The Man at Her Gate

I know. Third person is a poor mask for myself, but it was easier to write about "she" and "her" than to boldly claim this floundering woman's identity as my own. We get a lot of requests for financial aid. It takes a lot of wisdom to know whose story is true, who is truly in need, and how much you should help them financially. Unfortunately, we cannot help everyone, nor meet all the needs of the ones we do help. Our resources are limited, a surprising truth to many around us. While the following story was unfolding, others were coming to us as well. The frequency of the requests, the repeated calls, the feeling of being used as 'easy cash'. . .it wore away at me until you get the following episode, one with an unsatisfactory ending.

"Giving at the Gate" by Tyler

Her morning was interrupted by loud banging on the gate. The dog went wild, as it always did when a stranger arrived or, maddeningly, if the dog assumed one did. But this time through the crack between the tall metal gate and the cement post supporting it, she could see a briefcase. A stranger had arrived. 

She opened the gate and smiled broadly in welcome. Then her smile stiffened and swiftly froze into that plastic, molded kind of smile that means nothing. It was he. Months before he had shown up at the gate with his upper arm broken badly enough that a second elbow appeared to jut out painfully above the first. He had fresh vomit down the front of his shirt. Her husband had swilled the stranger down with water and compassionately heard the man’s story: “I’ve been in an accident and need money to get back to my family four hours away. I am not from the city and I need to get home.” The man slumped against the cement pillar of the gate and, even while speaking, drifted in and out of cognizance, his head listing heavily to one side, his chin on his chest. He looked terrible. Was he going to die at their gate? Very concerned, they gave him money to help him get home. They were truly glad for the opportunity to help one of the “least of these” that Jesus talked about.

But the “least of these” didn’t stay at his home four hours away. He returned to the city for medical help repeatedly and brought a procession of hospital forms with him to the gate, all of them requiring cash he didn’t have. 

He needed medicine for his eyes that were becoming 

glassy and fogged over, impairing his sight.

 Medicine for pain. 

Lorry fare to get back home. 

Medicines for other ailments.
More lorry fare.

By now compassion was wearing thin, at least for the wife. They were not with an organization set up to give aid like this. Their organization’s focus is church planting; their own job a supportive role in that. Any aid they gave came from personal funds. They tried to give wisely, giving something towards the amounts like their African friends do and never paying bills in full. Contributing towards on-going medical needs for a stranger who seemed to feel entitled to their help had worn away the genuine compassion she felt at the beginning. 

And, anyway, where was this man’s family? Weren’t there other people already in his life that could help him? What if –and she drew in her breath sharply- what if they were creating a dependency issue? African support systems within extended families are huge. African friendships carry obligatory demands like helping financially in times of need. Why, then, did he keep coming to the gate of strangers?

And now, there he was again, standing at her gate. And there she was, facing him with her smile as plastic as her compassion. He no longer slumped against the cement pillar as he did in the earlier days but stood erect. Physically he had improved. But mentally there still was something wrong, at least judging by his smile and stare and his occasional odd comment.

Oblivious to her feelings, the man at the gate handed her a new slip of paper, the by-now-familiar hospital logo stamped across the top. He needed medication for surgery. He needed money for the surgery itself. He was willing to show her the area that needed the operation if she liked, inappropriate though it was. She didn’t, appalled that he would ask.

This time her husband wasn’t home and, hoping that would deter him, she handed back the slip of paper and said, “Please, my husband has gone out.”

Undeterred, the man at the gate stood there expectantly, smiling and silent. Then he settled down to wait. She went back inside, a huge, ugly knot tying up her insides. It started to drizzle, but without her husband home, there was no way she could invite the man in out of the rain. She hated that he sat there in a drizzle. She hated that he came back over and over again. Hated that their white skin made people immediately think they were philanthropists with endless resources. And, worse, hated her lack of compassion.

It was that lack of compassion that startled her the most. Deep inside herself, all she truly wanted was for the man and his problems to go away. To go back to his hometown four hours away and stay there always where his family would surely take care of him.

But what if this was one of the least of these? What if this was Jesus who comes to us in the form of the poor, like the story in Matthew where the sheep on Jesus’ right were rewarded with eternity after helping the needy, unlike the goats on the left who had turned a blind eye? Poor lady. She was torn. Torn between feeling hard and uncaring like the left-hand goats, and, sheep-like, feeling like maybe she should maybe dig into her own grocery money and help the man out one more time. But just how much should she give? And where were this man’s relatives, anyway? He said he was a Christian. Where was his church?

And then, oh joy, she heard her husband return and the weight of decision fell from her shoulders and onto his. He was finding his way in all of this, too, trying to juggle cultural expectations, Bible verses on giving to the poor, and his own finances. 

They knew they hadn’t seen the last of this man, yet things couldn't go on like this indefinitely. And then God sent another man, a Ghanaian, into the picture. He was truly a Good Samaritan, going well beyond his call of duty to care physically for the man and to locate his relatives. Through him, the loose segments of the story started to be knit together with sinews of detail.

The man had been normal until that horrible accident altered his mind. 

His family (yes, those people she thought were being negligent)
hadn’t known he was still alive.

When they knew of his condition, they put him in a camp designed to help men like him. But he escaped and came back to the gate.
And on his way home he was in a second accident, requiring surgery.

Eventually he was safely taken back home and his absence at their gate meant he must have stayed there, voluntarily or otherwise.

As the details were pieced together over a period of a few weeks, she felt chastised for not helping out more willingly. Her husband had been a wise man all along, just as she had suspected. He must have been laying up piles of treasure in heaven all along. She had not, for she was pretty sure reluctant givers don’t accumulate heavenly wealth very quickly.

It felt like a thousand lessons and revelations were wrapped up in the story surrounding the man at the gate: 

There were lessons in trusting a wise husband’s decisions, and
in believing the best of people -like the man's family whom she thought
defaulted on their duty.
Lessons in reaching out for God's grace in trying moments.

There were revelations of being tighter-fisted and colder-hearted 

than she ever imagined herself to be.

There was the revelation that treasures in heaven aren’t laid up very easily sometimes. Sometimes giving is rewarding and fun, like to the disabled folks begging along the street.

But sometimes it plumb hurts.

Though she had been in the wrong, she now felt humbled and chastised by the Lord. But, she thought to herself, there would surely be opportunities of redemption.

There were.
Once again, giving began with pure compassion.

The man-at-the-gate’s Good Samaritan called. 

His wife died and he needed money to pay a nanny who cared for his week-old baby. 

Then he needed lorry fare. 

And a few days later he needed food for his older children.
And more lorry fare to get to a new job.
He told them, “You are the only people at all I have to help me.

I don't have family and friends who can help me." 

Wait. That couldn't be true. The family wouldn't starve without them. African support systems comprised of extended family and friends take care of their own.
He was coming to strangers for money multiple times a week, an sustainable situation.
And, hey, where were his relatives, anyway?
This felt familiar.
Too familiar.
But, and she inhaled deeply, this might be her chance
to line that heavenly mansion with treasure,
her chance to show her husband how much she trusted his wisdom,
 her chance of redemption.
In truth, she wasn't exactly excited about this, but neither was she frustrated.

The Good Samaritan called again. 

He had fallen three stories and had been in a coma for four hours. 

His leg was broken badly. His face was messed up. 

He needed surgery. 

No, surgery wouldn't do it, after all. 

He needed transportation to a 'traditional' healer in the north. 

They looked at each other, knowing they didn't, couldn't, and wouldn't support the witchcraft that happens at many traditional healers. Plus, they had no way of verifying his story. They told him no.

And the Good Samaritan swore lightly into the phone. 

Maybe his support network of friends and family stepped in and took care of their own.
It must have.
Because the phone stayed silent.

The Story of How We Met & Married

Married one year! 2008

In the fall of 2000, a small Colorado church hosted a week-long Bible School for youth. My sister and I were told about it and attended, getting placed for the week in the home of the Gerald Nolt family, people we had never heard of before. There were 15 other girls there as well and the Nolts had given the 17 of us full reign of their basement. I don’t remember seeing John that week, except when they gathered to take a family picture on the last day of our stay.

But his brother noticed my sister and the following summer they were married. John and I were Best Man and Maid of Honor at their wedding. I saw the Nolts occasionally after that when we would visit my sister at her new home in the West. And, once, our families went camping together in the mountains of Colorado.

In those days I thought John was a really nice guy but didn’t necessarily think of him as someone I’d marry. But my parents did. Sometimes Dad would lean back in his office chair and grin at me across the room where I worked as the secretary for his auto repair shop. “I think,” he’d say with a twinkle, “that I’ll call John Nolt up and see what he is planning to do with his life.” Fortunately he spoke in jest, as I would have been mortified if he had carried out his threat.

What I didn’t know was that John’s parents really liked me, too, and would tell John, “When you look for a wife, look for a girl like Sara.” (If those were the days of arranged marriages, our parents would have had us tie the knot sooner than we did.)

Well, John went to Ghana for six months, came home and worked on getting his pilot’s license, and eventually ended up teaching school in downtown Reading, PA, a school for both Mennonite and city children. While he was there, he lived with two other guys and easily adopted their goal of living within their earnings. Their positions weren’t volunteer ones, but nobody was going to get rich, either, on the wages the school was able to pay. So they saved cash by doing things like keeping their house at 40 degrees Fahrenheit. (“Worked well,” he says casually. “You never had to put the milk away after breakfast.”) Simple living, giving, kingdom living, a life of service. . .these values were being impressed deeply in his heart.

Meanwhile, I moved to Ghana, too. But shortly before I left, there was a significant event that influenced our future. I was back in Colorado for a wedding. Afterwards, a group of youth were invited to the Nolts' house for the evening. When the party was over, one of the girls needed a ride home almost 45 minutes away. John was elected to take her and his sister was going along. They invited me to come, too. So I did. We talked the entire drive as a foursome, about missions, places we’d like to serve, etc. On the return trip, the conversation continued and the ride was over long before I was ready for it to end. I had seen another side of John and was favorably impressed. And so, he says, was he.

My sister, perceptive woman that she is, read between lines I never verbalized and said simply, “Your eyes have been opened.”

“What do you mean?” I protested lamely. “I didn’t say anything.”

“I know. But I can tell that you see John differently than you did. Am I right?”

She was. But I had no time to think about that, for I was going to Africa for a year. I taught English in a small village that had no electricity or plumbing. I was focused on my work and thought little, if anything, of John. 

With schoolchildren in 2006

Pounding dried fish

Winnowing beans

Rich, deep things were happening to me. I was learning the values of a life of simplicity, of giving, of kingdom living, and of a life of service. My life was deeply enriched through the examples of the missionaries I was privileged to be with.

Halfway through my year, I was asked if I would take on a second term. I didn’t know what to say. My decision flip-flopped for weeks. I asked my parents, hoping they’d have a strong preference one way or another, but they didn’t. They only told me they’d support my decision, whatever I sensed God asking me to do. Disappointed then that they didn't make my decision for me, I realize now that their answer was a God-directed one. He wanted to speak to me Himself and wanted me to have the joy of knowing I had heard His voice.

I set a day aside to fast and pray. They were waiting on my answer. I needed to act. But that day, every time I stepped into my room to pray, I felt God saying to me, “Just wait. I’m going to answer.” I responded to Him saying, “Okay, Lord.” And walked back out of my room. I didn’t really pray much that day, not like I expected to, anyway.

And that evening there was a two-lined note waiting on me when we checked g-mail with a Satellite phone. “There has been a new development,” my mother wrote. “Call Dad before you make any decision.”

A new development? Courtship crossed my mind, but I didn't dwell on the idea. I was in Africa after all. They probably needed me full-time in the office or something boring like that. The evening was a long one for me, but finally I knew Dad would be home from work and I could call. Phone calls from the village were tricky business because the reception was very poor. There were only a couple places where we got any signal at all. I chose the spot by the thatch-roofed sitting place and made the call.

Dad usually beats around the bush until you are almost frantic for the information, but this time he came right to the point: “John Nolt is asking for permission to begin a courtship with you.  What do you think?”

“Are you serious?”

“As serious as a heart attack.”

I don’t remember anything else from our short phone call. I’m sure I promised to think and pray about it, which I did all night because I was much too excited to sleep. Not only was John interested in me, God had answered my prayers and given me direction as clearly as if His own voice had thundered from the heavens. I knew that whether or not things worked out with John, I had my answer: I was would not take a second term. 

John didn't know I was fasting for an answer on that day. He only knew he had been asking God if he should pursue a courtship with me and had been very surprised when, during a random phone call, John’s dad ended the conversation with, “Whenever you want me to call Sara’s dad to see if she’s available, let me know.”

Surprised into silence, John only said, "Okay, thanks.” 

Two weeks later, 

     John called his dad, 

          who called my dad, 

               who sent me an email, 

                      which I received on the evening of my fast, 

                              a fast my family wasn't aware of. 

Believing we had God’s approval, we started to write weekly emails in March 2006. And once a month, when I would get to a city with reliable cell phone reception, we would get in some phone calls that, sadly, weren’t as satisfying as you might expect. Reliable cell phone coverage only meant I didn’t have to climb a tree to catch a signal, a trick that worked in the village. It did not mean we would be able to hear each other very well. We battled with static in the lines, abruptly ended calls, and many, many opportunities to say, “Can you repeat that?” “I didn’t catch that.” “Are you still there?” “Can you hear me?”

Five months later in August, my term in Ghana ended and John was waiting for me at the airport. It was so incredibly good to see each other in person! I had collected a small army of pictures of John over the past few months that I would spread out in front of me when I wrote him letters. But they were a poor substitute for being together. There is something unbeatable about watching someone’s face when they talk or laugh. Or of sitting quietly together and soaking in the moments. Or sharing little love-looks that can’t happen across static-y phone calls.

Roughly three weeks after my return, we were engaged on September 11, 2006. John went with my family on a camping trip that weekend. I can’t believe how unsuspecting and clueless I was, but I never guessed that he had a question burning a hole in his pocket the whole weekend. On the last evening we were together, the family suggested they all go to bed to give John and me a few minutes alone since I lived in Indiana and he in Pennsylvania and it would be a while until we were together again.

It was the moment he needed. 

     We took a walk down to the lake 

          where the moonlight was reflecting on the water

                  and sat on a park bench, 

                          quietly soaking in the last few moments we were together.

Or so I thought. 

    But he was nervous. 

        He smiled into my eyes. 

              He told me he loved me. 

                   Then he dropped on one knee. 

                          And proposed.

My breath caught, of course, and my heart did a double-back-flip and I answered, “I would be honored.”

The next morning when the sun barely opened its eyes, I crept over to my parents, shiny-eyed, and said, "She said 'yes'!" 

Almost three months later, on December 2, 2006, we were married in a blue and silver-themed winter wedding.

We love our story. We love how God impressed similar values and lessons into each of our hearts in the days leading up to our courtship, how God made that email land in my inbox on the day I was fasting for answers, and even how purity was so ingrained in us that physical touch, though we looked forward to it a lot, wasn’t something we were tempted with during our courtship. We had what we call a ‘hands-off courtship’, in which we saved physical touch of any kind until we were married. That looks different to different couples, but to us it meant that we didn’t even kiss or hold hands until our vows were said. (And, no, there were no emotional stresses or hindrances on our honeymoon because of it. Just pure happiness that we were finally married!)

I thought I was in love when I married him, but living with John has caused me to admire and love him more as the years go by. 

Today is our tenth wedding anniversary. John is a real gift, one I still don’t feel worthy of. I know. Twenty years from now I’ll probably laugh at the self I am today, saying I knew nothing about love in 2016.  

July 2016

I'm back!

And how good it is. I do not understand the mind of a computer, so I had no idea what to do when it refused me entrance on my blog. Blocked from my own blog? Seriously? Just when I decided that my account had been hacked and I was banned entrance forever, I thought to pray about it. And within a day, my husband did some troubleshooting for me (again), changed a setting somewhere, and I’m back in business. It truly helps to pray. And it also helps to have an avenue like my kind husband whom God can use in situations like this.

Here are a few things that happened during my silence:

Motorcycles in Accra do not follow the same traffic guidelines as vehicles. Red lights and toll do not apply to cyclists. Also, a moto (as they are called here) is much faster than a car since they drive between the two lanes of traffic on four-lane roads. John uses our moto a lot and loves how easy it is to park in the city, how little fuel it uses, and how fast it is in comparison to a car.

I definitely don’t spend time thinking about all the nasty possibilities of what could happen to my husband on a moto in town. Potential for disaster is high. One thing I never worried about was him getting hit by one while on foot. John was walking across a highway between stopped traffic (pedestrians do this all the time) when a moto left the right shoulder, dodged between traffic, and hit John. Fortunately no one can go very fast when doing maneuvers like that, so no major damage was done, except to John's trousers which were shredded by the moto. 

I was very grateful for God's protection, but shaken, and told our six-year-old he needs to thank God his Daddy didn’t break a leg or (worse-case scenario) get killed. His eyes reflected my horror and he said immediately, “THEN who would pay the taxes?”

John laughs, knowing Tyler’s love for his dad is far deeper than having some nice guy around to pay taxes. The two are great friends. But I didn't get it. Apparently I know as little about little boy thought processes as I do computer brains.

We hosted the Nate Gray family for a week and half over the birth of their son. I hadn’t ever hosted a family for that long before and was a little nervous they’d be so tired of us (and my cooking) that they’d never want to see our family again. But they are wonderful people, very gracious and kind, and we parted as friends. (At least I think so. We still like them, anyway!)

My children thought live-in play mates was the best thing ever: 

 

And I couldn’t get enough of little Nicholas. It was precious to get to snuggle a newborn just a couple of days before our own baby would have been due had I not miscarried earlier this year. 

 

Hosting is probably the favorite part of our job, so we were glad to have the Aaron Ulrich family with us for a few days. My children had so much fun with a little "brother" that we volunteered to keep him, an offer that was rejected before it was even considered. 

When John returned from an errand last week, he dropped his backpack on the couch and said, “Guess what I did?”

“Go to immigration?”

“Nope. Sat in traffic. It was so backed up that I turned around a couple miles from here and came back home."

Sometimes traffic is jammed up for no apparent reason, but this time John was able to see the cause of the problem. A semi carrying bags of cement lost its brakes and plowed into cars and street vendors. Eleven vehicles were involved and there were multiple deaths, though we never heard a final tally. We often see nasty accidents and are truly grateful for God protecting us in the many hours we have spent on the road.

Our electric company installed a pre-paid meter. We aren’t exactly excited about the change since we’ll have to keep an eye on how much money is left in our account lest we run out at an inopportune time. The only way to refill the meter is to go in person with cash to the ECG office. The best part about the new meter was seeing Tyler outside with the electricians, wearing his Li’l Tykes hard hat.

And that is a fast overview of our life in the last few weeks. We are happy and blessed and so grateful to be in the service of our King. 

On Dishes and Forgiveness

I’m usually the dishwasher at our house. John often dries them for me and together we make a fine team. But one Sunday evening, dishes had gotten neglected until it was late and I certainly didn’t feel like spending the last few hours of my weekend washing dishes. I stood by the sink, eyeing them responsibly, but reasoned inwardly, “There really aren’t that many. Plus, my helper comes in the morning and will need something to do; I’ll have her do them.”

My Housecleaning Conscience thus quieted, I went into the living room and settled myself on the couch. Hardly had I gotten good and situated when I heard the clatter of dishes. I knew it could only mean one thing, so I slunk back to the kitchen to do my duty. 

John was filling the sink with water and grinned at my look of guilt. “I’ll do these,” he volunteered cheerfully. “You go back to what you were doing.”

So I did, albeit miserably, but I couldn't concentrate. What kind of wife was I, anyway, letting my husband do the dishes alone on a quiet Sunday evening? My Housecleaning Conscience and Good Wife Conscience mingled their protests until I slunk back into the kitchen.

John saw my misery and laughed. “I already released you. Go be at rest.”

I knew he meant what he said, but I volunteered to wash and we did the dishes together.

Later, his response caused me to think about times I do the same to God only this time it is on a much grander scale than dirty dishes in a sink. I sin. He forgives. And I continue to beat myself up internally, feeling like a criminal for getting frustrated or for the words I have spoken. I crawl back to Him, ready to repent all over again. 

But He lovingly tells me, “I already released you. Go be at rest.”

This time He doesn't want me to wash dishes or any other penance. He truly wants me to do nothing more than take Him at His word, go on with my life, and be at peace.

photo used from morguefile.com

The Courage of Peter-at-his-best

A number of years ago, I was at a mission’s conference and heard Weston Leibee preach a sermon. Sadly, I forgot the bulk of the message, the title, and the year of the conference, but I remember his example of Peter’s courage on the night he stepped out of the boat and walked on water. Laying aside our criticism for the Peter who fell, the phrase “Peter got out of the boat!” has followed me through the years and inspires me, especially this past month.

It was a dark night and the wind was strong.

They were alone. 

No, not completely alone because there were 12 of them, yet alone enough because they were out in the middle of a lake, rowing hard against the wind.

And no one else was there.

There were no neighbors within shouting distance when a figure 

came walking towards them across the waves.

Their fear was palpable because they thought this was a ghost. (Humans can’t walk on water, after all.) Plus, they knew way too much about demon possession. They saw folks writhe and foam. They saw the naked madman with broken chains 

who lived among the tombs.

They had seen enough to be afraid of spirits. 

And surely even a lone ghost could do bad things to a group of men in a boat 

on a lake at night.

But this was no ghost.

It was Jesus who knew their fear and called across the water,

“Take courage! It is I! Don’t be afraid!”

Still uncertain, Peter hollered back, “If it is you, Jesus, tell me to come!”

It was a daring move.

But Jesus said, “Come.”

And Peter stood. 

He gripped the side of the boat and courageously slung a leg over the side.

The water was firm to his foot. 

The other leg followed. 

He was standing on water.

He walked, and the water held him.

Years and years later, we quickly forget that part. But we remember, with inward scorn, the man who took his eyes off of Jesus. We use the sinking Peter as an example of what we ought not to be –a faithless one- and we forget the courage of a man who stepped out of a boat and walked on water.

Today when I need courage, I think of Peter-at-his-best.

Not the guy who trembled at the fluid path beneath his feet.

Not the Peter who cried out and fell when the watery mountains surged around him. 

That part is just a warning so we know what happens if we start analyzing all the circumstances that surround us after daring to step out. In every situation that takes courage, there are always the “winds and the waves” that can make us lose heart.

Sometimes my winds and waves aren’t a result of earth-shattering, life-changing choices, 

yet they still need to be conquered.

Like having the neighborhood children over to play with my son. 

I knew what I was getting into when I started this 

and I had a hard time looking past the waves. 

I was sure the children would swarm at our gate in between play times, 

meaning I’d have a lot more monitoring to do.

 I was pretty sure some of their play would be things we don’t allow our children to do. 

Between that and knowing they have been exposed to far too much at far too young, 

I was going to need to monitor every playtime carefully.

And it happened, of course. 

The children swarm at the gate and worry the dog.

The boy we trusted first has been caught in multiple lies and slunk away, 

no longer coming for the play time we started because of how respectful he was.

Another child uses inanimate objects, says they are people, and stabs them to death.

And the “boy-whose-name-we-don’t-know” clobbers my son in retaliation to me saying no to something he wanted to do. 

Tyler just happened to be the unfortunate messenger. Twice.

I have spent hours and hours monitoring play, putting an end to things 

like a child helping my son ride a bike up a tree, 

and trying come up with group games that are fun for everyone, 4 to 13 years old.

Sometimes I tense up and want to stay in the boat, clutching my children to me. 

I want to shelter them from the winds and not ever, ever let anything bad happen to them. 

It is easiest not to face the waves.

But there is that call, “Come!”

Beyond the waves, I see Jesus and the impact He can make. 

We might be the only Voice for Truth the local children will hear. 

My children might end up having really good friends.

So I let the children come back. 

I supervise their play, debriefing my children afterwards, making sure I’ve heard their stories and making sure they know what Mama thinks about 

hitting, lying, and pretending to kill.

We talk about what God says about those things.

Who knows. 

Maybe the things I feared are actually the things that will strengthen my children, 

provided we can guide them through.

At other times, I need to step out of the boat and go visit my neighbors.

But it is hard.

We live on the edge of a city, a place where the sense of community has largely been choked out by too much distrust.

They are polite at the gate, but they don’t invite me in.

The walls and gates surrounding their houses are intimidating.

My repeated “Hellos” were ignored completely by someone standing right there until I finally turned and went to another house.

It takes great effort to try again.

They don’t reciprocate my visits.

But these hard things are only the waves and winds that threaten to keep me 

from walking on the water. 

Knuckles white, I grip the side of the boat, preparing to step out. 

I look up, beyond the waves and see Jesus, the One who invited me to live this Life Out of the Boat. He sees something far bigger and longer lasting than mere waves. 

Good may still come out of my bumbling efforts at making friends.

Jesus knows it is hard and bridges the gap with an encouraging, “Be of good courage!”

Releasing my grip, I step out.

Do you have hard things to face and need the courage of Peter-at-his-best? 

Look up, beyond the waves, and see Jesus. 

He is already on those waves you feared.

And He calls to you, saying, “Come.”

Every 15 Pictures

A blogger, Luci Miller, posted random pictures from her phone, starting with the most current, then posting every 15th picture. . .and challenged others to do the same. It becomes a journal in pictures, if you take enough pictures of your life. Mine became a rough overview of 2016 because I keep my phone pictures whittled down. 

Yesterday we drove by a big, ol' oven (the igloo looking thing under the pavilion on the left) and piles of pottery urns that had been baked. I dearly wanted to stop to get some good pictures, but we were racing nightfall for we didn't completely trust the empty (?) stretch of road ahead of us at night. (Think robbers, a rare but possible interruption to night time travel.) So I took a picture out the window as we went by and we promised ourselves to stop the next time. 

It was Tuesday of this week. Someone wanted to know how to pray for me, and Tuesday is my day to pray for another missionary sister. When I read these verses in the morning, I sent a text of them to both ladies, requesting one to pray them over me and promising to do the same for my friend. 

We started scheduling supervised play with the neighborhood children. They love it. 

The Orange Deluge 

We had two dates since we moved to Ghana a year ago. This is a selfie of us on our way to a Lebanese restaurant in July. 

Of course, Picture #15 would not land on the wild elephants we saw at a National Park. It landed on cattle crossing the road, a common occurrence. But I suppose this is better in the long run, as it is more of a true picture of our life.

In early July we had family come for a visit from the States. And they came loaded with gifts and surprises! Here we are unpacking a tote. 

Um. John said he'd watch the fort so I could get some sleep. I gave my nap an honest try but my mind was much too full to settle down. So, in the quiet time allotted to me, I worked on a writing project instead. And then my conscience niggled a little since John thought I was getting a good nap, so I sent him a selfie text as a confession. Nope. Definitely not sleeping. 

Sophia dearly wanted to make a little cardboard car like I had made for Tyler. She doesn't play with cars much, so I was a little surprised at her interest. But once we got into the project, I realized that she wasn't interested in the car at all. She wanted to paint.

The guy at this little roadside stand cut a new mirror for our broken one after we were sideswiped by a truck. The "Driving Mirror Expert," as advertised on the sign, did an excellent job. 

Tyler and his best friend, Emanuel, love playing in the rain.

Hippo leads an interesting life.

Tyler and his oatmeal-box-truck that inspired Sophia to want one, too.

Remember what I said about Hippo? Well, he did Kindergarten last year, too.

Sophia plays with her Froggy like other little girls play with dolls. Froggy's face turned brown from all the loving it gets, so Sophia gave it an early morning bath. 

April 12. The day our baby went to be with Jesus.

My good friend and helper Salome was an invaluable asset to our Palm Nut Harvest. I had no clue how to process them, but Salome just laughed. She was probably born with a palm nut in her hand.

We had a helicopter-themed birthday party for Tyler in March. These are the labels I sketched to make the drinks fit the theme. 

Those early rains in March were unbeatable. After roughly four months with no precipitation at all, rain was definitely worth celebrating. They cooled the air, they marked the beginning of a cooler season, they greened up the dead grass and curled orange tree leaves. . .Yay for the Rain!

In January and through a program called "Heroes of Change," a Ghanaian friend of ours was honored for his service to his village and surrounding area. He has a clinic in northern Ghana where he has saved hundreds of children's lives who were severely malnourished when they came to him. He also opened a school and has really given his life and resources to help his community. The picture below isn't the best, obviously, but it is of a choir singing "A Charge to Keep I have."

One Crabby Morning

Fortunately, the title has nothing to do with my attitude and all to do with genuine crabs. A group of Tyler's friends went crabbing this morning and came back with a haul. While some of them took the crabs home to their mother, I asked the others where they found them. We are a 45 minute drive from the ocean. 

"The crabs are just here," one said and pointed to an unlikely cassava patch growing by our house. 

They read my dubious look and said, "There is a waterlogged area and the crabs are in the mud there."

The plants behind these guys are cassava

The group of them ducked into the cassava field, Tyler and I followed, and they showed us the fine art of finding crabs who live in mud. Behind the cassava is the waterlogged area they referred to. Though there is very little to no standing water, the ground is saturated enough that the crab live in water "in their rooms," as the boys said. 

It looked like such an unlikely place to go crabbing. 

But the boys were experts and looked for "the crabs' footprints" by a hole. There were a lot of holes.

And then you fearlessly dig in. 

 Like, really dig in. 

And the method works.

Tyler tried it, too, though a little more timidly. 

                                      

You might have noticed there are no pictures of me with my arm up to my shoulder in a crab's hole. I couldn't, see. I had the camera.