A Time for Every Purpose Under Heaven...turn, turn, turn

There is an appointed time for everything. And there is a right time for every event under heaven—

                A right time for birth, and another for death;

                A right time to plant, and another to reap.

                A right time to kill, and another to heal;

                A right time to destroy, and another to construct.

                A right time to cry, and a time to laugh;

                A right time to mourn, and a time to dance.

                A right time to throw stones, and a time to gather stones;

                A right time to make love and another to abstain,

                A right time to embrace, and a time to part.

                A right time to search, and a time to give up as lost, count your losses;

                A right time to keep, to hold on, and a time to throw away, to let go.

                A right time to rip out, and a time to sew together;

                A right time to be silent, and a time to speak.

                A right time to love, and another to hate;

                A right time for war, and another to make peace.

 

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 says there is a time for everything. [FYI, Ecclesiastes is a Greek word which can be translated, “The Teacher”.] If you were thinking, “Hey, wait, those are lyrics from the ‘60’s!”, you are partially correct.   “To everything, turn, turn, turn, there is a season, turn, turn, turn, and a time for every purpose under heaven.”  Peter, Paul and Mary were singing in protest of war; I’m not protesting, I’m just observing that The Teacher knew a thing or two about life.

 

Monday, a baby died at a hospital in Cape Coast.  There was an emergency C-section performed, the baby was in distress, but the person who had the key to the oxygen storage had not unlocked it prior to surgery and was slow in responding.  The American doctors who had come to perform a series of surgeries worked for an hour and a half to save the child, but to no avail.  To add to the situation, after all efforts were exhausted, the local medical personnel found a cardboard water bottle box, dropped the child’s body in (Jane said, “and I mean literally dropped it in”) and set the box out in the hallway. I wasn’t there, but the sadness in my new friend’s voice as she called me and described the situation and spoke of the neglect was harrowing.

 

I mentioned this to a couple of young Ghanaian men, co-workers with Point Hope.  They said that there will be no lawsuits, no repercussions, no accusations.  The family will say, “That is unfortunate; there is a time to be born and a time to die” and go on with their lives.   A baby dies for lack of oxygen which someone didn’t make available in the first place and then didn’t run to make available.  My Ghanaian friends said that it is unfortunate, because there is no accountability (lawsuits or legal action), some people do not give full attention to their jobs.  Wow.  Stated so matter-of-factly; I was speechless. A time to be silent.

 

My daughter recently had her third miscarriage.  We grieved each child and we are grieving for her and this baby, still.  Her body didn’t want to give up and continued to grow the placenta after the baby had died. She’s going through a lot of pain as her body begins to reject what is no longer alive.  Should she have gone and had a D & C and been through with it?  Maybe so, but the last time she did that it was very traumatic.  The procedure is called an abortion and, in her case, was performed without medication.  Both the procedure and the terminology were extremely painful and abhorrent to her.  She doesn’t believe in abortion and has educated people to the truth of what ending the life of a baby looks like since she was in high school. (In fact, I thought of her when Jane told me about the baby being ”dropped” in the box, as we have seen pictures of similar scenes after abortions.)   I don’t think she could face putting herself through the emotional trauma of that again; I so wish I could be there for here right now instead of being a half a world away. It is a time to mourn.

 

Tuesday, I met with about 50 of the 300 children Point Hope sponsors for school. They sat patiently as I tried to slow down my speech enough for them to understand (my native English and their native English…worlds apart!).  Every now and then they smiled or laughed at something I said, other times their young faces seemed to say, “what is this woman talking about?”  I asked them if they enjoyed school and only a couple were brave enough to say no (after all, who would tell the people paying for you to school that you don’t like it?).  We talked about what they did like, what their talents were, what they might like to do as they grow up.  We took a group picture (asking them to say “cheese”, because “smile!” wasn’t working).  Then at the end I had a chance to meet with the older girls, 13 to 18 years old.  I handed out personal hygiene kits that Jane and her friends had personally assembled and donated to us to distribute.  There were more pictures, of course, and thank you’s and holding up the bags to show what was given. 

 

As everyone was leaving, one 13 year old girl came back to thank me personally for thinking of her and giving her this gift.  Then one more young woman (we are helping her through college) came back to say “thank you and may God bless you!” Do you remember when 10 lepers were healed and only one returned to say thank you?  I know exactly what that feels like and it’s pretty cool!  A time to love.

 

I have had a few people this trip tell me how Point Hope has touched their lives.  Some have told me how Point Hope has changed their lives.  One woman had been brutalized during the war and had no hope. She sat around all day with no purpose, nothing available to do to change her future. But something within her wanted more and she searched out someone to help her and her friends learn a trade.  Eventually, after a series of disappointments, she was lead to Mr. Chris of Point Hope.  He said he would send them to learn to batik, make soap and bake.  She didn’t know if she could believe him, but then he called and told them to meet the bus at 6:30 a.m. the next day.  She showed up, but didn’t know if the bus would. (She had no confidence because she had been promised things before that didn’t come to pass.) The bus arrived!  They began shouting and dancing and crying and praising God and thanking Point Hope.  It must have been quite the sight, I wish I could have seen it.  A time to search, a time to speak, a time to weep, a time to laugh, a time to dance, a time to sew, a time to love.

 

The Teacher knows a thing or two about life.

 

 

 

It's a Small, Small, Small, Small World (After All)

The world is strangely small at times.  Four plus hours to fly from Seattle to New York, roughly eleven hours to fly from New York to Accra—because of the ease of flight, the world seems smaller.  (Although if you had ridden a horse for a few hours one day, ridden a bicycle for 5 miles the next, and then sat for the length of the flights and the layovers in between on the very next day after a long period of little exercise, you may not share the same opinion, I’ll have to ask my traveling partner.)

When we first arrived at the camp, we had just gotten off of the airplane, stopped by the hotel to refresh ourselves, and headed straight for the camp manager’s office.  His name is Gavivi (spelled wrong, I’m sure). I had the pleasure of meeting him in December on our last visit; he is a Ghanaian official with a love for God and a wise and compassionate heart, who is also faced with a huge job.   As we sat down to talk with him, Delilah noticed the music he was playing (of course!) and asked him if it wasn’t Jim Reeves.  He said that it was and that when he got overburdened and worn down that listening to this music relaxed him.  Delilah explained that her dad had played in a county band and that Jim Reeves was often played at her house as she grew up.  The next song also caught my attention.  “I’ll Fly Away” is one of my dad’s favorite songs and I recognized it immediately. Three men: different cultures, different ages, different world somehow made smaller.

Just a couple of days ago I was sitting with Chris, having another of our very late lunches/early dinners, when I heard a tune that sounded familiar. Chris started singing along and I joined in, “O Lord, You know, I have no friend but You.  If Heaven’s not my home, then Lord, what will I do?  The angels beckon me from Heaven’s open door and I can’t feel at home in this world anymore.”  Chris mentioned that he really liked this singer, but couldn’t remember his name.  “Jim Reeves?” I suggested.  “Yes, yes, that is him! I really like him.”  Another Jim Reeves fan?  Small world.  The fact that Chris and I would both know the same song, coming from different places, different faith backgrounds, yet could still share the joy of the words and the music?  Small world.

The next day I was walking through the camp.  I had just left the Nutrition Center and the malnourished children’s feeding program.  The children are all looking so much better, although not all to their needed weight, and I was thinking how grateful I am that different groups (like the Humanitarian Health Aid Foundation [HHAF] and Feed My Starving Children [FMSC]) had partnered with us to make food available for Point Hope and the National Catholic Secretariat [NCS] to cook and provide to the children.  Then I heard the strains of a song and had to stop to listen and sing along.  “Crucified. Laid behind a stone. He lived to die, rejected and alone.  Like a rose, trampled on the ground, He took the fall and thought of me, above all.”  The children I had just seen, the people I was passing on the paths of the settlement, me…He thought of us and took the fall for all of us.  Very small world.

Early each morning and in the evening I can hear the Islamic call to prayer being broadcast through the warm air just outside my hotel window.  I think back to a conversation I had with a Muslim man when I was working on the FBI’s JTTF in Portland.   We had been holding a lengthy discussion. “The difference between my God and your Allah”, I concluded, “is that in your religion, you are a slave, uncertain of your future, while in my faith, I am God’s child, adopted into His family and certain of my future.  I would rather be a child than a slave.”  He said, “Yes, I know.”  That was it, no other response.  To this day I don’t understand it, it doesn’t seem logical.  Hearing the Arabic words here that I heard calling out to this man in America, small world.

Today is Sunday.  I was relaxing in my hotel room (I’d already heard the call to prayer) when what sounded like three or four men started shouting in the hallway, the sound was reverberating off the walls.  I couldn’t tell if it was an argument or what!  And then, the shouting turned to the rhythm of a chant-like sound and slowly faded away.  Suddenly, one voice began again, loud and echoing throughout the halls.  I went to the door and looked out the peephole, but could see no one. Frankly, I was glad my door was secured with the only key hanging in the lock on my side of the door. The other voices joined in loudly with the first man, still speaking in a sing-song rhythm.  Not knowing the language, I wasn’t really paying attention, but I thought I heard the name, “Jesus”.  I listened more intently and heard it again.  And then I heard the words, “blood of Jesus”.  I realized there was a mini-praise service of some sort going on and I started chuckling to myself.  Sounds that had seemed ominous turned to words of praise, yet our Father had known all along!  I thought of an old song from long ago, “In the name of Jesus, in the name of Jesus, we have the victory.  In the name of Jesus, in the name of Jesus, Satan will have to flee.” 

The Creator of the universe made the world and for Him, it has never been any larger than it is now—for me, it’s smaller every day!

 

 

The Tale of Two Battles

Once upon a time, there lived a man named Gideon.  He was a valiant warrior with a hard head and a huge skeptical streak—not unlike a few of us today.  The event in his life that I seem to be re-living for the past two weeks begins in the historical book of Judges, chapter seven. 

God wants Israel to know that it is by His power they will be delivered from their enemies, so as they gather for battle, He tells Gideon that using all 32,000 men won’t cut it.  Gideon sends home all who are afraid and trembling…22,000 men leave. God still doesn’t like the odds, sending the remaining 10,000 Hebrews out against around 135,000 Midianites seems too many.  He tells Gideon to send the men to get a drink—300 men drink the water out of their cupped hands, Gideon sends the rest of them home.  Finally, God is satisfied that the victory will be credited to Him—off they go to do battle with a clay pot, a trumpet and a torch!  (They win, of course, but I leave it to you to read the account for yourself!)

Unlikely heroes, unlikely weapons, unlikely outcome.

Once upon a time there lived some women named Jan, Delilah and Lexi.  They were working with a great group of people to bring a miracle technology that would dispose of garbage and create energy at the same time.  A couple of nice men from this group, Mr. Kim and Cal, were going to meet these women in Ghana to explain the process to Ghanaian government officials as well as other influential people.

Mr. Kim was traveling from Korea and Cal was arriving via ship.  But that was too organized and too many people, so Mr. Kim was unable to get his vaccinations and receive his visa in time—Cal continued on, alone.

Delilah, Jan and Lexi left Seattle and arrived in New York, intending to go on to Accra, Ghana.  But that was too many people, so Lexi’s visa wasn’t accepted—Jan and Delilah went on alone. (Lexi went back home to Seattle.)

Cal arrived at Accra one day before Delilah and Jan.  He didn’t have a nice change of clothes, he didn’t have the presentation materials, he didn’t have the video clip to show—he had asked the ladies to bring it all with them from Seattle.  Well, he had asked Lexi, but, oops, because of the confusion in New York…Cal was left with the knowledge in his head, the amended presentation on his laptop, a pair of jeans and a Mariners t-shirt.

Jan and Delilah arrived with eight pieces of luggage, none of which was their personal baggage.  The bags all continued donated items for the Buduburam Refugee Camp where Point Hope works in Ghana.  The remaining five bags (including the two with their own clothing) ended up staying in New York and then (last we heard) being sent on to the Dominican Republic.  Delilah was relieved to find she had thought to put her hair dryer in her carry-on luggage, along with a very few changes of clothing.  Jan had yarn, knitting needles, granola bars and fruit snacks in her carry-on…no clothes, just the essentials!

Cal, Delilah and Jan went on to make a couple of very well received presentations.  Of course, in the meantime: the electricity and the access to the internet went in-and-out, Delilah’s hair dryer blew up, the video clip wouldn’t upload from the file Cal was able to receive via the internet, Jan wore the same (hot) black pair of pants with flip-flops until the lovely ladies of Buduburam sewed both Jan and Delilah outfits to look presentable for the meetings, at both meetings where Cal presented his slide show there were technical difficulties, the last one resulting in his inability to show all the slides…and the container of medical supplies was still sitting in port almost two months later, unable to clear through customs without a HUGE bill from duty charges (but that’s another battle which will be fought and won in a later telling)!

Unlikely participants, unreliable tools, unbelievable outcome! 

This victory isn’t complete, the battle is still being fought, and the end is not yet history.  But what we learned from the story of Gideon is that God can achieve miracles with little more than a few people and a lot of noise…and by the end of the week, Cal, Delilah and Jan all qualified as cracked pots!

 

 

 

Tempest in a Teapot? Nope. Just Ants in a Teacup!

Thankfully I looked into the cream before adding it to my tea, as I first had to fish out about six very small sugar ants.  There were more of them running manically all over the tray, inside the upside down teacup, around the saucer.  I carefully washed them down the sink drain, being careful not to get any of the tap water inside the teacup for fear of what my stomach would do for revenge. (Too bad God didn’t think to use these little guys for one of the plagues in Exodus…they would have been quite effective, I think!)

I knew I shouldn’t be left alone here!  Low carb and no sugar in the land of rice and tea??

It is true, I haven’t bought a single loaf of bread and I only eat one slice of toast with my small omelet in the mornings, but how could I resist Loacker hazelnut sandwiches (cookies)?  Or the very foreign sounding, but delicious looking (and tasting) Kinder delice cacao (cake/cookie), and the BiFA Yeni Kakaolu Gofret (chocolate wafer cookies), and last, but not least, Bakers Original & Best Topper Custard Creams, delicious biscuits with custard flavoured cream (which are TRANS FAT FREE)!

Now, I must insert here, quite emphatically, that I did not add white sugar to my tea!  NO, not even the brown sugar (which is more like raw sugar) that is “favoured” here!  Indeed, I am…hold your applause… using Truvia!!  (A sugar substitute imported from home and certain to block all other sugar ingested at the same sitting…or so my inner voice told me!)

We had meetings all last week, excellent, lots done; today, a really great, but all day long meeting with Chris, PointHope Ghana’s National Director, a lovely and Godly man.   What  a busy time ahead and how fortunate are we to have Chris here to help steer the ship!

Still, after spending another few hours trying to get through a handful of emails and replying to just a few (the wireless internet connection is on, but very slow…they assure me hard line connections are faster…), thinking it is too bad Skype doesn’t function on the wireless connection and calling back half a dozen times when the phone line dropped my connection (the last call from an Unknown Number is still haunting me…a women’s voice, “Hello, Hello?” click, click…gone!  No call back.  Who was that masked caller?), I was looking forward to a “cuppa” of tea and a biscuit (or three)!

So, yes, I took the extra “protein” out of the evaporated mik, poured myself a cup of Chai vanilla tea (also imported from home), added the “cream” and sat back to enjoy it. 

Which I did, as soon as I spooned out the one ant that got away and into my tea!

I am so blessed to be working for God, not for man!  God has a much bigger plan and a much, much larger sense of humor!!