Shoulders and Faces and Feet, Oh My!

At 4 p.m. we were ready for them, but Kate had warned that we might not see anyone right away since Africans have a different relationship with time than clock-enslaved Americans. She assured us that they would come, and guessed that all five of today's salon clients would probably come together in a group rather than one by one. To fill the time while waiting, and to get a little practice, Tonya decided to give Kate the full foot treatment. Having lived in Africa for three years, her feet definitely could benefit from some attention! Heather was drafted to provide a lovely shoulder massage, so Kate took her place in the chair of honor and the hands of healing began their therapeutic work while Maria and Fatinia looked on. I had informed Katie weeks before that I was willing and able to do any part of this work except for the shoulder massaging, as my hands are apparently massage impaired. If anyone were looking to me to find relief from sore, achy back and shoulder muscles she would surely leave sorely disappointed. Or maybe just sore. My hands are simply weak and pathetically uncoordinated for this type of work. So for that first hour I rearranged the supplies on the table five or six times, looked out the window ten or twelve times, shooed chickens back out the door fifteen or twenty times, and clicked way too many photos of Katie in the chair getting her feet scrubbed, scraped and painted.

And then they came. Four African women, some in their brightly colored dresses and head wraps, some in western-style clothes, stepped into the first ever Jesus Spa in Guinea Bissau, or maybe in all of West Africa. This first group was easily engaged in conversation, as they were all Christians and already had an established relationship of trust with Katie. She had decided that it was appropriate to bless the tired, overworked sisters in the Lord first, as they labor just as hard as the animists and have precious little encouragement in their lives. About 90% of women in West Africa are illiterate, so they don't even have the benefit of being able to read a Bible or a book or an edifying magazine article to feed their starving souls. They have Jesus, they have their Christian brothers and sisters, and they have toil from morning to night every day of their lives. But the faces of those four women told a story of joy and hope in the midst of hardship. They carried their burdens with peace, and they found it easy to receive a blessing when it was available for the taking. 

It was pure joy pampering this group of happy, excited, chattering women! My first guinea pig . . . umm, I mean client . . . was Rosa, our cook. While one woman sat with her feet in a bucket of mineral soak solution and her shirt wrapped around her chest, fully baring her shoulders for the best possible upper body massage, and two other women sat in chairs watching this spectacle, Rosa  had been chosen to be the first to stretch out on the cot with her head on a towel beneath my waiting hands. She wouldn't stop smiling. It was obvious she had no idea I'd never done this before, or she might have been grimacing instead of grinning, but I wasn't going to tell and she wasn't going to find out. I'd done my homework and I was there with my cleanser, facial mask, exfoliator pads, washcloths, and a basin of water that had been heated on the stove. Rosa was in for a treat, and a well deserved one, as she had cooked us a fine lunch after plucking, and gutting, and cutting up, and cooking that obnoxious rooster!

 While under the care of Tonya at the feet and Katie at the shoulders, the honored woman in the chair was the recipient of much prayer. Tonya prayed over each one while scrubbing and clipping and massaging, while Kate prayed over each one while rubbing oil deeply into muscular arms and backs. A woman who spends her days hauling water, chopping wood, scrubbing clothes on a washboard, and threshing rice or making salt is a woman who is a specimen of physical fitness. And in her spare time she bathes her children, walks into town for the daily trip to the market, prepares the meals from scratch over a little stove in the front yard, braids her neighbor's hair, and nurses her baby. No wonder their muscles are like truck tires!

As for my part in the process, it was a marvel to see such magnificent skin on nearly every woman. Where were the blemishes? Where were the ashy patches? Where were the uneven skin tones? With few exceptions, these women have gorgeous skin! They may have been cheated of a lot of advantages in their lives, but their dark glossy skin, with a natural SPF of 200 (!!!) is a blessing that few American women know. I delivered the best facial I could offer up, and during the few minutes when the mask was drying I leaned down to Rosa's ear with her head in my hands and prayed for her. She might not have been able to understand my words, but she knew that I was speaking to the Heavenly Father on her behalf.

With each woman who received our ministerings that day, a bond was formed that joined our hearts beyond the barrier of language. They left with far more than a brightly colored bag of gifts. They left knowing that they were loved by some pale faced American sisters, but more importantly, they left with memories of a tangible reminder of how valuable they are in God's eyes. Daughters of the King.

Meet Sara

The three villages we visited on Monday were all very similar. Dirt dominated the landscape, trash lay strewn everywhere, pigs stretched out in ruts where presumably there was a scrap of shade, and demon huts dotted the community of precious lives struggling to survive. 

In the third village, which we reached after following a footpath for about 1/4 mile through heavy grasses, scrub bushes, and humongous baobab trees, we found Sara at home. She invited us into her house. The room we entered after stepping over a ten-inch high threshold had a dirt floor and walls and nothing else. Oh, nothing else except for a small boy on the floor. This little boy is five years old, but he was born deaf, blind, mute and totally crippled. His mother has carried him on her back his entire life. She had a second baby, but she had to give him away because she couldn't care for him with all the needs of her firstborn. Kate had told me that Sara was expecting a baby soon, and it was a happy surprise when Sara told us that she gave birth to a healthy baby boy one week ago. She took us through a doorway into her bedroom where the baby lay sleeping on a beautiful bed with colorful coverings topped off with a mosquito net that looked like lace. The contrast was startling, but I later learned that it is not uncommon for a married woman to have a beautiful bed even if there is nothing else in the house.

About two weeks before we visited, Wade had paid them a visit and had talked to Sara about Jesus a little and told her that he would like to pray over her son to be healed. She agreed, even though she doesn't really know who Jesus is, but she does know that she would love to have her son not be disabled and totally dependent on her all his life. So Wade prayed. The day we arrived, the little boy who had never sat up on his own was sitting on the floor! Wade picked him up and held him while we ladies were holding the baby in the bedroom, then when he put the boy down on the floor he pushed himself up to a standing position!!! He was not yet able to take a step, but he was balancing and wobbling just like a one-year-old who is on the verge of taking that first step.

 On the day that Sara came to receive her salon treatment, she was unable to come during the designated time so she just showed up around noon since that's when she was able to find someone to care for her oldest child. She and her husband had walked under the midday sun for 3 or 4 miles with her newborn baby, so of course we scrambled into action to give her the best experience possible. In fact, because she was the only one at that time, she received nearly a full hour of pampering while we took turns holding the baby in the other house where she would not hear him if he cried and could just enjoy the special attention being lavished on her. But I have never seen a sadder face on a woman in all my life. Her sadness is so deep it was hard to look her in the face.

After her pampering was completed, Lalas sat down with Sara and her husband and explained the gospel to them. They said they would think about it. My prayers will continue to go up to Heaven on behalf of Sara and her husband and her two sons. I want to hear a report one day that her five-year-old is walking, that her infant son has been dedicated to the Lord instead of to a demon whose amulets now hang on his wrists, and that she has a radiant smile on her face from the joy of knowing Jesus and being set free from the chains of demonic oppression. Maybe you would consider joining me in that prayer.

A Walk Into Another World

In the space of time between setting up the spa and feasting on Silver, it was decided to make a visit to a couple of the tiny Monsanka villages to offer a follow-up invitation to a few particular women that Kate had chosen to bless at our spa. Each of these women has hardships in her life that are nearly beyond our comprehension, and Katie wanted to make sure they knew how genuine was our desire for them to come, and also that there was no confusion about the day or time. Wade decided it would be best for him to go with us, and by taking the truck as far as we could drive it cut down considerably on the walking, which matters when the African sun is beating down on one's head at noon. 
 

Pulling off the road and parking the truck in a patch of weedy dirt (which pretty much describes every place we went), we stepped out and headed quickly down a footpath toward a cluster of magnificent grass roofs atop small mud houses in a clearing of - what else? - dirt. Immediately the population of the tiny community had its eyes riveted on the white people walking into their midst. Naked children came running, adolescent boys who were dressed like kids in my neighborhood stopped whatever they were doing to check us out, and women scrubbing laundry on a scrub board in a tub stopped to take in the strange sight. Might this be the first time four white people have ever entered this village? Wade had been there before, and Kate had met certain individuals and some of the children because they showed up on their property to play, or seek food or help of some kind, but a group of white people trekking into this primitive setting may have been a first. It was hard to take it all in, as the starkness of the poverty was an assault to the eyes. Goats, chickens and pigs wandered freely, scavenging for food, dropping poop anywhere and everywhere, while the crude pen made of sticks poking up at odd angles stood empty. What animal could possibly be contained in such an enclosure? And why were there so many dog houses for those skeleton dogs that looked like they were barely hanging onto life? An old man crouched in the shade under the overhang of a thatched roof, clothed in a pair of shabby pants and tattered shirt, and an old woman stepped out of a doorway and headed straight for us.

Kate wasted no time approaching the first woman she came to, who happened to be blind and who happened to be struggling with a large tub of dirty laundry that she was trying to maneuver into the wash water. Watching Kate and Wade interact with the local people was one of the blessings of this whole trip. Their love and compassion is so genuine, and the responses of the people give evidence that they feel respected and cared for regardless of their station in life or spiritual condition.

 While Kate and Wade were talking with one of the women, and I was hanging back taking pictures, Tonya was already gathering a crowd of precious dirty children and teaching them a little sing-song hand clapping game that was her signature activity of the week. Tonya's attraction to children was another highlight of the week for all of us, as she never missed an opportunity to make a child smile by teaching her some small game or giving her a small toy and showing her how to use it.

The woman Kate had come here to speak with was not in the village at this time, but her six little children were among those that Tonya entertained for a few minutes. This particular woman, Iness, had recently been widowed when her husband was killed in a disagreement over a piece of meat.

The old woman who had been heading our way now had Wade's full attention. As they talked, Wade told us that she had a lot of pain in her hands and feet, especially at night, and she wanted him to pray for her. The people in the area all know who he is, and they know that many people have been healed of all kinds of sicknesses, and this woman was hoping he could bring her some relief from pain. She had been suffering for over five years and had never been able to get medical help because her sons were alcoholics and spent all the family money on drink. We all prayed for her, but nothing changed at the moment. She said she would know at night whether or not she was better, as that was when the pain was the worst.

On our way back to the truck I asked Wade about the cute little thatched roof dog houses. Imagine my surprise when he informed me that those little structures were actually demon huts. All of a sudden they didn't look so cute any more. These people, enslaved to the demands of their demons, make sure the demons are fed even if their children have to starve, which explains a lot.

May God open the eyes of more and more to the lies that have kept them chained to darkness and hopelessness, that they may turn their backs on the evil one and allow Jesus to set them free.

It Doesn't Get Any Fresher Than This

Conversation in the household Monday morning:

Kate: Kids, do you have 2 chickens you want to kill today? We're cooking Silver tonight but we need another one.

Caleb: Chip!

Kate: Which one is Chip?

Abigail: The skinny white one.

Kate: Why did you pick him? Does he kooka-looka-loo in the morning?

Caleb: He poops in the schoolroom!

Well, there you have it! Not exactly the same as running out to Harris Teeter for a chicken to throw in the crockpot before heading out for the day, but the result is the same. Or better. Silver was the proudest rooster that ever lived, judging by his constant crowing from before dawn til the sun was well over the horizon. But he blessed the world with his last kooka-looka-loo on that Monday morning, and then the family blessed themselves by putting him in the pot for lunch and thereby reaping a few more minutes of precious sleep the following morning.

Rosa had been hired to cook the main meal for the family Monday through Friday of this week so that Kate would be free to immerse herself in the first ever outreach specifically for women in the 3 years of their ministry in this country. They had received many teams of short-term workers during that time but they had all been men, so it was a particular delight to Kate to have some American women there to serve with her on a special project to bless the hardest working women on the earth, according to the United Nations last year. Yes, Guinea Bissau was rated the worst country in the world to be a mother! So Monday morning, after Wade chopped off Silver's head, Rosa got to work making lunch. When I passed by the kitchen an hour later she was standing at the sink cutting apart the bird with a large bowl of feathers on the counter next to her. I suppose that's a common enough sight in some parts of the world, or maybe even in some parts of our own country, but my eyes had never seen such a spectacle and so I had to run for my camera to document this experience for the sake of my own memory.

While Rosa was cooking lunch and cleaning the house, our little team of ladies was busy setting up the salon to be ready for opening day just a few hours later. Kate had told everyone we would be providing our pampering services from 4-7 p.m., and had been specific about which day each person was to come, in an effort to spread out the traffic and keep us from being overwhelmed on any given day. We arranged all the tools and supplies on a long, cloth covered table, carried over a mirror borrowed from my bedroom wall, and taped colorful photos cut from my old Birds & Blooms magazines to the walls along with the gorgeous wreath we had made the day before. Tonya had brought a supply of scented candles to add to the ambience, as well as an ipod and ihome speaker that provided us with hours of peaceful, uplifting music, and before long everything was in place and we were ready to go. We prayed over our Jesus Spa, asking the Lord to make it a place of healing and comfort for every woman who walked through the door. We asked that our hands would be the hands of Jesus on their bodies, that our voices would be the voice of Jesus in their ears, and that we would be given the grace to love them with the unconditional love of Jesus. We knew that every woman who walked through that door would be coming with pains, fears, burdens, guilt, and unmet physical and emotional needs that only God Himself could satisfy. Our desire was that the service we were offering would minister deeply to these needs by pointing them to the Savior who knows them and loves them and wants to wrap His arms around them and let them know that they can be His beloved daughters if they choose to follow Him and turn away from the demons who have no plan for their lives except to steal, kill and destroy. We had done all we could do to prepare, and now it was time to just watch what God would do, and be ready for whatever opportunities He provided.

The aromas of lunch cooking were as tempting as any I have ever known. The meals we had eaten up to that time had been American both in menu and in manner, and I was more than ready to experience some authentic African cooking served in authentic African style - the family bowl. Rosa served up two very large bowls of rice with chicken and vegetables over the top, and tucked just the right number of spoons into the edges of the bowls and set them on a mat on the floor of the back porch. Lunch was served. With Asher the dog politely taking his place off the edge of the mat, Mittens the cat staying put on a chair nearby, and the stray chicken or two shooed off the porch for the moment, the nine of us gathered around those two bowls on the floor and offered thanks to the Lord for His bounteous provision. Never has a spoonful of food been more flavorful and satisfying than what we enjoyed that day, unless perhaps it was the other African meals we took pleasure in each of the next several days in like manner.

And then, with bellies full and the temperature hovering around 100 degrees, it was time for the mid-day rest. In two short hours we would be welcoming our first group of salon clients.

Suitcase Full of Supplies

I dare say my luggage was on the unusual side for a visitor to the 5th poorest country in the world. There was a little space reserved for clothing, protein bars, sunscreen, and a second pair of flip flops, but those 2 large bags were mostly filled with supplies for our Jesus Spa. Checking my bags onto the United Air flight from Charlotte to Washington, D.C. and then onto South African Airways from D.C. to Dakar, Senegal was not a problem. But when I checked my bags onto Senegal Airlines for the last leg of the journey I was informed that my luggage weight was way over the limit. There's no way for me to know if I had really violated the airline's weight limit that severely or whether this was merely an opportunity for some corrupt official to take advantage of a rich American, but I gladly paid the $60 charge to get my bags safely to their destination where God had plans for all that nail polish and foot cream.

Tonya, Kate and I broke out the goods on the living room floor on Sunday afternoon, sorting, organizing, and planning. Our excitement grew as together we imagined the reactions of the women who were to be the recipients of our blessing. Kate had been inviting women for the past week, as she encountered them in the market, in the rice fields, or along the road. There is no equivalent word for spa in their language since the concept doesn't exist, so she told women that we would be bringing a salon to them. They know about hair salons, though there are none except in the capital city of Bissau, but at least they had a point of reference for beginning to understand what this was about. As she extended personal invitations she told them that some women were coming from America to bring them a gift of love from Jesus. Everyone was intrigued and said they would come, which Kate confessed had surprised her. So now here we were, ready to set up shop.

Because of the need for lots of water, and especially warm water, Kate had decided that we would not be able to take our spa on the road as originally planned. Rather than walk into the villages with our supplies, we would prepare a room on the property where we would have access to a well, a stove, and a large space with chairs, a cot, and a table where supplies could be left set up all week. The women would come to us. Everyone in Mansoa and in the many tiny villages in the vicinity know about this place. It is commonly called Weedy's (Wade's), or casa de bronco (house of the white man) in Creole. It is doubtful that there has ever been such an event in this part of the world, so even though none of us has any experience with giving massages, pedicures or facials, it really didn't matter because they would have nothing to compare it to. My internet research at home had turned up enough information to guide us through the list of supplies to purchase and the steps to perform, and the clients need never know that we were learning on them, not that they would have cared.

In addition to preparing colorful gift bags and clarifying how each item was to be used and who was going to perform which services, we needed to transform the salon room from blah to beautiful. Along with nail clippers, pumice stones, facial mask, and lots of washcloths and towels, I had also purchased a beautiful assortment of silk flowers for making a wreath to adorn the wall.  African women do not decorate their homes. How could interior decorating possibly find a place in the life of a person whose entire existence is consumed with survival? We wanted our salon to be a place where they would feel pampered and enveloped in an atmosphere of beauty and extravagant love for a few short hours in their hard lives. So Kate and I took a walk on the property with a machete and cut bunches of elephant grass to form the base of the wreath by wrapping it with thin wire, then tucked the flowers into the tightly bound grass ring until a gorgeous wreath was ready to hang. (My machete skills will need a little sharpening if I'm ever to go into business making these wreaths!)

Hoping to find some wildflowers to use as part of our decor, we took a walk through the bulagna (rhymes with lasagna, and means rice fields) behind their 15+ acres of fenced property. This vast grid of beds where the staple of the West African diet is grown is like nothing I've ever seen. What appears to be a huge level field is actually more like a waffle stamped into sprawling acres of earth. The raised ridges are hard packed narrow paths barely wide enough for a single person on foot to make their way across, with each recessed rectangular planting bed measuring perhaps anywhere from 20 feet to 30 feet in length and/or width. During the growing season these beds collect and hold the water that falls in abundance from the skies, providing a harvest of rice for the women to cut and process for their families' food supply, or perhaps to sell. As we made our way across the bulagna, I just marveled at God's creation. Enormous flocks of weaver birds dropped down into the beds to feast off the grains of rice that had fallen into the dirt among the stubble remaining from a recent harvest, so many of them that when they rose back up into the air they could be heard like a blowing wind from at least 500 feet away. An occasional larger bird of bright blue with long, long tail feathers could be seen coming to rest in a tree along the outer edge of the bulagna, and the sun was setting in front of us like a gigantic glowing ball suspended in the sky just above the horizon.

It almost took my breath away.

Church, African Style

It was Sunday, my first full day in Africa. What a perfect way to begin a week that promised to be unlike any other week of my life, by going to church! With 17 people piled into the pickup, we bounced along the mile-long dirt "road" with tall grasses and scrubby growth an arm's length from either side of the truck, a cloud of dust in our wake. If there is one word that best captures the image of West Africa in my mind it is dirt. There's no getting away from it, as it fills the air and settles on everything during the dry season. I don't even want to think of what it must be like during the rainy season, and how people deal with the mud. So we were bouncing along happily with a truckload of contented Christians on their way to worship the Lord with the other believers in the vicinity of Mansoa. It's not like Charlotte where there's a church (or two or three) on every block, a veritable smorgasbord to choose from. If we don't like the pastor or the music or the carpeting or the parking lot at one, we have the option of moving on to the next. To our shame, this has become church in America for many. But in West Africa, if you are a Christian you are blessed if there is a place within walking distance to gather with other believers once a week. When I realized that our truckload of worshippers were the only ones arriving at church in a motorized vehicle, it was almost embarrassing. The only others that didn't arrive on their own two feet were the babies tied to their mothers' backs. 

The dim interior of the mud brick building was cheerfully decorated with strings of little triangular flags run from corner to corner just below the raw saplings serving as beams holding up the corrugated aluminum roof. Colorful curtains threaded on strings flapped gently in the welcome breeze in and out of the four windows. Worshipers in their Sunday best streamed into the small space, greeting one another and finding spots to sit on one of the low benches as the singing began. I was grateful Kate had chosen to seat us against the back wall where there was something to lean against, and also where I would have a good vantage point for observing.

We had the privilege of being in Guinea Bissau for two Sundays, and also experiencing two slightly different versions of worship at the church. The first week there were some visiting musicians who led worship with their electric guitars and amplifiers, though I haven't a clue where the power came from to run these electricity gobblers that felt very much out of place in that setting. Maybe there was a generator somewhere nearby that they could tap into. But my preference was definitely for the more authentic simplicity of two drums and a tambourine together with a roomful of clapping hands accompanying the voices lifted in praise to our God on the following Sunday morning. In spite of not knowing any of the words being sung, the spirit of praise permeated my soul and I felt transported to the very throne of God. The energy of the 75-80 worshippers in that dim little room with their feet in motion and their hands in the air as their voices lifted to heaven with the rhythms of Africa gave me chills. I could see Jesus standing before this little crowd, receiving their praise with a big smile on His face and saying, "I like this."

At the end of the service the first week, after the message had been given, about 30 people flocked to the front for prayer. All the Americans, including myself, walked forward and prayed over them one by one. A language barrier is no hindrance to prayer, and I felt my soul bond with theirs during this time of seeking God together.

The call for prayer at the end of the service on my second Sunday was completely different. One older woman and one young man came forward. Wade and Lalas were motioned to come up, and it was turned over to them to lead the congregation in prayer for healing. Wade gave a clear explanation of what Jesus said to his disciples about healing and casting out demons when they were sent out into the world to minister, and then he exhorted us to do the same. Immediately the room was filled with the voices of believers calling on the name of Jesus to take authority over whatever sickness or demons were troubling the two who were standing at the front expectantly. Wade and Lalas had questioned the two before the praying began, to get a clear understanding of their needs, although they didn't tell the congregation any of the specifics. Once it was all over and the worshippers dismissed, we headed back to the truck and Wade explained to us Americans what had happened. The woman who went up for prayer said that she had been sick and in a lot of pain for two months. Afterward she told them that while we were all praying for her she felt the sickness leave her body and she was completely pain free! The young man, who was visiting the church for the first time with a friend, reported before the prayer time that he had been tormented by demons for about ten years and wanted to be free. Afterward he reported that during the prayer he felt his mind come back together for the first time in many years, and he gave his life to Jesus then and there!

When all the glitz and polish and smoke and props of 21st century western church are stripped away, it's much easier to actually see the simple truth of why Jesus came to this earth. And the simple power of God touching a life is far more convincing than any program or fancy packaging could ever hope to be.

Never Started a Day Like This Before

In spite of good intentions and best efforts, we all know that more often than not a detail or two is likely to get overlooked. It was somewhere in the wee hours of the night, at the time of the month when the moon has gone into temporary hiding, that my bladder awakened me. There was absolutely nothing with which to visually orient myself. Eyes open, eyes closed, it made no difference. I must have gone blind! But then I remembered that the electric lights which had illuminated the house during the late evening (one bulb per room), were powered by a generator, and I deducted correctly that the generator had been switched off for the night. Kate, in all her giftedness as a hostess, had forgotten to inform me of this little fact and provide me with a handheld dim solar lamp for night trips to the bathroom. There was no ignoring this urge. I was just going to have to find my way to the bathroom by Braille. By lining my body up along the edge of the bed and pointing myself toward where I remembered the door to be, I held my arms straight out in front of me and stepped very slowly through the pitch blackness until my fingers found the far wall. Once the door was open and I had stepped into the hallway, I stopped to recreate a mental map of the house and instruct myself where the bathroom was, or at least where I was pretty sure it had been the one time I had used it before going to bed. Running my hands along the wall and taking slow steps, I came to the open doorway and stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind me, hoping I really was in the bathroom and not in someone's bedroom, then kept my right hand lightly against the wall as I moved slowly toward the other end of the long open room with my left arm out in front of me, just in case. (Hey! Don't judge me for my just in case posture unless you have walked in my bare feet on a cold floor searching for a bathroom in the middle of an African night!) I knew that if I weren't careful I'd smack either my toes or my shins against the bucket of water sitting next to the toilet, so I took it very slowly until my foot made contact with the bucket, then took care of business and reversed the trip back to my bed in like manner. 

Right around the time the first hint of daylight was almost ready to grace the morning sky, the roosters began singing their rooster songs. It was then that I learned that a rooster is a rooster is a rooster in any language. Loud. Insistent. Getupgetupgetupgetupgetup! 

But after the first three dozen cockadoodles I fell back to sleep and awoke at a more reasonable hour. 

Remembering the instructions about bathing that I had gotten the evening before, I figured there was no better time to learn to draw water from a well than now, so I headed quietly out the front door with bucket in hand and found Heather already there with her bucket. Heather is a young lady from Charlotte who is living with the McHargue family this year to homeschool their children, so she has already had five months of experience with these primitive routines of daily life. Following her example, I took my turn with the rope and pulley. The buckets hold about 3 gallons of water, but the pail in the well holds about 1-1/2 gallons, which means the pail must be dropped into the depths and hauled up twice for each bucketful. I must admit that I was pretty proud of myself.

The next step, after carrying the bucket of water into the house and placing it next to the shower pan, was to scoop out a pitcher of water, pour it into a kettle on the stove in the kitchen, and heat it up. Finally the bucket was warmed enough to pour over my head without making me scream, and for the first time in my life I realized the value of a drop of water. I didn't want to waste one ounce. In the end, including shampooing and conditioning my hair, I used a total of 3 quarts of water. How many times have I allowed the shower at home to run for five minutes before stepping into it? Just like good health is never fully appreciated until we've been through a period of sickness, I now had a vastly improved appreciation not only for the gift of water, but for the blessing of warm water flowing out of a spigot! There wasn't a doubt in my mind that every task involving water that I had ever performed could be done with less. Much less. This week I was going to find out.