It was...Ojok Morris. In the maize garden. With the knife!

Yesterday. I innocently. Stumbled upon. A murder. Yes. A murder. The murder of. A poor. Defenseless. Chicken. Yes. A chicken. I was just walking. Minding my own business. When. Suddenly. I looked up. There. Just in front of me. The whole scene was unfolding. I did not. By some gracious favor from Heaven. Have to witness the actual act of execution. But. Let me assure you. The effects of said act .Were just as horrific. 

There it was. The poor. Flightless. Bird. Flailing about. Like. Well. Like a chicken with its head cut off. And.There they were. The perpetrators. The conductors. Of such. A heinous crime. Laughing. Laughing with not a care in the world. However. It was. The one. The Butch Cassidy. The Godfather. The ringleader. Of the whole business. Who seemed to reap the most pleasure. From his crime. His Villainy. His delinquency. 

 Not a look. Not a sound. Of regret. Or sorrow. Shone in his eye. Or passed his lips. Only laughter. Only shrill. Cries. Of delight! Once. And. Only once. Did he speak. Only to say. "No. No you leave it. It will die." Followed. By another round. Of sinister cackling. 

Needless to say. By this point. I was beyond distressed. I was. Horrified. Sickened. Rocked. To my very core. Never. Never. In my life did I think. Such sweet. Wholesome. Little ones. Could be capable of. Of. Such a deed. Such an atrocity. 

My bubble. Has been burst. My rose colored glass. Shattered. My innocence .Irrevocably. Taken from me. Dear reader. I know. I know that you too must feel this loss. This cannot come lightly to you. You. Who have grown to love. To adore. To cherish. These "sweet" children as I have. Nevertheless. As much as I would love to. Nay. Need to stay. And commiserate our loss together. I must away. It is time. For lunch. And I believe. We are having. Chicken. 

The Spirit and The Flesh.

It has recently come to my attention that the things that our flesh rebels against are most often times the things most worth doing. Example. At times. The occasion arises in which one of the houses does not have mom. On these occasions usually one of the young lovely single long-short term volunteers are asked to stay at said house. Now of course the answer is always. Yes. After all. It is why the young lovely single long-short term volunteers have come. To serve. So we go. However, I am sad to say that most often on these occasions we do not go with joy. But with a grumble and a grunt. 

Now really I should not be saying we. But me. I. Yes. It is true. I am the young lovely single long-short term volunteer that more often times than not….actually every time…. goes out to be a mom for the night not with joy. But with a grumble and a grunt. If one could jump inside my mind to hear the conversation that goes on during these occasions it really would be a sad thing to hear. "Not again. Ugh…" Says the flesh. "Now flesh you know that it is a good thing." Replies the Spirit. "These kids need love. And you show that by giving up your time." "Love shmove. I don't want to go. I had plans you know. I wanted to sleep in my bed." I. I. I. Me. Me. Me. Self. Self. Self. Blah. Blah. Blah. On. And. On goes flesh. All the way to the house. Grumble. Grumble. Grunt. Grunt. Grunt. Grumble. 

Then. Suddenly. A laugh is heard. A smile seen. The closer to the house the quieter flesh seems to become. Grum…Grum…Grun….until no more complaints can be heard.  And all that can be seen are precious faces. Excited their auntie has come. Probably hoping that inside her big blue bag are sweets and a film to watch before bed. Their hopes will be satisfied. Just in case the reader was wondering. 

"Oh." Says the young lovely single long-short term volunteer. "You see." Says the Spirit "Not so bad is it. To love well means self-sacrifice is needed. And self-sacrifice always means the sweetest rewards." As the night goes on the young lovely single long-short term volunteer realizes just how right the Spirit is. She sees the sweet reward in hearing the kids laugh at donkey's antics in Shrek. In their sweet prayers before bed. And most of all in the sweet little one that has fallen asleep in her arms. 

Yes. The Spirit is most definitely right. And the flesh most definitely wrong. And perhaps also a little bit stupid. And very much annoying. But now. At least. The young lovely single long-short term volunteer knows that things in which the flesh rebels are most often times the things most definitely worth doing.  

The God of Peace

"..The peace of God ,which transcends all understanding…" -Phil. 4:7 

I have found this to be true. That God's peace does exactly this. It transcends. It goes beyond. It is above all understanding. We cannot fathom how or why or where it comes. But if we cast all things unto Him who is able to bear and carry our worry with such ease then this happens. A peace that is deeper. That is truer. That is richer than anything we can know comes from the deepest parts of us. And then we feel okay. We take a deep breath. We let it out. We smile. We feel relaxed from someplace inside. We laugh. We shake our head. We put our hand over our hearts. We are overwhelmed. With love. With knowledge. That our God is a good God. 

The Pink Cover

I have a pink semitransparent hard cover on my computer. I bought it the last time I was in the states to protect my new comp from the dirt and grime of my African residence. I wanted to make sure the pretty shiny silver surface of my mac would last as long as possible.  The translucency of the case allows for the glow of the apple to still be seen. I like that. It' like my comp is saying "Hey I am still me under this protective shell. See I still glow."  

Papa is making me like my pink semitransparent hard cover. 

I am in a valley. My only companion is the refining fire of the Holy Spirit. I actually don't mind the fire much. It is burring up gross bits of flesh that distort the image of God in me. However, just because I don't mind it does not mean it doesn't burn. It burns. It burns real bad. So bad it feels like it has been burning for months. It has been a week. Just 15 more to go. 

There is hope though. Hope. That in 15 weeks somewhere in me my spirit will be pretty and shiny. Hope. That in 15 weeks I will have a pink semitransparent hard cover of suffering and perseverance to make the shininess of my spirit to last. Hope. That in 15 weeks nothing. No attack. No lie. No Enemy of Darkness. Will be able penetrate my pink semitransparent hard cover. Hope. That this fire will have built within me a strength that cannot not be shaken. A will that comes from above. A love that will not quit. A covering of the Almighty.

Through this pink semitransparent cover of God my pretty shiny spirit will be glowing. Glowing with gladness. Glowing with joy. Glowing with glory. Glowing with the knowledge that through hope and by hope we walked through the valley. 

"…And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out His love into out hearts by the Holy Spirit  whom He has given us." -Romans 5:2-5 

Under the Tree.

We sat. Under the tree. The soft rustle of leaves above us. The murmur of little voices before us. We prayed. A prayer of thanksgiving. For hope. For restored lives. For hearts on the mend. We sang. A song of praise. For what He has done. What He has done for me. For us. For them.  One by one. They stood. It was a time for sharing. Sharing a story. A true story. Each testifying to the pit they once were in. Testifying. That now by grace a pair of hands. The Hands. Had reached down and pulled them out. 

Each story varied. Each eye. Each heart. Seeing. Knowing. Feeling. Different pain. Each knowing that He can and has. That He could and would. Heal and make new. What was broken and crushed. Things were fine. Not too many tears. Everyone so brave. So bold. Until him. Quinto. So strong. So silent. So tenderhearted. His stoic demeanor hiding truth. Forgetting. He was just a child. He seemed like such a little man. But reality had to shine light. Reminding. That these were just children. Children who had seen into hell. 

He stood with Reverend's sure arm around him. The only father figure he had known. Staring at the ground. His raspy voice trembling. He began. "I want to tell you about what my life has been…" There it stopped. Tears. Breaking through. Through the stone. Through the wall. So carefully built. So carefully guarded. Shock coursed through. "But Quinto never cries." 

He quickly plopped down. Trying to shove it all back. Back. Down. Deep. Deep. Down. Where it couldn't be touched. Felt. Acknowledged. Oh, but how hands ached. Craved. Longed. To do just that. To reach in and touch the pain. To take it all away from this sweet little soul. As much as hands itched to heal. To mend what was torn. There was only one pair that could. That would. Be strong enough. Gentle enough. To do what needed to be done. To wipe away those tears. Those tears. The start. The beginning. The proof. Proof those hands. The Hands. Were working. Were healing. Were touching.  As we sat. Under the tree. 

Divine Glory. Sweet Beautiful Grace.

It was that time of day. You know the time between light and dark. It was cool. My heart was overwhelmed. "I don't know if I can do this." "I don't think I can do this another day." I could feel the weariness deep down in my bones. The thoughts flashed through my mind. "I can't Papa." "I just can't." And the door cracked open. That's all it took. Just a little crack. The sticky sweet voice of the Evil One came seeping through. "If only people could just see you now," it crooned. "If only they would just talk about you!" "Look what you are doing. Living in Africa. Eating African food. Day in and day out. If only they would give you some credit. Some glory. Some praise. Then maybe you wouldn't be so tired. No, I am almost sure it would help. Seek your praise. Forget His. This is for you! The time is now!" On and on. The whispers came. Suddenly I stopped. "What am I doing!" "Oh Papa! Forgive me! Save me from myself. Not to us oh Lord not to us! For Your glory alone."

And with that the door slammed shut. Then softly. Quietly. The tender sweet voice of the Father came. It came in a song. A song about His love for us. A song about His terrific jealousy for us. A song of hope. A song of His glory. A song of grace. A song of how He loves. How He loves us so. As the words come bubbling forth from my spirit and rushing over into my soul and then finally overflowing from my mouth He showed me. He showed me how He loves.

She was walking up. I was walking down. We met in the middle. Her sweet smile. Her arms open. Ready for an embrace. It was like no other I have ever had. But there was more love to see. More love to be had. There came another. Running. Ready. Crashing together. Sweetest of hugs. Sweetest of smiles. Sweetness of life! "Oh, Papa this is how you love! You give! Oh, how you give." Children to love! How sweet! How wonderful! How glorious! What grace. What perfectness. What ecstasy.  He gives. He gives children. Sweet. Sweet. Children to love. For His glory. For His glory alone.

Shellin' Peas...I Think.

TIA (slang): Acronym standing for the commonly used phrase 'This is Africa'. Usually uttered by missionaries to keep from being non-Christlike while at the same time totally exasperated with third world life. Can also be used when no words can describe the scene at hand. Example:" Is that woman breast feeding, with nothing covering her, in church? TIA. TIA."


So a few months ago we had two really awesome college kids here who love Jesus and almost love Africa just as much (shout out to Holly and Sam!) They were much need companionship at a time when my arrogant thoughts that I could be a pretty happy hermit were quickly being proved wrong by my ever increasing loneliness. Besides their friendship they also gave me a wonderful new phrase to help express my feelings during 'it can only happen in Africa' events (which will later turn into very witty anecdotes) with more ease. TIA (definition above) has totally and completely changed my descriptive-language vocabulary. I would now like to share with you the story that lead to it's maiden utterance from my lips.

Holly and I walked through the craft market. Each stall sold the same exact wares as it's neighbor the only difference being how well one could haggle. Holly was a pro. As she went quickly back to a woman selling African shirts to let her know she had found someone who could sell her the shirt at 20,000 shillings instead of 25,000, I lagged behind my attention caught by something that made my heart smile. There sitting in the doorway of her stall was a pretty woman shelling peas. It reminded me of home. Not that I often shell peas at home but I am from the country and I hear people  think that country people do that a lot. Regardless of the pea shelling frequency that takes place at my house it made me happy to be reminded of home. Especially since it was getting near Christmas. Little did I know that my sweet reminder of home was about to turn into something very, very different.

As I stood watching the woman and her friend shell the peas while laughing about something in their native tongue, I realized that these peas looked a little different from Texas peas. In fact they looked a lot different. Actually, as I stepped a little closer to get a better look, I couldn't recall a Texas pea ever squirming like these peas seemed to be doing. I watched as the woman brought another pea from her bag and tore the shell off the wriggling pea. That's when I knew. These were not peas at all but in fact were grasshoppers. Big, green, fat, grasshoppers. These women were tearing off the wings, legs and antennas getting the 'protein' ready to fry and eat for dinner. As I walked away, my sweet thoughts of home crumbling around me, all I could do was shake my head, laugh and say TIA. TIA.