't any less scary than deciding to finish your shower.
So, last night when the lights went out (and the fan) I found my pajamas and simply crawled into bed. I didn't sleep well at all. I needed the fan because the air was really stale in my room. I kept waking up! Then the power came back on and I forgot that the light by my bed was still on. That woke me up! Then the fan made me too cold! Then the power went off again. Then it came right back on. Then it went off . . . I think you get the idea. I woke up early to the power being off and decided to write in my journal since I hadn't done it the night before in the dark. Light was coming through my window now and I didn’t think I would be getting any more sleep anyway. Then I moved on to write this email to my friend. At that point it was 7am here in Ghana and 2am back home in Minnesota. As I finished up, I asked God for strength for the day and got out of bed to begin my day. We were all tired from the night before but we pushed through the day. Somehow it was a bit easier because we had all been through the same, difficult night and were all short on sleep. I was so thankful that the response was to have mercy on each other instead of acting as crabby as I am sure we all felt. Learning to live here is an interesting journey.
Feeling Bipolar 10/01/2010
So, I was driving home from a friend’s house last night as the sobbing began—full on sobs. Do you know how hard it is to cry and drive at the same time? My friend has two precious daughters that she has been letting me babysit. My heart just ached as I realized that it would be a long time before I got the chance to hang out with them at their house again. Children change a lot in just a short amount of time! Then I started thinking about my nieces and nephew. What will I miss in their lives while so far away? These moments keep hitting me over the past several weeks. One of the biggest happened a few days ago. I had the chance to speak with my 94 year old grandmother on the phone. She lives in Southern California and her health is failing. She is the only grandparent that I still have on this earth. We had a really great conversation but as I hung-up the phone, the heartache set in. My family and I suspect that by the time I get home from Ghana that she will have passed. All the goodbyes are devastating. These past weeks, as I have tried to get as much meaningful time as possible in with those that I love, I am shaken with the difficulty of walking way.
I overheard my mother talking to a family friend the other day. The friend asked her if it was hard for me to go. My mom said that I was excited to go but it was the leaving that was killing me. She knows me so well! Yet right in the middle of the sadness and tears is indescribable excitement. Last Sunday, at church, my friend Steven told me that I was a complete distraction to him—I couldn’t sit still. I am like a little kid waiting for Christmas morning! I have worked, pushed, strained and ached for this whole thing to happen and the day is at hand. Ever fiber of my being is happy about going to Ghana. Most days I feel like I am soaring just from the realization that this is happening. It makes me feel like two different people. I just keep jumping back and forth between heartbreak and elation. Is this anything like what being bipolar feels like? I love my life! It’s comfortable! I’m not sure I have ever faced this drastic of a life change! Then there is the adventurer in me that is actually thrilled about the fact that I really have no clue how this is all going to play out. I am thoroughly excited about all of the unknowns and the possibilities they bring about.
Since there is no way to figure out the ups and downs of the two extreme emotions, I choose to embrace them both. The joy and the sorrow are both me—both are a part of the whole experience. It is okay to feel both—even at the same time. So, I plan to board that plane on October 6 with tears in my eyes and a grin plastered on my face. The tears will be from walking away from my family and two of my dearest friends (who will all be at the airport) and the grin will be for the new adventure I am walking into!
I overheard my mother talking to a family friend the other day. The friend asked her if it was hard for me to go. My mom said that I was excited to go but it was the leaving that was killing me. She knows me so well! Yet right in the middle of the sadness and tears is indescribable excitement. Last Sunday, at church, my friend Steven told me that I was a complete distraction to him—I couldn’t sit still. I am like a little kid waiting for Christmas morning! I have worked, pushed, strained and ached for this whole thing to happen and the day is at hand. Ever fiber of my being is happy about going to Ghana. Most days I feel like I am soaring just from the realization that this is happening. It makes me feel like two different people. I just keep jumping back and forth between heartbreak and elation. Is this anything like what being bipolar feels like? I love my life! It’s comfortable! I’m not sure I have ever faced this drastic of a life change! Then there is the adventurer in me that is actually thrilled about the fact that I really have no clue how this is all going to play out. I am thoroughly excited about all of the unknowns and the possibilities they bring about.
Since there is no way to figure out the ups and downs of the two extreme emotions, I choose to embrace them both. The joy and the sorrow are both me—both are a part of the whole experience. It is okay to feel both—even at the same time. So, I plan to board that plane on October 6 with tears in my eyes and a grin plastered on my face. The tears will be from walking away from my family and two of my dearest friends (who will all be at the airport) and the grin will be for the new adventure I am walking into!
