The Joy of Christmas

     The Magi were in Jerusalem, not because they wanted to see the town, but because they were unavoidably detained. The star which they had seen from their home hadn’t led them directly to the stable; it brought them into the land of the Jews where they stopped to ask directions to the place of the Baby’s birth. King Herod had to summon priests and teachers of law to tell him of Micah’s prophecy. Only then did the wise men receive the information they needed and could travel to Bethlehem.

     Upon leaving the palace after their private audience with the king, the star reappeared. “When they saw the star,” Matthew records, “they rejoiced with exceeding great joy.”

     That star led them directly to Baby Jesus where they fell on their knees in worship. Or, in another perspective, their joy led them to worship.

     Joy is a fitting celebration of the incarnation of God, the most miraculous thing this world has known. The Magi’s joy, and our own, is merely a reflection of the rejoicing there was in heaven when the Savior was born, as seen in the angelic announcement to the shepherds. Their joy was expressed in the form of corporal worship when the sky was suddenly filled with angels saying, “Glory to God in the highest!”

     Our joy this season should lead us to worship. Most of us, like the Magi, are strangers instead of Jews by birth. That we are included in the plan of salvation is reason enough for us Gentiles to be filled with “exceeding great joy” over the birth of our Savior. So, like the angels who came out in their numbers that night, let us join the myriad of saints this season and rejoice in the advent of Christ.

Written for and originally published by Daughters of Promise.  Used by permission

No, the following picture is not of the Magi stuck in Jerusalem, but it is a group of people who are rejoicing in the birth and life of Jesus. God bless you this Christmas.

Jesus, the Prince of Peace

“He is our peace.” Ephesians 2:14

     Peace is one of the hallmarks of Christmas that is sung about in carols and painted onto cards. The classic scene is this: You are standing with the shepherds on a hilltop overlooking Bethlehem. Yellow lights of the tidy, cobblestone town glow peacefully beneath a star-studded sky. You might not see it from where you are, but you know that somewhere in a clean-swept stable there is a manger and a sleeping Baby. It is the portrait of peace.

     But perhaps peace is better depicted by an expanded view of the same scene: For days, Bethlehem had been noisy with all the hubbub and chaos brought about by a Roman census and the resulting travelers. Tired babies cry, wishing they were home. Donkeys, merchants, and kinsmen jostle for space on crowded streets. The town is bulging and rooms are full, so full guests spill over into the barn. And there, during a chaotic season of an overflowing town, in the solitude of a stable, in the dark of night, the Prince of Peace is born. Peace came among the turmoil, for peace is not the absence of a storm but calmness within it.

     Your season may not be devoid of commotion, noise, and turmoil, either. Schedules pregnant with traditions to keep, families to manage, food to make, and celebrations to plan rarely reflect the quietness of Bethlehem in the classic picture. Too often our busy lives are like the expanded view, and our spirits lose their rest. But the Prince of Peace wouldn’t have been needed if our lives were always calm and quiet. He came because they aren’t.

     Jesus is peace personified. Micah foretold this in chapter 5, verse 5, saying, “And he will be our peace.” Isaiah called Jesus “The Prince of Peace.” In Luke 1, Zacharias prophesied that Jesus came “to guide our feet into the way of peace.” Part of the good news gloriously proclaimed to the shepherds was that peace had come to earth. Years later, the Apostle Paul would tell the Ephesians, “[Jesus] is our peace.”

     Do you crave peace this week? You will find it in Jesus, for welcoming Him into your life is to welcome peace. Figuratively, take a moment to break away from Bethlehem’s kaleidoscope of jostling kinsmen, braying donkeys, crying babies, and stern soldiers. Steal away from the noise and hubbub and go to the quietness of a stable where the Prince of Peace is waiting. Once you meet Him there, allow Him to communicate with your spirit, pervading your soul with His peace. But no one can live forever in the solitude. Responsibilities beckon and duties call. Get up, then. Go back into Bethlehem and reflect His peace to your world. 

I wrote this devotional for Daughters of Promise weekly meditations, published earlier this week. Used by permission. Picture sourced from Pixabay.

A Pictorial Weekend of Thanks

One of my life's goals is to become a spontaneously thankful, joyous person. I wish it came naturally for me, but it doesn't. So, I have tried to purposely cultivate an attitude of gratitude by keeping an ongoing list of things that bring happiness and beauty to life. This blog title "Dewdrops of Joy" is also a reflection of my efforts at finding joy in life's little things. 

I love, then, a dedicated season of thanks such as America's Thanksgiving holiday provides. 

This year we celebrated by hosting American friends on Thanksgiving Day with the traditional side dishes and the non-traditional chicken. I bought a tiny chicken (it fit in my bread pan) as a token of the turkey and to give us something to carve. Otherwise, we served chicken legs/thighs that were cheaper to come by.

Notice the "turkey" in the center of the tray

Using a (clean) bed sheet as a table cloth and some simple fall decor, we had a pretty table. 

I created the place cards using an oatmeal box and
a used birthday card. Fun!

Of course, we had to have the pumpkin-shaped dinner rolls which have become a Thanksgiving tradition.

Everyone took turns sharing non-traditional things we were thankful for, so instead of saying expected things like "food and family," our lists were laced with the unexpected: 

• That the electric wires above our compound haven't burned through. They are fraying so every time a bird sits on them, the dangling part touches the wire below. It sparks and sizzles but hasn't burned through.
• That I didn't give birth in an Accra traffic jam. 
• And the butter-lover who only gets it on rare occasions like Thanksgiving: "I'm thankful for real butter!"

Afterwards, I soaked the dishes to make them easy to wash later and we all did a Scavenger Hunt outside. Losers were awarded with dishes duty. 

The Scavenger Hunt was fun. You could take pictures or bring the item itself. And if you couldn't find it, you were welcome to draw it with sidewalk chalk. 

the List

 

"One dozen."

"Something stuck." Wedging a coconut
in the porch rails worked nicely. 

Friends in Cape Coast invited us for the weekend. We stayed with a sweet couple who took excellent care of us, and we soaked up talk-time with Christian friends. Five different missions were represented for a day of thanksgiving and fellowship.

We also had a time of prayer and blessings as a good-bye for colleagues who completed their ten-year commitment as headmaster of a school our mission began in a village nearly 20 years ago. The school has been successfully handed over to like-minded Ghanaians who will continue its operations with the same values and goals it has always had. While the transfer is a good thing, we will dearly miss our friends.

So thankful that there will be no goodbyes in heaven!

On the way home, Tyler was able to have octopus for the first time and enjoyed it, even though I think it tastes like fish-flavored balloons.

I trust you have had a blessed weekend as well. In the comments below, tell me something you are grateful for. Friends and family, food and health have already been said (wink), so you need to think of something less commonly mentioned.

A Middle Eastern Miracle

The major details of the following story is true. It took place in early spring of 2010 and was shared at a mission's conference. No names of tribe, town, or people were given. But the story gave me goosebumps so I wrote it down both for myself and for you so you, too, can be inspired by our God who is unbound. His Word will go forth among the nations! 
                                                                 

     

Somewhere on the edge of a Turkish village, a man in his woke up, wiped the last of the sleep from his eyes, and shook his head in wonder and amazement. Dawn had hardly come to the hills when he stepped across the threshold of his room and felt for his shoes in the dusty light. Again he shook his head as though to clear the remnants of the dream from it. The dream had been so real, so commanding that he, an adult, was shaken by it and was on his way to discuss it with his father.

In spite of the early hour, the old man was not alone. A number of men from the village were congregated in his room. The newcomer greeted the old man respectfully and then greeted the others, all of whom looked thoughtful and sat in silence.

The old man looked at his son and said, “What is it, my son?”

The young man looked hesitant for a moment and then said quietly and respectfully, “My father, I have come to you this morning for some advice. You see, I have had a dream.”

A murmur ran through the room. He stopped. “What is it, my father? Is something wrong?”

The old man held up a hand which silenced the group, “Go on.”

The young man began again and recounted his dream. “In my dream, somebody told me that I should go to a tree between two certain towns and wait. There I was told that someone would bring a Book that would explain to me the Way, the Truth, and the Life. It was a very clear dream, almost like I was commanded to go. I was coming to you for advice.”

Expressions of amazement and wonder rippled through the room. When the sound of the men’s voices faded away again, the old man looked at his son and said, “Something has happened in the night. All of us have had the same dream you have shared. Men,” and the old man looked around the room, “we need to discuss what action we are going to take. Let’s call all the men together to take council in this. We cannot ignore this dream. It could be that the Creator God wants to speak to us about this Way, this Truth, and this Life that we know nothing of.”

The men dispersed. Across the village, the atmosphere was nearly electric with the wonder and excitement of the night’s happening, for every man had had the same dream.

The council was called, the dream recounted and discussed, and the decision was finalized to send two men to the tree. The old chieftain said, “It is a long journey, so we need to choose men who are willing to suffer the hardships of travel.”

A delegation was chosen and commissioned by the old man, “Go! Go to the tree in our dreams. Bring back the Book and inform us about the Way, the Truth, and the Life.” 

The men were anxious to begin their journey, as strange as it was, and lost no time in preparation.  Before the first rays of light had dawned on the new day, they had bid farewell to their village and began the journey. The shortest way to the tree of their destination was a several days’ journey through a dusty wilderness. At last they joined a main road and estimated they had only a few miles to go. Hot and tired, but filled with intense anticipation, the men approached the Iran-Turkey border specified in their dream.

One of them spoke, in an almost reverent tone, “This is the place in my dream.”

His friends agreed. “This is our tree.”

Upon arriving at the tree, the men looked expectantly around the desolate area, thinking perhaps someone would be waiting for them. There was no one. No person, no Book; just nothing.

Shelving their disappointment, the men agreed to set up camp and wait. Surely the Giver of Dreams wouldn’t forget to send the Book to them. Wearily, the men pitched their tents and fell asleep. With great expectation, the men spent the following day beneath the tree, watching and waiting. High noon came, evening drew nigh, and then night fell. No one had come. No one had even passed along the road. Again they lay down to sleep, hoping against hope that on the morrow, someone would come. And thus they passed not just one day, but two.

As dusk fell on the second day, they held a mini council meeting to decide what they should do. The provisions they brought were getting low. “Let’s wait,” one of them suggested. “Let’s wait one more day.”

Across the border, a Bible study group made up entirely of local believers was praying and seeking the Lord secretly, as they did every week. It was late at night when one of the men stood up and said, “I feel the Holy Ghost is speaking to me and telling me to go across the border into Turkey. I don’t know where I am to go, exactly, but I feel very strongly that I should go.”

“I feel the same way, Brother,” another man said.

Confident of God’s clear bidding, three of them obeyed the Spirit of God, took their well-worn, carefully guarded Bibles, and immediately embarked on a journey they knew little about. Bathing each mile in prayer lest they be stopped by unhappy authorities, they crossed the border with no interference and drove down a deserted road.

Clouds began forming and a wind began to blow. They hadn’t gone far when the downpour began. It was as though the windows of heaven had been opened and it poured down rain! The car slowed to a crawl, inching its way through the sheets of water, but the men realized it was futile to keep moving. Visibility was basically zero and the darkness was deep. In the slippery mud, the car slid off the road and ended harmlessly in a ditch.  

Questions formed. Had they misread the leading of the Lord? No, surely not, for all of them felt the leading was as clear as it was strong, but it was obvious they would not be going any further until daylight, stranded as they were in the middle of nowhere with nothing but their Bibles. Eventually the ferocity of the storm began to subside until it was just a heavy drizzle.

As they reclined in their seats, waiting for sleep to overtake them, the men were jerked awake by a knock on the window. Startled, they looked over and were surprised to see a lone man standing by the car, drenched with the rain. When they cracked opened a window, the man in the rain leaned forward with hope and expectation in his eyes and said, “Did you bring the Book that explains the Way, the Truth, and the Life?”

Picture sourced from www.Pixabay.com

Short on Sleep, Long on Grace

I spent the night with a stomach bug this past week, and divided my wee morning hours between the physiological needs of myself and those of our 2-month-old baby. When dawn finally broke to end a miserable night, I was still exhausted. All I wanted to do was curl up in bed and spend a few more hours between the sheets. But as a mom, I have responsibilities that veto my chances of signing off duty. Our children would need to be homeschooled. They would come with stories for me to express interest in and would bring their troubles for me to solve. The baby would need my attention. I had little heart to do any of it in my tired state until I thought of Jesus and a lesson I recently learned from His life.

I picked up my Bible one bleary-eyed morning a few weeks ago and started reading mid-chapter where I had left off the last time. It was in the Gospel of John and the story of Jesus' arrest. After being taken out of the garden, He was made to stand before religious leaders and the governor where he was questioned and accused. Then there was a little phrase in the NIV that said, "By now it was early morning. . ."

That little phrase stopped me. I scanned back across previous verses that talked about it being cold enough that fires were started for men to warm themselves. Jesus spent a long, cold night being questioned and falsely accused. Yet even with the heavy emotional and physical demands, he always spoke with wisdom and demonstrated tremendous self-control. 

I faced my day a little differently after reading that story. Though my situation was vastly different than His, Jesus knew what it was like to have a tiring night without being able to sign off the grid in the morning. He chose grace.

I'm definitely still learning this lesson; I function way better when I'm well-rested. But Jesus' example on that dark, cold night shoots down self-pity's excuses and pushes me on to experience deeper levels of what His grace can do in me.

----------------

Some days require less grit and grace to enjoy them fully. Today it was raining and overcast, which is my all-time favorite type of day. The children played in the large puddle at the edge of our property until they were filthy and freezing and came shivering to the door. I wasn't exactly in the mood to deal with dirty footprints, muddy clothing, and extra baths, but with rainy season quickly coming to an end, I didn't have the heart to make the children stay inside. Playing in the rain is one of their favorite things to do.

My way of enjoying the rain was a little different than splashing in puddles. Even before the baby was born, I dreamed of taking him onto the porch some rainy day so I could snuggle him in a blanket while it was cool enough to do so. Today was the second time that happened. He cooperated nicely, but I have a feeling I was the one who loved it the most.

Enjoying the rain from the porch
before seeking permission to play
in the puddles

The Beautiful Mother

A couple months ago, I sat in my pastor's house and listened to his wife tell me the story of the baby I held in my arms. It was their three-month-old son and he had already survived an amputation.

"We noticed he had jaundice," she said. "So we took him to the hospital. They told us he had it severely and transferred us to a larger hospital in Accra."

The larger hospital treated the jaundice with the expected photo-therapy and the unexpected week-long dosage of a strong antibiotic, given through a port in his leg.

"By Thursday, I saw the port was not good, so when the nurse entered the room, I told her. But she just said, 'Oh, don't worry,' and gave the medication through the port as it was. Within just a small time, the baby's leg had swollen and was bleeding from the port. And by that weekend, the toes of his foot were black."

"We have to amputate the foot," the doctor told her gravely. "The foot is dead."

The pastor and his wife are praying people and disagreed. Losing a foot at infancy is never a good thing, but losing a foot in a culture where many cripples become beggars is almost unthinkable. "We want to take him home," they told the doctors, "so we can ask God to heal our son."

They did just that. But less than a week after the child was home, there was no longer any question about what needed to be done. The baby was lethargic and the foot was beginning to smell.

"He wouldn't even respond to pain." The mother shook her head at the memory. "He just laid there and never cried even when they were working on him. So they had to do the surgery."

The amputation was followed by a three-week hospital stay.

"I watched mothers come with their babies and by the time they left, I was still sitting in there with my son." She laughed gently.

Jesus said that a Christian testimony, like a city on a hilltop, cannot be hidden. And Faustina's testimony was not lost in the hospital.

"I wasn't in there very long before the doctors would direct crying mothers to me and tell them, 'Go talk to this woman and ask her what she is doing here. Listen to all she has been through and see how she hasn't lost her faith.' So they came to me."

There was no pride in her voice as she told me this part of the story. No pride, but a deep gratitude for her unusual platform of ministry. "They came to me and I was able to talk to them and tell them about the grace of God that is holding me. I told them all the troubles of my son and how God was able to carry me in this difficult trial. So I was able to witness to them and encourage women even while being in the hospital."

I sensed the depth of this woman's spirit. "God knew He could trust you with this deep trial. I am sure your testimony to all the doctors and all the other women you witnessed to brought God much glory."

She laughed again. "Maybe it is like that."

Undoing the snaps on her baby's sleeper, this woman of faith showed me the stub where a darling baby foot should have been. "The hospital acknowledged their mistake and we didn't see that nurse again. Maybe she has been transferred." Faustina sounded matter-of-fact. Meanwhile, I hoped the nurse had been transferred to another profession entirely.

"So the hospital is going to set up an appointment with another doctor who can see about getting us a prosthesis when the child turns one year. That way he can learn how to walk." The little baby wiggled and whimpered and the mother lifted him to herself.

"Not only do you have a baby who lost his foot and nearly died," I began, "but you also know that this happened because of a nurse who didn't do her job well. When you speak of her, you don't sound angry. Have you forgiven the nurse?"

Faustina smiled again and gave her gentle laugh. "Yes, by the grace of God. God gives me the strength to forgive."

I looked at the baby nestled against his mother, his dark chocolate brown eyes reflecting the love-light I saw in hers. She smiled down on him, making the perfect picture of motherhood. But it was more than that. It was a picture of beautiful testimony of forgiveness and grace.

Rich Man, Poor Man, Beggar Man. . .

"A child who had fallen asleep at school was asked if he had eaten breakfast that morning. He answered, "It wasn't my turn." 
--quote from the USA

Hunger and poverty are real. As long as the earth stands, these two unfriendly companions will hold the hands of thousands, though they are unwanted and uninvited. Knowing that, Jesus said, "You will always have the poor among you," implying that we will always have opportunities to show compassion to the needy.

Jesus was a man of compassion; 

true followers of Christ will emulate His life by showing mercy. 

God has a special place in His heart for the underprivileged, proven over and over throughout the Bible in verses that instruct us on caring for the poor.

Being merciful reaches farther than we can see at a human level, 

as proven by these words:

"The one who is gracious to the poor, lends to the Lord...." Proverbs 19:17

And, those who had compassion on the poor in Matthew 25 inherited eternal life. 

They asked, "Lord? When did we see you hungry?" 

And Jesus said, "When you gave food to the least of these, you were feeding Me."

In light of that, we cannot afford to neglect the poor.

If there are no physical reminders of the poverty-stricken within seeing distance, we will need to be intentional in our efforts to keep the poor before the eyes of our heart. In this blog post three years ago, I shared some ideas our family has used to remember the poor. Another very effective method not mentioned in that post is to move to a place where beggars tap on your car windows or show up at your gate. 

I am interested in being inspired by your ideas. Please tell me: What are some things you have done that help you keep compassion for the poor alive in your heart? How have you instilled compassion for the poor in the hearts of your children? 

Recently, my sister Laura hosted a Hunger Awareness Meal for the youth at their church. To give a visual aid for the imbalance of the wealth of the world, the youth were split into the following categories:

One rich man:

The rich man enjoyed a huge feast that covered not just one, but two tables. 

He had his personal waiter. He also lost some of his chicken to a persistent beggar.

Seven middle class:

The middle class ate their meal in comfort and had a modest menu. 

About 30 poor:

They didn't go hungry that night, but shared a pot of rice and beans. They dipped water from a common bucket and they shared their rice with the beggars.

Three beggars: 

Quote from a beggar when someone
tried to give him only sauce, no rice:
"I can't take that.
It isn't good for my foot."

The beggars were given battered spoons and dishes and sent to beg what they could from the other classes of people. 

If you are interested in hosting a similar event, there are some excellent websites to guide you through the preparations, including how to divide the group and what to offer each class of people. Each site varies in its suggestions, giving you a smorgasbord of ideas so you can host a version of the meal that works the best for you.

Here is a 2-page manual: Hunger Banquet Instructions by Operation Rice Bowl

This one has 30 pages of details, including printable admission tickets, short character sketches to help people relate to the class they are in, and extras like how to safely make 'dirty water' for the poor:  Hunger Banquet by Food for the Hungry

This one includes hunger statistics and quotes from the truly hungry, including the one you read at the top of this blog page: Hunger Awareness Meal by Lutheran Peace Fellowship

The truth is that no matter what shape your finances are in, the harshest form of poverty is the poverty of soul. When your spirit has not been given life through Jesus Christ, you are of all men most miserably poor. Physical poverty with all its heartache is ephemeral, for beggary will be done away with forever and exchanged for the riches of heaven when Jesus comes. 

But impoverishment of soul is eternal. 

Eternity is real. Before this post was ready to be sent, 

I received word that my grandpa passed away. I'm too far away to attend his funeral, but my heart will be there this week. Below is a picture of Grandpa giving bird houses to my children, their only memory of him.

Our Son is Born

A certain young lady in our household takes the credit for her new brother saying, "Aren't you glad that I prayed for a baby? 
God answered my prayers and now we have one!"

Yes, indeed! We are very grateful and thank God for answering so many prayers surrounding the birth of our son. 

The first time I was pregnant, we lived in a village far away from medical help, but I wouldn't have minded giving birth at home. This time, when expecting my third in a city with good healthcare providers, I wasn't half as brave. Thankfully, God directed me to verses like that in Psalm 71:6 where it says He is the one who delivers the child from its mother's womb. In that perspective, I wasn't in the hands of a new-to-me midwife at all, but in the hands of a capable God. 
I believed that even if the birth didn't go according to my wishes, it would be according to His plan, and I could trust Him.

Armed with that assurance, we went to Craddle Care Maternity Hospital where a British-trained, Ghanaian midwife oversaw our birth. God wouldn't have had to, but He blessed us with a positive birth experience and a healthy son.

We named him Riley Elliot. Riley means 'valiant' and Elliot's meaning is 'Jehovah is God.' Our foremost goal for our son is that he will be a valiant follower of Jehovah, our God, no matter what the cost. 

Welcome to the world, little brother.

My sister generously came to stay with us for 12 days. We planned for her to come two weeks after my due date since my other babies were both born late. However, when Riley surprised us by arriving early, Dawn quietly rescheduled her ticket and walked into my living room a week before I expected her to 
--but just when I needed her the most. 

Her presence was invaluable as I relearned how to be the mom of an infant, which is sometimes no small task. 

But, happily, we hear far less crying than we did at first. 
We sure love our little guy.

 

Except he isn't staying so little and, sadly, I have already packed away the tiny newborn clothes to exchange them for ones that looked big not so long ago.

We have moved on to the stage where Riley is able to respond to us with smiles, and where he doesn't feel so fragile, making sibling interaction extra fun.

Riley is growing and changing, but one thing that hasn't changed is our gratitude to God for all the prayers He answered surrounding this pregnancy and birth. 

A Beanie Disaster

What an odd post with which to break my extended silence! I unearthed this antique from my drafts folder and thought you might enjoy a touch of humor. 

You are familiar with Teflon, right? That non-stick coating on cookware that is said to cause cancer and birth defects? I cooked with it for years and never worried about ill side-effects. Then I went to a Princess House party. Princess House sells beautiful dishes and cookware. And their non-stick pans don't have Teflon.

"Did you know that parakeets die if they are around when Teflon gets overheated?" the consultant asked. Knowledgeable ladies around the room nodded in agreement.

I went home and did research. Who wants to cook on something that will kill you? Teflon is safe, according to research I found, unless it gets very overheated. And even then the chances were low enough that I kept my skillet. That was a year ago, but apparently the dangers of Teflon had left their indelible footprint in my cerebral cortex.

A few weeks ago as I was cooking dinner, I fried bacon in my Teflon pan, dumped out most of the grease, and sauteed green beans in the already-hot skillet.  It was when the beans were nearly finished that I smelled something hot. Strange. It was far worse than a burned food smell. This was more acrid. More awful.

I sniffed in the direction of the pan and wrinkled my nose. It must be from the Teflon getting too hot, I thought. This is probably the smell that kills parakeets.

In the vain hope that my beans would smell fine though my pan didn't, I quickly dumped them into a bowl. A few stuck to the bottom of the pan, but I let them there. No child of mine was gonna get a brain tumor from contaminated beans if I could help it.

My kitchen smelled terrible. The beans in the bowl far away from the pan smelled terrible. I pitched the whole lot of them on our garbage heap and quickly made a salad as their replacement. But as I worked, I felt confused. Had the pan really gotten that hot? Nothing had burned. The only thing I could think of was that frying bacon and beans back-to-back kept the pan too hot for too long.

It was when I was washing dishes after our meal that things became clear. Just before I immersed the pan into the sink of soapy water, I saw the culprit. Stuck to the bottom of the pan was a blackened potato peel burned nearly beyond recognition. Sandwiched between the pan and burner on my electric stove, the peel charred out of sight.

Thanks, Teflon. There went my beans.

Street Sellers

All our many hours of poking along in heavy traffic are at least partly redeemed by the street sellers and their wares. From the very beginning of our time here, I have admired the courage and tenacity of these hard-working people. Out in full sun on hot pavement with the exhaust of a thousand vehicles billowing around them, they work by the hour selling their wares for a minimal profit margin.

I have great respect for street sellers. They dodge in and among slowly moving vehicles or plaster themselves against a stopped car to let a motorcycle zip between the two lanes traffic. They can make change within seconds, a mandatory skill when you are working with a buyer on wheels. They run beside vehicles to catch up to the customer they were working with when traffic started moving. All the while they balance their wares on their head and wear flip-flops.

Some, with careful saving and lots of hard work, have been able to work their way up, starting as a street seller and eventually owning a small store. But advancing financially is hard going and requires lots of persistence, grit and a host of other qualities. I applaud them, for they are tenaciously making a living in a land where good jobs can be hard to come by. I also like to support them by purchasing things I need (whole wheat bread or TP for a crowd) from the street sellers.

The variety of their wares is nearly endless. Here is a small sample, taken through the windshield with a phone:

Cold water sold in sachets.
Some also sell bottled soft drinks.

Plantain chips

Gum, mints, and candy 

Phone cards (and TP behind him)

Plantain chips and an end table

Hats for sale!

Funny glasses for Christmas
(and brushes, shoe shine, and much more
coming behind him)

As I said, I admire the street sellers. What if Christians were as relentless in our work for Christ as these courageous street sellers? How would the world be changed if we never minded the tiredness of our bodies or the challenges coming at us from the outside or the feeling like we aren't making much difference? May we give our lives to the cause of Christ and be a positive influence in our world.

A Lizard Tale

I felt very unhappy when I opened a rarely-used closet door and found it has been heavily used as a toilet for geckos. One of the perpetrators was still in the closet and narrowly escaped death. Disgusted, I cleaned up the months-old mess and told my son that he will receive 1 cedi (25 cents) for every gecko he kills.

Only a day later, I heard Tyler in the compound calling, "Mom! Come see this lizard!" The tone of his voice hastened my steps. This was not going to be a gecko, and suddenly I felt thankful that the critters in my closets are only four inch reptiles.

Huddled angrily by the side of the porch was a monitor lizard. Though small for his kind, he was over two feet long from nose to tail. His forked, snake-like tongue flicked in and out whenever our dog ventured too close. Its forked tongue did not flick at me; I wisely kept my distance.

Our dog, bless her, is not known for her bravery. She wanted to get a solid bite of lizard meat, but leaped backwards every time the lizard switched its long tail. Obviously things would have been at a stalemate with just the dog and me hovering nervously around an exhausted monitor lizard. It was fortunate, then, that John was home and man enough to pitch the critter into the bush area across the road. A neighbor will be happy to find it, for Ghanaians eat monitor lizards. I ate them, too, when I was served roasted lizard legs in a village, claws and leathery skin still intact. But this time, I was glad I was under no obligation to cook it for lunch.

Friends had other ideas: "I decided to look up how much one of those monitor lizard pets would sell for here in the States - from $35 up to over $1000! You might have a business."

And then again, maybe not.

A God Who Speaks

I was searching through my documents and ran across this one from two years ago that I had forgotten about.“God is a speaking God,” the preacher said one Sunday morning.“He still speaks today, but the problem is that a lot of times we aren’t listening for His voice.” The message included several mediums God uses to speak to us. One of them is our children.

It wasn’t one of my better moments. The day was going all wrong and I didn’t feel like I was handling it well. There is some truth in the old adage, “If mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy,” for my preschool children weren’t having a good day, either. They seemed restless and bored. I was exhausted and not proactive enough to remedy their boredom.

When I finally got to my supper dishes, I heard the children get into a theological conversation, initiated by my firstborn.

“Who are you going to obey, Sister? God or Satan.”

“I’m going to obey God. Is that a good choice?” Her voice was so little and cute that I smiled slightly in spite of myself.

From his five-year-old wealth of wisdom, he answered that it definitely was good thinking, then turned to me. “Mom, whose voice are you going to listen to?”

I felt almost ashamed to say, “God.” How could I when I was feeling frustrated instead of joyful, and had been lugging the cares of my day around on tight and tense shoulders instead of rolling them onto His capable ones?

“God.” I said, rebuked.

The children turned away and I turned back to my dishes, realizing this was more than a childish conversation. It was God speaking to me through my children. And I chose to listen.

The Happy/Sad Pictorial Journal

Sad: It has been a while since I have posted anything on this blog. And, worse, the silence was caused by an illness that lasted two months. (Yes, that is as fun as it sounds.)
Happy: Sweet children definitely brightened my world.

Happier: The good news is that my sickness isn't contagious and is ending now that I'm out of the first trimester of pregnancy. We are all growing very excited about meeting our baby later this year.

Much Too Happy: We were able to announce our pregnancy on Christmas Day!

Happy: Kind friends have been dutifully sharing name suggestions they come across. 

Very sad for those shopping in the name market: The suggestions have been disappointing, including the one found on a registration card.

"It can be boy or girl, Sara. Go for it!"

Cry giant alligator tears sort of sad:  Between the logistical and financial questions associated with world travel, as well as feeling like mud over that time, I missed out on a beautiful wedding -the wedding of my very own brother. Tears.

The good news for them: They were able to get happily married without me. 

The good news for me: Jesus sees and knows the pain of being far away from family and is preparing a place for us where we can one day be together forever. 

Super happy: When nearly everything in the line of food turns you off and creative cooking is nothing more than a dim and stomach-churning memory, being able to purchase a dollar's worth of cooked rice to feed our family is a huge blessing.
The sad part: Though it varies greatly, excessive pepper levels make adults feel a kin to fire-breathing dragons and turn brave children into water guzzlers. The hottest rice we've ever gotten even sent our rice-loving-dog racing to her water bowl mid-meal.

Rice with salad and spaghetti noodles
wrapped in plantain leaves.

Happy: Nothing like a good distraction when you feel ill.
The not-too-sad part for the guy who never liked these trees: Half of one of our trees was leaning significantly. John was concerned it could blow across our electric wires in a storm.

Happily: Oscar, the caretaker, agreed with John and brought tree trimmers to 'bob' the trees. I imagined twelve feet neatly whacked off the top. They imagined twelve feet left on the ground and used their cutlasses (machete-style knife) to fell everything higher than their ladder.

The good news for John: The trees got trimmed before the rain storm knocked them across the wires. He's so practical.
The sad news for me: I didn't get to watch them fall in a rainstorm like I hoped I could.
Beyond sad: Inexperienced tree trimmers dropped one directly across the wires we tried to protect, tearing the wires, and knocking us and our entire district out of lights, the district court included. If our neighbors' votes had anything to do with them, our polls would have taken a significant plummet that morning.
Beyond happy: The electric company came out immediately and corrected the problem instead of "punishing us" by waiting a week to look at them, something they did to our friends in a similar situation. Yay for Oscar's connections with The Big Guy at the electric company's office!

We are very grateful the tree missed a friend's van
that was parked in our drive.

Most Happily: I'm finally well enough to feel alive, bake a birthday cake with Sophia, and renew my interest in writing. I'm so glad you are visiting this little blog and I hope we meet here again soon.