Bonding.

(Written in early January 2016.)

The midwife called it “bonding” on the report she left with us. “Mother and child bonding well,” it read. I hadn’t thought of it. All I knew was that I was delighted with this doll-sized child I had as my very own. I called him adorable; they called it bonding. 

As he grew, bonding happened in boots and snow pants, with miniature snowmen the right size for a little guy to pull on a sled. It happened with storybooks and Memory games, with hugs and kisses. Bonding deepened with sunshine and laughter and happy days.

And bonding happened last night.

Tyler has his first case of malaria, in spite of the precautions we have in place to prevent it. Thankfully it seems to be a mild case, but mild or not, malaria is miserable. The fever and chills had him on the couch bravely bearing the discomforts without a word of complaint. Kindly, the medication and natural cycles of malaria gave him a good evening, and he went to bed for what we hoped would be a solid night of sleep.

But it was not to be.

In the wee hours of the morning, I heard him stirring. We use a baby monitor for our children at night because our cement walls block out so much sound we can’t hear them call for us though they are only a room away. The monitor kept coming alive with little noises and whimpers, and I got up to check on the restless one.

“I feel dizzy and my head hurts,” he said. I touched his forehead and was surprised by the heat radiating from it. Even before I took his temperature, I measured out Tylenol to help cut the fever. And then, once he was tucked back into a bed on the floor (guests were in his own bed), I knelt beside him to take his temperature. His eyes were closed but he relaxed against me. I stroked his face and let my hand rest on his shoulder. It was at this unlikely moment that I realized our bond was deepening. I, kneeling on a mat at 3:00 a.m., him lying miserably beside me with a high fever. 

The thermometer finally beeped, reading 103.8. No wonder he felt dizzy and had a headache. John and I stayed awake until we were satisfied that Tyler's fever was heading in the right direction. And then I slept, hugging to my heart the warmth of a bond that comes from those moments with my child.

Ah, bonding. It can happen in the ‘best of times’ but in its strange way, it happens deeply in the ‘worst of times.' 

I wonder, then, why I shy away from hard things that have potential to deepen my relationship with God. One of the things I feared the most in moving here was having a robbery. Within two months of our stay, our house had been broken into and many things were carried off in make-shift bed sheet knapsacks. In the days immediately following, instead of the overwhelming fear I expected to face, I sensed God was with me.

Being the Ultimate Parent, He knew I was as needy as my fevered son on his mat. And He came and measured out a generous dosage of grace to help cut my fear. He stayed beside me and gave me songs to sing when shadowy evenings fell and John was gone on errands. Retrospectively, the weeks following our break-in are tainted with the sweetness of having God come and care so sweetly for me. 

I still don't wish further robberies on ourselves and I can't say I'm excited about hard times in the future, but I have the faithfulness of God in the past to bolster my courage and give me hope that my relationship with God will be deepened through the toughest of times. 

Some might call that bonding. 

It is very well

Sometimes you hit upon a real gem. And I think I just did. In fact, I was so pleased with my find that I was offering to write up a criminal record for the guilty party who dropped verses four and five of Spafford's song, “It is Well.” I didn’t even know the song was written with six verses until this morning and I've been singing this song all my life.

I suppose some of my passion came from being caught in a tender moment. It is Sunday and I was missing out on our church service back home. I was missing out on singing with a congregation in my native tongue. Plus, I’ve been seriously missing out on and hungering for music. We have no instruments here since my piano slightly exceeded the 50 pound weight limit of our suitcases coming over. And currently we have no MP3 player since the thieves ran off with that nearly two months ago. Music, then, has been limited to our own vocals which is fine but which isn’t quite like singing with a choir --especially when half of our family is Kindergarten age and younger.

But we recently purchased a Hymn Makers CD being sold along the streets of Accra. I put it on this morning and it immediately lured the two children over to stand beside me with shining eyes. “Is that church?” she asked softly, tugging on my sleeve. I couldn’t answer right away; I was crying.

Then I joined them and sang my way through the old hymns I love. One of them was “It is Well.” I was singing the last verse when suddenly I realized they were not. It was surprising to me because I know that song by heart. But when I listened to the words I had been missing out on, I felt gypped that I spent over 30 years of my life without getting to sing “But, Lord, ‘tis for Thee, for Thy coming we wait, The sky, not the grave, is our goal. . .” Thankfully, I found these verses now and can spend the next thirty years of my life singing them with the same passion the rest of the song inspires.

Here are the original words to the song:

It is Well

Horatio G. Spafford, 1873

When peace like a river, attendeth my way,

When sorrows like sea billows roll;

Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to know,

It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Refrain:

It is well, (it is well),

With my soul, (with my soul)

It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,

Let this blest assurance control,

That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,

And hath shed His own blood for my soul.

My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!

My sin, not in part but the whole,

Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,

Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

For me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live:

If Jordan above me shall roll,

No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life,

Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul.

But Lord, ‘tis for Thee, for Thy coming we wait,

The sky, not the grave, is our goal;

Oh, trump of the angel! Oh, voice of the Lord!

Blessed hope, blessed rest of my soul.

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,

The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;

The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,

A song in the night, oh my soul!

Children's Book Recommendation

If you, like me, are interested in introducing the little people in your life to other cultures and to missionary stories, I have a book recommendation for you. Recently Christian Light Publication released a sweet book written and illustrated by our very own Lysanne Gray. It was originally meant to be a keepsake for her young daughters, but wise friends encouraged Lysanne to get it published so it could be enjoyed by the rest of us. My Friend and I, written in poetic form, is the story of a little girl spending the day with her African neighbor. Together they do chores, eat, play, and talk about God. The colorful illustrations accurately depict life in a northern Ghanaian village.

 Here is a link to CLP's website where you can purchase your own copy.

A Story of Compassion

Perhaps God wants to do something in me regarding compassion for He not only allowed me to hear a beautiful example of compassion but recently gave me this word as well: “Compassion enlarges our heart’s capacity while fear restricts it.”

Here is the story (with names changed to respect privacy) that I cannot get easily forget:

She used to be a regular mom with several children of her own. Then things changed. Whether it was through dabbling in the spirit world herself, being drawn into it because she had twins (a fearsome thing), or being outright cursed, something happened. She became insane and the demons tormented her. No longer was she a normal mom with normal friends and a normal life. Now she was a 30-something outcast whom people feared and no one loved.

It grew worse. Her insanity caused her to step in front of a car. Her legs were never the same after that accident and her only mobility came by dragging herself around in a sitting position. Her hands grew filthy from propelling herself along, as did the lower portion of her body from being continually dragged in the dirt.

Old friends avoided her; no new friends took their place. None? Enter Mercy, a nurse by trade and compassionate by nature.

She sat with the suffering one on her filthy mat. Magdalene was too lost in her world of insanity to carry on a conversation. But love doesn’t always use words. Love brought food and shared it with Magdalene. Love washed the filthy blanket Magdalene used. Love returned again and again, always giving selflessly and not expecting anything in return. There was little communication and certainly not even a “Thank you” to the only friend who cared for her.

The neighbors were watching –from a distance, of course. “That was my friend,” another young mother said of Magdalene. “We were always together and now look at her.” She clucked her tongue and shook her head helplessly as she turned away. There was no family to care for Magdalene. Her mother passed away when Magdalene was a child and the Auntie who raised her was far away.

Things worsened. Poor hygiene and subsequent disease caused the crippled form to lose her health and today she is dying.

Neighbors were curious but distant. They clustered together and watched as Mercy entered the home of the dying. “She isn’t afraid of the devils,” they said of Mercy. Mercy smiled compassionately, finally understanding why folks avoided Magdalene. They were afraid.

Alone, Mercy sat by the side of the dying for hours. Chickens wandered in. A little boy sneaked in, looking to see if the dying had any coins lying around that would not be needed in the afterlife. A drunken woman did the same. The rest kept their distance, watching.

Mercy spoke to Magdalene again about Jesus. Again she prayed. She shared with Magdalene what Jesus could do for her. And finally a text came from Mercy saying, “I saw demons leaving her. She is in absolute peace. Looks me straight in my face when I share about Jesus and His love for her.” Praise God Jesus still has mercy on the demonic sufferers. And praises to God that His salvation even reaches the outcasts.

Peace came, but healing hasn't for maggots are already doing their gruesome work to the ravaged body. It is only a matter of time until the sufferer is released. She will little be missed. Except by Mercy who was love and compassion personified to the outcast no one loved.