#1 A Whole New World

"Tiene una casa grande?" 

 

Even with my painfully limited knowledge of the Spanish language, there was no doubt in my mind what 11 year old Maria was asking me.  I hesitated for a moment or two, trying to decide if I wanted to tell her the truth or give my standard, "No comprendo."  Her lack of frustration over my ignorance of her language was a marvel to me, and her patient and persistent efforts to make herself understood was reason enough to keep trying.  This time she hit on a question I could answer if I was willing to be honest.  "Si."  There.  My secret was out.  I have a big house.  Not that I'm ashamed of having a big house, or that it has any value beyond providing a comfortable place for me and my family to rest, and eat, and shower, and store all our material wealth.  But sitting with Maria in her family's tiny living room, grateful for the simple hospitality of this child who knows nothing firsthand of the comforts that I have taken for granted every day of my life, I felt extremely self-conscious about my big house. 

But this story hasn't even gotten started and already I have digressed.

One year ago I wouldn't have dreamed that I'd be spending a week in the Dominican Republic in October 2012.  Six months ago I wouldn't have guessed that I'd be spending a week in the Dominican Republic in October 2012.  Three months ago I was arguing with God about spending a week in the DR in October 2012, with Him saying, "go," and me saying, "no".  One month ago I was so convinced I was about to be spending a week in the Dominican Republic that I told everyone I was going even though I still had not even one measly dollar toward the trip.  Two weeks before the departure date, however, the pieces started coming together, and within seven days the funds were in place and my ticket was purchased.  So like God.  He just refuses to stay in that box I keep putting Him in, insistent on doing things His way for His reasons without regard to my desire for predictability.  The only thing predictable about God is His faithfulness, and on that I can anchor my trust.

So on October 6, in less time than it takes to drive from Charlotte to Chattanooga, I was whisked out of my comfort zone into a world as different from mine as a tuna on rye is different from peanut butter and jelly on Wonder bread.  They have the "essence of sandwich" in common, but that's pretty much where it ends.  And, once again, I will never be the same.

 

 

 

 

A New Adventure on the Horizon

Just when I think I might have some inkling of what's next, God surprises me.  And that comes as no surprise!  While I've been contentedly responding to needs around me in my little corner of the world, God has continued to have His eye on every other corner simultaneously; and apparently, in His sovereign judgment, deemed it time for me to move out once again to make myself available to some needy people in the Dominican Republic.  Was I ready?  No, I was not.  Or at least, from my self-centered, short-sighted, time and space-restricted paradigm, it didn't feel like readiness.  But what do I know?  All I know is what I want, and that is about as subjective as it gets, and therefore not to be trusted too tenaciously.  What I wanted was to stay put for awhile.  To sleep in my own bed for a few months straight.  To not pack another suitcase just yet.  To not trudge through another airport with bags hanging off my arms and dragging behind me through long, tiring corridors, up and down escalators and in and out of heartless terminal transport systems while trying to make sense of signs in foreign languages.  To not say goodbye to my family again so soon and leave them holding down the fort without the main food cooker, toilet scrubber, errand runner, laundry washer and garden weeder/waterer available to keep things moving forward.  But how long can I resist a call and still expect to maintain an intimate relationship that means more to me than any of those other things?

My conversation with God two weeks ago went something like this:

God: I want you to go on that trip to the DR.
Me: You're kidding, right?
God: Not at all.
Me: I don't want to go.
God: I want you to go.
Me: I don't want to go. I've been away so much this year already and I just want to stay home.
God: I want you to go.
Me: I don't want to go. I'm tired of travelling.
God: I want you to go.
Me: I don't want to go.  Please don't make me go.
God: I won't make you go, but I want you to go because you know I want you to go.
Me: Well . . . well . . . well . . . how is this trip going to get paid for?  You know I have no money lying around, and it's too soon to send out letters asking for support when I just got back from Africa only six months ago.
God: That's my problem, not yours.
Me: I don't want to go.
God: (Silence)

So even while I whined and grumbled in my spirit, wanting to have full control over my calendar and my commitments, I knew I would be going to the Dominican Republic in October.  I knew this because I can't say no to God even when I'm not crazy about what He's telling me.  The price of losing even a scrap of intimacy with Him is simply not worth it, so the outcome was already settled even when my words were expressing the resistance in my heart.  I'm going to the DR. 

It's almost a joke on me in a way.  Last year I had the idea for Dresses of Hope, to collect and send dresses to girls in the village where our Mosaic team would be going to do a construction project to help some missionaries.  The response to my request for dresses was far beyond what I was expecting, and I prepared and sent 150 beautiful donated dresses, each pinned with a pretty little handmade card with a message of Jesus' love to the recipient.  The dresses were well received, and the missionaries agreed that they would be happy to have a Dresses of Hope donation again this year. 

So this summer I've been working on that project with my eyes focused on the deadline for having all the dresses ready in time for the Mosaic team to take them in October. Numerous times people have asked me, "Are you going on that trip?" Always my answer had been the same. "No, I'm just preparing and sending the dresses." And I was content with that and truly believed that was my entire contribution to this mission trip. That is, until two weeks ago when I heard the still small voice and couldn't deny the call.

Now I'm over my initial resistance to the idea, and have even gone a step beyond resignation.  My thoughts now are beginning to lean toward expectancy and anticipation.  God is going to do something of eternal value and He chose me to be a part of it! 

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!