Wow! Well, let’s just say that I picked a good time of year to come in the way of holidays—not so much in the 40+ Celsius heat, but that’s another story.
Yesterday, 6 March 2009, was the Ghana’s 52nd Independence Day, and we all got to be part of the festivities here in Damongo. It’s actually kind of funny, because although I have crossed a continent and traversed almost 60 lateral degrees, the major festivities are quite similar to those of Syttende Mai in Norway (sorry, probably not spelled correctly). In both countries and celebrations the school children play one of the most significant roles. And Thursday was spent getting ready at the Redemption Children’s Home.
There was an air of excitement when we arrived at RCH on Thursday. School uniforms were being washed, new shoes were to be handed out, one of the older boys even heated up an old cast-iron iron in order to press his shirt to perfection. And all through the afternoon children kept disappearing, only to reappear with clean-shaven heads. Even the littlest children knew there was something afoot, and they weren’t about to be left out.
Friday morning dawned with a flurry of activity. We Sister- and Brother-Volunteers dressed in our best and ate a hurried breakfast. By the time we were done Pastor Abraham’s car had arrived with 18 of the children too young to march, most of them dressed in their pink and white gingham school uniforms of the New Life Preparatory Preschool. They were about the cutest thing you have ever seen.
Then it was off to the ‘park’, an open red-dirt field near the center of town where football matches are played. Normally it’s fairly empty, but by the time we got there around 9am it was packed! Along two sides were a crush of Ghanaians, full of excited energy; along the other two sides were rows upon rows upon rows of pristinely-uniformed school children in a blinding array of colors. We found ourselves a spot to crouch, the littlest children up front, and after a brief word from the resident dignitary, the band started to play and the children began to march. First the girls, then the boys, school after school after school. And they marched with such precision; they had been practicing all week! Round the circle to salute the dignitary, then back to their starting places to be released to the crowd. There must have been at least twenty different schools. And all of the public-school children wore their heads clean-shaven, the mystery was solved! But the heat…
Three hours in 40+ Celsius heat is more than most adults can take, let alone children as young as 2 years of age. Long before the children’s older brothers and sisters marched, most of the younger ones had fallen asleep, curled up in the dirt. And yet they were scarcely dirtier than we, and showed it much less. It was windy and dusty, the crowd pushed close, and when I can post pictures later, I will post some of the pictures of my legs simply caked in dirt. But it was amazing simply to be a part of that crowd and that celebration. Everyone was as excited as excited could be, and so proud to catch merely a glimpse of their children—their future—marching.
Peace to you all,
Shoeless
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Friday, March 6, 2009
"Sistah, you look like my Barbie!"
I spent my first day at the Redemption Children’s Home (RCH) yesterday—one of the groups of people and projects that my congregation, the American Lutheran Congregation in Oslo, Norway (ALC) walks in companion relationship with, and a Level II Giving Opportunity through the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America’s Global Mission office. I have been looking forward to meeting the children of RCH since I had the blessing of meeting Pastor Abraham—their ‘Daddy’—last fall when he visited ALC to share with us and teach us. I’ll write more about the specifics of RCH later, but for now, just one quick story…
As I said before, I spent my first day with the children at Redemption Children’s Home yesterday. A hot, hot, hot day, beads of sweat ran down my face even while standing still in the shade, and yet the children ran and played, colored pictures and played football, ran to their ‘sisters and brothers’, my fellow volunteers Sisters Marije and Fiona and Sir Mike, and welcomed their new ‘Sister Elly’ with open arms. They truly are amazing children!
And although I spent most of that hot, hot, hot day smiling and laughing, one moment will stand out for a long time. It was mid-afternoon and one of the girls was playing with her hand-me-down Barbie doll. I wasn’t paying that much attention, until she suddenly stood before me and proclaimed, ‘Sistah, you look like my Barbie!’
I don’t think I’ve ever been compared to Barbie in my life. But, there she was, in front of me, tugging on Barbie’s hair with one hand and pulling me down onto her level with the other. She put Barbie’s hair next to mine and said, ‘See Sistah? Same!’ She put Barbie’s and my hands together and said, ‘See Sistah? Same!’ The same with Barbie’s legs, Barbie’s back, Barbie’s face… Then she pulled me even closer, her face within inches of mine, her eyes staring into mine, searching them, her face lit up and she laughed, pointing to Barbie’s eyes—‘See Sistah? Same!’
I’m still not quite sure how I feel about being a Barbie, and I’m still struggling with the fact that the only doll they have to play with is a white plastic Barbie doll… Maybe, instead of comparing myself to Barbie, I should have shown her how we, too, are the same. I’m not sure she would have believed me. I’m not sure, seeing the stark disparity between the two of us, I would have believed me either. I love the idea of ‘accompaniment’, but the actual walking alongside, that I still struggle to figure out for myself.
But, you know what? She really got a kick out of ‘Big Barbie’ and ‘Little Barbie.’ She was so proud of her discovery that she insisted that I take a picture of Barbie and her. I really tried to upload it here, but the computer just wouldn't let me. I'll post it later.
More stories later too, I promise!
The Shoeless Seminarian in Ghana
As I said before, I spent my first day with the children at Redemption Children’s Home yesterday. A hot, hot, hot day, beads of sweat ran down my face even while standing still in the shade, and yet the children ran and played, colored pictures and played football, ran to their ‘sisters and brothers’, my fellow volunteers Sisters Marije and Fiona and Sir Mike, and welcomed their new ‘Sister Elly’ with open arms. They truly are amazing children!
And although I spent most of that hot, hot, hot day smiling and laughing, one moment will stand out for a long time. It was mid-afternoon and one of the girls was playing with her hand-me-down Barbie doll. I wasn’t paying that much attention, until she suddenly stood before me and proclaimed, ‘Sistah, you look like my Barbie!’
I don’t think I’ve ever been compared to Barbie in my life. But, there she was, in front of me, tugging on Barbie’s hair with one hand and pulling me down onto her level with the other. She put Barbie’s hair next to mine and said, ‘See Sistah? Same!’ She put Barbie’s and my hands together and said, ‘See Sistah? Same!’ The same with Barbie’s legs, Barbie’s back, Barbie’s face… Then she pulled me even closer, her face within inches of mine, her eyes staring into mine, searching them, her face lit up and she laughed, pointing to Barbie’s eyes—‘See Sistah? Same!’
I’m still not quite sure how I feel about being a Barbie, and I’m still struggling with the fact that the only doll they have to play with is a white plastic Barbie doll… Maybe, instead of comparing myself to Barbie, I should have shown her how we, too, are the same. I’m not sure she would have believed me. I’m not sure, seeing the stark disparity between the two of us, I would have believed me either. I love the idea of ‘accompaniment’, but the actual walking alongside, that I still struggle to figure out for myself.
But, you know what? She really got a kick out of ‘Big Barbie’ and ‘Little Barbie.’ She was so proud of her discovery that she insisted that I take a picture of Barbie and her. I really tried to upload it here, but the computer just wouldn't let me. I'll post it later.
More stories later too, I promise!
The Shoeless Seminarian in Ghana
Happy 66th Anniversary Granddad and Grandmother!!!
Today is the 66th Wedding Anniversary of my Granddad and Grandmother McHan! The fact that they have been married for more than two and a half times my life so far is still mind-boggling to me. The fact that they are still completely in love with one another is even more so!
They have taught me so much over the years and always been my biggest supporters; I don’t know what I would have done without them. Their stories make up so much of my story, their love mine, their faith mine. When they had their first child they sat down and talked about what the most important things were they wanted to pass on to their children—faith topped the list. And they have continued that through three generations.
They were ‘tickled pink’ when I told them I was going to seminary, and even more-so when I told them I was moving to Norway. Whenever I go off on one of my adventures my Grandaddy always says, ‘well, we’ll hold until you get back—Lord willin’ and the cricks don’t rise.’
One of the things I miss the most being away from my family is the story-telling that surrounds the family dinner table, for sitting down around the McHan Family Dinner Table, no matter the occasion, IS an occasion. Multiply a McHan and we only get louder; put a whole room together and the sound is deafening. There is so much love around that table and sent out from that table—we all know when we are gone that we will be named and held in prayer before the rest of the McHan’s gathered ‘back your ears and dive in!’ I can’t wait to sit around that dinner table again.
Grandaddy & Grandmother, Congratulations on 66 years of Marriage today! ‘Lord willin’ and the cricks don’t rise’ I’ll see you in six months. Until then, ‘I love you a bushel and a peck, and a hug around the neck.’
Love,
Granddaughter Elizabeth
aka—Granddad’s Little Heater
They have taught me so much over the years and always been my biggest supporters; I don’t know what I would have done without them. Their stories make up so much of my story, their love mine, their faith mine. When they had their first child they sat down and talked about what the most important things were they wanted to pass on to their children—faith topped the list. And they have continued that through three generations.
They were ‘tickled pink’ when I told them I was going to seminary, and even more-so when I told them I was moving to Norway. Whenever I go off on one of my adventures my Grandaddy always says, ‘well, we’ll hold until you get back—Lord willin’ and the cricks don’t rise.’
One of the things I miss the most being away from my family is the story-telling that surrounds the family dinner table, for sitting down around the McHan Family Dinner Table, no matter the occasion, IS an occasion. Multiply a McHan and we only get louder; put a whole room together and the sound is deafening. There is so much love around that table and sent out from that table—we all know when we are gone that we will be named and held in prayer before the rest of the McHan’s gathered ‘back your ears and dive in!’ I can’t wait to sit around that dinner table again.
Grandaddy & Grandmother, Congratulations on 66 years of Marriage today! ‘Lord willin’ and the cricks don’t rise’ I’ll see you in six months. Until then, ‘I love you a bushel and a peck, and a hug around the neck.’
Love,
Granddaughter Elizabeth
aka—Granddad’s Little Heater
Thursday, March 5, 2009
How To Spot a True Canadian
How To Spot a True Canadian
Okay, nothing really to do with Ghana, but so quintessentially ‘Canadian’ I can’t help but share it.
Somewhere in the midst of Hours 35-43 a group of 4 young women came into the canteen where I was nodding in and out of sleep. I didn’t pay much attention until I heard the word ‘timbits’ enter the conversation. Pastor Abraham noticed my sudden attention to their conversation—yes, eavesdropping, if you really want to put it that way—and asked me if it was strange to come all the way to Ghana, only to hear English being spoken. I answered that it was stranger to come all the way to Ghana only to be seated next to a group of Canadians! Bewildered, as he should have been, Pastor Abraham asked me how I knew they were Canadian.
My answer: ‘timbits!’
Perfectly clear to a Canadian, perfectly baffling to most non-Canadians: The ‘timbit’ is both the mascot and edible bit of sugary heaven that represents the ‘Tim Horton’s’ restaurant chain. It’s so ‘Canadian’ that there’s even a commercial that pretty much re-enacts my afternoon: a young Canadian man goes off to see the world with a Tim Horton’s take-away mug clipped to his backpack. Everywhere he goes he is greeted by Canadians who spot the Tim Horton’s mug and they share great adventures. As he steps off the plane at the end of his adventures he is met by his loving parents who are holding a cup of Tim Horton’s coffee.
And it may sound ridiculous, but it’s true.
So… how did I respond to the ‘timbits’ reference? As we were leaving the canteen I stopped by the table and said, “Sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear, and with a ‘timbits’ reference, I have to ask, ‘where in Canada are you from?’” “You have to follow up a ‘timbits’ reference when you hear one! We’re from British Columbia,” came their answer.
You gotta love it!
Go ‘timbits’!
Okay, nothing really to do with Ghana, but so quintessentially ‘Canadian’ I can’t help but share it.
Somewhere in the midst of Hours 35-43 a group of 4 young women came into the canteen where I was nodding in and out of sleep. I didn’t pay much attention until I heard the word ‘timbits’ enter the conversation. Pastor Abraham noticed my sudden attention to their conversation—yes, eavesdropping, if you really want to put it that way—and asked me if it was strange to come all the way to Ghana, only to hear English being spoken. I answered that it was stranger to come all the way to Ghana only to be seated next to a group of Canadians! Bewildered, as he should have been, Pastor Abraham asked me how I knew they were Canadian.
My answer: ‘timbits!’
Perfectly clear to a Canadian, perfectly baffling to most non-Canadians: The ‘timbit’ is both the mascot and edible bit of sugary heaven that represents the ‘Tim Horton’s’ restaurant chain. It’s so ‘Canadian’ that there’s even a commercial that pretty much re-enacts my afternoon: a young Canadian man goes off to see the world with a Tim Horton’s take-away mug clipped to his backpack. Everywhere he goes he is greeted by Canadians who spot the Tim Horton’s mug and they share great adventures. As he steps off the plane at the end of his adventures he is met by his loving parents who are holding a cup of Tim Horton’s coffee.
And it may sound ridiculous, but it’s true.
So… how did I respond to the ‘timbits’ reference? As we were leaving the canteen I stopped by the table and said, “Sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear, and with a ‘timbits’ reference, I have to ask, ‘where in Canada are you from?’” “You have to follow up a ‘timbits’ reference when you hear one! We’re from British Columbia,” came their answer.
You gotta love it!
Go ‘timbits’!
40:
One of the two numbers that I learned, very early on, were the answers to questions of ‘time’ in Sunday School. Most likely in response to an annoyingly persistent line of questioning (I like to think of it as assertive), I remember a Sunday School teacher finally answering that ’40 just means a LONG time, okay?’ And from that day on I flippantly answered ‘40’ to biblical questions without giving it much thought. How many days did the rains pour down around Noah and his family: 40. For how many years did the Israelites wander in the wilderness: 40. How many days was Jesus in the wilderness, tempted by Satan: 40. How many days did Jonah spend in the belly of the whale: ? Okay, 40 isn’t always the answer (eh, Annie?). Sometimes the answer is ‘3’.
But after the last 40 hours the number ‘40’ has truly come to remind me of ‘a long time’:
Hour 1 (and 2…whoops!), 3am-4:20am, 3 March 2009: After less than 3 hours of sleep I wake up to my alarm. No part of me wants to get out of bed, but I do anyways—I’m flying to Ghana in less than 4 hours! As I never quite plan for things to take as long as they do, I’m rushing around my apartment, throwing out my trash, packing the battery charger I almost forgot, and forgetting the hand-sanitizer.
Hour 3, 5am, 3 March 2009: Well, I was late enough that I had to catch my first cab ever in Oslo, which I found out, has a minimum of 135 NOK ($20 USD on a good day), but caught the first train at 4:39am and arrived at Gardermoen airport to check in for my flight. And I meet my first surprise: Susan and her family—including the tiny baby that was baptized into our community on Sunday—are on my flight to Frankfurt! So lovely! After security we meet up and wake up over a cup of coffee.
Hours 6-9, 8-10:50am, 3 March 2009: I realize, once again, just how poor my spoken German has become as I wander and wait in the Frankfurt airport for the 4th or 5th time in the past year. I resist the electronics, and, instead, pull out “Theology is for Proclamation” and hunker down to enjoy this time of enforced stillness.
Hours 10-21, 11am GMT+1 -9pm GMT, 3 March 2009: After 3 short delays, I embark on the second leg of my journey, seated in row 33K. I read for a while, sleep a bit, and watch both ‘Australia’ and ‘The Secret Life of Bees’. Thanks I’m pretty sure to Aaron Hryciw, I find myself singing ‘Ed-ward El-gar…’ at the end of Australia, and it takes me a minute to realize that it ends on one of the movements of Elgar’s ‘Enigma Variations’—anyone happen to know which movement? I forget. Somewhere in the midst of all this I realize for the first time that, when I step off this plane, I’m going to be in Africa!!! We arrive in Accra, Ghana: 2 hours late.
Hour 22, 10pm, 3 March 2009: I cue up with the rest of the plane’s disembarking visitors and wait to show my passport, complete with Ghana visa already pasted in! I pick up my luggage, but can’t find a trolley, and remember how not-strong I am as I carry my two 40-pound bags through customs and out the doors—funny, for me, apparently 40 also stands for ‘heavy’. I spot the second most-friendly face of the day holding a up a sign that reads ‘ALC Intern’ and thankfully relinquish my bags as Eugene’s friends offer chivalrously to carry them to the waiting car.
Hours 23-26, 11pm-2:59:59, 3 March 2009: We arrive at Jim & Mabel’s house (members of my congregation in Norway) and I crash.
Hour 27, 3am, 4 March 2009: I hate my alarm even more-so this morning than I did the previous morning. But, there is a shower! As I wander out onto the porch I forget for a moment that I’m in Ghana and imagine that I’m in Guyana—the hot, humid air, palm trees, barking dogs, and crowing roosters… Then I’m back, and it’s Africa, not South America, and the taxi driver is knocking on the gate and it’s time to go.
Hours 28-31, 4am-7:15am, 4 March 2009: Thank you Eugene! I hadn’t been able to purchase my second-leg plane ticket from Norway, and Eugene had very kindly bought it for me. It’s a small propeller-driven plane, but still big enough for 4 seats across. I’m seated in 7D and sleep until the flight attendant wakes me with the offer of mango juice, mmm… I wake to find myself seated next to an American woman who is a pharmacist at the Baptist Medical Center in Northern Ghana. Having lived in Ghana for 17 years, she’s a wealth of knowledge.
Hour 31 continued, Hour 32, & Hour 33, 7:15am-8 something am, 4 March 2009: We land in Tamale and I’m almost there!!!!! I’m so excited as I load my bags on the trolley I am so pleased to have found and confidently stroll out to meet the first face I have actually met before: Pastor Abraham! I blithely turn down the taxi drivers eager to drive me the 20km into Tamale, then realized Pastor Abraham’s not quite there yet. That’s what a good book’s for—it’s day 2 and I’ve already done more reading on this trip than I have in the last 3 months altogether. After about half an hour of waiting the still-waiting taxi drivers suggest that I move to a bench in the shade, as I’m beginning to turn a hint of ‘cooked-lobster’. I call Eugene just to make sure he’s been able to talk to Pastor Abraham about my arrival and within two minutes I receive an only slightly frantic text message all the way from Norway: YOU’RE STILL AT THE AIRPORT? ARE YOU OKAY? I’m not worried about being picked up, I know Pastor Abraham is on his way, I’m just hoping that I recognize him, but figure the blond hair will give me away.
Hour 34!!!, 9am, 4 March 2009: Yay!!!!! Pastor Abraham arrives along with Ester—a ‘sister’ of the Redemption Children’s Home—and they tell the tale of their morning of car troubles. We head into Tamale to await the imminent fixing of said-car.
Hours 35-43, 10am-6 something pm, 4 March 2009: Oh my goodness, are you serious? I didn’t think it had been quite that long… We sit at a local canteen and chat, waiting for the call that the car is coming. Over the course of the day Esther, “Z” (American pronounciation), and Joanne all stop by to visit—so much fun! But by this point in time I’m exhausted. I try my best to stay awake, but end up succumbing to the exhaustion and laying my head down on the table to sleep. I’m still not sure how many times I woke from and fell back to sleep, but I do know that Pastor Abraham went out to visit a friend, came back, went out to do an errand, came back, went out to go to the bank, came back… The answer on the phone was always ‘just 30 more minutes’, but there was serious talk of us finding a place to stay the night. I spend a lot of time transfixed by the lizards running about the place and the tree above my head that is filled with sleeping bats. Oh, and it’s hot.
Hours 44-46, 7pm-9 something pm? 4 March 2009: Pastor Abraham’s brother Matt drives up in the truck and I am so thankful! We’re finally on the road to Damongo—about a 3-hour drive away, just 20km from Mole National Park (you might get better results googling that). The further we drive, the more packed the truck becomes. There were easily 10 people, along with many bags, in the bed of the truck before the end. I try to watch where we are going, but the combination of our speed, the darkness, and the goats in the middle of the road soon put a stop to that. Instead, I sleep a lovely, if bumpy, sleep.
Hour 47, 10pm, 4 March 2009: Damongo!!!!!! I can’t quite believe that we have finally arrived, but we have! Dusty and tired, I tuck in my mosquito netting and crawl into bed. I don’t care if it was only 40 hours and not 40 days or 40 years—40 is a long number.
Safe and Sound, but not Shoeless,
The Shoeless Seminarian
But after the last 40 hours the number ‘40’ has truly come to remind me of ‘a long time’:
Hour 1 (and 2…whoops!), 3am-4:20am, 3 March 2009: After less than 3 hours of sleep I wake up to my alarm. No part of me wants to get out of bed, but I do anyways—I’m flying to Ghana in less than 4 hours! As I never quite plan for things to take as long as they do, I’m rushing around my apartment, throwing out my trash, packing the battery charger I almost forgot, and forgetting the hand-sanitizer.
Hour 3, 5am, 3 March 2009: Well, I was late enough that I had to catch my first cab ever in Oslo, which I found out, has a minimum of 135 NOK ($20 USD on a good day), but caught the first train at 4:39am and arrived at Gardermoen airport to check in for my flight. And I meet my first surprise: Susan and her family—including the tiny baby that was baptized into our community on Sunday—are on my flight to Frankfurt! So lovely! After security we meet up and wake up over a cup of coffee.
Hours 6-9, 8-10:50am, 3 March 2009: I realize, once again, just how poor my spoken German has become as I wander and wait in the Frankfurt airport for the 4th or 5th time in the past year. I resist the electronics, and, instead, pull out “Theology is for Proclamation” and hunker down to enjoy this time of enforced stillness.
Hours 10-21, 11am GMT+1 -9pm GMT, 3 March 2009: After 3 short delays, I embark on the second leg of my journey, seated in row 33K. I read for a while, sleep a bit, and watch both ‘Australia’ and ‘The Secret Life of Bees’. Thanks I’m pretty sure to Aaron Hryciw, I find myself singing ‘Ed-ward El-gar…’ at the end of Australia, and it takes me a minute to realize that it ends on one of the movements of Elgar’s ‘Enigma Variations’—anyone happen to know which movement? I forget. Somewhere in the midst of all this I realize for the first time that, when I step off this plane, I’m going to be in Africa!!! We arrive in Accra, Ghana: 2 hours late.
Hour 22, 10pm, 3 March 2009: I cue up with the rest of the plane’s disembarking visitors and wait to show my passport, complete with Ghana visa already pasted in! I pick up my luggage, but can’t find a trolley, and remember how not-strong I am as I carry my two 40-pound bags through customs and out the doors—funny, for me, apparently 40 also stands for ‘heavy’. I spot the second most-friendly face of the day holding a up a sign that reads ‘ALC Intern’ and thankfully relinquish my bags as Eugene’s friends offer chivalrously to carry them to the waiting car.
Hours 23-26, 11pm-2:59:59, 3 March 2009: We arrive at Jim & Mabel’s house (members of my congregation in Norway) and I crash.
Hour 27, 3am, 4 March 2009: I hate my alarm even more-so this morning than I did the previous morning. But, there is a shower! As I wander out onto the porch I forget for a moment that I’m in Ghana and imagine that I’m in Guyana—the hot, humid air, palm trees, barking dogs, and crowing roosters… Then I’m back, and it’s Africa, not South America, and the taxi driver is knocking on the gate and it’s time to go.
Hours 28-31, 4am-7:15am, 4 March 2009: Thank you Eugene! I hadn’t been able to purchase my second-leg plane ticket from Norway, and Eugene had very kindly bought it for me. It’s a small propeller-driven plane, but still big enough for 4 seats across. I’m seated in 7D and sleep until the flight attendant wakes me with the offer of mango juice, mmm… I wake to find myself seated next to an American woman who is a pharmacist at the Baptist Medical Center in Northern Ghana. Having lived in Ghana for 17 years, she’s a wealth of knowledge.
Hour 31 continued, Hour 32, & Hour 33, 7:15am-8 something am, 4 March 2009: We land in Tamale and I’m almost there!!!!! I’m so excited as I load my bags on the trolley I am so pleased to have found and confidently stroll out to meet the first face I have actually met before: Pastor Abraham! I blithely turn down the taxi drivers eager to drive me the 20km into Tamale, then realized Pastor Abraham’s not quite there yet. That’s what a good book’s for—it’s day 2 and I’ve already done more reading on this trip than I have in the last 3 months altogether. After about half an hour of waiting the still-waiting taxi drivers suggest that I move to a bench in the shade, as I’m beginning to turn a hint of ‘cooked-lobster’. I call Eugene just to make sure he’s been able to talk to Pastor Abraham about my arrival and within two minutes I receive an only slightly frantic text message all the way from Norway: YOU’RE STILL AT THE AIRPORT? ARE YOU OKAY? I’m not worried about being picked up, I know Pastor Abraham is on his way, I’m just hoping that I recognize him, but figure the blond hair will give me away.
Hour 34!!!, 9am, 4 March 2009: Yay!!!!! Pastor Abraham arrives along with Ester—a ‘sister’ of the Redemption Children’s Home—and they tell the tale of their morning of car troubles. We head into Tamale to await the imminent fixing of said-car.
Hours 35-43, 10am-6 something pm, 4 March 2009: Oh my goodness, are you serious? I didn’t think it had been quite that long… We sit at a local canteen and chat, waiting for the call that the car is coming. Over the course of the day Esther, “Z” (American pronounciation), and Joanne all stop by to visit—so much fun! But by this point in time I’m exhausted. I try my best to stay awake, but end up succumbing to the exhaustion and laying my head down on the table to sleep. I’m still not sure how many times I woke from and fell back to sleep, but I do know that Pastor Abraham went out to visit a friend, came back, went out to do an errand, came back, went out to go to the bank, came back… The answer on the phone was always ‘just 30 more minutes’, but there was serious talk of us finding a place to stay the night. I spend a lot of time transfixed by the lizards running about the place and the tree above my head that is filled with sleeping bats. Oh, and it’s hot.
Hours 44-46, 7pm-9 something pm? 4 March 2009: Pastor Abraham’s brother Matt drives up in the truck and I am so thankful! We’re finally on the road to Damongo—about a 3-hour drive away, just 20km from Mole National Park (you might get better results googling that). The further we drive, the more packed the truck becomes. There were easily 10 people, along with many bags, in the bed of the truck before the end. I try to watch where we are going, but the combination of our speed, the darkness, and the goats in the middle of the road soon put a stop to that. Instead, I sleep a lovely, if bumpy, sleep.
Hour 47, 10pm, 4 March 2009: Damongo!!!!!! I can’t quite believe that we have finally arrived, but we have! Dusty and tired, I tuck in my mosquito netting and crawl into bed. I don’t care if it was only 40 hours and not 40 days or 40 years—40 is a long number.
Safe and Sound, but not Shoeless,
The Shoeless Seminarian
Sunday, February 22, 2009
... we all fall down!
Hey!
Look at this, two posts in a week! Maybe I'm getting the hang of this. But, since last post was about Egypt, I figured you needed an update on the snowy, snowy north--aka Norway.
I hear that there have been record-breaking snows in the Midwest this year, I don't know about Alberta, but Oslo is having one of its snowiest winters of the last fifteen years. Wherever I go people talk about this winter like the winters of yore and I believe them!
There was no snow on Christmas, but about the middle of January the big snowfalls began. 45cm (18") here, 30cm (12") there with a couple of rare sunny days in between to offer a bit of hope and made the sidewalks even more treacherous.
Why?
Because Norwegians (yes, I'm making a broad generalization here and I know it) don't exactly tend to shovel their sidewalks clear. They may shovel a bit, or just wait for pedestrians to trample down the snow, which would be fine if the snow remained snow, but the temperature always seems to creep above freezing, and before you know it, what lies beneath that snow you're walking on is a patch of very slippery ice it!
Therefore, one regularly sees people walking about with cross-country ski poles by their sides or studs beneath their shoes. If not, one regularly sees people slipping, sliding, and falling down. I've only had one major spill so far--I landed smack on my back--but no major injuries.
The melting temperatures also make what lies above treacherous too, for you never know when the building you are walking beside might decide to drop a small avalanche of snow atop your head. There's even people whose jobs are to go up in a crane to knock down the potentially life-threatening icicles.
All I can say is, it keeps you on your toes!
But, we're almost to the point where I could strap on my cross-country skis outside my front door and ski the mile to church--this is a fabulous country!
More later (and hopefully soon!)
The not-so-shoeless one (due to the snow)
Look at this, two posts in a week! Maybe I'm getting the hang of this. But, since last post was about Egypt, I figured you needed an update on the snowy, snowy north--aka Norway.
I hear that there have been record-breaking snows in the Midwest this year, I don't know about Alberta, but Oslo is having one of its snowiest winters of the last fifteen years. Wherever I go people talk about this winter like the winters of yore and I believe them!
There was no snow on Christmas, but about the middle of January the big snowfalls began. 45cm (18") here, 30cm (12") there with a couple of rare sunny days in between to offer a bit of hope and made the sidewalks even more treacherous.
Why?
Because Norwegians (yes, I'm making a broad generalization here and I know it) don't exactly tend to shovel their sidewalks clear. They may shovel a bit, or just wait for pedestrians to trample down the snow, which would be fine if the snow remained snow, but the temperature always seems to creep above freezing, and before you know it, what lies beneath that snow you're walking on is a patch of very slippery ice it!
Therefore, one regularly sees people walking about with cross-country ski poles by their sides or studs beneath their shoes. If not, one regularly sees people slipping, sliding, and falling down. I've only had one major spill so far--I landed smack on my back--but no major injuries.
The melting temperatures also make what lies above treacherous too, for you never know when the building you are walking beside might decide to drop a small avalanche of snow atop your head. There's even people whose jobs are to go up in a crane to knock down the potentially life-threatening icicles.
All I can say is, it keeps you on your toes!
But, we're almost to the point where I could strap on my cross-country skis outside my front door and ski the mile to church--this is a fabulous country!
More later (and hopefully soon!)
The not-so-shoeless one (due to the snow)
Friday, February 20, 2009
Interfaith Dialogue
Once again, sorry you get a three-peat, but life is, eh? This is my newsletter article for both my congregation here and at home. A quick story from an absolutely AMAZING trip to Cairo, Egypt to visit dear friends, see some pyramids, and learn, learn, learn!!!!!
My recent trip to Cairo was filled with more sights and sounds (and smells) than I ever thought eight days could hold. A wonderful time of both rest and rejuvenation, to recount all of the stories would take too long, but there is at least one story I would like to take the time to share with you.
I had ventured out that morning with my friends, the Johnsons (ELCA Global Mission Regional Representatives to the Middle East), to visit and explore the mosques of Islamic Cairo (another story for another time). After a long visit with Sheik Mohammed at the Al-Azhar mosque I assumed that my interfaith dialogues were done for the day and turned my attention to wandering around the Khan El—Khalili market while Peter & Michele headed back to work. Enough of an adventure all by itself—a blond woman tends to stand out in Cairo—I had forgotten that staying at the Khan by myself also meant braving the metro by myself.
Now, the metro system of Cairo is excellent and inexpensive (less than $0.20 USD), but getting onto the trains at the busy downtown stations is something akin to running opposite a herd of stampeding buffalo.
I hoped that taking the women’s car would be easier to maneuver and so upon entered the platform I looked for the universal triangular-shaped woman figure, positioned myself under it, and readied myself to fight the exiting throng. So determined was I to catch the train that I almost missed the questioning voice from behind—the fact that it was in Arabic might have had something to do with it too. But when I turned to look, I found, behind me, a young Muslim woman veiled in black, motioning toward the empty seat beside her.
I hesitated just a bit. I wasn’t quite sure about sitting down to wait for the metro. It meant giving up my prime throng-fighting spot, and it’s not like the young woman and I could communicate; my Arabic was limited to 6 words and only useful for directing cab drivers back to the Johnson’s house. But how could I refuse her welcoming invitation? And so I found myself sitting down next to her, smiling as I said ‘Shukran’ (thank you). And although her face was veiled, I knew by her eyes she was smiling back.
For a few minutes we sat in friendly silence, exchanging smiles and nods until the rumbling began. Bracing ourselves, we prepared for the ambush. But then, at the height of anticipation, my new friend was called away by another woman to the other car entrance! I was alone as the doors opened, and before I knew it, I was five and then ten feet away from the doors. It was hopeless; I was never going to make the train! I was about ready to give up when, suddenly, a gloved hand gripped mine and a sheltering arm guided me through the now-closing doors. I smiled and laughed, only to hear another voice laughing quietly with mine, and as I turned to thank my kindly shepherd, I once again found myself face-to-face with the same young woman.
I hadn’t expected her to come back. There was no reason she should have come back. But there she was, her gloved hand still gripping mine. And though we could exchange no words, the conversation went deeper than language or culture and taught me more about interfaith dialogue than my hours spent in the mosque discussing theology. Because despite the fact that my blond hair shone out amidst the sea of veils those women accepted me, welcomed me, even came back for me.
One of my seminary professors always tells us, “If you’re not willing to accept that you might be changed through interfaith dialogue, then you can’t call it dialogue”. Until that moment, I had never let my guard down enough to get it. Until that moment I had never been changed. Until that moment…
My recent trip to Cairo was filled with more sights and sounds (and smells) than I ever thought eight days could hold. A wonderful time of both rest and rejuvenation, to recount all of the stories would take too long, but there is at least one story I would like to take the time to share with you.
I had ventured out that morning with my friends, the Johnsons (ELCA Global Mission Regional Representatives to the Middle East), to visit and explore the mosques of Islamic Cairo (another story for another time). After a long visit with Sheik Mohammed at the Al-Azhar mosque I assumed that my interfaith dialogues were done for the day and turned my attention to wandering around the Khan El—Khalili market while Peter & Michele headed back to work. Enough of an adventure all by itself—a blond woman tends to stand out in Cairo—I had forgotten that staying at the Khan by myself also meant braving the metro by myself.
Now, the metro system of Cairo is excellent and inexpensive (less than $0.20 USD), but getting onto the trains at the busy downtown stations is something akin to running opposite a herd of stampeding buffalo.
I hoped that taking the women’s car would be easier to maneuver and so upon entered the platform I looked for the universal triangular-shaped woman figure, positioned myself under it, and readied myself to fight the exiting throng. So determined was I to catch the train that I almost missed the questioning voice from behind—the fact that it was in Arabic might have had something to do with it too. But when I turned to look, I found, behind me, a young Muslim woman veiled in black, motioning toward the empty seat beside her.
I hesitated just a bit. I wasn’t quite sure about sitting down to wait for the metro. It meant giving up my prime throng-fighting spot, and it’s not like the young woman and I could communicate; my Arabic was limited to 6 words and only useful for directing cab drivers back to the Johnson’s house. But how could I refuse her welcoming invitation? And so I found myself sitting down next to her, smiling as I said ‘Shukran’ (thank you). And although her face was veiled, I knew by her eyes she was smiling back.
For a few minutes we sat in friendly silence, exchanging smiles and nods until the rumbling began. Bracing ourselves, we prepared for the ambush. But then, at the height of anticipation, my new friend was called away by another woman to the other car entrance! I was alone as the doors opened, and before I knew it, I was five and then ten feet away from the doors. It was hopeless; I was never going to make the train! I was about ready to give up when, suddenly, a gloved hand gripped mine and a sheltering arm guided me through the now-closing doors. I smiled and laughed, only to hear another voice laughing quietly with mine, and as I turned to thank my kindly shepherd, I once again found myself face-to-face with the same young woman.
I hadn’t expected her to come back. There was no reason she should have come back. But there she was, her gloved hand still gripping mine. And though we could exchange no words, the conversation went deeper than language or culture and taught me more about interfaith dialogue than my hours spent in the mosque discussing theology. Because despite the fact that my blond hair shone out amidst the sea of veils those women accepted me, welcomed me, even came back for me.
One of my seminary professors always tells us, “If you’re not willing to accept that you might be changed through interfaith dialogue, then you can’t call it dialogue”. Until that moment, I had never let my guard down enough to get it. Until that moment I had never been changed. Until that moment…
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