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.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Friday, February 4, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Mama's Good Advice
~DISCLAIMER: The following post contains mentions of underwear. If anyone finds themselves to be squeamish at the mention, thought, or sound ("But underwear doesn't make sound"...shows how little you know) of underwear and/or words pertaining to said underwear. Please avert your eyes.~
About Five months ago I was just a girl. Just a girl packing for her first big girl mission in life. To live for eight months in the African bush. Like most girls who have yet to participate in a big girl life mission I very seldom heeded to the often unsolicited advice of my tall, wise, somewhat off her rocker mother. However, this shall never be the case in my post first big girl mission life; in less of course it has to do with anything that I am extremely knowledgeable about. Which of course is a lot. "What miracle advice could this be?", you might be thinking. Well it has do to with something that we all wear everyday (unless of course you belong to the group who elects to be more 'free'). That's right...underwear. Oh. What? You weren't thinking underwear? I know it sounds strange but I sincerely believe that underwear advice is some of the best advice one can ever receive. And now you shall be privy to my juicy little tidbit of knowledge on unmentionables.
I came to Africa with two packages of six fruit of the loom cotton briefs (which by the way are the most comfortable things ever...Victoria Secret, Shmictorias Secret). Before I left my mom said this and I quote "Ash you should not open one package and save it until your half way point. That way you will have some clean fresh underwear to wear." Now having fresh underwear might not be a big deal to you but when you have to hand wash your own underwear with a rock for eight months it becomes a high priority. This being the case, and I knowing this to be the case; I decided this time she might be on to something. So I did as she bid and I saved one package of six fruit of the loom cotton briefs and I have never been happier (except when Jesus love came into my life).
It was January 1st, 2011 when I put on my first pair of fresh, never been worn underwear and I have never been the same since. There is a little more bounce in my step and a little less hitch in my giddy up. Who knew that fresh underwear -after being deprived of such a common luxury for so long- would do so much? I will tell you who...Marie Perkins. That's who. Little did I know that such a gem, such a treasure, such a brilliant piece of knowledge could be past from mother to daughter. Needless to say this proverbial masterpiece will be passed down to my daughter and to my daughter's daughter, so on and so forth.
What is the moral to all this? Could it be to always listen to your mother? Perhaps. Could it be to make sure you take washing your underwear by hand lessons before you leave the land of washing machines for eight months? I would say a hardy 'Aye!' to that. But truly, I think the moral is this... those people who are more lenient when it comes to wearing or not wearing undergarments might actually be the wisest of us all.
About Five months ago I was just a girl. Just a girl packing for her first big girl mission in life. To live for eight months in the African bush. Like most girls who have yet to participate in a big girl life mission I very seldom heeded to the often unsolicited advice of my tall, wise, somewhat off her rocker mother. However, this shall never be the case in my post first big girl mission life; in less of course it has to do with anything that I am extremely knowledgeable about. Which of course is a lot. "What miracle advice could this be?", you might be thinking. Well it has do to with something that we all wear everyday (unless of course you belong to the group who elects to be more 'free'). That's right...underwear. Oh. What? You weren't thinking underwear? I know it sounds strange but I sincerely believe that underwear advice is some of the best advice one can ever receive. And now you shall be privy to my juicy little tidbit of knowledge on unmentionables.
I came to Africa with two packages of six fruit of the loom cotton briefs (which by the way are the most comfortable things ever...Victoria Secret, Shmictorias Secret). Before I left my mom said this and I quote "Ash you should not open one package and save it until your half way point. That way you will have some clean fresh underwear to wear." Now having fresh underwear might not be a big deal to you but when you have to hand wash your own underwear with a rock for eight months it becomes a high priority. This being the case, and I knowing this to be the case; I decided this time she might be on to something. So I did as she bid and I saved one package of six fruit of the loom cotton briefs and I have never been happier (except when Jesus love came into my life).
It was January 1st, 2011 when I put on my first pair of fresh, never been worn underwear and I have never been the same since. There is a little more bounce in my step and a little less hitch in my giddy up. Who knew that fresh underwear -after being deprived of such a common luxury for so long- would do so much? I will tell you who...Marie Perkins. That's who. Little did I know that such a gem, such a treasure, such a brilliant piece of knowledge could be past from mother to daughter. Needless to say this proverbial masterpiece will be passed down to my daughter and to my daughter's daughter, so on and so forth.
What is the moral to all this? Could it be to always listen to your mother? Perhaps. Could it be to make sure you take washing your underwear by hand lessons before you leave the land of washing machines for eight months? I would say a hardy 'Aye!' to that. But truly, I think the moral is this... those people who are more lenient when it comes to wearing or not wearing undergarments might actually be the wisest of us all.
Yes...What..oh Hello...And you are....
Just wanted to say HELLO WORLD I AM FOOT LOOSE AND FANCY FREE! Well I don't know how fancy my feet actually look right now but I am pretty....you know I am not going to go there. Anywho I hope you all had a WONDERFUL Christmas and a very Happy New Year. I just spent my very first Christmas from home and though I did miss my family something fierce this truly was my best Christmas ever! It was fun to just be without all the trappings and trimmings and to just worship Jesus and stand in His love. The kids decorated "Christmas Trees" with scraps of cloth, toilet paper, and balloons (needless to say the MOST beautiful trees ever...seriously ever), we had a Christmas goat named Gilbert (may he rest in peace), we sang songs to Jesus, we played, we worshipped, we gloried in Him, 'twas truly a joyous day! And on top of all that I got to talk to my WHOLE family!!!! God is good! Well that's all I have to say for now...just wanted to let you all know that I am alive though it's been awhile...something (I am leaning towards a bat) ate my power cord -not the whole cord- so I have been without a computer but alack and alas I am with you once again and joyfully take up my pen (figuratively) to script you all my tales of life here in the bush. So what I am trying to say-with no more ado-is...I am back :0)
Monday, October 11, 2010
Worthy Moments
Some of you out there might be thinking to yourself "Self, what could possible make cold showers every three days, eating beans and the root of a plant every day for both lunch and dinner, never really feeling fully clean, having for roommates things like huge spiders whose legs can cover my entire palm, and being thousands of miles away from those I love most worth it?" Your self would probably answer something like this: "What makes every trying, dirty, I cannot eat this again moment absolutely worth it, is being gone for 3 days and when you arrive back home is being rushed by 56 of the most wonderful kids who are shouting your name and engulf you in probably the world's largest group hug." Then you would probably say "Yes, Self that does make it all worthwhile."
Rolling Like a Ce-le-brity
First order of business:10,000 cool points to whoever knows what song the title of this post is from. Another 10,000 cool points if you include the band. 500 bouns cool points if you also include my favorite song by this band.
Second order of business: I shop where the stars shop. That's right so whenever I give you advice on the voguest of African fashions you better not just brush it off because it's legit. What is that? You don't believe my keen eye for African prints and taliorship is all that keen. Well that's okay you can just get a second slightly less biased opinion from my good friends Rachel Bilson and Kristen Bell. (If you don't know who that is...Google it.) We shop at the same talior shop located in Gulu, Uganda aka nowheresville. So they would be able to tell you how impecable my taste really is.
Second order of business: I shop where the stars shop. That's right so whenever I give you advice on the voguest of African fashions you better not just brush it off because it's legit. What is that? You don't believe my keen eye for African prints and taliorship is all that keen. Well that's okay you can just get a second slightly less biased opinion from my good friends Rachel Bilson and Kristen Bell. (If you don't know who that is...Google it.) We shop at the same talior shop located in Gulu, Uganda aka nowheresville. So they would be able to tell you how impecable my taste really is.
" ...A Time to Mourn and a Time to Dance"
One of the descriptions of this blog says "A little of the good, bad, and the funny." Unfortunately this post contains the bad. Last week I found out my great aunt passed away. It was a hard week to say the least. Home sickness was getting to the point of unbearable and to want to be at my aunt's funeral but knowing God was saying no was not helping. However, peace was always present. Always. I was never without. It helped so much to know that God is always in control and that He has a reason for everything He does and it is always for our best and His glory. So for this post I am going to copy a little something I wrote up to be read at my aunt's funeral. Blessings :0)
I don't know how many of you know this but I am a former Miss America. Actually, for most of my childhood I was the reigning Miss America. At least in the eyes of one Mrs. Loretta Redus I was. For hours we would play on the steps of her front porch. I robed in her fancy night gowns and high heels; she rocking back 'n' forth on her porch swing. I would tramp up and down the stairs and across the yard as she would say in her Aunt Retta way "Here she comes Miss America!" And on and on it would go until my hunger would get the best of my vanity. Then into the house we would go for slices of bologna and cheese wrapped together and melted in the microwave. This snack was the height of sophistication, especially if sliced in little pieces and eaten with a toothpick, and was necessary to help any Miss America keep her girlish figure.
After our bellies were full, mine with bologna hers with crackers and peanut butter, it was back out to the porch to sit and swing. Back and forth. Back and forth. We would rock. Slow and steady as she would tell wonderful stories of a beautiful flying pink elephant with polka dots that was coming to take me on marvelous adventures. "Look! There do you see it! It's coming for you get ready!" She would say as she pointed up into the afternoon sky. To this day every time I am on that porch swinging on that swing I search the skies for my flying pink elephant and smile remembering sitting there with her doing the same.
Countless summer days were spent this way. I would make the long trek from out house up two hills, past a creek with its shady pecan trees, to her backdoor. There I would enter in to who knows what kind of fun. Dress up, forts, watching The Easter Parade for the millionth time; it didn't really matter as long as I was there with her. We were the best of friends. She always made me feel loved and special. The sweetest and kindest of hearts I have never known one greater than hers. She taught me the fine arts of rolling out pie crust and how to worry over the silliest of things. I wish I could write down every memory that is parading through my mind as I write this but I cannot. Even if I could the smiles, laughs and 'oh Aunt Rettas' they evoke would not be enough to say how much I loved and treasure every moment I got to spend, learn, and grow with my Aunt Retta.
Aunt Retta you are loved and missed. The only thing I have been able to think about since I heard you went home was that now you can be with real angels. I know how much you loved them. I wish I could have seen your face the first time you saw one with your brand new eyes. I love you so much and will be seeing you. Love always your Miss America.
I don't know how many of you know this but I am a former Miss America. Actually, for most of my childhood I was the reigning Miss America. At least in the eyes of one Mrs. Loretta Redus I was. For hours we would play on the steps of her front porch. I robed in her fancy night gowns and high heels; she rocking back 'n' forth on her porch swing. I would tramp up and down the stairs and across the yard as she would say in her Aunt Retta way "Here she comes Miss America!" And on and on it would go until my hunger would get the best of my vanity. Then into the house we would go for slices of bologna and cheese wrapped together and melted in the microwave. This snack was the height of sophistication, especially if sliced in little pieces and eaten with a toothpick, and was necessary to help any Miss America keep her girlish figure.
After our bellies were full, mine with bologna hers with crackers and peanut butter, it was back out to the porch to sit and swing. Back and forth. Back and forth. We would rock. Slow and steady as she would tell wonderful stories of a beautiful flying pink elephant with polka dots that was coming to take me on marvelous adventures. "Look! There do you see it! It's coming for you get ready!" She would say as she pointed up into the afternoon sky. To this day every time I am on that porch swinging on that swing I search the skies for my flying pink elephant and smile remembering sitting there with her doing the same.
Countless summer days were spent this way. I would make the long trek from out house up two hills, past a creek with its shady pecan trees, to her backdoor. There I would enter in to who knows what kind of fun. Dress up, forts, watching The Easter Parade for the millionth time; it didn't really matter as long as I was there with her. We were the best of friends. She always made me feel loved and special. The sweetest and kindest of hearts I have never known one greater than hers. She taught me the fine arts of rolling out pie crust and how to worry over the silliest of things. I wish I could write down every memory that is parading through my mind as I write this but I cannot. Even if I could the smiles, laughs and 'oh Aunt Rettas' they evoke would not be enough to say how much I loved and treasure every moment I got to spend, learn, and grow with my Aunt Retta.
Aunt Retta you are loved and missed. The only thing I have been able to think about since I heard you went home was that now you can be with real angels. I know how much you loved them. I wish I could have seen your face the first time you saw one with your brand new eyes. I love you so much and will be seeing you. Love always your Miss America.
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