So Now What?

Guinea-Bissau, on the Atlantic coast of West Africa, has a swampy coast, with forests changing to grasslands in the east. Guerrilla warfare liberated a mix of ethnic groups from Portuguese rule in 1974. In 1994 the country's first multiparty elections were held. An army uprising four years later led to a bloody 1998-99 civil war, which caused severe damage to the nation's infrastructure. Political instability continued with a military coup in 2003. Guinea-Bissau is among the world's least developed countries, with most people engaged in subsistence agriculture and fishing -- cashew nuts are the main export crop. —National Geographic Atlas of the World, Eighth Edition, 2004

Having visited a place that is among the poorest and least developed in the world, how can I now simply return to my extravagant life of luxuries and turn the page as if closing a last chapter of an interesting book and moving to the next story? How can I continue to indulge my voracious American appetite for material possessions and creature comforts that are unprecedented in the history of the world? How can I close my eyes to such glaring needs while pandering to my desires for more, more, more?

There is something slightly romantic about the stories I have written, as if it were all just one great adventure with a happy ending. But the truth is that there is no happy ending for most of the people in the villages I visited. Apart from a personal relationship with their Creator, each baby girl born in that little corner of the world will spend her life struggling for survival while submitting to the demands of evil spirits, and then eventually die and enter an eternity separated from God forever. Those demons, whose agenda, according to the Bible, is to steal, kill and destroy, will have had their way in her life on earth, and then will accomplish their ultimate goal when she no longer has the opportunity to hear the Good News that she is loved and cherished by a Heavenly Father. In this life she will at least have the blessing of the sunrises and sunsets, a drink of water on a thirsty tongue, flowers in bloom, birds singing, crops growing, animals giving birth, and the closeness of her children. She will have none of that in the next life. If this life, with all its difficulties from extreme poverty, is strenuous and grueling for these women, it will seem like a joy ride compared to the life to come where, for all eternity, there will be no blessings. None. Zero. No sun, no rain, no birth, no plants, no animals, no food, no love, no relationships, nothing at all that could bring a drop of comfort.

What can I do?  I can't do much, but that doesn't mean I can't do anything.  Something is better than nothing.  The Bible tells me that to whom much is given much is required, and I see now better than ever before just how much I've been given, and therefore I know that it is required of me to do something.  The men of Guinea Bissau and other similar developing countries are just as needy as the women, but it is to the women and children that my heart is drawn.  The needs of my own children have been one of my highest priorities since the day they were born.  The needs of other children that I have personally known have captured my attention and often stirred me to respond with some kind of help.  The only difference between them and the needy children on the other side of the world, though they are no less valuable in God's eyes than the children under my own roof, is that they have been out of sight and so I could keep them from pestering my conscience.  But now all that has changed.  A picture may be worth a thousand words, but an experience is worth ten thousand pictures.

In considering the vast array of needs, it is impossible for me to prioritize other than putting the need for Jesus at the top of the list, and then everything else in a big needy lump below that. But even though the other needs come second in importance to the need for Jesus, the other needs are just as real.  A thirsty person needs water; a hungry person needs food; and a person who is heading for eternity without Jesus needs the Good News so they can at least make an informed choice.

Somewhere in there I can make some kind of a difference for someone.  Not being able to make all the difference for everyone is no excuse. 

I don't know the answer to my own question, "So now what?"  The only thing I know for sure is that I will never be the same, and my heart is drawn to do more by returning to this place with Phase Two: Women and Children, whatever that looks like.  My ears are on high alert to hear from God because I want to go Where He Leads. 

Final Day at the Jesus Spa

Every day was unique.  Monday we learned skills on Christian women who gushed gratitude.  Tuesday we felt permeated with the depths of Sara's sadness, and our aching hands and backs needed lots of stretching and a little ibuprofen from the hours of rubbing and leaning.  Wednesday nobody came, so we treated Heather, Abigail and 10 yr. old Lutinia to a spa treatment before heading off in different directions for our longest walks of the week.  We learned the next day that the group of ladies who was scheduled to come Wednesday had ended up at a funeral instead of a spa.  Thursday was a particularly busy day at the salon, but I, Lin, was laid up in bed suffering with Montezuma's Revenge.  Ugh.  Spa staff positions had to be shifted around, so Kate took over the facials, and Heather and Fatinia both stepped in to manage shoulder massages while Tonya carried on with her gift of foot washing and pedicures.  Rumor has it that there were some squabbles and tensions brewing in the Jesus Spa that day when Wednesday's women began showing up expecting to get their pampering a day later.  But with a full crowd of Thursday clients, and one of the missionary workers down and out for the afternoon, there simply weren't enough hands to go around for a double load.  Although I couldn't be present to work that afternoon, I spent most of the three hours in prayer for all the women involved, both on the giving and receiving ends.  When I wasn't praying I was taking care of less pleasant business, with a minimum of inconvenience thanks to someone's kindness in bringing me two extra buckets of water for flushing.

And now Friday was here but the water supply was not.  Oh, dear.  All the good water had been pulled from the well by the construction guys making load after load of cement to pour a foundation, and all that was left down in those dark depths was salty river water full of dirt.  Kate could have gone into a tailspin, but she turned her focus back to God where it belonged and declared that we would proceed as planned and the women who came would probably not notice or care about the brown water being used on their skin.  They had dealt with far worse situations, and this was trivial when put in perspective against the backdrop of their lives.  We were not going to deny these tired Monsanka women the luxury of their spa treatments just because the water looked like mud! 

As predicted, not one woman gave evidence of even noticing the unfortunate water situation.  No raised eyebrows, or sneers, or comments muttered under the breath.  Americans are so steeped in expectations that we grimace over the least little imperfection, but the only thing these women seemed to notice was that someone was making them feel like princesses for a day!  In addition to the seven who had been scheduled for this day, another woman tagged along with her friends and we didn't have the heart to refuse her, so we were kept busy for well over three hours of special attentions lavished on women who had never previously known any part of such an extravagant gift. 

Near the door several women in an odd mix of African and western clothing sat in chairs chatting in Creole, passing a baby down the line, awkwardly flipping through pages of a Better Homes & Gardens magazine. 

On the other side of the room one woman in a colorful dress sat with her feet in a bucket of brown water treated with a mineral foot soak, while a second woman was being oiled to a glistening sheen across her exposed upper body and simultaneously basking in the pleasure of Tonya's attention to her feet and legs. 

At the end of the room I repeatedly swooshed a fly away from the face of the woman lying before me, but she didn't seem to notice its presence. 

A little chicken named Beauty, perhaps the world's ugliest chicken and thereby becoming a coddled pet, repeatedly sneaked through the door and stepped around women's feet looking for crumbs or bugs, (see 4th photo up) while a loud clattering and banging in the yard revealed a goat that had toppled a stack of cooking pots just beyond the sea of sandals and was now helping herself to a drink of water from a bucket left within her range of exploration. 

Christian music played from Tonya's ipod while Heather sang along and clicked massive numbers of photos on whatever cameras were available, and Kate's and Liz's voices were heard switching languages as effortlessly as I might change a radio station.  The atmosphere was friendly, relaxed, and infused with love.  At any given moment prayers were being heard as we brought these women's names before the throne of God, asking Him to bless their hands, their feet, their minds, their marriages, their children, their food supplies, their health, and their spirits.  I made sure to always ask the name of each woman so that she could at least recognize the sound of her own name as I prayed.  She may not have known the content of my prayer, but she knew that it was very personally focused on her needs.

The freshly pampered African women expressed their thanks and made their way back down the dusty road with their colorful bags swinging from their hands.  Kate said she expects to see these bags around the market and town for weeks or months to come, as they will be used for purses until they have completely worn out.  And I found myself wondering when was the last time I had to use a paper purse. 

To Saba, Sara, Carlotta, Iness, Nda, Monica, Dominga, Ngundi, Rosa, Naoza, Bonna and all the other beautiful women who allowed us to bless you this week, we will continue to pray that you know how much you are loved and valued and desired by the Creator of the universe, the One True God, Jesus Christ, King of Kings and Lord of Lords!    

Amen.

Gotta Stretch the Legs Now and Then

While drawing water from the well and hauling it into the house a couple times a day was good for upper body strength, it was still necessary for we women to be intentional about getting exercise.  Each day we looked for an opportunity to take a walk, usually at the end of the day after we finished with our salon and before the sun set.  One particular walk with Heather, Abby and Asher the dog, took us down the half-mile dirt road and then off onto a footpath headed toward town.  I would have been brave enough to take this walk by myself except for the fact that I couldn't speak more than 3 words of the language.  (Okay, 4 words if you include "galinha", but what's the likelihood I'd have the need to say something about a chicken?)  And besides, Heather and Abby were good company and full of interesting information about our surroundings!  Our first ten minutes of walking took us through peaceful grasses, scrub bushes, and past an occasional tree, watching Asher sniff whatever he could find of interest, and listening to the sound of a distant swarm of honey bees.  We even found a poop flower in full bloom, but thankfully not yet ripe enough to emit the odor that gives the full meaning to its name.  (Yes, this flower looks like a large turd on a stem.)

Then came the stream of boys returning from school.  It seemed an odd hour for school to be letting out, but Heather explained that some kids go to school in the morning and some go in the afternoon, so the later group returns home around 7 p.m.  I practiced my bo-tarde greeting over and over, and was occasionally treated to a reply of hello or good afternoon by a student clearly wanting to practice his new English words.  For the next quarter mile we were passed by perhaps fifty boys of middle school through high school age, and exactly three girls.  It is rare for a girl to have the privilege of attending school in this country.  Public schools are open to all, but they are not free as we know public schools to be, funded by our tax dollars.  Tuition may seem very small in contrast to private school tuitions in the U.S., but even a few dollars a month is out of the reach of many.  Besides the cost, girls simply aren't viewed as a good investment when it comes to education, as their value in the eyes of the men is in their physical labor which requires no schooling except what they learn from their mothers. 

Further along the path we came across a family of pigs rooting around behind some bushes, and then were entertained by a man chasing a small herd of sheep away from his garden.  Sheep in Guinea Bissau don't look so much like our sheep, as they have short hair that never needs shearing.  Come to think of it, the pigs have longer hair than the sheep! 

We decided we'd gone far enough when we came within sight of one of the main wells on the outskirts of Mansoa.  It is at this well that many women bring their laundry to wash, and sometimes to bathe.  There was still a considerable number of women and children at this well, finishing up their day's work before the last light of day was gone.  After we turned around and headed back on the hard-packed path in our flip-flops, watching every step to guard against an easily twisted ankle or an errant snake, we walked straight into a group of six men heading to town.  Their long loose dresses identified them as Muslims, and while we were friendly and spoke greetings to them, we had no desire to stop and chat.  They, on the other hand, were intent on exactly that.  They began trying to engage us in conversation, and I tried to get out of it by saying something  intelligent and impressive like, "Me American.  Speak English."  At that, one man's face lit up and he grabbed my hand and shook it almost reverently.  Heather and Abigail both have enough command of the Creole language that they were able to answer a few questions and tell the men that we live with the bronco (white man), whom everyone in the area knows and respects.  Asher was standing alert and ready to intervene if his services were needed.  At no time did I feel a sense of danger, but it was nonetheless a relief when we were finally able to free ourselves from their attentions and move away in the opposite direction from where they were headed.  Though they were not aggressive, we were outnumbered two to one, and they were slightly inebriated and just a little too friendly for our comfort.

An evening stroll with Abigail and Asher on another day took us through the bulagna where we flip-flopped our way along narrow, packed dirt ridge paths, making our way to the river where the tide was out and the smooth clay of the riverbed lay exposed and glistening in the sunset. 

A snowy egret stood along the far bank waiting for a last meal of the day, and a flock of unfamiliar geese honked overhead.  My eye caught a flash of red in a tree near the riverbank where a gorgeous endangered African buba bird had taken rest.  I stood gazing at the clay mud, trying to picture a baptism in this river where the new convert and the one doing the dunking would first have to trudge through this muck to reach the water. 

We decided to return by a different route, picking our way through the maze of paths toward the back entrance to their property.  Scanning the landscape, I tried to picture the wildfire that nearly took out their house a year or so ago.  Imagine attempting to stop acres of flames crawling toward your property with nothing but a shovel and a few buckets to carry water pulled from a well five hundred yards from the property line.  A few charred fence posts stand as a reminder of God's goodness and mercy, enabling them to do what humanly would have been impossible.

As Abby and I talked about life in Africa, and she shared her favorite chicken stories, I kept wondering about the women who work in these rice fields.  Even with my attentiveness to every step, I still managed to take a tumble off the path into a patch of stubble and weeds.  How do these flip-flop shod women traverse these treacherous paths with heavy loads on their heads and babies strapped to their backs, spines erect and eyes straight ahead?    For all their lack of education and knowledge of the world, their strength, and stamina, and tenacity have earned them a place of high respect in my mind.

Living Close to the Earth

In my country we don't see men or boys walking around with machetes casually dangling from their hands.  In fact, I made mention of this little fact one afternoon when ten-year-old Caleb, with machete in hand, passed through the house as nonchalantly as if he were carrying a baseball glove.  I hate it for him that such simple, innocent connections to the earth are going to be lost to him when he moves back to America later this year.  In our society a machete would be considered by most to be a weapon, whereas in West Africa it is a tool for survival.  I am hoping God will bless this guileless little boy with opportunities to stay close to the earth in his new home in the land of the free and the home of the brave, where freedom and opportunities for bravery are becoming scarcer and scarcer with each passing year.  Our American existence seems to be taking us farther and farther from a bond with the earth that God created for us to enjoy.

Early in the week, as we hiked a path into one of the more hidden Monsanka villages (see A Walk Into Another World), we passed enormous trees with huge football-shaped fruits dangling far above our heads.  Kate found a fresh baobab fruit on the ground with a crack in it, and managed to break it open for us to sample the edible insides.  Though it was rather sweet, the feel of it in my mouth was like styrofoam, only more dense.  Dry as dust.

 
The next day at the market we noticed children selling little plastic bags of a cloudy liquid, and Kate informed us this was juice made from the fruit of the baobab tree.  She assured us it was very tasty, but since we had no way of knowing the source of the water used to make the juice the kids were selling, it seemed wise to pass on that opportunity.  But the day we visited Liz at her home in Lendeng, she had a baobab fruit on hand to make the beverage for our lunch, and she asked Tonya and me to do the honors.  Ummm . . . what, exactly, were we supposed to do with this huge, fuzzy, nut-looking thing full of styrofoam?  Following Liz's instructions, Tonya slammed the fruit repeatedly on the concrete porch with enough force to finally make it crack open, and together we dug out the contents, complete with the tough web-like fibers and large seeds that God put in there with the white stuff that is purportedly chock full of nutrients.  Once all the strings and seeds and broken pieces of dry fruit were collected in the bucket Liz had provided, she poured a pitcher of water in with the whole mess and told us to squish it with our hands until all the fruit had dissolved in the water.  Squish, squish, squish.  Very sensory.  Very preschool.  Very fun. 

Once the fruit was totally dissolved, Liz added more water until the consistency was like orange juice, then strained it all to get out the chunks, and voila!  Oh, yes, she did add some sugar for the palates of the Americans, just to make sure we would enjoy it, and enjoy it we did! 

Another unfamiliar food item that turned up over and over through the week was tamarind.  These seed pods, roughly the size of a tough old overgrown green bean, are frequently used to season the fish and rice dishes that are the staple of the West African diet.  Sold in clumps in the market, these slightly spicy pods are cooked in a sauce until they are tender and delectable, but eating them involves spitting out a mouthful of seeds.  This is not a problem, however, when the family is eating on the floor around a large bowl, with chickens and goats at the ready to snarf down whatever is discarded by the humans. 

Salt, one of the most prized seasonings anywhere you go, is a natural byproduct of the soil in this part of the world.  The salty dirt is scooped up and carried home by women in large buckets on their heads, where they labor through the lengthy and tedious process of extracting the salt so that it is suitable for selling and cooking.  Though I didn't pay close attention when the process was being explained to me, I do remember Kate pointing out an odd contraption in one of the Monsanka villages as one of the stages of making salt.  Without her enlightenment I never would have figured out on my own what this crudely constructed apparatus was all about.

Far right, apparatus where salt is being made

Today I will pour juice out of a waxed cardboard container without any idea how it was processed or where the fruit was grown, and I will season my meat with spices that I shake out of a little jar without any knowledge of where they were harvested, and I will sprinkle salt on my dinner without any idea where that salt came from or how it got into that round cardboard container on the supermarket shelf.  The Monsanka women may not know anything about the world beyond their firsthand experience, but they know where their food comes from, which is more than I can say for myself. 

Faith Comes By Hearing

Months before the Jesus Spa came to Mansoa, Guinea Bissau, a handful of hungry siblings were regularly finding their way to the developing YFC center in hopes of getting food or money.  For weeks Wade & Kate showed them compassion and provided for some of their physical needs.  Eventually, however, Wade noticed one teenage brother who would often sit and watch them work on construction for hours, not offering to help with any of the labor, but always moving in when food and water appeared.  Finally Wade confronted this capable young man with a message from the Bible that he who does not work should not eat.  He offered work, but the teen chose instead to flee from the property and not return.  It was then that Wade decided he needed to learn more about this family, and with a little detective work he was able to find out where they lived.  When he arrived at their home in hopes of meeting the parents, he discovered a blind father and an overworked mother of twelve.  The father was managing to provide some income for his family as a beggar, and was teaching his sons how to be effective beggars as well, as is expected in that culture.  Sons of a beggar become beggars themselves, regardless of how capable they might be to do productive work of some kind.  Wade shared some truths of scripture with these parents, including the way to spiritual freedom through Jesus Christ, and the Christian work ethic.  As the Spirit of God illuminated these truths in the hearts of Dominga and her husband, they both made the choice to follow Jesus and turn from serving demons.  Wade then asked the father to give him one of his sons as an employee, and promised to pay the boy a fair wage and teach him how to make his way in the world as a man who can take pride in his work rather than as a beggar.  The teenager who had previously been hanging around watching and taking advantage of opportunities to get something for nothing was not interested.  He was already steeped in an ethos of laziness.  So the father gave Wade his 14-yr. old son to work on the team constructing the new guest house, and this boy is now being mentored by the best.  It took some effort to teach the young man how to actually apply himself to hard labor, but eventually he began experiencing the sense of self-worth that develops when one produces something by the labor of his own hands, and he is now earning his pay and has become the primary supporter of his family. 

In the meantime, Dominga and her husband have tried to make strides toward a more Christ-honoring lifestyle, but a blind man and an illiterate wife in a third world country have few opportunities to learn what that entails.  They desired to be instructed in scripture, but had no means for making that happen.  In their ignorance there seemed to be little hope of breaking all the chains of their animistic way of life, but it is never a surprise when God provides supernaturally for the legitimate needs of a sincere heart who looks to Him to have those needs met.

While I was home preparing for this trip, Kate informed me about an organization called Faith Comes By Hearing.  This organization produces an audio version of the entire Bible, called a Proclaimer, in 627 spoken languages.  According to the FCBH website, "The Proclaimer is a digital player dedicated to playing God's Word in the local heart language."  The battery will provide fifteen hours of playing time, and can be recharged enough times to listen to the entire New Testament over a thousand times.  The microchip cannot be recorded over and cannot wear out from use.  If the battery is damaged or lost, the Proclaimer can still be run by the built-in solar panel as long as it is placed in direct sunlight.  The sound is digital quality and loud enough to be heard by groups of up to 300.  If ever there was a solution to the problem faced by new believers such as Dominga and her husband, the Proclaimer is it!  My conversation with a representative from Faith Comes By Hearing ended with a promise for them to send me two free Proclaimers in Portuguese Creole to take to Guinea Bissau, where the local missionaries could place them into the hands of those most likely to make good use of them. 

Dominga, who doesn't know her own age, had been invited by Kate to come to our spa, with specific instructions to come at 4:00 since that is the time we would be providing pampering services.  She showed up one day in the late morning, however, with a passel of children in tow, as this was the only time she could get away from her work and come.  We welcomed her and quickly drew some water for her pedicure and facial, and instructed the children to stay outside and play.  While Kate and Tonya were giving their attentions to Dominga's shoulders and feet, we asked about her children, commenting on how amazing it was to us that she had such a large family.  She proudly talked about her two sets of twins and the age span of her twelve children from 26 years down to 16 months.  This mother has been nursing babies continuously for 26 years!  While we Americans were picking our jaws up off the floor, she told us that having a baby is easy.  She does her morning work, then she has her baby, and then she cooks dinner.  And that's that.  One more revelation of the vast differences between the lives of soft American women and our tough West African sisters.

When the massaging, and scrubbing, and painting, and praying over Dominga were finished, and she was feeling thoroughly loved and cared for, we presented her with a Proclaimer to take home to her family.  The only condition, which comes from the Faith Comes By Hearing ministry, is that she commit to playing a portion of scripture for at least thirty minutes once a week for as many people as she can gather together to listen.  She was visibly happy to receive this gift, and indicated that she would listen to it almost daily with her family in their little one room mud hut in a village so far off a driveable road that it is accessible only by way of a long footpath.  The curiosity of having such a tool in her possession, however, is likely to intrigue others in the primitive village into stopping by and listening as well.  The Word of God is now being audibly proclaimed in this little Monsanka village for the very first time!

A Trip to the Hospital

As the ladies arrived back home from our lumu outing, Wade was ready to head over to the hospital.  He, Lalas and Eric had been working construction under the brutal sun all morning, and after a drink of water they piled in the truck along with Tonya and me.  It was so hot I wondered what manner of grace enabled the two white men to labor so hard without being overcome by the sun.  At noon the thermometer was already close to 120 degrees, and after lunch and a short rest they would be back at it with their shovels and wheelbarrows. 

Entering Mansoa on lumu day was more chaotic and congested than even the usual bedlam in the streets of the busy town.  People everywhere with something to sell or looking for something to buy seemed almost oblivious to the motor vehicle pushing through the throng.  A man covered in sweat on top of a toka-toka was securing a squealing pig struggling to escape from the ropes, while her piglets were tied, each by a rear leg, to a tree in the shade below.  Vendors' displays had migrated so far into the road on each side that they had to be pulled back in order for the truck to have room to pass.  And somewhere beyond this cauldron of humanity was a hospital where the sick hoped to find healing after the ministrations of the local witchdoctor or their pleas to Allah had left them worse off than before. 

Every image I ever had of a hospital vanished from my mind the moment we pulled in and parked the truck in a patch of dirt outside a low sprawling complex of buildings that looked more like an ancient military barracks than a place where medical care might be dispensed to the sick and dying.  Chickens, pigs and goats wandered freely between the buildings, while women and children with baskets of food sat on the edges of the concrete walkways in front of open doors into small, dark rooms.  A woman with a huge plastic tub on the ground beside her threw a dozen identical large, dark green cloths over a clothesline, and a queue of people stood waiting to enter a room at one end of the first building.  It was so hot I was anxious to get out of the sun, and it occurred to me that the sick people in these buildings must be stifling in the heat of their tiny rooms without so much as an electric fan to cool them. 

After Wade got clearance from someone in authority to visit patients, he sent Lalas & Tonya in one direction, Paulu & Eric in another direction, and took me with him.  He explained that it wouldn't be a good idea to have such a big group of white visitors descending on people, and by breaking up we could cover more ground and pray for more patients. 

Wade and I walked past a lot of curious eyes on our way around to another barracks-style building, across the dirt yard and over to a particular destination he had in mind.  Passing by a series of closed doors, we came to an open door on an inside hallway where three concerned women sat on the edge of a bed with bundles of food, while an older woman sat on another bed next to a beautiful young woman who was obviously the patient.  My first thought upon seeing this lovely woman lying on the bed with her eyes closed was that she was waiting for her facial at our salon.  In the previous three days I had seen nearly twenty dark-skinned women lying just like this on a small bed with their eyes closed, enjoying the pampering we were lavishing on them.  But this was not the Jesus Spa, and this young lady was not waiting for a facial.  Her family members told Wade that she had been like this for two days, and they couldn't get her to wake up or eat or talk.  It was apparent from their explanation of her condition that they didn't understand that she was in a coma.  Wade asked their permission for us to pray for her, and we kneeled on the concrete beside her bed and laid our hands on her and prayed.  After a few minutes Wade spoke with the mother again, and then we prayed some more.  After repeating this a third time without seeing any change, Wade told the family he would come back and check on her later and pray for her again.

Then we made our way around to a different building looking for another open door with a patient who would welcome prayers for healing.  In spite of the conflict of religions, those who are sick with little hope of recovery generally welcome any compassionate offer to help them find relief.  Through this ministry Wade has had the opportunity to lead several Islamic or animist people to faith in Jesus Christ after they or a family member or friend had been instantly healed.  And for those who have been healed but didn't choose to put their trust in Christ at that time, they have the physical testimony in their bodies that will forever remind them of where their restored health came from, and perhaps they will eventually respond to the wooing of the Holy Spirit to draw them in.  Deafness being replaced by hearing, large tumors disappearing within minutes, pain leaving a body as prayers are going up to heaven, muscles and bones mending and being useful again - these are undeniable manifestations of a loving Father's compassion for the suffering, and it gets the attention of many who might otherwise have no interest in hearing the Gospel message. 

The next room we entered, just like the first, was about twelve feet square with five beds lined up around the walls.  The only other furnishings in the room were two small tables.  Each metal bed with thin mattress had long sticks wrapped around the four corner posts, which I eventually figured out must have been to hold up mosquito nets during the rainy season.  On one of these beds sat an older woman holding her left hand in her right hand, looking worried.  Wade had a conversation with her in Creole and learned that her left hand was swollen and nearly useless, while her right shoulder and upper chest were in so much pain so that she couldn't move her right shoulder or arm.  She gave us permission to pray for her in the name of Jesus, so Wade placed his hand on her swollen left hand while I placed my hand on her right shoulder as we kneeled on the concrete and prayed.  When Wade asked her to try moving the fingers on her bad hand, there was an obvious increase in movement from before the prayer.  When he told her to try moving her right shoulder and arm she actually stretched her right arm clear behind her back, stretching and bending over and over, demonstrating that she had full range of movement in that shoulder with no pain!  He prayed for her hand again, and again she demonstrated an increase in strength and movement in that hand.  After the third time she was able to gently grip Wade's hand, whereas she had had no grip at all when we first met her less than ten minutes before.  Wade then shared the message of Jesus with this animist lady and invited her to put her trust in Him.  She didn't do that at the time, but seeds were planted as her body received a touch of healing and her heart heard a message of love and hope. 

Later in the day Wade made a trip back to the hospital to check on the young woman in the coma.  He found her sitting up in her bed eating dinner!  Glory to God!

Since Wade and his companions began their weekly hospital visits a couple years ago, the Mansoa hospital has risen in national ratings to the position of #1 in the country for patients experiencing healing of their illnesses, and for having the least number of infections develop while in the hospital.  Needless to say, the staff are always happy to see them come.  Jesus is making a name for Himself in this place.

Once again, through my hospital visit this time, I was confronted with some harsh realities that provided perspective to my ingrained sense of entitlement toward expected availability of goods and services in my own country.  At least in U.S. hospitals I can expect there will be linens on the bed, air conditioning in the summer, a high level of sanitation, meals delivered three times a day, and actual American Board Certified medical doctors running tests, making diagnoses, and prescribing appropriate treatment.  The hospital in Mansoa was more like a warehouse for the sick, making do the best they could with crude conditions and one doctor for every 20,000 residents.  God help these poor people.

The Lumu

Thursday around noon is Wade's usual time for visiting the hospital in Mansoa to pray for the sick, and I wasn't about to miss out on this opportunity to participate.  But before the appointed hour for that outing we had some shopping to do at the lumu.  Once a week a flea market comes to town, bringing all sorts of goods that have been purchased sight unseen in a giant bale or bin for resale piece by piece.  These loads of goods may come from the U.S. or Brazil or other countries that sell bulk lots of used clothing, excess wares from department stores, or other items no longer sellable in more developed economies.  Local people seen sporting jeans or other obvious western fashions have most likely found them at the lumu, and they are a hot commodity among the teens and young adults in the area.  Kate often finds decent clothing for herself or her family, or household items that are not available in the local markets.  So off we went into town for Thursday morning at the lumu, minus one important item in my bag. 

The single biggest disappointment of my visit to Guinea Bissau was the blinking message on my camera that the battery had consumed its last drop of power.  As this was a new camera, I didn't have the experience to have learned that I should have purchased a second battery to carry with me on a trip.  The charger for my camera battery was back home in the States, but it wouldn't have mattered if it had been in my possession since there would have been no place to plug it in anyway.  And so my stomach dropped to my feet when I realized I would have no means of taking pictures for the remaining days of my visit.  No pictures of the lumu.  No pictures of the hospital.  No pictures of the last two days of our Jesus Spa.  Oh, Lord, Lord, Lord, this was a bitter pill to swallow!  But I couldn't afford to allow myself the luxury of wallowing in this disappointment, as it would have severely detracted from the focus of our mission.  As much as I loved capturing every little experience with my camera lens, the truth was that I had not made this trip to Africa for a rare photo shoot opportunity.  I had come here to bring the love of Jesus to women who were born into an environment where evil has been in power over families for countless generations, holding them captive to lies and eternal damnation while robbing them even in this life of the most basic levels of respect and dignity and value that we take for granted.  How could I indulge such an insignificant disappointment in this context?  And so I gave that frustration over to the Lord.  And I gave it over again the next time it started squeezing my belly with anxiety.  And again when tears threatened to spill from the regret of inadequate planning.  And again, and again, and again.  My camera battery had coughed up its last bit of juice on Wednesday morning, but 24 hours later I was still having to give my disappointment back over to the Lord every few hours.  It was an embarrassing reminder to me of how coddled my life has been that this would even be an emotional challenge, as if it could possibly compare with the difficulties these Guinean women deal with every day of their lives.  How many children of mine have died from malaria?  How many times have I walked miles with tubs of heavy, wet laundry on my head so that I could spread it over some bushes to dry?  How many trees have I chopped up so that I could make the fires needed to cook dinner for my husband?  How many acres of rice have I planted with a baby strapped to my back?  How many times have I had an illness that needed a drug that is readily available in our country, but for lack of $1 I was unable to purchase it and had to simply suffer and hope that my body would be able to fight off the bacteria on its own?  No, I had no legitimate case for indulging my disappointment over lack of a camera. 

And so we scanned the goods at the lumu, scouting for items that might be of use to Kate or her husband in their home or at the YFC center.  She picked up a couple t-shirts for the boys, and another small item or two after skillfully negotiating prices with the shrewd sellers.  A white person in that setting might as well be wearing a neon sign wrapped around her body flashing, "Rich person here!  Exploit me as you wish!"  But Kate's practiced bartering skills, combined with her fluency in the language, serve her well in that setting. 

Tonya found a skirt that she liked, and with Kate's help she bought it for about $1.  We were all pretty happy for Tonya to have stumbled onto something that looked like it had been designed with her in mind, and she looked forward to wearing it soon.  With the limited apparel we brought with us, it was helpful to her to acquire another skirt.  When we met Maria back at the truck after our allotted shopping time was up, she was surprised to see that particular skirt in Tonya's possession.  She explained to Kate, who translated the story to us, that she had seen that very skirt and wanted to buy it.  The seller told her he would sell it to her for 350 CFAs, equivalent to about $.75, but she only had a 1,000 bill.  He told her she would have to go find her own change and then come back to buy the skirt since he had no cash with which to make change.  When she returned with the right change a few minutes later, the seller told her he had just sold the skirt to a white lady.  Ha!  He was going to sell it to Maria for $.75, but he held out for $1 from the white missionary!  We all had a good laugh over that story and the coincidence that of all the thousands of items for sale at the lumu that day, Maria and Tonya had their eyes on the very same piece of merchandise.   

Tonya with Eric, wearing the skirt loved equally by an American woman and a West African woman.
(Photo taken with Tonya's camera.)

Kids, Kids & More Kids

Our target ministry was to women, but where there are women there will be kids, and Guinea Bissau is no exception!  Enjoy all the sweet faces.



Kids under our own roof

Abigail & her precious Beauty, the world's
ugliest chicken (but loved all the more
because of his ugliness)

Caleb, dog trainer, rooster catcher, and
missionary in training

Josiah, American by birth,
Guinean by life experience

Not too sure which ones are the kids here

Kids belonging to Lalas & Maria and Paulu & Fatinia in the twin house

Kids getting a ride in the truck

Kids playing together during salon sessions

Kids in the Mansoa market

Kids in the tiny Monsanka villages

Kids searching for breakfast