Whoopie Pie Day Flashback

About three years ago, I wrote a blog post called Whoopie Pie Heaven (now featured temporarily along the sidebar on this blog page), a memorable way of spending a day together, as shown by a recent series of texts:

L: Sara, we need to celebrate after you are back from Ghana with another Whoopie Pie Day!

A (our newest sister-in-law): Oh my! Did y'all make all those goodies in one day?

D: Yes! And that wasn't a bake sale! Just Sister's Day, baking cookies for lunches!

L: Oh yes! Sara was a little overwhelmed with my big bowls of batter, but she happily carried trays home for her freezer! Didn't we each end up with over a hundred cookies?

Me: When I thought of doing a Whoopie Pie Day, I expected each of us would go home with two dozen Whoopie pies. I didn't realize that meant two dozen of each kind. And there were five diffferent kinds, or something like that.

L (laughing, no doubt): Great memories!

Indeed, her massive bowls of batter and the disparity between a mom-of-eight's idea of a baking day and a mom-of-two's idea have become unforgettable among us three sisters.

Today, my sisters are getting together again to bake whoopie pies for lunches. (It took three years to recover from the last round, I see.) This time I'm not close enough to join in, so I'm remembering the fun we had three years ago, and thanking God for sisters.

Speaking of memories, I recently saved my son from creating bad ones. Sophia alerted me to "a really high bike ramp." Just in case it was high in more than a 5-year-old's estimation, I checked it out. . .and nixed its use.

Hello, 2018, and Hello,Harmattan!

Like most churches across Ghana, the Deeper Life Bible Church we attend planned to usher in the New Year with a midnight prayer and praise service. 

"Should we go?" John asked me. The two of us wanted to be there, but we weren’t sure if it was too much to ask of our young children. 

"Well, it is only three hours out of our lives," I reasoned. "The baby will sleep in my sling and the other two can take naps tomorrow." 

So we went.

The older children thought it was novel to go to church when they should have been in bed. They each took a blanket for warmth and planned to hunker down in their chairs and sleep at church. (Definitely an unusual privilege. Our church has ushers who tap any sleepers on the shoulder, ensuring a wakeful audience.) Other children, I noticed when we arrived, had mats as well as blankets and were sacked out on the floor in the back of the room. 

So we stayed while the baby looked around brightly for the duration of the service with my fellow-mommies laughing at him. "Why?" they asked me as I bounced him just outside the open church door where I could still hear the service. "Why isn't he sleeping?" 

"He wants to see the New Year," I told them, grinning. And other than a restless dozing twenty minutes before fireworks announced the New Year, the baby stayed awake to the amusement of my friends.

John and I enjoyed listening to songs in Twi which we don't hear on a regular Sunday morning and watching our friends truly feel the music as they sang. It was obvious that Twi is not only their mother tongue but their heart language as well.  

We listened to inspiring testimonies including a song of praise from the pastor's wife who has a baby with an amputated foot and obvious developmental delays. (You can read her story here.) She shared the story of her baby's birth and troubles and ended it by saying, "I am praising and thanking God that my baby is alive." There was no evident self-pity nor any reference to a hard year but simple gratitude that her son is alive.

A final highlight of the evening came after the booming fireworks died down enough for me to hear the pastor again (lights were off, so we were in darkness without a sound system). He said we would sing a New Year song and shake hands all around while we sang. Everyone was in high spirits. Mothers swayed the babies on their backs as they shook my hand and held on longer than normal. There was laughter and greetings all around. The camaraderie I had felt among the women while standing outside the church door with our babies expanded to include many other churchgoers during the New Year song. It was such a beautiful way to usher in the New Year. 

This is the song they sang, though ours wasn't as professionally done since we had untrained voices and no instruments. 

On our way home with three tired children, we noticed the haze in the air was unusually heavy. Car headlights coming our direction were soupy puddles of light like those in heavy fog. 

"Harmattan is bad tonight," John observed, for it was dust in the air that caused the haze. 

And, sadly enough for the housekeeper within me, the dust hasn't lifted yet. The air smells of dirt and a dusty haze obscures the hill we normally see behind our neighbors’ trees.

The harmattan is a phenomenon, though it happens annually. Winds pick dust and sand up from the Sahara (largely from the Bodélé depression in Chad) and fling it skyward. They blow southwesterly, dropping sand and dirt all along their path, but still carrying enough to South America to replenish phosphorus in the Amazon rain forest. Phosphorus, a mineral easily washed away by the excessive rains of the Amazon, is found richly in the sand of the dry lake bed in Chad. NASA has photographs of a dusty trail spanning the Atlantic and carrying the equivalent of 104,908 semi-trucks full of sand that actually reach the Amazon. More than 6 times that is lifted annually, according to this article, and dropped along the way.

 All the dirt that falls on us in Accra is redeemed by knowing that the harmattan has a greater purpose than simply dusting the earth. Redeemed or no, the dirt is still here to contend with. But I'm fortunate. Housekeepers less than 400 miles north of us deal with a substantially heavier coating of dirt. Theirs isn't the fine powder I clean off my table every day. Theirs is true gritty grime in a thicker layer than mine. I have memories of washing every shelf in our two-roomed house when we lived in a northern Ghanaian village, then waking up the next morning and being able to write my name in the dust on those same shelves. 

This season is unbelievably dry, especially from my perspective, coming from humid PA. Our laundry dries in short order, which is fun for a change. Lips chap and crack. Food remnants cement onto plates if they aren't washed immediately. Bread turns to croutons if left uncovered. Often people are troubled with sinus issues or bad coughs. John woke up one morning feeling dried out from the fan and the dry air and said, “I feel like a frog that has been out of its pond too long.” Knowing how hard it is to keep myself and my nursing baby hydrated, I sympathized.

While international flights are unhindered, regional airlines lose money during harmattan when visibility is too poor to land. If we have travelers going to Tamale during this time of year, it isn't unusual for John to buy both bus and plane tickets, then get a refund on the one that isn't used since flights are so unpredictable. 

One of our guests was told the following story by a fellow-traveler which highlights the difficulties of traveling during harmattan:

"When I arrived in Ghana, my luggage wasn't taken off the plane. By the time they figured out what happened, my bags were already on their way to South Africa.

"Luggage or no, I needed to get north, so I flew up to Tamale. When we were close enough to see the airport below us, the pilot said there wasn't enough visibility to land, so we turned around and came all the way back to Accra. 

"The airline said they'd run a special flight early in the morning and that I would need to be at the airport by 5:00. I was up by 4 and got to the airport in good time. Sadly, the harmattan was still too heavy, so they cancelled that flight and suggested I take a bus. 

"I bought a bus ticket and was finally sitting on the bus at noon waiting to pull out of the station when the airline called to say the plane is going to leave and I should come back. I quickly got off the bus and hurried to the airport. So right now I’ve been waiting almost two hours and am losing heart that the plane will fly.”

He was right. After a two-hour delay, the flight was cancelled and the good man was forced to find another bus.

The harmattan brings more than dust to Ghana. With the sun blanketed behind a haze, mornings are cool. Accra doesn't get the extreme temperature change you feel farther north, but it is still cold enough for a sheet at night and a hot beverage in the morning –pure happiness for us westerners. Recently, one morning was a delicious 76 degrees Fahrenheit. 

The sun at 4 pm today. 

Should you be interested in visiting Ghana, December/early January is a fine time to do it. The days get warm enough for you to appreciate the strength of our equatorial sun (provided the haze isn’t too thick), but nights are cool enough for you to sleep well. 

Best of all, if you visit now, I’ll have help cleaning.

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