How much do you need to be happy?

One day John was doing some errands and had with him a young man who does odd jobs for us. Because they were in the vicinity, Asher* asked, "Would you like to see my place?"

John would. 

Asher stopped the truck outside a small, one-room house. Upon entering the cement dwelling, John kicked off his shoes as everybody does when entering a home. Asher laughed. "You don't need to take off your shoes for this house. This is a local house."

Then his demeanor changed as though he suddenly grew embarrassed to have John see how he lived. The room's only bed was for his mom and sister to share - his dad had walked out on them long ago. There was a thin mattress for Asher on the floor. There was a television and a radio and a few odds and ends pertaining to cooking. That was all. 

Asher glanced at John to see his reaction. Maybe inviting a white man (who lived in a large, multi-roomed house) into your house (a single room you shared with your mom and sister) was a bad idea all around. 

But John was kind and smiled. "I'm familiar with local housing; we lived in a local house up in the north for a couple of years."

Asher relaxed visibly and said, "I know this is a local house, but I am thankful because there are so many people who have less than we do."

He seemed content.

*name has been changed

Pot holes

Back in the States we called little places chipped out of the top layer of asphalt "pot holes." But we were wrong. Very wrong. Pot holes are not saucer-like places of missing asphalt kindly spaced six miles apart. Pot holes better resemble canning kettles lined shoulder-to-shoulder like they do in my kitchen when it rains. And those bone-jarring, wheel-thumping, kettle-sized bumps are the babies. The granddaddy pot holes are more like washouts that hold enough water to choke up cars or (worse) damage them. 

Our friend was exiting a washout when the radiator of his truck hit the asphalt on the edge of the pothole. It was damaged enough that they limped it home and relied on public transport until it was repaired. That story was fresh in John's mind when he picked his way through the hole below and thumped both bumpers on its edges at the same time.  For one dreadful moment, he thought his radiator was the next to be cracked but a quick assessment assured him that his was fine.

This same puddle choked a car this past Sunday. We were on our way home from church and saw the road blocked by a car in the middle of the puddle. The unfortunate driver, his trouser legs rolled well up his calves, motioned us to take a detour. A group of men had collected to help push the car out. That was the second car we saw stalled in a bad section of road that day. The first was abandoned entirely and left to rest by the side of a deep puddle, a warning for all other motorists to navigate the puddle at their own risk.

You might notice the piles of dirt beside the holes in the picture above. (There are actually three holes; the mounding edge of the first hides the other two.) Earlier when we four-wheeled our way through this series of holes in our pickup, I used to wish someone would be inclined to fill them in. Then dump trucks came and offloaded giant piles of filler. It isn't dirt, exactly. Do you see the chunks of debris in them? It almost looks like it contains trash from a construction site, hopefully only broken cement blocks. 

Hello, nails? Please be kind to our tires.

Guests and Totes!

We love guests. I suppose that is a good thing for our home is a pit stop for travelers of our mission heading to or from northern mission outposts or for missionaries on business in Accra. Travelers coming from the States often arrive on a flight that gets them to our house anywhere from 9:30 p.m. to 1 a.m. (Midnight snack, anyone?) Often those same guests leave again in the morning around breakfast or before. The other common flight is an overnight one, landing in Accra at 7:50 a.m. which produces bleary-eyed guests who fight sleep and jet-lag for the duration of their time with us. But whether their time with us is short-lived, fraught with jet-lag, or both, we love all our guests.

In our first two months of being here, we have hosted nearly 40 of them. Half of those were a group of 20 students heading to a school in the north for 13 weeks of training and discipleship that, Lord willing, will motivate them to go preach the Gospel of Jesus in every nation.

The arrivals gate.
"Akwaaba" means welcome in Twi.

The Team arrived safe and sound, but 21 of their 47 checked-in luggage pieces didn't. They were delayed in America thanks to not fitting in the smaller plane that shuttled them from Philly to JFK. The airline was apologetic and sent the remaining totes on their next flight to Accra which came two days later. The Team went north before the belated luggage arrived, grateful for everything they had tucked into their carry-on baggage.

Loading the bus to leave for the North

The children and I went with John to the airport to pick up the remaining totes. Everything was there, including a cooler whose contents were still surprisingly cool, praise the Lord. The airline kindly paid to fly the baggage up to Tamale and the team was reunited with their totes later that day.

Waiting with the totes while Daddy
counted, organized, and shipped totes North

We benefited from the totes, too, thanks to an excellent packer in the States who did shopping for us and also to generous friends who surprised us all with gifts. I loved watching the children's uninhibited delight over everything with their name on it. They did happy little jigs and Sophia was half-laughing, half-crying with excitement. 

After everything was unpacked, I reviewed and organized the contents of the totes. My shopping lists were completed: my children have clothing for the next sizes up and new sandals to fit now; we now have everything we need for Tyler's schooling; I have a happy pantry, thanks to a few things like molasses, yogurt starter, cereal and lots of snacks for the children. Friends sent along birthday gifts (love those books!) and even all we'll need for a Thanksgiving meal, decor included!

There were notes and cards. It was so sweet to hear from home, to realize the effort so many kind people had put into this tote, and to feel so well taken care of. 

I couldn't help it; I sat down in the middle of all that love and cried.

Tyler with his gifts

We love guests, as I said, even the kind that comes with totes of treasures.

The Mystery Fruit

I recently saw a picture of a produce stand advertising rubarb. The misspelling (there is an H in rhubarb, folks) took me back to the day I nearly made a fool out of myself at a Lancaster County produce stand.

In the summer after we returned from Africa 5 years ago, I was driving through the countryside and saw a sign at a small produce stand that read, "Lopes. Buy 2, get 2 free." And I, with my love of ethnic foods, thought, "Whatever it is must be imported and isn't a hot selling item." 

I didn't know what a 'lope' was. Perhaps it was Spanish in origin and the local Mennonite population wasn't familiar with how to use it. I imagined a medium-sized green fruit, similar to a papaya. Did you peel it, cook it, or eat it raw? And I was pretty sure the country of its origin didn't pronounce "lopes" in a single, clipped syllable. It was probably "LOH-pay." Or possibly "loh-PAY." There was even a slight chance that it was "loh-PEZ" but certainly not "lohp." 

If I wasn't so short on time, I would have stopped and inquired. I could imagine the gratitude from some poor farmer who was stuck with a bin of "LOH-pays" and was selling them off at bargain prices. (Maybe they were small, considering he was selling them "Buy 2, Get 2 Free," and I'd want a dozen. Maybe they'd make a great jelly and I'd relieve him of a full bushel.)

It must have been a week or more later when I discovered the truth. "Lopes" was only an abbreviated form of cantaloupe, that luscious summertime melon grown prolifically in our area. Only, who can spell that correctly without spell check, right? I've seen other signs advertising cantelope, cantaloup, or, my favorite, cantalop. Settling on 'lopes' was definitely an easy way to avoid having to second guess your choice of letters every time you drove in your drive and saw yourself advertising canterlops. 

Suddenly I stopped short. Imagine how awkward would it have been if I had walked up to the stand and said, "Excuse me. I saw you are advertising LOH-pays. Can you please tell me what they are?" 

Or, "I saw your sign advertising -how do you say it? Loh-PEZ?" I can already see the blank stares and me trying to redeem myself with a loosened tongue rambling, "I've recently returned from Africa and am interested in ethnic foods. Can you tell me where these. . .LOH-pay. . . come from?"

My mother reminds me occasionally not to look for zebras when you hear the sound of hooves. Most likely it is horses. In this situation, looking for the exotic on a Lancaster County farm was probably a far-fetched, zebra-like idea. 

But, hey, how I was supposed to know? I don't remember my science books talking about lopes. 

What is in my bed?

It was evening and the children were already tucked into their beds. From that point on, we usually hear very little of them until morning, but this time my name was being called. There is a window from the children’s room into our hallway, so I stood outside that window and said, “What do you need?” I expected to be told something that Sister said and I was prepared with one of my canned answers—probably my most-used, “Alright Sophia, time to be quiet.”

But this time Tyler said, “Mom, come.”

“Just talk to me, Son. What do you need?”

“I can’t tell what is in my bed.”

In the States, I would assume that one of his large family of stuffed animals got shifted under the blanket forming a hump he didn’t recognize. But in Africa the question, “What is in my bed?” takes on a whole new perspective. There are creepy crawlies in Africa.I went in his room to check.

There, clinging to the inside of his mosquito net about a foot from his head was a tree frog. I have no idea how it got into their room in the first place unless it came in through the little hole where the sliding window and screen meet. During Sophia’s nap, I had slung the net onto the top bunk to try to let her better feel the breeze from a tired ceiling fan that spins weakly on the ceiling. Maybe she napped with the frog.

“How did you know it was there?” I asked Tyler. I could imagine how startling it would be to have a frog jump onto you when you are nearly asleep and was surprised that his only response was, “Mom, come.”

“Well, I heard this noise and I didn’t know what was making it. Then I saw something here.” 

Aw, his own lullaby. He was fortunate it was mostly the singing that raised questions. We put the little brown songster outside and the children went to sleep.