Children.

They peer over my wall and knock on my gate.

They holler at the white children,

calling their names and garbling the one into, “Tyloh” 

and mimicking the baby’s pronunciation of hers, “Sosia.”

They ask for oranges. Lots of oranges. Today we pitched some over the wall as we were picking them from two of our six orange trees, throwing them to the voices across the wall.

They laughed and stashed them in their clothes.

Then they asked for more, disguising their voices

and lying because they wanted more oranges 

but Madame Sara said, “But I already gave you two.”

“That was my friend asking,” said the same voice. “Give me three orange!”

Children.

There are little ones playing together.

The two little girlies are pretending to make supper and feed their babies.

One, our guest, is blonde as can be. The other is brown-haired and she is mine.

So is the boy who watches them boy-like, then makes some manly concoction of his own.

But not for dolls.

Ho no! His is for himself.

Children.

I wondered what in the world I was doing, taking these children of mine across the world.

Weren’t they going to hate it all?

I looked at them from the comfort of my American home and wondered.

I even cried a little.

Weren’t they going to be hot all the time?

These are the children who fuss about being hot and grow miserable when they sweat.

Wouldn’t the strangers who lean into their faces trying to getting a reaction from them scare my little darling who has such a big personal space and who was timid around her own, loving grandpa she rarely sees?

These are children who thrive in normalcy.

If the crib side was lowered for her nap, it nearly ruined her sleep 

because she always slept with it up.

And he, the big, brave brother, panicked one day when the van got started before his seat belt was fastened. What was he going to think in a land where car seats aren’t?

And the food. Oh, the food.

These are the children who hate mashed potatoes,

and macaroni and cheese,

and cheesy potatoes,

and egg casseroles

and pudding.

Whatever will they do with food of those textures

but that are fermented and served with a spicy soup?

Parents told me children are adaptable, trying to reassure me.

But I hadn’t seen my children be adaptable.

(Unless you count the Little One eventually adjusting to the crib side being down.)

I was worried how they would do.

And then we moved.

You know my children?

The ones in my imagination crying because they had no car seats

are laughing.

They bounce nearly uncontrollably off the seat on ill-maintained roads

where humps have formed new contours and where bumps make the shocks grimace.

They watch each other and laugh.

They are laughing in the taxis and smiling in the trotro (taxi vans).

They wave out the windows, delighted that so many people wave back.

The child who cried in his bed in America because his back was hot

comes to me grinning, asking, “Are my cheeks red?”

“Yes, they are very red. Why is that?”

“Because I’m trying to catch lizards, that’s why. Feel my hair.”

I can see that it is wet from sweat and decline. “Ew, no thanks!”

He laughs, his eyes sparkling. “It is because I’m playing so much.”

There have been no tears because he’s hot.

Not even when his back is forming little red bumps all over.

Surely the people will make the Littlest One scared.

I mean, she cried when her very own uncles pick her up.

 “How ah you?!” someone asked her in that forceful manner of theirs.

She looked away shyly and quietly said, “Doing well.”

The woman didn’t hear.

“Look at her and say, ‘I’m fine.’” I coached. (‘Fine’ is the appropriate answer here.)

She obeyed without crying.

The people cheered.

She looked up at me and I smiled, proud and astonished all at the same time.

There are more hard things to grow familiar with.

The children asked why we weren’t turning the lights on

but we couldn’t; the electricity was off. . .again.

We explained to them that it wasn’t our turn for electricity.

Ghana shares its electricity with its neighbor (Togo) and there isn’t enough to go around.

So we are sharing.

That made perfect sense to a five and three-year-old 

who are learning to live peacefully together.

They took our word for it and went about their day.

The house felt dark and un-homey to me, almost gloomy. 

Then I walked into the room and saw them playing.

He was sitting on the couch, looking (squinting?) at a book.

She was by a window, playing, and talking quietly to her toys.

They didn’t seem to mind the dusky house.

That was the day we bought spring rolls as a treat.

I was drooling over them before we ever got them home.

But when we bit in to them, we were disappointed to find they were filled

with spaghetti noodles and nothing else.

Tyler asked, "Is this cheese?"

It wasn't.

But he thought it was a great way to eat pasta.

And he ate it happily.

(However, I noticed ‘Banku,’ the fermented corn dough didn’t go down so great.

Next time I’ll need to make my own soup that isn’t so spicy it makes our noses run.

Maybe then they can get past the texture and enjoy the soup, at least.)

How are they doing so well?

It could be that all those parents were right when they said God did a little miracle

by making children adaptable.

Or it could be that their adjustments will still come,

that I was looking for their hardest things in all the wrong places.

Or it could be that God has been answering the prayers of all the people

I asked to pray for the children (and their mom).

Whatever it is, I’m so grateful to God for these days

when my children are so happy

--even in Africa where I thought it was going to be hard for them.

Thank You, God, for exceeding my expectations.

A Different Tomorrow

The four of us, back in the Other World a week before our move

An agricultural poster on the wall of the jet way promised, “Tomorrow will look nothing like today.”

If it hadn’t been for two heavy backpacks slung one across each shoulder and if I hadn’t had a three-year-old by the hand to help her keep pace with the pack of travelers surrounding us, I would have been tempted to take a picture of the understatement I had just read.

Although the poster was all about agriculture, I couldn’t help but think it was pertaining to me. “Today” I was in America. Tomorrow I would be in Africa. “Today” I was in A/C, surrounded by people who understood me and my culture. Tomorrow I would be a minority. “Today” I could find Wal-Mart independently and purchase nearly anything I needed. Tomorrow I would need to be led around like a child to find the most basic of items.

The poster was right.

Our overnight, 11-hour flight was as uneventful as any mother of a five and three-year-old could wish. For a month or more I had been collecting fun things like Tricky Dogs, a Magnetic Doll House, books, stickers, and other quiet toys, so, to the children, the flight was one big party. They love flying; but they don’t love sleeping on flights, even overnight ones. I gently tossed the suggestion to Sophia that now might be a nice time to take a nap (it was well past normal bedtime), but she looked at me in surprise and said, “Well, I need to draw.” There are downsides to having too many fun things in the backpack.

Eventually tiredness won and both children slept for roughly four hours until we landed in Accra, Ghana. And in Accra, it was morning, ending the children’s night in an abrupt burst of sunlight when window shades were opened and their parents shuffled them out to a waiting shuttle.

At the entrance of the airport, we were screened for fevers by the Ebola Team, then asked for our Yellow Fever immunization cards, a mandatory vaccine. I was pleased we had them at the ready. I was even more pleased that the lady at the Lancaster travel clinic told us that Ghana now recognizes the Yellow Fever vaccination as lifetime protection. “The manufacturer has always said it was, but there were a few countries who didn’t recognize that. In June of 2014, Ghana officially began to honor the Yellow Fever vaccine as having lifetime protection.” She smiled, happy to be the bearer of glad news. John and I tucked our Yellow Fever cards back in my purse, thanked the helpful travel nurse, and saved ourselves both the pokes and the cash.

Unfortunately, Ghana must have forgotten to tell its airport personnel about the vaccines’ new status. “But this one is old,” the woman protested when she read the date of my Yellow Fever vaccination.

John and I informed her by turns that her country now recognizes the Yellow Fever vaccine to be lifetime protection. “It changed in June 2014,” I said, pleased to remember the date. This was momentous. She should know about it.

She was unfazed. “You come. You come.”

We had no choice but to follow the woman back the way we came, past the lines at the Ebola screening, and into the airport’s health clinic located near the arrivals’ entrance. They were ready for people like us. The lady behind the counter charged us $10 for the vaccines and motioned for us to come to the curtained off cubicle behind the counter where we were vaccinated immediately, thus protecting us for two lifetimes, according to the travel nurse. I was glad the children’s were current; it would have been too bad to start their life in their new country of residence with dreaded shots.

All of our luggage arrived intact and Brother Ross was waiting for us. We drove past street sellers with water sachets in trays on their heads or phone cards dangling from outstretched hands. We drove down a freeway, newly finished, and turned onto a bumpy dirt road that hadn’t seen a grader in years. The red dust filtered into the pickup and dusted the dash. Tyler leaned out the window and waved at anybody that would look his direction; Sophia uncontrollably bounced off the seat on a particularly bad bump and resorted to snuggling against me for protection. We drove through a gate of a city house Ross’ family had kindly prepared for us. We were home.

The airport poster was right. Today looks nothing like yesterday.

Our house is a beautiful one nestled on the outskirts of the city. It has a large courtyard with two mango trees, six orange trees, a palm nut tree and a coconut tree. The oranges were just harvested last week and produced enough for the former resident (another American) to can 30 quarts of juice, all squeezed by hand. 

The courtyard also has a dog named Sassy which is our reluctant inheritance. She is nervous around us and scuttles away when we open the door or crawls on her tummy towards us when we call her, tail safely tucked between her legs. “Other than an apparent case of schizophrenia, she seems to be a nice dog,” John said, relieved that our daughter didn’t need to be terrified of her new pet. It is hard to be scared of something that only runs away from you.

The house itself is large, suitable for hosting guests that pass through Accra. Aside from sporadic electricity and perpetual dirt (the children’s knees and feet were black from playing on floors that had been cleaned the evening before), living here isn’t going to be much of a change from our lifestyle in the States.

If we lived in a neighborhood where our house, a rented one, was nicer than its neighbors, I would feel guilty for living this comfortably in Africa where many people still live in mud huts with thatched roofs. But this is the city and in the city mud and thatch are scorned. Our house with its tiled floors, indoor plumbing, and ceiling fans in every room is not uncommon.

But living in a pretty house with electricity doesn’t ward off feelings of being far, far away from That Other World where everything is familiar. We need to do grocery shopping and have no idea where to go -or worse, what to purchase. Our internet service is fed via little prepaid cards that also need to be purchased. But where?  There is a market close enough to walk to, someone said, but I have no idea what direction to go. And how far is it? Should I plan to buy everything I can fit in a market bag, including heavy things like oil and sugar, or is it far enough to walk that I’ll be better off buying smaller things that weigh less, like tomatoes and lettuce?

And how do you make friends in the city? In the villages, where John and I have lived before, we were continually surrounded with friends, whether we wanted to be or not. But the city has enclosed compound walls surrounding the houses. Our neighbors are creatures we know are there only by the wash slung onto our razor wire or the cry of a child.

Uncertainty isn’t relegated to the adult world. Sophia walks around the house with her fuzzy blanket from America wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She feels insecure, too, hugging the familiarity of the blanket she has slept with for years to ward off the strangeness of the new world we brought her to. It is all in the learning curve, I know that. I had anticipated the children feeling homesick.

But I didn’t anticipate myself being overcome with wave of homesickness on the first day I arrived. I had made this move to Africa before, after all, and thought I knew what to expect. Yet when night fell on a city where we know next to nobody, can’t find our way around, and haven’t a clue where anything is, I felt lonely. Sad, even. Jet lag caught up at midnight and in spite of having little sleep the night before, I was awake for over an hour, listening to the night noises of a city. I didn’t have a blanket to wrap myself in like Sophia, nor did I want one in the heat. The only familiarity I wanted was home. But home might as well have been a million miles away. I prayed, as I often do, inviting God to pervade my little world and eventually I fell asleep.

Morning came. The sun cast cheerful beams into our windows and the electricity had kindly stayed on. The final dose of encouragement I needed came when I checked our email for the first time since we left home. Stephanie J. Leinbach is in the hospital with her young daughter who is undergoing surgery for epilepsy and expressed what I knew to be true. Her words, written at an apparent low point, stirred me to faith again and my lagging spirits were bolstered.

She said, "I can't rely on my feelings. I'm learning that my feelings leap to conclusions based on the here and the now. Feelings are useless at getting me through hard stuff; it takes faith. And faith looks back at God's faithfulness and forward at His promises, and that gives me the grace to live in the here and now, despite my feelings. 

"I cannot despair. I cannot fear. I cannot flush drugs (meant to control her daughter's epilepsy but also alter behavior) down the toilet.  Even if I feel like it.

"I must hang onto God's promises and trust that he is in control. He's already written this story. Now I need to live it with grace."

The tomorrow may be different but the God of tomorrow is the same.  

The Economy of Heaven

I cringed inwardly. Selling our vehicles in preparation for moving to Ghana meant taking a bit of a financial loss. So did other things like selling our bedroom suite and some appliances, thanks to depreciation. But they needed to be sold and we tried to be as fair as possible with the pricing on the items being sold. 

Yet something in me was cringing and I verbalized my sentiments to John. "This move is expensive!"

"It is expensive." No arguing about that. "But you need to remember that everything we are 'losing' is really our eternal gain, according to the economy of heaven."

Our conversation morphed into a glorious reminder of a Heavenly Economy that took away all sting of our expenditures. Instead of being a financial loss, this move is an eternal gain. I wanted to share our excitement with you and after I started this blog post, John preached a message on it. Apparently it was brewing in his mind, too. 

Here are our thoughts on Heavenly Economics:

Jesus told us not to lay up treasures on earth where rust and moth destroy (Matthew 6:19-20). We can simplify our life and refuse to get caught up in earthly investments yet forget to invest in heaven, neglecting Jesus' words that say "lay up for yourself treasure in heaven."

Earthly investors are wise. They deprive themselves to be able to invest heavily in their earthly account. They look for ways they can free up a few dollars to turn over into their account. Shouldn't the investors in a heavenly kingdom do the same? The accounts that earthly investors are working with are subject to failure; the Bank of Heaven is secure with incredible returns promised. The hundredfold Jesus mentioned in Mark 10:29,30 is a 10,000% return on your investment. 

The good thing is that the poorest among us can invest. No large outlay is required, for Jesus said that even a cup of cold water receives its reward (Matthew 10:42). The widow who dropped two small coins into the offering at the Temple was commended for giving more than the rest, for she had given all she had (Luke 21:1-4). 

The best way of investing in heaven is by investing in lives of people. The poor, the lame, the naked, those in prisons, the blind, the widows, and the orphans are all categories the Bible tells us to reach out to and by helping them and ministering to their needs, we lay up treasure in heaven. Investments in heaven, then, require no cash but even the poorest who has time or talent to offer can invest in people. 

I don't know how the reward system in heaven will work. I only know that Jesus told us to lay  up treasures there and told us how we can do that. Prayer, done in sincerity and alone, receives its reward. Giving, done not for show but in true love and compassion, receives it reward. 

In light of all that, our move to Ghana isn't expensive at all. It is a beautiful opportunity for us to lay up treasure in heaven. 

"Mommy, are we poor?"

We packed our belongings neatly into boxes. We disassembled beds, sold large pieces of furniture in order to fit more boxes into our storage shed, and eventually ended with an empty house. The children played happily with their cousins, several miles from the upheaval their house was in. I was glad for them; my brain was starting to feel fried from all the decisions staring at us from out the boxes and I wasn't the one trying to play toys in that mess.

But blessing though the babysitting option was, the children needed to be able to say goodbye to the the only home they have ever known. I took them back to the house (we were sleeping at my sister's) and the three of us walked through empty rooms one last time. "Let's tell this room goodbye," I said. The children laughed and waved to each room as they chorused, "Goodbye, bedroom. . .goodbye kitchen!"

When the tour was finished, the Littlest One looked around and said, "But where are our beds? And we have no chairs!" Insecurity was written all over her face as she got her fleecy blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders though the day was warm. I held her close and explained the moving process once again. "We have a new house waiting for us in Ghana. We'll have chairs and beds in that new house. . ." Then we left and she played happily with her cousins for the rest of the day.

That evening when I crashed in exhaustion into the rocker, she came over to me with her blanket for some snuggle time. She looked beautiful to me, sweet girl, but then her face took on an empty look, the same expression I had seen in our bare living room earlier in the day.

"Mommy," her voice was so sweet and little. "Mommy, are we poor?"

She knows about poor children. She has seen pictures of them wandering about in a rain forest, crying, with no home to return to.

Poor children have no home; suddenly she was feeling like she qualified.

She doesn't understand that though we might not be rich in this world we are anything but poor. She doesn't know how blessed I feel. I have two of the world's dearest children and one amazing husband. I have peace in my heart and hope for the future. My children have cousins and grandparents who love God. We have each other (one of the few things that doesn't change by moving overseas) and an eternity together with God to look forward to.

No, dear child. We aren't poor at all. We are one of the richest families I know. The 8 x 12 shed that houses basically everything we own in this world is almost worth laughing over when you compare it with the eternal treasures that make our life worthwhile.

Proverbs 10:22a says, "The blessing of the Lord, it maketh rich," and we, my child, are rich.

Our Farewell to hosting International Students

Before I knew how full my weekend was going to be otherwise, I signed up to host a group of international students as our farewell to the program. For the past three years, we have hosted students from around the world in our home for meals, evenings, and special occasions. It has been a great way for us to show hospitality to strangers (Hebrews 13:2), it has brought international cuisine to our kitchen, and it has given us friends from a variety of nationalities, all of which are excellent reasons to host international students.

Sometimes we try to do fun things and have taken some of them to Longwood Gardens.

We enjoyed introducing them to our holiday traditions. In the picture below, we took them with us to my sister's place for Thanksgiving. They brought along a Turkish soup to accompany our traditional Thanksgiving dinner.

One afternoon we went apple picking at an orchard during an apple festival where our friends got to taste apple sauce, apple butter, and cider for the first time in their lives.

Once, we attended the graduation of three of our students (and were unaware until we got there that it was a china plate, goblet, and cloth napkin affair which wasn't what we expected when we included our toddler and baby. The white-shirted waiter cleared Tyler's plate before he was quite finished with it and Tyler talked for weeks about the "man who grabbed my plate.")

One of our students delighted us to no end by calling months after he was done with the program to say he was about to return to Indonesia and wanted us to meet his wife and daughter. They came over for lunch and brought an Indonesian meal along with them.

Many of our students have met us for coffee at Panera Bread within walking distance of their apartments or have invited us over to their houses for a meal or Arabic coffee and dates. Others have come to our house for a game of croquet and a meal or just to chat in our living room.

Here is a list of countries we have friends in:

• Brazil
• South Korea
• Indonesia
• Turkey
• Saudi Arabia
• Cambodia
• Bahrain
• Venezuela
• Syria
• Iraq
• Japan

The majority of our students have been studying English at the University of Delaware and have signed up for an American host. Having an American host means that once or twice a month, they get to spend time with an American family, practice their English, and learn some American culture. We, in turn, love seeing pictures of their families, hearing stories of their homelands, and tasting foods they prepare.

So, as our "farewell for now" to hosting, we signed up to host four students who only are in the program for three weeks before moving on to colleges across the States. We met them at a park for supper and sat around the picnic table talking until it grew dusky and time to reluctantly pack our stuff up. Only then did I think of a group picture which resulted in terrible lighting and a quick cell-phone picture.

If you are interested in getting involved with international students, contact a college near you to see if they have many international students or a program that teaches English as a second language. If they don't have a host program, you might be able to start one or at least make contacts to befriend students on your own.

International students are so appreciative and friendly. Some of them have few American friends and love getting a chance to visit an American home. So, go out and befriend them. Here's your chance to be blessed.

A Picnic with Paddington Bear

Someone gave us a jar of jam that looked for all the world like Paddington's chunky golden marmalade. I saved it so we could have a picnic in celebration of Book Lover's Day. Last year on Book Lover's Day we spent a fun morning with Little Bear, which you can see more of here.

With our picnic in mind, I baked a miniature loaf of bread and Tyler helped Paddington pack his little suitcase. Tyler knew the story well enough to bring a penny, a picture of his family, and marmalade, all items the "real" Paddington had in his suitcase when he came from "darkest Peru." I added the bread and some Paddington Bear coloring pages.

We spread a blanket in the yard of 32 Windsor Gardens (of course, of course) and had a little picnic of bread and marmalade.

We read two books about Paddington, taking time to laugh again at Paddington's little paw print he added to his list of nice things of being a bear who gets to live with the Brown family.

The children loved coloring their pictures and then we relaxed on our backs under the tree, watching a butterfly flutter by. We talked about a great many things, including whether Sophia is Judy, Paddington's 'sister,' or Mr. Brown, Sophia's personal choice.

And then, since we don't live in London where we could visit the actual Paddington Station,  our delightful hour with Paddington ended.

Gigantic Bubbles

After I stumbled across gigantic bubbles and was as excited about my discovery as if I had invented them myself, I learned they were old hat for some of my friends (including the ones who said they used to make them in their bathroom).  But they were new to us, and our little family has had loads of fun with the biggest bubbles I have ever seen in my life.  Like gigantic amoebas, the bubbles ooze off of our wand, then morph themselves into irresistible, shimmering circles, so delightful to make and so fun for children to burst. Just in case you haven't tried them yourself, I'll share our favorite recipe with you.

Giant Bubbles that WORK:
24 oz. Dawn dish-washing detergent (Hypoallergenic works best, they say; we used regular.)
1 T. J-Lube  (a powdered, veterinarian need; can be purchased at farm supply stores.)
3 T. Baking Powder (optional, but it makes the bubbles last longer)
3 gallons water (some say distilled water; we used pure drinking water)

Dump the dish soap into a clean container.  Stir in the J-Lube and baking powder until it becomes a thick slime and the J-Lube is dissolved.  Add in one gallon of water, pouring carefully against the side of the container to avoid creating bubbles. Add remaining water. (FYI: I found the recipe here.)

We tried other recipes but this is the only one that worked well for us consistently. To make our wand, we used two dowel rods, a length of yarn (braiding the yarn makes a thicker wand that holds more bubbles, but braiding it isn't necessary), and a washer to help hold the yarn open. Our wand looks like this:

Tips for Success:

• Several recipes say that the mixture works best if left set overnight.  We use ours immediately with great success, but if you are having issues, you could try letting it rest overnight.
• Use cotton string for your wand. 
• Wind is one of your bubbles' worst enemies.
• Bubble size is limited by wand size, so don't be shy in making a big wand, much bigger than our child-friendly version. The guy in the video where I got the recipe uses something that looks like fishing poles and creates bubbles big enough to happily swallow our bed mattress. Magnificent, of course, but much larger than we needed to be wowed.

Pictures of Success: