The Buchele Adventure

Handfasting - Care for the Rope that holds you together.

2011-12-17T02:39:00.000Z

This fall I was honored to officiate at aWedding in Colorado in which a Handfastingwas used. Handfasting is a Celtictradition in which the hands of both bride and groom are symbolically tiedtogether. At this wedding some of the groomsold climbing ropes used. I liked how thecouple introduced the idea as a how they would use a blend of some of his rock-climbing ropeto bind their hands together. This is meaningful because just as the ropehad supported and preserved his life in the past, so will the marriage to thiswoman, his bride, support and preserve his life - and hers - in thefuture."

There is a saying that “A cord of three strands is notquickly broken”, and I told the couple that about those ropes that would beused, and how they could be a metaphor for this new life they begin together, andspoke to the about what I thought these three strands would represent.

One stand would be the bride, another the groom, and thethird the vows they are taking and that we have gathered to witness andbless.

From an engineer’s perspective, ropes like these are highlyoverdesigned in that the safe working load is determined to be one fifth of therope’s breaking strength. So really youcould by on just one of these strands…right? Then I asked the groom if he had ever trusteda climbing rope like that?

The strength of a rope depends on its thickness, thethickness of the rope depends on it components and the components of this rope ofmarriage are the bride, the groom, and the vows they make to each other.

So what is the care and feeding of this rope?

According to REI, here are some simple guidelines:

Don’t step on yourrope. REI says that there is nothingthat wears out your rope faster than stepping on it. Besides possibly cutting the sheath on therocks underfoot, stepping on the rope also grinds dirt and dust into the sheathand core, which increases unseen internal damage to the rope.

The same is true formarriage, I told them. Don’t step onyour marriage, don’t grind dirt into it; don’t walk all over your marriage andthen expect it to protect you. So don’tstep on your rope.

Use a rope bag – agood rope bag keeps dust and dirt fro finding its way inside your rope. Dirt impairs the strength, safety and performance of your rope.

The same is true formarriage – You need to protect it, to have a place it can rest, away fromwork, away from the pressures of life, away from friends, and yes family. Make time for just the two of you, doingsomething you both enjoy, and do it just because you enjoy doing it. It doesn’t have to lead to anything, enjoyingit is a good enough reason. God knowsyou both in professions that are difficult and stressful enough on their own, protectyour marriage. So use a rope bag.

Run your rope freely– Make sure your rope runs freely whenever possible. There is nothing that will trash a rope likesharp edges or rough corners. Let ithand free and encourage the twist to unwind with your hand.

The same is true formarriage – Let your spouse be themselves, the person you fell in lovewith. Give them permission to try newthings, change, learn a new skill, and run free. Don’t be overly controlling, allow them thefreedom to be the person they are becoming. Be patient and kind with them, support them in their successes. Some ofwhich may eclipse yours, but don’t be envious, nor jealous but be supportive. Let your home be a safe place to unwind. So letyour rope run freely.

Avoid poor rappellingand belaying – Fast or jerky rappelling,lowering and belaying can cause rope damage due to burning the sheath, as wellas loss of control.

The same is true formarriage – Avoid drama for drama’s sake. Don’t intentionally jerk each other around. In our house we try to follow the “no strife”rule, meaning we do not invite strife into our lives. Imagine a door that is shut, and then imagineeverything that is wrong with the world, or could go wrong, every type of evilis behind that door, and when you open that door, you are inviting strife itinto your home, and the worst part isknowing that you did it yourself, and once open, it doesn’t go back easily.

Mark the Middle, NOT –UIAA tests a few years ago showed that marking ropes with sharpies or felt-tippedpens can damage the rope; this even includes those markers sold specially for markingropes.

The same is true formarriage – Don’t mark up your marriage, don’t keep score, keep no record ofwrongs. You will have opportunity topractice this rule. And each time youget to make decision..do I forgive, do Ilearn to trust again, do I hope for a better tomorrow or long for a past thatnever was? The decision is yours eachtime, and each time you keep score, or mark your rope, you weaken it. Sometimes climbers mark the middle of theirrope, and in marriage that leads to a 50:50 portioning of its responsibilities. A friend of mine warned against that,explaining that every good marriages is based on the 60:40 rule. That if you each contribute 60% to marriage,there will always be extra in times of need; and in your case, if you mark notthe middle, but always make sure that you’ve let out 60%, your rope will neverrun out.

Now…here is where themetaphor breaks down. REI suggestthat ropes must be replaced when damaged or when old. And they give general guidelines, like afterrepeated falls, or every two years in traditional use, or 2-4 years in weekenduse, or when damaged (by anything I mentioned earlier).

But unlike rope, your marriage has the ability toregenerate, to recover, to repair damage and to be made new. All you have to do is care for it, keep thevows you made, and protect the love you have for each other.

Your rope can climb mountains, it can move mountains, it cando all things and through it, all things are possible.

Today you both are putting your hands to this rope calledmarriage and being here today you are putting your faith in love of the personwho holds the other end of the rope for you.

Being here today you are giving hope to your shared future,so if you care for this rope, and it will take care of you both, and never runout.

Lebh Shomea: Lessons Learned.

2011-05-26T04:55:00.001Z

Lebh Shomea: Lessons Learned.

So maybe lessons learned is too definitive. Lessons in the process of being learned might fit better because I seem to come back around to these lessons like seasons of the year. Again I learn or relearn is that I am doing too much that doesn’t matter, last or make a difference.

Inside the Sacred Heart Chapel

One day in community silent prayers I was convicted by something I read in the Gospel of John. Each day at 5pm people gather in the Sacred Heart Chapel and sit in silence until the dinner bell rings. Hunger leads to more effective prayer. I was meditating on what Jesus said about being bread of life, he cautions me not to work for food that spoils, but for the food that endures to eternal life. This hits home because I like to cook so much, even knowing that this effort is just for this meal; I like to play music with other musicians, knowing the songs do end, concerts do conclude; and so much of the weekly work I do for the church goes in the recycling bin because we done with it, its all food that spoils.

The Dinner Bell

Except for the relationships – the people at the dinner table, the musicians in the band, those who gather to worship, these are the relationships nurtured. It seems to me that it can’t all be food that endures to eternal life, there must also be some food that spoils, that is the tyranny of the urgent.

We have some coffee mugs from my first church, ones so old that now there is just faint reminder of their design. We were so proud of these mugs when they came out, and we worked so hard to get the design right. Those were the early days of that church when we really didn’t know who we were, or what we were becoming, and so much effort went into coffee mugs, webpages, bulletins, publications, none of which survive to this day.

What survived are the relationships, and yet what I spend the majority of my time on was the stuff that didn’t; didn’t last, matter, or make a difference.

It is like I have placed the importance on the coffee mug, but what really matters is what goes in it… the coffee. We need both, without the coffee its just a mug, and without mug, we don’t get the coffee. There is a balance between the mug, how it feels in the hand, and against the lips, together they complements the experience of drinking coffee, but in the end, it is the coffee, not the mug that is its reason for being. At Lebh Shomea instant is the only coffee available, so maybe I’m just jonesing for a real cup o’ joe.

Dining Room

I think this coffee-mug metaphor fits well with what I have come to understand this time as the mission of the church (that is why we do what we do):

Make Disciples
Disciple Believers
Wash more Feet

Understanding that to …
Make Disciples means to introduce Jesus to people in a positive way by who we are, and what we do with the end goal being of God becoming real to those whom we have introduced to Jesus to. But it does not end with the making disciples.

Disciple Believers means that we provide opportunities and the expectation that people will grow in their faith and understanding of the faith practices by connecting them to other believers. Together, communities are formed that gather for prayer and to study the Bible. I struggle with using the word believers, as if I am limiting it, confessionally, to professing Christians. I guess what I mean is that the leaders of the community would be believers, so that its focus always remains God-centered. Churches and Small Groups have a tendency to become self absorbed, inwardly focused and so the third component and so they need opportunities to look outside themselves.

Wooden Cross at the Cowboy Cemetery

Wash Feet or Wash More Feet means that there are opportunities and an expectation that the church will to serve others inside and outside its community, in either service or mission. Defining mission as something we do for non-believers (as the hands and feet of Christ), and service as something we do for believers (as their community of faith). I’m not sure if the word more is needed, but it does place the expectation that the church will ever increase its efforts in serving others.

By attending to all three (Make Disciples, Disciple Believers, Wash more Feet) God’s church helps people work out their own salvation. Salvation, I’ve seen in my readings this week, means more than just a single salvific or justifying moment that awakens our faith (and “saves” us). Salvation means becoming whole, and sanctification is that process or journey to which all believers are called to, one that leads toward their wholeness. Faith is but one component that journey, and seeking wholeness includes a faith that seeks understanding, that connects to a community, that putting their faith into action, that lives to make a difference, a difference that matters, and whose efforts ultimately last beyond themselves.

Sunset from the Tower of The Big House

Lebh Shomea: Listening

2011-05-16T12:15:00.001Z

Lebh Shomea: Listening

The first thing I realize is how cluttered my life has become, our house, my office, my calendar, my thoughts. The rule of the house Lebh Shomea suggests that we keep our rooms uncluttered, in line with the beauty and stark simplicity of the place. In the silence, great conversations are held in as I alternate books, a chapter of Love Wins,(Rob Bell-2011) then a chapter of Healing Everywhere, (John Banks-1966); read in one setting without distraction or interruption. And then the conversations begin as I listen to these two authors separated by 45 years. Both speak to this concept of salvation, but in much broader terms than we in the church do. Rather than a single salvific moment that awakens our faith (and saves us), salvation could mean wholeness, a process or journey that leads toward wholeness, in which our faith is just a component.

Lebh Shomea is a place where concepts gain clarity. It is the place when I was serving my first church that the guiding principals of

Grow the Kingdom
Become more Christ-like

were realized. It was like God was saying “Steve, I know you’re not the brightest bulb in the box, and so I’m going to make it real simple for you, just have your church do these two things: Grow the Kingdom and become more Christ-like.” I brought this idea back to the church staff and leaders and asked them, so what do you think? I spoke with my mentors asking them if they could see any problem with these twin ideals. After a few years the church warmed up to these guiding principals and the idea took root, and remains today.

Its also this place where the silence of 2004 taught me the proper ordering of life,

God,
Family
and Everything else.

I council young soon-to-be-marrieds on this rule, that everything else is anything else that isn’t God and Family, so its your job, career, truck, guitar, previous life… and if you change this ordering and put anything else above God and Family, you are choosing to make it difficult for God to bless your lives together. Priorities.

The silence brings on an evaluative or contemplation of what one has done with their life, especially in the realization that the time I have left on this earth is less than the time I have already lived. It becomes natural to wonder what difference have I really made? The computer games I wrote after college only lasted a few years, the research I did at after that, who knows, there is some of my imbedded systems code running around on our fleet of subs, and then all the long hours spent serving the church. What have I to show for it? It’s vanity of vanities, as the author of Ecclesiastes (chapter 1) wrote. More and more I realize the only things that last are the relationships I’ve built with people, or as my supervising pastor used to say “Its all about relationships, Steve”. But relationships are hard to quantify, and they take time, and there is noting to point to or admire, and say job well done until the time to nurture them has long passed.

It is also the place that I began to understand the true mission of the church, at least as I see it. Now I know we say the mission of the United Methodist Church is to

Make disciples of Jesus Christ for the transformation of the world,

where disciple is used as a noun, and we measure those nouns by counting the number of people who made a first-time confession of faith, or are baptized. So one measure of our effectiveness in this mission statement might be to divide the number of new disciples by our annual budget, and it comes out to something close to $50,000/disciple made (using 2009 figures, the grand total paid was $103,378,852, and in that same year 2099 professions of faith were recorded). I know that is crude, but if making disciples is our mission, then someone needs to say…we are not very efficient at it.

We need a broader definition of what disciple means. Instead of making disciples, the church could disciple people, using the word as a verb. Instead of the single event of making a disciple, it becomes a process where we disciple people; understood as a process, a journey toward wholeness. And so what I heard in the silence of 2005 was that the mission of the church (that is why we do what we do) could be:

Connect people to God
Connect people to those around them
Connect people to the lives they were created to live.

In other words, to help individual people connect to the divine, to be in community, to work towards living more fulfilling lives. Individually and collectively, we work toward this mission by attending worship, by being active in a Small Group, and by serving in some way that helps another person. Its not a radio button, or multiple choice, its all three, and when we understand and set the expectation that people in this tribe are on a shared journey that is always leading us to connect with God, to the people around us, and the lives God created us to live. Only by attending to all three do we seek the wholeness that is our salvation. But it’s a hard sell and few have caught this vision for the mission for the church. Maybe the connecting language doesn’t pay enough homage to the traditional mission of the institutional Methodist church, the whole make disciples thing. So this year the silence of 2011 brought me a refinement:

Make Disciples,
Disciple People,
Wash more Feet.

If we the church could just do those three things, maybe God would bless our efforts.

Next: Lessons Learned.

Lebh Shomea House of Prayer: Introduction

2011-05-09T11:38:00.001Z

[The Big House]

Lebh Shomea House of Prayer: Introduction

It’s been a lifetime since my last visit to Lebh Shomea. When I was here last (November 2005), I received a txt from Suzanne, that we might be moving to Africa. Suzanne had just passed the first stage of three in the Fulbright process. Here it is five years, six months later and it is good to be back.

Lebh Shomea House of Prayer is a “House,” a “Community.” and a “School” of Prayer, a place of silence and solitude I have come to before.

Day begins at 6:30am when the bell rings awakening you for the daily celebration of Eucharist, followed by breakfast, lunch, silent prayers, and dinner. All in silence except for the spoken prayers that began the day.

The silence begins to work on me as soon as I arrive shifting from whatever panic brought me here, to the peace the place eventually brings. The name Lebh Shomea is Hebrew for listening heart. Each day sees guests arriving as humans beings on a spiritual journey, leaving days, weeks as into spiritual beings on a human journey.

Little changes in this place, especially in the breakfast and dinner menus, which are very simple. The Lunch, which is the main meal of the day, is always interesting cooked from what the ranch produces, and with the ranch hands and staff joining us, so lots of new faces.

By day two the silence is settling in, and by the fourth, complete conversations are had with nary a spoken word. What would the silence be like for those who come longer than a week, a month, a year, or a lifetime? For me 9 days will be enough, though I am intrigued by a longer 40 day wilderness experience.

[my room on the third floor of the Big House]

What - you’re not happy to see us?”

On Sunday the silence breaks between noon and 1pm when speakng is allowed at Lunch. Conversation is lively as we quickly learn the names of the friends we only know as faces from sharing worship and meals. Then a quick trip to the “beach” is organized for the afternoon. Beach is a generous term, but it is a welcome change from the silence of the Big House and there is more time to ponder, so what brought you to Lebh Shomea. And then Sunday afternoon comes, the enforced silence returns, and I miss the companionship. It think of Eat, Pray, Love (the book, not the movie), when everything is going well for Liz in Italy and then depression and loneliness …

They come upon me all silent and menacing like Pinkerton Detectives, and they flank me – Depression on my left, Loneliness on my right. They don’t need to show me their badges. I know these guys very well. We’ve been playing a cat-and-mouse game for years now. Though I admit that I am surprised to meet them in this elegant Italian garden at dusk. This is no place they belong.

I say to them, “how did you find me here? Who told you I had come to Rome?”

Depression, always the wise guy, says, “what – you’re not happy to see us?”

I am lonely after the day’s festivities, I had worked so hard to quiet my soul, to let my spirit catch up with my body, and now a bit depressed I have to do it all over again. But its part of the experience I’ve come to expect. One of the others who has been coming here off and on for 30 years says “there is only one rule to this place, keep you mouth shut…do that long enough and all sorts of stuff comes up you need to deal with.”

[The Beach]

I came knowing what I had to deal with: I needed to find my way back to the happy little associate pastor place. You see my lead pastor had taken an eleven week leave of absence, and left me in charge all through Lent and the five weeks proceeding it. Being in charge, I unpacked a whole box of lead pastor tools that wouldn’t work so well if he returned from leave. He did, and as part of our negotiations before he left, he drove me to the Greyhound station this stay at Lebh Shomea. The plan was to wipe down my lead pastor tools, and pack them away. As my previous senior pastor told me, “Steve, a Church can have only one pastor,” but that God St. Philip’s isn’t that kind of church.

So during my days here I’ve studied Rob Bell’s amazing new book Love Wins, involved myself in a lengthy Bible study on healing, reading books on Sabbath, healing, The Gospel of Thomas (which I’ve read every time I’ve come here), learning to pray in the Celtic Iona tradition. I thought about changes I want to make in my ministry and practice of life and took long walks and a ridiculous number of pictures.

Up Next: Listening…

Check it for Good

2011-03-08T11:39:00.002Z

Check it for Good

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This is the final sermon in the series "Lost Luggage" - how sometimes losing your baggage can be a good thing. Given at St. Philip's United Methodist Church, Round Rock, Texas on 06-March-2011 at the Traditional Liturgy Worship Service in the Historic Turnersville Chapel.

Text: John 5:1-9

Music by The Chancel Choir, directed by Ms. Pat Butler

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We Go to Togo, part 2

2010-08-09T00:06:00.000Z

Germany-Togo Monument in Togoville

Sometimes I think we place too much importance on safety. That too much adventure is sacrificed on the altar safety. Even making such a statement reveals an American bias, that safety is our choice, where as in most of the world it never has a choice. I just know I feel more alive than I have in years, and that our life is an adventure worth living.

child's drawing on a home compound wall

What I notice about Togoville is that the people do not seem happy. I don’t know if this speaks to the rest of the country, but here the children do not smile or laugh. If we see them they are not playing but have a frightened, beaten down look about them. Driving back from to Lome, I see only Catholic church buildings, and they are large, imposing empty structures. I don’t see the Pentecostal home churches, nor the Presby or Methodist schools which are so prevalent in Ghana. There is no doubt that there is a Catholic presence in this part of Togo, but I don’t see evidence of much other religious influences other than the occasional mosque. I long to travel north, to see how that part of the country differs.

Downtown Lome, see all the moto-bike taxis

We stay in Lome for the rest of our trip, and it is wonderful, fun, and very tasty. I wish Suzanne and I had discovered this when we lived in Ghana. It would have been a nice and inexpensive week-end away. The food in Lome is spectacular. We see museums, visit art stores, hear music, eat delicious more French inspired food and buy Togolese cloth and clothes. The art we see look much like the art in Ghana, only older and higher quality. There are historic pieces I wish I could buy and much colonial era furniture that I dream about outfitting a house with.

On our last night we come out from the restaurant and its raining. It took us an hour to walk to this place, and now that it is getting dark, and the tour books sternly warn you not to walk at night; we look for a Taxi.

Now Lome has taxis but mostly its moto-bikes which serve as single person taxis that you see one driver, and one rider zipping around the city. There is a thriving small business selling petro out of green bottles by the side of the road on small tables. A moto-bike can fill its tank anywhere.

Petro for sale, by the litre

If we were one, then I would catch one of the moto-bikes, but the last thing I want is to put my 15-year-old blond longhaired daughter on one and watch her buzz away out of my protection. We wait, we try to flag a taxi and the rain really comes. We start walking, and then a young man pulls in front of us on a moto-bike, motions for us to hop on. I make the number 2 with my fingers and motion to both of us. He nods, and motions with his head for both of us to get on.

“Mom would never allow us to do this,” Anna says as we pull away.

“But Mom’s not here right now, is she?” I say. People are cheering the man on, like either to say good for you, or maybe its against the law to carry two, but be brave.

The driver is cautious, but still it is raining, the streets are slick, we are three people on a two wheeled machine, and I’m thinking, so where did I put that medical emergency evacuation card? And then when I remember, and just how am I going to explain this to Mrs. Buchele?

Now imagine Anna & Steve on back of moto-bike, and its after dark, and raining.

We direct him as best we can to the hotel which he doesn’t know, and of course, we don’t know Lome, and when we get within a few block of where we think the hotel is, that is the streets have turned to sand, we motion for him to stop, getting off laughing, relieved, excited , and glad to be on solid ground again. I give the guy twice what it should be and we’re all happy. He rides away and the street seems to cheer with him.

“WOW, that was fun,” Anna said, later posting a more descriptive account on Facebook.

The hotel we stayed in had hot water, air conditioning, WiFi, and they took VISA, which sort of is the answer to the question: name four things we haven’t seen since the US. It also happened to house one of the highly-rated French restaurants which we enjoyed lunch and breakfast at, especially the coffee.

I think if we had not had such a bad experience in Togoville, we would have toured more, visiting the famous voodoo and fetish markets, but being pretty badly spooked, we stuck to what we could do well.

In general we experienced the people of Lome to be good caring people, and their hospitality factor was as welcoming as the Ghanaians.

Downtown Lome is home to another cathedral, and market places, and these push-carts that sell coffee and tea (with lime & sugar). Their product is good, I only wish we had discovered it earlier.

Coffee & Tea by cart.

Then it’s a four hour ride back to Accra via TroTro, and when we get there, I have a hankering for some Ghanaian fried chicken and rice street food. It is good to be back.

Tasty Ghanaian Fried Rice & Chicken

We Go to Togo, part 1

2010-08-05T13:48:00.000Z

After Suzanne left to return to the states, Anna and I took a few days to visit Togo.

Good-bye pictures with Natalie before Suzanne leaves

The Togolese Republic, or Togo is the French speaking sliver of a country to the east of Ghana, accessible through the border town Aflao, where we spent the night after taking the TroTro from Tema. What is it about border towns that make them such armpits, that seem to attract the worst in people? We arrive near and the town is frantic busy with people grabbing at us everywhere. Money changers, taxi drivers, scouts.

The first hotel we try is an upscale (for Aflao) hotel that we decided would be nice, but not exactly what we are looking for. The next hotel turns out to be the kind you rent by the hour, and the men at “reception,”, turned us away suggesting we try to Thanks Hotel. Thanks Hotel is the kind of place that was once really nice, thoughtfully designed and still maintained, to some extent, but the staff working there, obviously the manager was away. Maybe they are used to having a different kind of clientele, ones from the micro-culture of NGOs that our friend Natalie writes about [click here], but we found it difficult to get change from our bill even when the restaurant was full and everyone else seemed to be receiving change. It also had a funny set of notice to lodgers, including:

TO AVOID EMBARRASSMENT, CUSTOMERS ARE ADVISED TO MAINTAIN SANITY IN AND OUT OF HOTEL ROOMS

As soon as we crossed the border the food changed, most noticeably the bread. In Ghana the bread selection is T Bread, Sweet Bread, or Brown Bread each which have a unique to Ghana taste and pretty universal availability throughout Ghana. Ten feet across the border and all we see are crusty baguettes. They are wonderful.

Togo, a former French Colony, and before WWI, German colony, was once known as the Pearl of West Africa. In its capital Lome, we see its former beauty in pristine (but empty) beaches, sweeping boulevards, and crumbling colonial infrastructure.

This trip we have become much more adventurous in our trying of street food; Anna and I have eaten more these four weeks in Ghana than we did as a family for two years. In Lome the new street food we tried was called JonBo, or so said the rasta man who cleared a place for us to sit.

JonBo – a deep fried sausage in a french roll topped with grilled onions and tomatoes.

A Visit to Togoville

We visited the old capital Togoville, on the northern side of Lake Togo. Accessible by Taxi (2 hours) or by prough (20 minutes). In 1884 Togoville's chief signed a treaty with Germany giving them ownership over the present day Togo (and part of modern day Ghana) in return for her protection. Some years later, the Germans built a magnificent cathedral.

In the 1970s, the Blessed Virgin was reportedly seen on Lake Togo, an event that attracted a visit from Pope John Paul II in the 1985. We looked for Mary, but all we saw was the rain as we crossed the lake. Look at brave Anna watching the boat being bailed out before we get in it.

The German Cathedral, as seen from the boat.

The German Cathedral, outside with bell tower.

Inside the Cathedral

Notice the Lion and Eagle at the top of the stained glass window.

These Bishop's seats reminded me of Ashanti Stools

The Viewing Platform built for Pope John Paul II

Shrine to the Virgin Mary

Togoville Town Tour

Well dug by the German's in 1910

Steps to a compound

Fetish, notice the offering on RHS of picture in baskets.

Fetish Trees, LHS is the male.

Fetish to the Fetish Trees

I guess our visit to Togoville really soured us to exploring any more of Togo. It was a dreadful place where everyone’s focus seemed on ripping us off. When the boat landed, they wanted to charge us 20 Euro each to tour the town. Both in Ghana and Togo, people assumed we were German. $46 to tour the town, I said, “lets get back in the boat.” “Oh no, my friend. You stay.” Some tense moments followed, “Your price is too much, I will not pay,” I say. “Lets go.” It was misting outside, and soon the real rain would follow. I’m thinking about the boat ride back, the waves, and this town which feels so unsafe to me. I don’t know how you are, but when I get in unsafe places, or ones that feel unsafe, the fun, easy going Mr. Steve goes away, and the pain in the __________, ugly Steve comes out.

Anna hates that person, and so I’ve got these hustlers keen on ripping the very last CFA from our pockets, I got the rain, and soon it will be an out and out downpour, we’re in a town far away, one we don’t speak the language of, I’ve got the 15 year old I’m trying to protect, who is doing her best to turn this situation around by being positive and upbeat, and these guys who set of the same alarm bells as a mugger. I can’t see a way out of the situation, so I take a path of least resistance.

We take the town tour, but I only tip the guy, and really seemingly everyone else in the town, just to get out of that place. If you are reading this blog and think that Togoville sounds like a fun place to go, think again. It is an awful, terrible, evil place.

On our way back, Anna and I process what went so terribly wrong, contrasting it with Ghana. We’re also looking to exchange more money since this little trip cleans us out. In Accra, there are those who very good naturedly try to separate you from your Cedis, but they do so in a more or less fun way, so even if it does happen, you don’t feel so bad about it. But the further you get from Accra, the cheaper prices are and more easy-going people and prices seem to be. Our Togo experience was just the opposite, the further we get from Lome, the more it felt like extortion, where the price we pay is for our safety.

Ashesi’s New Campus at Brekuso, by Suzanne (photos by Steve, of course!)

2010-07-27T02:54:00.000Z

Suzanne gives this lecture hall's first lecture

The morning of the day that I flew back to the States, we went to see Ashesi University College’s new campus that is under construction in the village of Brekuso, north of Accra. As promised, the road there was VERY rough – the last leg of the journey, which might have been 10 minutes on a good road, stretched for 30 minutes due to the need to go 5 mph through some of the worst potholes.But on our approach we were able to get a nice view of the campus up on the hill above Brekuso.

Campus site as seen from the Village

We went with Casper, Ashesi’s chief facilities officer, and Ken, one of the Ashesi drivers. Casper is the main person in charge of the construction on the Ashesi end. In Ghana, construction is overseen by the architects themselves, who act also as the lead construction managers.

Reviewing the Campus Plans

Casper, AKA The Chief

The Ashesi campus at Brekuso is on a site of 100 acres overlooking the village of Brekuso, north of Accra. The views are beautiful, and I am told on a clear day you can see across to Aburi, another town north of Accra that houses several nice hotels, a Presidential retreat center, and a botanical garden. The altitude, winds, and distance from the city make the Ashesi site much cooler than the temporary quarters in Accra, which will be wonderful. Also, I am told that there are no mosquitoes – due either to the wind or altitude, who knows, but let’s all hope that they don’t get imported to the site by anyone!

Corn growing across the valley

The Village of Brekuso

Ashesi’s building project has two separate construction crews working, one on the main academic buildings and another on the dormitories. This was a result of “risk analysis”, or in layman’s terms, not putting all your eggs in one basket, so that if something goes wrong with one project, the other contractor could step in and finish it if need be. Thankfully, BOTH projects are ahead of schedule and show the signs of extremely high quality construction techniques at work. We were all impressed with the obvious safety standards in effect – all workers were required to have steel-toed boots and hardhats (we were issued hardhats on the way through the security checkpoint on the way in). There were signs all over the construction site with the safety rules in effect. We were not allowed in some areas due to possible safety hazards – protocols you see in America, but not so often in Africa. Anna also commented about how happy the workers seemed to be. Although everyone was working hard, there was pride and pleasure in work well-done evident in everyone’s attitude.

chalklining the next course of blocks

Worker smiles because I keep taking pictures of him, and his friends are making fun of him

The new campus is due to be complete ahead of schedule, by May 2010, at which point, hopefully, they will break ground on Phase 2. The current Phase 1 will accommodate 600 students with perhaps the addition of Economics and Liberal Studies majors (in addition to the current Computer Science, Business Administration, and Management Information Systems). The next set of majors to be added will hopefully be Engineering, which will require more facilities (most notably the labs needed for Engineering studies) and also more classrooms and dorms to bring the campus capacity closer to the final target of 2000 students.

Dr. B testing out the Lecture Hall

It was really thrilling to be able to see the construction at this stage. We missed the official ground breaking last August, which I was very sorry to miss, but frankly at that point it was little more than the raw land we had seen in 2007. Seeing the Brekuso campus in July 2010, there was the overwhelming feeling of, “Wow, this is really happening!” I pretended to lecture in one of the lecture halls, which Casper got a kick out of and Steve snapped photos of. There is even an outside lecture area, which I think is a grand idea and am hoping that Southwestern will include in their new Science building.

We saw the canteen, where Ashesi students, faculty, and staff will eat inside, but open air. Phase 1 has five classrooms, plus the outdoor one. The library is particularly impressive, and I am happy that Ashesi’s fantastic librarian, Nina, will have an equally impressive facility in which to operate.

The Library

Ashesi drilled a borehole at the bottom of the hill, with a pump to pump the water up to a holding tank at the uppermost point of the hill, which will then operate using gravity from there. The borehole (well) will not be able to fully supply all the needs of the campus. A rainwater collection system will collect water from the main academic building and shuttle the water via specialized rain gutters to holding tanks in the basement of the building. From there it will be pumped and used for the rest of the campus water needs.

The Well Pump

The well water, we learned, has a high content of iron, which will need to be filtered out of the water along the way. Up at the building site at the top of the hill, we saw the evidence of iron deposits in the beautiful stones that were unearthed during the building process and will be used to adorn the outside of the buildings’ walls, as accents. We brought some of the iron-laden rock home with us, so we could remember the Brekuso campus, and Ashesi, whenever we look at it.

Finished rock veneer

Rock Pile

The campus will also have a biogas facility that will harvest gas from sewage for cooking. There was hope of using wind power at one point, but initial estimates were more than anyone could reasonably expect of fundraising efforts for it – wind power is not prevalent in Ghana, and with import duties and importing engineering expertise, it was just not possible. But, perhaps when Ashesi has its own engineering professors and students, a wind generator project could be started at that point!

Worker looking at the cistern that will hold rainwater

Status update: as many of you know, we helped fundraise for the specialized rain gutters for Ashesi’s new campus – thanks to ALL who so generously contributed to the fund! You all helped raise just over the full amount: $10,245.00 toward our goal of $10,000.00! So, thanks to you, our friends, we will have raised enough money for the specialized rain gutters for the academic building for Ashesi’s new campus! Thank you!!! And, for any of you for whom Ashesi’s mission has really resonated, they will be fundraising for Phase 2 of their building plan, so please continue to support Ashesi and their very worthy cause to help educate the next generation of leaders of Ghana – we will!

Bird we saw leaving the campus.

Day 8 - Leaving Bolga

2010-07-24T14:49:00.000Z

We had only intended to spend one night in Bolgatanga, but it turned out to be such an interesting town, we spent four, and wish we could spend more, but I have the pleasure of preaching at Asbury Dunwell Church on Sunday, so I need to get back to prepare.

Our last days are spent buying baskets, and saying good-bye to the friends we have made there, and visiting the historic Catholic Church in Navrongo.

[woman head-loading Elephant grass]

Straw Baskets make such great gifts, we’ve seen them for sale at Whole Foods, and in some of the upscale catalogs, but buying them at the market is so much more fun. Finding the basket market on Market Day is easy, just follow back the trail of basket laden bicycles…or ask, which we do, several times.

[baskets on bikes]

[baskets at Whole Foods, in Austin. Snapped right before we left]

Turns out the Basket Market is different than the Market Day market, which is more a live animal auction located next to what the Bradt guide map calls the “New Market.” The New Market sells most of the items you would expect in a major market town, plus a dizzying array of hides sold in thin strips at several vendors. I recognize the skins of lion, crocodile, snake, goat, dog (I’m guessing) and other skins I have no idea, maybe cat, rabbit, antelope? There are 100s, neatly laid out for the practitioners traditional medicine. Elsewhere I see tall mounds of the tanned goat skins that are the traditional dark red leather for wallets, bags, chairs, and floor pillows of the region. Like most markets there is also the place of “broni wa wo,” meaning dead white man’s clothes, but I’m sure they have another name for it, as broni is Twi, a language not spoken here much. We see a shirt from our hometown of Austin, from Hooters, and its signed. Ah! Couldn’t we have found something more honorable from Austin, like a Keep Austin Weird shirt or my favorite: Austin Texas: home of romance, live music, and road construction.

[Hooters shirt]

Then we walk past the animal market and see mostly goats and people leading goats away by bicycle, moto-bike, or stuffing them in the boot (trunk) of a taxi. People joke with us…”Don’t you want to buy a goat?” “Not today,” I say, which I find myself saying a lot. It is not correct to just refuse, or say, no. Street sellers will just continue to work on you, but say the magic words: “Not Today,” and they say “Ok…tomorrow then” and leave you alone.

[Animal Market – fence]

[Animal Market – barbed wire]

[Animal Market – man on bicycle with goat]

[Animal Market – goats]

We keep asking around around for the Basket Market until we are lead to it, which it turns out to be a place we had stumbled into our first day but didn’t know it. Basket sellers remember us from three days earlier first day, “My friend,” or “Mister Steve” they shout, and Anna and I examine their baskets, and after selecting a buyer, we spend maybe 30 minutes bartering for a fair price.

[room of baskets]

The Art of Barter

Bargaining is a social art, one that generally has little to do with price, and all about the game, and its relationship. Sure they want to make money, and will never sell at a loss.

The game begins by the seller offering a crazy high price, like 20 cedi a basket.

I offer 5 cedi. He laughs nervously, expecting me to counter with 50% of the starting price, not 25%. “Five cedi is no good.” There is 30 to 40 seconds when neither of us speak as he fingers the product, expecting me to break the silence and raise my bid. I've learned to say nothing. After a minute I motion to him, open handed, inviting him to respond. His counter is critical because whatever he counters with, I will match from my starting price, and from this point it almost always goes for halfway between our second bids, so it is important to not counter too high.

[they also sell hats, but it is hard to take someone serious when wearing a hat like that]

Next he will say 18, and I say 7, and in a few moments we will have pretty much established that the final price will be 10, which I could have offered as my opening bid, but then we would be settling on more like 15. If the haggling stalls, the seller will quickly put the item in a black plastic bag, and push it into my hand saying “you take” and name the price we’re stuck on, in this case 12 cedi. Usually then something distracting happens, like another seller butting in at this point, or the seller disappearing for a few minutes. I think this is purposeful as it is to seal the deal.

I can try to hand the bag back, but he will refuse it. Setting the bag down is an insult, so I’m left holding the bag, and he makes it sound like we have agreed on his price. I have a choice, I can hand it back, name my price, and once he accepts the bag back, I know he will take my price if I start to walk away. Then he gets all quiet on my, whispering in a low voice, like I’m getting such a good deal, he doesn’t want anyone else to know. “Ok, you take.” Now the key here is to have exact change, because it is poor form to work down the price, and then expect change. The game of barter is that my buying price is supposed to be all I have, and even if we agree on a price, if I don't have exact change, the change will come back a cedi or two short, which seems to be the price of asking for change. [read more about getting change from our friend Nina – click here].

So I felt pretty good about our purchases until I got back to Accra and learned (from our intern-daughter Natalie) I could have gotten them for half that, if I’d gone to the village and bought direct.

The Navrongo Cathedral

[outside, side view]

[outside, front view]

Then we visited the Navrongo Cathedral, the place Nina, our Ashesi friend had told Suzanne about. The town is a bit of an anomaly, predominately Catholic while the surrounding area is Muslim. It seem that in 1906 French-Canadian missionaries established a Catholic mission station by the name of Our Lady of Seven Sorrows. In 1920 a new larger chapel, was built and later dedicated as a cathedral in 1934 and as not only the It is the last of the mud cathedral in Ghana, but the Mother Parish of all the parishes in Northern Ghana.

[inside Altar]

[inside rear]

[wooden pews]

[remember your baptism]

The Cathedral is impressive, painted in the traditional geometric patterns and scenes from everyday life. Its the kind of place that is hard to photograph and still preserve the sanctity of the place.

[geometric side isle]

[bishop's hat]

[Angel]

[Angel with cup]

[A blue door leading outside (for Kaylenn)]

We leave for Austin the next morning, taking an STC...finally, but should have been 14 hours turns into 20 as it kept overheating and the driver stopped to let the engine cool and fill the radiator with water and leak stop.

Near Techiman we stop for an hour and they are selling tomatoes that have been picked that day, whole boxes of them perhaps 3.5 ft square. I go to make friends with the seller and learn a box is 15 cedi and they are headed to Tamale. “Do you want?” he asks. “Can you put on STC?” I counter. “Somehow,” he shakes his head, all sad looking, and I say “Next time then,” and he says “By all means.”

“Somehow,” or “By all means” are two ways of saying no or not likely without really saying it. Like the young men who will say to me “Your daughter, will she be my wife?” to which I reply “by all means.”

Day 7 - Bongo Rock

2010-07-19T10:41:00.000Z

We had planned to just spend a day or so in Bloga, but it is a nice town, and the Sacred Heart Catholic Guest House is simple, but comfortable and so we stay for what turns into four days. After the adventure with the Crocodiles, Anna decided to visit Bongo Rock, via shared Taxi. A few days earlier I had thought that five was the passenger max, but today the driver crammed seven into his tiny TICA but 60 p, I can hardly complain, about .45 cents.

Bongo is a village just north of Bolga. There is not much to the town, and given the directions we got from the kid from New York who spoke to us on the ride out there, we walk out of town toward the big rocks. It always amazes me to think about what we are doing, walking outside a town we've never been to, toward a place we have only vague directions toward, in the very north of Ghana, West Africa. We've been here long enough for this to seem pretty normal, but then I think about what we're doing and I can't believe it.

We get maybe 10 minutes out of town and a man coming from the other direction asks “Where are you going?” He decides he will lead us, and along the way he calls out for 3 or 4 others join in. There is no discussion of money, but I know at the end I'll dash him some small thing for his efforts. This always seems to happen and I see it as more a hospitality than hustle, and so I'm OK with it because I know we'll get a much better tour if the guy leading us knows where to take us. He asks if we want to see the Traditional or Christian site. We keep saying Traditional and he keeps asking until we say Christian, and then we go there.

The landscape here is very different, the grass is green, clipped short by the goats, who are tied up, not and wondering around. We walk besides fields of maize (corn), and millet, past plots of groundnuts (peanuts), cassava, and okra. But do not see the banana, mango or papaya trees, but find terraced farming here, and lush fields surrounding the terraces.

The Christian site has 4 steel pipe crosses along the path to the top. We gather that the Catholics come out here and if there were a few more crosses, I imagine Holy Week and reenacting the stations of the cross [click here]. It is a challenging climb, one I wonder how many times these boys will do today. They ask about Anna, and watch her very carefully. Its a rough climb, and when I'm losing my breath, I pause to take pictures, sometimes I actually use the camera.

We had been warned about the last step, how it is a leap of faith, but worth the risk. In other words it looks more dangerous than it actually is. How will I know? I had asked the college kid in the Taxi who had been to the rock earlier. “Oh you'll know,” he said. We when we got to the place, we saw a panoramic view of all the north of Ghana into Burkina Faso, breath taking. We could see the different villages and extended family compounds, not that different than flying over the Midwest with the farmsteads that dot the landscape. But to get an even better view, one has to jump across the crevasse to the large rock that looked beyond the trees. Oh, so this is what he had been talking about. The body looks at what the eyes can see and says, better not jump. The mind say, says you can do it, overcome your fear…jump. Its not as far as it looks. The body is skeptical, imagining all the scenarios where it doesn’t make it; the mind say go for it, you’ll be fine.

All day I’ve been thinking about our ride up to Bolga from Tamale. We took one of those long-haul TroTros, the really large ones that seat five across, seven rows deep, and are usually top loaded with bundles of cargo and goats. National Geographic stuff. Sitting this compact, my ears are inches from the two Peace Corps girls behind who talk as if I were not there. I can’t even turn around we are so stuffed in here. They catch up on each other’s lives, discussing everyone in the program and who they are currently “with”. I can’t avoid listening; they talk non-stop for three hours. One boy they talk about extensively, “like when you’re talking with him, he looks all thoughtful, and he gets that like far off look, like he’s thinking deeply about what you are saying…” the other jumps in, “but he’s not” she says. “There is like nothing going on inside.” I’m sure I’ve dropped a couple hundred usages of the word like. These women are such verbal processors, but their words burn in my ears. Am I like that? What would they say about me if they knew me? For three hours I hear them analyze their friends and colleagues, and that boy. “He’s passionate about nothing,” they say. Not that he isn’t passionate, its just that his passion does not have an object. Its talk without action, music without expression, art that can’t evoke an emotion. Passionate about nothingness except looking or feeling passionate. I think about myself, my situation, and wonder what makes me come alive, or back to my current situation, what would I jump across the crevasse to do, ignoring the danger of possible failure?

Someone once said “Don't ask yourself what the world needs. Ask yourself what makes you come alive, and go do that, because what the world needs is people who have come alive.” [Howard Thurman] So have been compiling my list of things that make me come alive, and it seems like such a shallow one, but what would be worse I think, is to lie about one’s own list of passions. So in no particular order this is my list: cooking/food, worship and Ghana.

Cooking - I’ll spend all day, or two cooking a meal, or learning a dish from someone. It is perhaps my most favorite thing to do these days; in fact I get cranky if I don’t spend some time in the kitchen every few days. I was like this growing up too. Once in junior high I remember visiting my Uncle Joe’s farm in Kansas, and making them pizza with my mom. I’ve cooked in most of my friend’s kitchens at one point or another. I love the communal aspect of food, and deeply appreciate that about aspect of the Ghanaian culture. That, except for one dish called “Face the Wall,” one would never think about eating alone here. Food is community, and by definition, something shared. For me its one of the hardest adjustments to life back in the states, how lonely lunch or dinner time can be because people are too busy to stop what they are doing to share a meal, or worse, rushing through it so they can do the next thing; eating with out tasting it. When Suzanne asked what I wanted to do for my 50th birthday, it was inviting friends over and cooking a fabulous meal with them and then sharing it.

Worship - I’m not just saying that because I’m a pastor, and should include something religious on my list (how sad would that be?) I do love worship, I love planning it, attending passionate worship services, feeling the playful love that goes into the service when everything works together, the danger when someone calls an auditable. I love being lost in the experience, as the work of worship helps me approaching the divine. This work can’t be measured by minutes, but only what that experience does, where it takes you. I love a well structured sermon, singing hymns I’ve never sung, connecting words of the hymns with the message, being lead by a talented lead worshipper, or listening to the perfect song following a sermon, like a good cup of coffee after dessert. I love that feeling after the benediction when I feel changed, encouraged, or challenged. I love it on Wednesday when my mind is still working through a “some assembly required” aspect of the sermon, or when I’m wondering years from now, about a particular point or story I heard.

Ghana – I wanted to say Africa, but this continent is huge and diverse, and Africa is already so trendy these days. When I say it, Ghana doesn’t feel like a large enough passion, but it’s a newly discovered one, one I cannot fully articulate. I just know I love being here, and when I’m not, then talking about life here. I like the person I am here. I like the work Suzanne is doing here. I like traveling here, even when it is difficult and things don’t go our way or are dangerous. We’ve learned we prefer the TroTros over the big bus, or the air conditioned vans, or the fast cars or dropping taxis. Its not about the expense, or the planning, it just is simpler and more interesting. I mean an air conditioned van should be nicer, but what about when the guy sitting next to you for three hours is from one of those formerly French colonies, where deodorant is not widely used. In an open air Tro, no problem. In a closed air conditioned van, big problem. I see so many people doing such good work here, and the work Suzanne is doing is leading toward deeper change. It isn’t in an orphanage, or building a church, its preparing Africans to problem solve Africa’s problems, the African way, and it feels like we are connected to something so much bigger than ourselves, something worthy of being the object of our passion, of taking that leap and we both feel so alive.

Back on the Christian Rock site near the Bongo, I wonder if I'm over thinking this whole leap to the next rock and while I am, I watch Anna mountain goat across it with ease. It is worth it I hear from her, and when I’m finally there, we can see far enough to actually see the curvature of the earth.

Then its off to Bongo Rock. It’s the kind of place one wonders how they discovered it. Basically, just a big rock just balanced on a few smaller ones, but when you strike the smaller rocks they sound like a tuned drum, a bongo, and these four guys that have been moving with us all take up stations around the different rocks and start banging on them.

I had noticed them picking up hand sized rocks earlier. There is a rhythm to it, a song of tones, and these guys bang it out. After the concert Anna and I take our turn, and then everyone just rests. We relax in the shade of the rock; the wind blows, our sweat soaked shirts dry, the view is amazing, and we just rest, thankful to be here. Then as if something had happened, it is time to head back. Its an easy walk back to the village. We see this perfectly white lamp sitting on a rock. Then its a dash to our guides and back in the shared taxi to Bolga (this time just four of us).

Back in Bolga its time for Sugar Cane, and Anna finds a seller and we take it back to the hotel. I remember this treat from when I was a child here, and watching her chew on it, it is a shared memory.

Day 6 - Bolgatanga

2010-07-16T06:15:00.002Z

From Tamale we move to Bolgatanga, or Bolga, as almost everyone calls it after a few days. We go by TroTro, or “Tros,” as the Peace Core kids call it who are gathering from across Ghana for a 4^th of July party. Bolga is known for its marketdays which happen every three days, which rotate between three villages of the area. Generally the town has a pretty laid back friendly feel to it, where if you look the least bit confused, someone will ask you “where are you going?” and then cross the street to help you, and unless you insist otherwise, will walk you to that place. But today it feels different, more intense. It could be the rain, it is the rainy season, and for the last few days it has been painfully hot, and dry, even the locals were suffering, but then a few hours before dusk, the storm that had been gathering all day blows in from the north. Huge blasts of hot dry dusty wind leaving the market traders scrambling to pack their goods before they got wet or blew away. No one minds the rain, it’s a blessing for everything that brings income into this area depends on it. Indeed this area is the breadbasket of Ghana, where much of its staples like tomatoes, okra, peanuts (or groundnuts as they are called), and cassava are grown, and without the rains, food would become very expensive in Ghana.

[Bloga Baskets]
If you have seen these woven African Baskets at Whole Foods, or in catalogs, this is where they come from. Baskets are everywhere, and scratchy straw hats. They are woven from Elephant Grass that is grows during the rainy season, and then is harvested and dried to for baskets. In the lorry park we see ladies walking around with huge bunches of elephant grass.

About a 30 minutes drive from Bolga is the village of Paga, located on the boarder of French speaking country Burkina Faso. Paga is the home of the sacred crocodiles, where crocs and villagers share a relationship that is mutually beneficial. Stories exist that tell of how certain of these crocs have protected humans through the years, and in return villagers protect them in the Chief’s pond. In fact our taxi driver, pointing to the Chief’s pond said, “in there, there are maaaany crocodiles.” So you do not swim there, I ask. “I can swim,” he says, which surprises me as most Ghanaians are deathly afraid of swimming. “I can swim, but me they will not pursue.”

So Anna and I are taken to visit the oldest croc, they say 89 years of age, as counted by the stones. There are two questions we get asked by many people, the first is about my relationship with Anna. “Is she your wife?” is the most often asked, though daughter, and sister are close seconds.

[Big Al]
The second question is about my age (50), and our guide, Al Hassen, tells me he is 55, so I am his junior brother. Al Hassen is the one that the guide books warn you about, to have no dealings with him as sometimes he over-represents himself and instead of seeing the eco-tourism site that is beneficial to the whole village, you see his family compound, which benefits him. Of course I don't realize this until days later when I meet him in Bolga and I collect his contact information. He wants pictures.

I guess this goes under the heading of things you won't see in the US, and frankly I'm a little embarrassed that we did this, it was so tacky-touristy, so out of character for our usual adventures.

The old croc, I didn't get a name for him, hardly moves, and his eyes are dim. Still everyone approaches from the back and when we are sitting on him, or holding the tail, he hardly moves. There are two handlers on either side, just out of camera. I feel him reposition himself, the strength of moving that mass, belaying the safety I feel. This is indeed a dangerous animal.

The legend is that through out history, at least from the 1600s, crocodiles have saved the descendents of this town, be it while escaping enemy forces when a crocodile beat its tail so hard it parted the waters of the raging river, or a when a hunter became trapped and it was a croc who showed him how to save himself, or when a hunter became trapped between a lion and a raging river and pleading with the croc, the hunter was carried to safety. After each incident, the saved reaffirm their pledge to the crocodiles that none will be harmed, and years later that pledge is broken, until the town of Paga. Paga is the third of such towns started, and it is said that no person has ever been harmed by one of the crocodiles of Paga, and “human residents traditionally view killing a croc to be as sinful as homicide.”

[That blur you see in the croc's mouth was a chicken moments ago]

When we are done posing with the old croc, a young chicken is tossed in his direction and SNAP, the old guy springs to motion, rising up to catch the poor bird, maybe 18 inches in the air. I figured he was blind, but that reptile can move lightning fast. CRACK, bones shatter. He flips the jaws back, CRUNCH, the bird, still trying to escape, falls deeper into his jaws, feathers drop out his mouth, he jerks a few more swallows and the bird is gone. He returns to his motionless rest, and as we walk away, his wife shows up, silently moving along the shore.

Next we see Al's family compound, but is just a dusty old tourist trap that rather sours me on the rest of the day. We had hoped to see the Paga Pia's Palace, but got this instead. Most of the time we seem to bless into good tours, seeing interesting things, hearing fascinating stories but this wasn't one of them.

Anna and I wanted to visit Burkina Faso, the country north of Ghana, and this being the border town, I want to pre-arrange the visa, and see if it would even be possible. So we head to the border, and our taxi driver comes with us the whole way. Leaving Ghana, they wanted to take our passports, something I'm not inclined to do because I want to get a visa. I go round and round with the officer, and finally he takes me to the Big Man, who I go round and round with until he smiles, and says “You go come.”

I had not anticipated the language barrier to be a problem, after all, Anna and I seem to get along fine, but once we leave Ghana and walk the half mile of no man's land, English goes. At the Burkina border we wait to speak to the official and it turns out the $35 visa I could have picked up in Accra is going to be $180, something I'm not prepared to do. So its back to Bolga.

Its been a hot dusty day.

Day 5 - Tamale and the Pure Home Water Factory

2010-07-15T21:35:00.001Z

The further north we go, the more we see the landscape change, becoming more agrarian, the Ghanaian skin color becomes more blue-black, and the village architecture becomes more round huts with straw roofs than cornered buildings with tin roofs. Its been days since we’ve seen another Obruni (aka foreigner), but once we reach Tamale non-black people are everywhere. Its always a shock, because we forget we are white, and then we see another, and it’s a shock, a reminder that we are white also, though not as white as when we left. Its weird too because, when two Obruni pass each other on the street, they do not greet each other. I will watch one coming my way, and if they look my way, say I’ll “hello” or “hey” but most of the time, they know there, but won’t acknowledge it. I think it is very odd feeling, but maybe that just me.

Another change is we see more motor bikes here in a five minutes than we will see in Accra all day. They are everywhere, that and bicycles, zipping in and out of traffic beeping their horns and magically avoiding running pedestrians down. And the livestock. In Accra its mostly chickens and goats, but the further north we go the more cattle we see, and pigs. Pigs...in Ghana!

At the Pure Home Water House, we meet Claudia, and recent graduate of MIT, and Summer Intern that arrived in country about a week ago.

Pure Home Water

There is a water filter you will see in the homes of many Missionaries here, at least those from The Mission Society [click here], it’s the one we had in our home in Accra two years ago, and the one we currently have in our apartment here. Officially, known as the CT Filtron, or Pure Home Water Filter, but around our house as it was known as the Ghana Water Filter (its made here in Ghana), or the Mary Kay Water Filter (no its not pink).

The pamphlet says:

Being one of the main killers of children under five years of age, diarrhea is caused by ingesting certain bacteria, viruses or parasites which are spread through water, food, utensils, hands, files or mosquitoes. The great challenge is to fight diarrhea and Guinea Worm.

Pure Home Water is expanding their Tamale manufacturing plant, and Mary Kay asked if I could snap some pictures.

The Process

[The Workers]

At this plant we see filtering elements being made. The filtering element is made of porous clay (made so by the introduction of milled rice hulls that burn off when fired) and along with the colloidal silver, effectively eliminates dirt and bacteria from the water.

[Mixing of Clay for the filters] – Claudia measure out each the ingredients very carefully.

[Adding Water] – Water is measured and then added to the premeasured clay mixture.

[Kneading the clay until a uniform mixture is achieved]

[Weighing the mixed clay]

[Preforming the clay for the filter press]

[Placing the clay on the filter press]

[Scoring the clay]

[with clay covered, lowering the press form]

[pressing the clay into a waterfilter using a hand operated hydraulic jack press]

[Another perfect filter is made]

Everyone seems to stop what they are doing to watch the final stage of the filter creation process, almost like a filter is being born, and everyone wants to see what it looks like. The filter is removed from the press and let dry, first inside, the later outside in the sun. Then it is fired in the kiln.

[drying in the sun]

[Kiln, with fuel (sticks)]

The new building will house much of this operation inside, and the kiln looks to be much bigger.

[new building]

You will see two different filter designs. The standard flower pot design is the one we know and love, and Claudia is trying out a new filter design and filter process. This new half of an egg design does not filter water by gravity, but by siphoning water from the inside of the egg design. It is a cool idea, one I look forward to testing next time we are in Ghana.

That night we gather with much of the neighborhood to watch the last Ghana game, sitting outside watching a TV run from the inside of the house, and sitting on plastic chairs.

[watching the game]

Suzanne writes about it from Accra [click here]. After the game everyone sulks off and Tamale is as quiet as I have heard it. Not even the roosters are crowing.

Day 4 - TroTro to Tamale

2010-07-08T16:17:00.001Z

Over the last two years (and since our guide book was published) the cedi has lost value to the dollar from 1:1 to 1:1.42, and by converting cedis to dollars, the actual inflation rate can be calculated to be 25%. Where the guidebook says our room should be $17, its 32 cedis. Everything seems to be more expensive, but people seem to have the money, or more importantly, the money to make change. When catching TroTro #2, many people paid with a 10 cedi bill, and the driver could make change for the 2.50 fare, something that would not happened years ago. The further away from Accra we get, the more people are using the old currency language, saying 25, meaning 25,000 (old cedis), which in today’s cedis is 2.50.

We go to Kintampo, a real armpit of a town, to see Kintampo Falls. Once known as Saunders Falls (during British rule), and briefly Nkrumah Falls (before the first coup), today it takes its name from the seedy little town nearby, one the guidebook kindly calls “somewhat scruffy and amorphous.” I'm glad we chose not to lodge here.

[pictures of Kintampo Falls]

The falls are beautiful; Anna says, “perhaps the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Not a long walk from the center of town is the Center of Ghana, at determined during colonial times. A storm has been brewing all day, and just after reaching the “Centre of Ghana and the Universe” it lets loose on us and Anna finds a place to ride out the store, which we share with several school children, who are not in school, we learn, because today is “Republic Day”.

[centre of Ghana]

[hanging out with the kids]

We sing the Ghanaian National Anthem, and talk about the upcoming world cup game, and they show me their school notebook, and we review their lessons. One boy, Boateng Edmond, we see from time to town as we are waiting for the bus to Tamale. We were told to report to the stationmaster at 1:30p and we were there at 1, still there at 2, and 2:30 and 3pm. It’s a 2-3 hour ride to Tamale, pronounced Tom-a-lee, and because we had been roughing it since Kumasi, I wanted a comfort ride, with my own seat, and AirCon and Anna and I had plans to watch something on the Dell Mini I have been carrying. I would check back with the stationmaster every 20-30 minutes, and finally said he would “never let them leave without you.” It was raining, and mud is everywhere, we’re jumping from island to island avoiding the massive puddles of red clay mud they call roads here. At 3:15 the bus arrives, and there are 6-7 people waiting to board, at 3:30pm the bus leaves, and despite what the stationmaster said, it did leave without us. There was no room, he said. Maybe I forgot to dash him something, and the 6-7 who were waiting are no longer there. Ah! We have been waiting all day for this bus. There is another one at 5pm he says translating in my head to 7pm GMT (Ghana Maybe Time), meaning we’re in Tamale at 10pm.

I hate arriving after dark in Ghana. For one, everything seems more scary, threatening, and the lack of streetlights, and the loud noise put me on edge. I explain the situation to Anna and she says, “its OK Dad, I really don’t mind the TroTro.” What a great traveler. So I’m off to search for a TroTro to Tamale. The guidebook calls these TroTros “clapped out death traps” but it can have us there by 7pm, and then I remember something our Fulbright daughter Sarah Canon used to do on long trips:buy an extra seat!

“So if I buy this seat (the extra one), no one will sit in it?” I ask. I’m feeling all white and touristy, but I am so frustrated being stuck in this crappy little mudwater of a town, its raining, and the stupid STC, with its AirCon, and individual comfy seats has left us, and dark is two hours away. If find the regulated TroTros, so its only supposed to have one person per seat on the bench. So we take a whole row, which I feel so guilty about. Ahead of us there are three University students who each time they try to put someone in my extra seat yell “That man has purchased and extra seat,” one that got sold anyway, and another…so much for regulation. Row two has five sitting where three should be, plus a tall man sitting on the transmission in the front between the driver and passenger seat, and four behind me, crammed in the last seat, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, and behind them packages, suitcases, and lord knows what so the back can’t close and is literally tied shut with rope. But we have all the room we need, plus more.

Anna is such a good traveler. These are long essentially dull, hot trips. She plugs in her ipod, and plays with her phone, txting, or playing snake and the hours seems to pass her by like water flowing over a rock. Not me. The hours churn. I try to nap, lose feeling in my seat, and wiggle trying to be comfortable. My legs are too long. I watch out the windows for the regular Km markers that tell the distance to the next town, and pray. I pray a lot.

We arrive in Tamale well after dark and take a taxi to the Pure Home Water house, the NGO that Mary Kay Jackson, our missionary friend in Accra, has there and she has invited us to spend a few days.

follow the adventure: http://www.buchele.blogspot.com/

Life in Ghana and Teaching at Ashesi, by Suzanne

2010-07-07T17:30:00.017Z

I sincerely apologize for not doing more blog posts. In truth I have been very busy, mostly with work (but, truth be told, also with fun). I am at the end of teaching a 6-week summer school class at Ashesi University College, called Applied Cryptography and Computer Security. So here’s a pretty silly thought coming from me: until I started teaching it, it didn’t occur to me that I had never taught in summer school before! Classes are 3 hours a day, three days a week. Because the classes are sooooo long, I need to do labs every class period. The result is great, however. The labs are tied to that day’s lesson, so the result is an effective combination of theoretical and experiential learning, often hard to accomplish in upper level computer science classes.

I am thoroughly enjoying teaching the class. I am realizing how well suited my skills and interests are for this topic. In addition to the Ph.D. in Computer Science have a Masters in Mathematics, and enjoy teaching math. I regularly teach Discrete Math, Computer Organization and Computer Systems (a mix of Operating Systems and Computer Networks), all topics that come together nicely in Cryptography and Computer Security. I find the topic very timely and important, so it is interesting to teach to the undergraduate students and recent graduates that I have in the class. I only have six students, quite small for an Ashesi summer school class (the typical cut off would be 10), 3 students who will be seniors beginning in August, and three class of 2009 alums whom I have taught before. All are excellent students – above-average for even Ashesi, which is saying something.

[Ashesi hostel. My apartment is the top floor balcony one. Note one of the roosters who likes to start crowing at 4am at the bottom of the photo. That rooster needs to go in someone's stew!]

[My bedroom and bathroom]

I know people want to know more about my experiences living and working here. I am staying at the Ashesi student hostel, a modern 4-story apartment building; I am staying in a 3-bedroom, 2-bath flat on the top floor (nice breezes, not many mosquitos) that during the school year would house 9-10 students. I took in a roommate Natalie from the University of Michigan, who has stayed in the 3rd bedroom even after Steve and Anna came. As many of you may recall we seem prone to get close to college students during our Ghanaian stays: 2006 was Fulbright daughter Sarah, 2007 was Fulbright daughter Ana, and so 2010 is intern daughter Natalie. Natalie is working with A College for Ama (CoFA) a fantastic non-profit loosely associated with Ashesi University that provides enrichment programs for girls to help encourage them to stay in school (and also encourage their parents to keep sending them to school)

[(Left) Hostel View South, toward Osu. Note the clouds, typical during this time of year, the rainy season. It’s often overcast, sometimes partly cloudy, but it rains at least every few days, sometimes several days in a row, sometimes REALLY hard. (Right) Hostel view West, the other side that our corner apartment faces.]

The hostel is centrally located, a 20-minute walk to Ashesi, a few minutes walk into Osu, the busy social part of Accra. For those of you who know Accra, it’s just off Danquah Circle (and by the way, if you’re looking for housing in Accra in the summer, contact Ashesi and they may have an apartment or room in an apartment for you to rent – there are often vacancies in the summer). There are many water tanks, so water won’t run out, especially in the summer when the residents of the building are few. No hot water, but oh well, it’s hot enough here that the cool water is fine. I was able to get some things out of the faculty house to stock the kitchen, and what we don’t have we either do without, or Natalie bought, or Steve brought when he came, or Suala (the apartment manager) is letting us borrow, or I am borrowing from other friends. So, we have what we need.

I have re-connected with many of my old friends and acquaintances, and have been welcomed back into several of the activities I used to be a part of: the Ashesi Bible study on Monday evenings, and my church home group every other Wednesday evening. Of course the World Cup games are big social events (especially when Ghana was still in the running, although there is still be interest in the games through the final on Sunday). Otherwise, I am often enjoying an invitation for lunch or dinner with a friend. And if none of that is happening, I am working, or Natalie and I will share dinner and chat into the evening, or when our brains are very tired we watch a show on my laptop (we brought Firefly and Arrested Development DVDs that we have been working our way through). When Steve and Anna were in town last week, from Wednesday to Monday morning, the evenings were even busier, fitting in social invitations while Steve was in town (and, several or our friends went back to the States for a 4-6 week summer break this past week). By the way, I’ve been texting with Steve and Anna all day, they are on a bus heading back to Accra from their adventures up North, but the bus keeps breaking down. Steve will post all about it when he gets back to the “good” bandwidth of Accra.

[Girls night]
Other fun things I’ve done have included two short weekend-aways: one a Girls Night with some missionary friends of mine, and the other the bi-annual Ashesi Faculty Staff Retreat. Both were extremely enjoyable and also pretty tiring – not a ton of sleep was had at either, but great bonding occurred at both!

[Ashesi Faculty/Staff Retreat]

Unfortunately, I haven’t set foot on the beach since I’ve been here. I’m hoping to squeeze in a beach afternoon on Monday, before I fly out on Tuesday evening. Tuesday morning we will hopefully be visiting the new Ashesi campus that is being built, North of Accra – the last scheduled trip, during the Ashesi Faculty-Staff retreat, didn’t happen due to hard rains that day. Hopefully there will not be hard rains on either Monday or Tuesday of next week!

So, I am having a very enjoyable stay, working hard but also enjoying the company of my friends, enjoying the food, and enjoying the lower-anxiety Ghanaian lifestyle. It will be good to get back to my family and friends in Texas, but I will definitely miss Ghana when I go.

Day 3 - The Monkey Sanctuary

2010-07-06T10:03:00.000Z

This I remember, the red soil, the dust, the pools of dirt washing off at the end of the day. It’s an old memory from when my family lived in here 1968-69 and over Christmas break that year we took a “trek,” as we called it, to the north of Ghana. At the end of the day our faces were covered in red dust, and dust sweat lines across our clothes. In those days we traveled by Land Rover but today we travel by shared taxi. Last time I wrote about shared taxi, how they fill faster and hold four passengers but today we learned four is a purely theoretical limit, as they can hold more.

The Monkey Sanctuary, is located near the towns of Boabeng and Fiema, about an hour east of Techiman by taxi. Taxi negations are somewhat art and bluff, and there comes this point when you know if you’ve been taken, or made a good deal and today that point came about half way to the Monkey Sanctuary over some really bad roads. I realized we had not met another taxi or trotro for the past 30 minutes. It is a lonely place, and was nice to have a taxi waiting for us on the return journey. I also learned our taxi-driver, Edward’s wife lives in Boabeng so he was visiting her.

[Anna and Edmond, our guide]

The sanctuary was started in 1975 to protect a tradition that had begun in these villages in the 1800s. Our guide Edmond explains that a warrior came to the area in 1827 and discovered four monkeys, two large black and white Colobus and two of the smaller brown Mona monkeys guarding a white piece of calico. The warrior consulted found a fetish (a local god), and the priest said that if the fetish was moved into town, the monkeys would follow, and if anyone harmed a monkey, the same thing would happen to him. In turn the black and white monkeys, who primarily hang-out in the tops of the tall trees, would warn the people of any danger. So the people moved the fetish into town, and a co-existence between monkey and man began.

[Colobus Monkey]

[baby Mona Monkey]
There are two species of monkeys. The smaller, more social Mona Monkeys, and the standoffish Colobus, with large white tails that follow behind them as they jump from tree to tree.

[Dan & Steve]

Later a virgin came to the village to whom the black and whites would speak to, and they would warn her when the village of danger, so the warriors could assemble to greet it. The virgin, named Afia, passed in 1978 and since that time there has been no one to protect or interpret. Edmond adds that if the black and whites make much ruckus between the hours of 1am and 2, and do so for seven days and then stop, that within that week one of the elders of the villages will die, and so they play the game “is it you?” He laughs, but I can tell he is very serious, “is it you…is it you?”

I don’t know that to make of such stories, I feel that Edmond believes them, and they have influence over his life. Which raises the question does a god have to exist to be real? Ghana is filled with stories of gods, gods of the water, the ocean, the fetish, and their priests. Even if not real, these beliefs exist, and have power, and influence over how people conduct their lives. Consider Tuesdays, when it is widely believed unsafe to swim, or fish in the ocean because that is the ocean god’s day.

We meet “Dan” the friendly male Mona Monkey. Dan likes having his picture taken.

The forest that surrounds these villages contain many interesting trees, including several of the parasitic Ficus trees. We’ve seen this before, [click here link to abouri] but last time I was too injured to climb inside climb the tree. It is a highly interesting experience to climb inside a tree.

[ficus tree picts]

[Ficus also grow in groves]

Then we saw the monkey graveyard. It seems that when a monkey passes, it will come to the village to die at night, and the people will conduct a proper funeral, complete with wrapping in white cloth, and the fetish priest pouring libation.

In the grave yard there are two humans buried too, the virgin to whom the black and whites spoke to, and the former fetish priest. I get the feeling that the grave markers are for our benefit, as not even a people graveyard is as this well marked.

[Jollof Rice]

[Anna eating at Modern Way Canteen]

Back in Techiman we eat at Modern Way Canteen, and they are serving Jollof Rice, again. Jollof Rice is much like Spanish Rice served with a delicious hot paste called shito. It usually comes with a piece of fried chicken, and has been the dish of this adventure, meaning we’ve eaten it (only option on the menu) most days. Food options are three in most towns. Street food, for which there is plenty. Right now roasted corn is in season. Its good, but it isn’t sweet corn, or at least as we know it in the States, but chewy field corn. Other options are kabobs, and some soup dishes I'm not brave enough to try. Next up are the canteens, or drinking spots. These have covered open air seating areas¸ and are away from the street. Modern Way has a TV and we watch the World Cup playing while we eat. Next up are the hotels and stand alone restaurants which will have AirCon, extensive menus, and can be quite pricy. Usually they are empty, and when we come in, even the long established ones, its like we’re the first customer they have ever had. Maybe its because we’re not Ghanaian and there is a different expectation, but they scramble to find a menu, turn on the AirCon and awkwardly take our orders. So we much prefer the Canteens though the Jollof Rice is getting to be a little bit too much.

Get the whole story on our Blog http://www.buchele.blogspot.com/

Ghana's Crushing Defeat, by Suzanne

2010-07-03T20:42:00.014Z

Ghana made it to the World Cup Quarterfinals, the only African country to do so. It’s also the highest an African county has ever placed in the World Cup (although several other African teams, have made it this far, just no farther). Ghana was the Hope of Africa, to make it past this ceiling that it has been stuck at before. Alas, we lost in what was very possibly the most exciting and nerve-racking sporting match I have ever seen, of any kind.

Natalie, my 20-something roommate, took me to the heart of Osu to take in the game. I was not as keen to go into Osu for the last game, since Ghana was playing the US, and I knew the spirited Ghanaian crowds, and was worried about being an American family (Steve and Anna had just arrived) caught in an unhappy crowd if Ghana was defeated by the Americans. So we took that game in the comfort and family atmosphere of our friends Adzo and Nii’s house, with their 1 ½ year old TK. Matt and Astrid and their 1 year old Ingrid joined us as well, so we all watched the game and watched toddlers at the same time. Plus ate some fantastic food, which is always the case at Adzo and Nii’s.

We got TK a “little vuvezela” on the street, which when blown sounded a lot like a duck quack. He thought it was great fun and got the hang of it very quickly. He could blow it out or turn it around and suck it in, and get a pretty good sound either way. TK was happy, happy, taking in the obvious party atmosphere of the big qualifying game and laughing this great half-giggle half-belly laugh whenever he blew his little vuvuzela, delighted at the sound he could make.
Ingrid, at just a year, was a little more oblivious to the game and just enjoyed a new place to explore, and following the hands that would steer her clear of the buttons on the TV or from going into the kitchen.

In many ways I felt like TK, heading down to Osu for the Ghana-Uruguay game on Friday late-afternoon with Natalie and my friend Carol.

I was excited for the spirit of the day, of being in an enthusiastic crowd, of just being happy to be here for this joyous event. Walking down into the thick of Osu, the crowd was exuberant, everyone greeting everyone with their Ghana t-shirts, flag wraps, and bandanas, blowing on vuvuzelas or using whatever noisemakers they had, and assuring each other we would win. The main street in Osu was closed to traffic (a big projector was projecting the game on a giant screen), so walking was easier than usual.

Also vendors were closing up so that they too could watch the game, and the ones that were open had plenty of business, so the usual aggressive sellers were not bothersome. We went to Duncan’s, an outdoor bar with food stalls outside, Ghanaian soup on one side, and what is known to those who have eaten there before as the best tilapia in Accra (it was!) on the other side. We got fresh grilled tilapia smothered in fresh peppers, ginger, and a mass of vegetables and avocado, served with banku, and eaten with your hands. (I usually eat it with a fork – but in the atmosphere of the crowd, I really enjoyed eating it with my hands, as is the traditional Ghanaian way – peel the skin, eat to the bones on one side, turn it over, and repeat until you have teased out everything that appears edible from the tasty fish). We ordered the tilapia when we arrived, around 5:30, and it came after the game started, so after 6:30. I was hoping to get it before so that I could
concentrate on the game instead of my dinner, but this long wait time for food in Ghana is typical – at least you know that what you order was cooked fresh for you, from scratch, which for me and my allergies to preservatives and many additives, is lovely.

So the game started, many in the crowd stood and put their hand over their heart for the Ghanaian national anthem, and it was a good, closely matched game. No score until the end of the first half, and then Ghana (Sully Muntari to be exact) did a beautiful last second goal and the first half ended.

I can’t do justice in my description of the crowd. We all screamed and jumped and hugged and yelled and danced – I got hugs and full-face screams from many people in the crowd, not just my friends. I screamed until I was hoarse. Outside (well, and inside) the vuvuzelas were sounding, people were riding by in cars, people hanging out the windows, Ghana flags being waved in the wind caused by the car. It was… fantastic. 1-0 at halftime.

In the second half Uruguay tied it, although the Black Stars played well, we had many almost-goals. The game was being played on the Uruguayan side of the field more than ours, although the teams were well-matched, neither side was dominating. It was exciting play. The game ended 1-1. Since this was a quarterfinal game, that meant overtime. 30 more minutes of play. Again, Ghana was the team making more of the shots. We almost had it, several times. Then, right at the end of the overtime, reminiscent of the sudden goal at the end of the first half, a drive, a shot, it’s blocked, a follow-up, it’s blocked, the ball is free in front of the goal, Ghanaian and Uruguayan players are all there, and then a beautiful shot, square into the goal… blocked by an Uruguayan player, not the goalie, WITH HIS HANDS. Seriously. Not allowed, a red card, guy’s out of the game. But there are literally seconds to go. Ghana gets a free kick, one player, one ball, one goalie, one net. One-on-one. The shot hits the top post and bounces wide. Overtime is over.

Again, since it is an elimination game, some team has to be eliminated. So it goes to penalty kicks – each team gets 5, again one player, one ball, one net, one goalie. The Uruguayans and the Ghanaians each make the first two. Still tied. Arghh, I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack from the excitement. Everyone is standing, we’re all on the edge of going crazy with victory, or… third kick Uruguayans hit, Ghana misses. Oh no. Fourth kick Uruguayans miss. Tied again. Last kick, Uruguayans go first. If they hit, they win, if they miss and Ghana ties it, we do it all again. Uruguay kicks, it goes in. They win.

We all can’t believe it. We just sit there. All of Accra is… silent.

After a while we pay our bill and walk home. Others are doing the same. The crowd is still large but we’re all streaming home, walking very slowly, shaking our heads. There are still so many people that we can’t help but bump into people. I can’t help but imagine what it would have been like if we won – a NYC Time’s Square New Years Eve kind of party like I really just couldn’t even imagine, because the reality was we were shaking our heads, sad, silently walking slowly, so slowly, back home. Later that evening, maybe an hour or two after the game ended, Natalie and I are back in the apartment, with the windows open as they always are to get the breeze, and we hear some music starting to play, an almost ever-present sound usually. Tonight we can’t even believe there is music playing, anywhere. But, there’s no shame, the Black Stars shined, and maybe in 4 years in Brazil they’ll be the first African team to make it to the semifinals, and maybe even take the cup. Maybe.

Day 2 - the road to Techiman

2010-07-02T13:47:00.000Z

Tuesday – the road to Techiman

Today began with a visit to the Reading Town Library, which was still under construction last time I had been there. The library looks great, and it is so nice to see it filled with books. Libby gave us the grand tour, much like the one Anne had given me years ago, but this time there are books, and tables, and while it still has the shiny new look, I can see it is getting used.

[pictures of Reading Town Library]

We said good-bye to Libby and now we were off to find a shared taxi or TroTro to Kumasi. Shared Taxis are like TroTros in that they don’t take off until they are full, but unlike a TroTro, it takes 4 to fill, not 14-23, depending on how many you cram in a seat. Taxis are limited to four passengers. But there were no shared taxis to Kumasi, so we took the first of what turned out to be three TroTros. Each was their own adventure.

TroTro #1 didn’t have a working starter, so passersby pushed it, and the driver put it in second gear and let out the clutch. We sat in the front seat, also known as the suicide seat (when it crashes). It wasn’t my intention to take another TroTro once we got to Kumasi, I was thinking we would have a nice lunch and then take one of those comfy State Transport Corp buses (STC), but our TroTro’s mate had other ideas. He took us to another lorry park, and then put us on the last two seats of what would become TroTro #2 for us.

I learned there are different types of TroTros, the private kind, like TroTro #1, and the regulated TroTro, like #2, where the number of tickets sold matches the number of seats. Its also, at least in my experience, has more consistent configuration. But regulation does not mean well maintained.

TroTro #2 breaks down two hours outside of Kumasi. The driver (and it seems mechanic) stops the bus, grabs some tools and begins banging on the underside. Passengers, well just men, stream out to relieve themselves. Twenty minutes later I see the u-joint by the side of the road and realize this is going to be a lot longer than I’m willing to wait.

[TroTro breaks down]

But then comes TroTro #3, and I make the sign (jabbing my right index finger up in the air at about the 2 o’clock position, and he rapidly decelerates. The mate charges us full fare (again), but it feels good to be moving again. I’m surprised that only four people transfer off the derelict TroTro. TroTro #3 starts off mostly empty, but being an unregulated TroTro, the driver stops to pick anyone who makes the sign, until he picks one too many passengers. Then he pulls over wanting someone to get off, which caused a near riot, and Anna and I are looking at each other, part clueless, part wanting to snap pictures of all the shouting and not so friendly gestures. I look back and ask “What’s goin’ on?” and a passenger explains the situation, but no one gets off and soon the shouting dies down, and off we go, overloaded.

We crawled up hills, and the driver guned it down the other side, hoping for a slingshot effect to take us over the next hill until we reach Techiman.

Techiman (prounounced tetchy-mon) is close to several sites of interest, the Tano Sacred Grove, Buoyem Caves, and the Boabeng-Fiema Monkey Sanctuary, which is our reason for being here. One of the interesting stories about the Monkey Sanctuary, concerns its former chief who had the ability to turn his warriors into monkeys and then back again, something the guide books say would be , “useful in battle.” But the chief died before he could transform them back, and so since that day, the twin villages of Boabeng and Fiema have cared for their warriors/monkeys.

We arrived about 3pm into Techiman, too late to do much before sunset, which is at 6pm every night. We find the Agyelwaa Memorial Hotel, which is near the lorry park, and has good sign boards (read easy to find). Each room has hot water included, something I’ve not seen before. Turns out the hot water is a point of source electric heater…which really works. Our second night Anna takes a 45 minute shower and declares “This is the best shower I’ve had in Ghana,” and our first and likely only one with hot water.

Monday - Day 1 of the Bolga Adventure

2010-06-29T18:10:00.001Z

Monday –
Anna and I have been in Accra for almost a week, and its time for our adventure to begin. I fear if we stay any longer in Accra, we won’t be able to break orbit and escape to the north country. At first I thought that we had reacclimated rather quickly, but now I realize it feels more like resuming our lives here, than adjusting to it. As I have set about the process of making the apartment our home, fixing broken things, finding and then hanging a clothesline, locating food to eat, I have been warmly welcomed by all my old market sellers, and people on the street, who each made a special point of “dashing me some small thing” to say welcome back.

The biggest surprise, and I should have remembered this, is how long it takes to get something done here. If a person can get one or maybe two important things done a day, it is an accomplishment, especially when one is at the mercy of public transport. Its hot, nothing is that convenient, and every adventure involves lots of walking, TroTros, or Taxi.

So Anna and I met Libby, The Mission Society Summer Intern who is serving with the Gongwer Family at the Reading Town Library in Ankaase, north of Kumasi. Anna and I visited Cam, Anne and Caylor when we went on our Kumasi Adventure [click here] years ago, but last year the Gongwers moved to Accra, and their intern Libby was returning there today, via a new intercity bus service called VIP.

For just a few bucks more we rode in style, and were treated to a four hour-three part Ghanaian Movie. Like many of the public transports I’ve taken, this one started off with a hawker selling some type of medical treatment (this time its acne cream) for the first 15 minutes and then he thankfully sat down so we could enjoy the Ghanaian Movie, which played next. I’ve not seen that many Ghanaian movies, but they do seem to contain common elements of marriage and witchcraft, and this one was no different.

In Kumasi we were met by the Pastor and his wife Julie who gave us a ride back to Ankaase. Libby had called ahead and a pot of wonderful Jollof Rice [click here] was waiting for us. Before dinner though, we had to help the cat off the room, the tin roof, which we imagine she was grateful for because it rained for several hours that night. After dinner we talked, played cards and then read. I remember many nights like this in Ghana.

Libby is from Minnesota and has served here for a month. She will finish her last year of college at Cornerstone University, and is spending this summer exploring her call to ministry by serving as an intern with The Mission Society. Here in Ankaase, she teaches roughly 100 kindergarteners the fundamentals of reading each afternoon at the Reading Town Library. She has a beautiful smile and sweet, sweet spirit about her and has been a delightful host. Like Accra, it would be easy to stay a few more days in these familiar surroundings, but more adventures are waiting for us down the road, so we head north.

Tomorrow its Techiman

Traveling up north

2010-06-28T10:27:00.000Z

Greetings - Anna and Steve will be traveling up north to Bolgatanga [click here] for the next few weeks. Along the way we'll be visiting a site for Mary Kay Jackson and taking some pictures of a new installation, visiting the Reading Town Library [click here], a prospective site for our first "St. Philip's Computer Project" and visiting a potential well site at a Senior Secondary School (High School) for next year's WaterSong Project.

Please keep us in your prayers as we travel via public transport, and stay either with friends or in guest houses, letting the Lord lead us along our way.

Peace,
Steve & Anna

Go Black Stars

By God's Grace

2010-06-25T12:30:00.001Z

Ghana Blog: By God’s Grace

There is this episode of Star Trek, the Next Generation where Picard, who captains the Enterprise in this series, is being sent around in the time continuum, and each jump, be it forward or backward, gets easier until he is not sure where he belongs. That’s how it feels a few hours after landing, once I’ve adjusted to the heat, and showered off the journey. It feels completely natural, as if we never left, and yet there are subtle changes that take a few days to notice.

Wednesday night we watched the Black Stars, Ghana’s National Team, play Germany in the FIFA South African World Cup. Ghana is the last African country in the series with a hope of advancing to the second round. We all wore our Ghana Africa Cup (from 2008) shirts that day, and as we met with different people, or renewed friendships, the conversations eventually landed on the question of tonight’s game.

“Ghana will win,” we would hear, and then confidently, “by God’s Grace we will be victorious!” The TV announcers have made a big deal about Ghana being the last chance for an African team to advance, calling Ghana the Hope of Africa. All Ghana had to do was win or tie to advance, but they did neither, but thanks to the Australians who had such a lopsided win, Ghana still gets advances to the next round, by God’s grace and Saturday night, the Black Stars play Team USA. So Hope is lives on here, and the streets filled with people rejoicing, and blowing those vovozvualla horns.

On Thursday we were invited to Methodist University-College Ghana for a dedication of the boreholes, or wells as we call them. St. Philip’s United Methodist, and another Church, have each sponsored a borehole, and our missionary friend Mary Kay Jackson had successfully drilled them almost two weeks ago. Not far from the site of the borehole is a large termite mound, which I understand is a good sign, as it is thought that the termites already know where the water is, and isn’t. Currently the boreholes are just large blue pipes sticking out of the ground, but later, when they install pumps, they will supply water to the new dorms, and administration buildings.

Technical issues: 60 and 76 meters deep. 6-7 gallons per minute flow.

Dedications are an interesting ritual. I’ve been asked to bless babies, food, houses, bicycles, cars, journeys, but this is the first time I’ve been asked to bless a well. We taxi across Accra to the college, and first go to look at the borehole. Then we move to the administration building, where individually we are introduced to each of the team of administrators who will partake in the blessing. Later we gather in the office of the Principal, where when everyone has assembled, tea and cookies is served. While tea is being served, the leader of each group introduces their people, and tells a short story. The Methodist University-College principal goes first, and introduces his men, and tells how they have been praying for a borehole for years and now, by God’s Grace, you are here, he motions to us. Currently all Methodist University College Ghana’s water comes from a large underground cistern that is recharged daily from a visit from a large water truck. Mary Kay introduces us, and I tell a bit about the project from our end. It turns out that music is a major focus of the university, after all we are Methodists, the principal adds. Later I explain that the bulk of the funding for this borehole came from a series of mostly classical concerts called Water Song Project. That news is met with knowing smiles, as if it was more evidence of God’s Grace. Then they pin us with a University pin, and we head out to ask God to blessing.

As we are saying our good-byes, one of the administrators asks where our hearts will be on Saturday night. By God’s Grace we are blessed, we say, because no matter the outcome of that game (Team USA or Ghana’s Black Stars) we will winners.

The Spirit of Ghana, by Suzanne

2010-06-09T19:41:00.001Z

At two weeks in Ghana, I am now re-acclimated. I am sleeping soundly, peacefully, happily, jet lag and that initial bout of food poisoning long gone, my body feels normal, my soul better-than-normal (more on that …).

While I hate to admit it, the first week I was a bit shocked seeing the dirt and smelling the sewage and smoke and witnessing the poverty. But now I see the slow, simple life, the peace, the harmony, the friendly and helpful people. And of course, at Ashesi and at church and even in my old neighborhood, my community of friends and acquaintances, and the real and interesting problems that people are coming together to discuss and maybe even solve.

Now about my soul. I don’t know what it is about Ghana that brings out this wonderful peace in me, and makes me feel SOOOooooooo connected to the Holy Spirit. It is just so much easier to be connected to God here. I wake up every morning feeling peaceful and happy and calm. Every evening I go to bed thankful for my day and the people in it, and praying for those who need it. And throughout the day I am calm, joyous, connected, even in the midst of working (very) hard with stress here and there. For example, I’m doing my Apache-Netcat-Wireshark lab on Friday – I’ve already postponed it once, it REALLY needs to happen Friday – and we still haven’t solved the technical difficulties. It’s Wednesday night. In this States this would have me worried, anxious, stressed. It’s such a different feeling here. Partly, I have a lot of faith in Ato (Ashesi’s fantastic tech-guy), partly, I do have a worst-case Plan Z that will likely work if all else fails in the back of my brain. But partly it’s just that this environment does not encourage anxiety. I like it. I (like to think) I brought a lot of Ghana’s goodness home with me when I returned to the States almost 2 years ago – I have a renewed sense of the importance of keeping this spirit of Ghana alive when I return this time, in 5 weeks time.

Some Things I Forgot, by Suzanne

2010-06-03T10:03:00.003Z

For those of you worried about my illness, no worries, I am all better! I was better Monday, MUCH better Tuesday and Wednesday, and this morning I woke feeling well rested and very much back to my old self. It’s so nice to have my energy back!

I arrived just over a week ago and am beginning to re-acculturate. We lived here from 2006-2008 and we visited for a month last year to see our oldest, Fox, graduate from high school at the local international school. But it’s funny, the things that are so ingrained when you stay here, that you can so easily forget. Some of these things that pretty immediately came back to me:
- The slow, unhurried conversations (even at work, even when people are busy)
- The incessant honking of taxis (to get your attention, to see if you want a ride)
- The sand/dirt that sticks to the back of your calves from your sweat and walking on dirt paths
- Just how expensive many of foreign goods are here
- Just how slow the internet is here, especially mid-day!
- How, just after you have food poisoning, you *really* don’t want to be adventuresome in your eating!

It’s delightful seeing my old friends, some from Ashesi University, some from The Mission Society, and some from church. It’s also delightful how easily people have accepted me back, and how happy people genuinely seem to be that I am back. Of course, everyone asks if Mr. Steve is here too, and their eyes light up when I tell them that he will come in a few weeks. You see, Steve is naturally more African than I – I tend to be work, work, work, business, business, business, but Steve, who had more time on his hands when we lived here before, but who is also naturally more open and talkative, he was the people person, the relationship person. Especially when I first arrived 4 years ago, when I needed to find X (say, a notebook for one of the kids) I wanted to ask someone where to get a notebook, go there, walk in, buy it, and go home again. But that really isn’t the African way (and I must say I’ve improved since 4 years ago). First you build a relationship with someone over repeated conversations. Then, at some point when one of the conversations lulls, you ask, “do you know where I can find a notebook?” Then you engage in conversation about the needed notebook, who it is for, why you need it, what type you need, etc. Then they ask you if you know such and such part of town, such and such street, maybe even such and such shop or stall (although if you knew the shop you likely also knew it carried notebooks). If you don’t know it, they describe how to get there, rarely using street names since mostly street names are not used (technically most streets do have names, I am told, but only major ones have signs indicating what they are). Here would be directions from where I am staying now, in the Ashesi University hostel at Danquah Circle, to the house I used to live in, a mile or so away:

Go toward “37” (an old army hospital), take a right at Morning Star School, then a left just after Melting Moments (a café), go past Metro TV, turn left a bit after after Tante Marie (a restaurant), continue until you come to Cape Trading Company, then take the left on the small road. It’s the second house on the right, with a black gate. (BTW if after Cape Trading you come to the road to the New American Embassy, you went too far.)

I’m in-between cultures enough right now that I can’t tell if these directions would seem perfectly normal to most Americans, or not (although I do know that Americans do like street names for error-checking purposes – and we’ve gone on enough goose chases here that I do appreciate a good street name thrown in now and again). But I forgot the golden rule of directions in Ghana: if you get lost, or even are just not so sure that you took the correct turn, just ask someone else! People are VERY happy to help. Ghanaians are the most genuinely helpful people I know. Just don’t be too hurried that you can’t properly greet them, ask if they are well, inquire about their family, comment on last night’s soccer match, etc. And THEN ask them directions :-)

I Ate Something… by Suzanne

2010-05-30T15:31:00.000Z

In Ghana these are well-known and experienced words. Usually about 24 hours of stomach ills (I won’t go into detail here) plus feeling rotten. Unfortunately, I ate something last night, so am sick. Blah. So far it seems that the FloraStor (Thanks, Mary!) and activated charcoal (Thanks, Julie!) are handling it pretty well. Thankfully my friend Nii drove me around last night and I got the supplies for my stay in the hostel so I have everything I need (which right now is really just toilet paper, water, and digestive biscuits). Where I am staying is right across the street from one of the proper grocery stores in town, Koala, so without Nii I would have just gone there and spent 3 times as much money for the same things; instead Nii drove me by a local stand and is much more affordable. And with Nii’s car I could get a case of water, which would be difficult to do even at Koala since it’s a few blocks away and across a very busy street.

Nii and I went to dinner last night and had a nice visit – Nii is the husband of Adzo and father of little TK, Adzo is Dean of Students at Ashesi and also my good friend – some of you may have seen their beautiful wedding picture in our house or on our blog. Adzo and TK and in South Africa right now visiting her sister, they’ll be back Monday and I must say I can’t wait to see both Adzo and little TK (about 18 months).

The hostel is good, although forgoing the hotel air conditioning right before getting sick was maybe not be best of circumstances. But the fans here are good and there is a generator for when the lights go out, so I’m set. Last time we stayed here it was very noisy – bars and clubs with blaring music. Last night was blessedly quiet. There are a few Ashesi students taking summer classes staying here as well, and I think there’s a study abroad group from Michigan staying here although I haven’t seen them yet.

Although I really need to work, today I will rest (don’t have a choice, really, I don’t have the energy or brain functioning to do too much) and hopefully I’ll be well enough to go to the show at the National Theatre tonight – it’s a very big deal here, a traveling show from South Africa called Africa Umoja: The Spirit of Togetherness. Ghana doesn’t have so many cultural activities anyway, and it’s pretty unusual that an international traveling show that has played in London and the US would come here. Definitely the cultural event of the season! I’ll go with our friends the Jacksons – I haven’t seen them yet, they’ve had a busy week - and then sleep over at their house Saturday night, since they live in a far suburb and while we’re driving we can chat and catch up more. I am really looking forward to seeing them! And then Sunday I will go with them to Asbury Dunwell church. Can’t wait for that!

Sunday: So I did go to the show, it was very fun, the National Theatre was packed, and I made it to church the next day, also fantastic (Steve: Brian, Auntie Pamela, and many others send their greetings and look forward to seeing you and Anna). After church I went to lunch with the Jacksons and Gonwers and their new intern Libbie but could only stomach some of Mary Kay’s rice and a coke. Cam is a doctor and he advised Cipro, and there was an open Pharmacy next door that had it, so I’m on meds now and should be good as new tomorrow! The sermon was on “where your heart/mind is, there you are also” and so I am deciding that I am well, and looking forward to the return of my energy!

Arriving in Ghana, by Suzanne

2010-05-30T15:25:00.001Z

I know the best travelers are flexible, but really, the best travelers to Africa are FLEXIBLE. So many people freaked out when our plane was delayed in DC, or when their luggage didn’t arrive in Ghana, I am much more calm and laid back about such things now. It’s also nice being a seasoned traveler, I must say. Like when debarking from the plane, knowing to walk quickly by the first-timers who are unsure of what to do and where to go, and are taking in the scenery, since all 200 of us have to go through the same 4 immigration officers, and the sooner you arrive at the queues, the fewer people you have in front of you in line and the more you have behind you. And I like knowing the telling signs when the baggage handlers have just found out that no more luggage will be coming out so that I can bee-line it over to the lost luggage line, again, to have more people behind me than in front of me. And I really like being in the know about African queueing anyway, knowing just how to position my body to ensure I’m next in line as someone else is trying to do the same thing on my right and left.

So, yes, one of my pieces of luggage didn’t arrive, but thankfully not the one with the frozen brisket (still frozen on arrival, by the way), and also I’ve had this happen often enough that I packed a little of everything in both luggages and my carryon, so the only thing I had to buy was toothpaste. The routine for lost luggage is this: if it didn’t arrive on this flight, it will likely arrive on the next one, which is the same time the next day (usually, sometimes there are only certain days they fly). Only once did I have to go back for 3 days, although when it wasn’t on the second flight I was sure the bag was lost for good, but I decided to go back the 3rd day and there it was! At that point it arrived as shipped baggage and there was some talk of customs import duties, but I was thankful I had packed my feminine hygiene products at the top of the crate (you know, for cushioning) and the officer just took a quick look and said it was fine, I could go. Another thing that’s nice to know! This time my bag was likely lost in Frankfurt, since I had a short layover there – only 30 minutes due to mechanical delay on one end and weather delays on the other. I am pretty impressed that the one made it (love that German efficiency!), since I pretty much ran the whole time from one terminal to the next to make the connection myself.

It’s the raining season here and it did rain just before my arrival today, so it was cool when we landed – 100% humidity, but cool. People always ask me the temperature but no one really has thermometers here. Ghana is just off the equator, so when we talk about the weather instead of quantitative info we use the more descriptive terms: it’s cool (probably low to mid 80’s), warm (high 80’s to low 90’s?), hot (mid to upper 90’s) or really hot (100’s) - but everyone knows not to go out in the sun mid-day anyway, so to us it’s mostly just hot.

My old house, now the faculty house for Ashesi (which housed 5 people in the 5 bedrooms last year) needs to undergo repairs so I won’t be staying there after all, at least for now. I’m in a hotel for 2 nights which is a nice treat – air conditioning and television and even wi-fi although it’s down. My friend Carol and I went to a late dinner my first night, Wednesday, which was nice! Great to catch up with her and Ashesi news. She looks fantastic, and is happy. I had a yummy chicken schwarma wrap – big Lebonese influence here.

Thursday and Friday I hit the ground running for my class. Got the syllabus completed and Xeroxed, located the books we ordered for the class, and made up slides for the first day, Friday morning. I also got to eat in the Ashesi canteen for lunch both days, yea! It seems that if you eat it every day it’s not too exciting, but friends humored me and came with me for lunch both days. Thursday I had Jollof rice with chicken and that great spicy red sauce, Friday I had groundnut soup which, seriously, was almost identical to Steve’s except more oily and more spicy – but the flavor was just the same. It’s amazing how he can remember flavors exactly, and then is able to replicate them! Friday’s class only had 4 students in it, although apparently 3 more will come from another class that ran late and was finishing on Friday, and then 2 more maybe will also come Monday. As someone pointed out, people may be waiting to see if the course will really happen before actually coming – so we’ll see Monday and make a decision about whether or not the class will make. (But no worries, Ashesi has a long list of other admin-type stuff I can work on if the class doesn’t make). I also had significant computer troubles Friday – can’t get the Cryptool setup executable copied onto my desk computer, although it will let me copy other files, and I also couldn’t run Cryptool in the lab I installed it in – I could copy the setup and install it, but nothing happens when I try and run at. My friend and colleague Aelaf helped for quite some time trying to get it going, but no luck yet. I looks like one of the DLL it uses conflicts with the same DLL that the virus protection software uses on those machines. Although we un-installed the virus protection and it still didn’t work. Hmmm. So Monday’s class will be all lecture again, it seems.

Friday mid-day I moved my things into the Ashesi Hostel at Danquah Circle. It will be nice to be able to make my own tea and have a fridge, although I am forgoing air conditioning and television. Oh well, an acceptable tradeoff – I brought some DVDs with me and the pirated ones are readily available outside Koala for very cheap (it’s actually used to be just about impossible to buy “real” CDs and DVDs here, although that may have changed). It will be especially nice to have the extra space when Steve and Anna arrive in 3 ½ weeks.

We have the same apartment we had when we first came to Ghana 4 years ago, before our faculty house was ready. And Suala is again our landlord, so I am in very good hands!

Going to Ghana 2010, by Suzanne

2010-05-24T04:03:00.003Z

I leave soon for what may be my yearly trip to Ghana. Last year Steve and I staggered our trips to Ghana to see Fox graduate from Lincoln Community School – we only overlapped a few days, so as to minimize the time Anna and Grace were home alone. Recall that Fox stayed an extra year in Ghana, living with our missionary friends the Mozleys, to finish high school. He has now finished his first year at Southwestern University, is back living at home for the summer, and has a job as a waiter at The Monument Café, a great job at a great restaurant in town, which he is enjoying. Last weekend we went up to Denton, Texas to see Grace graduate (National Honor Society and Gold Cord, if I do say so myself) from the Texas Academy of Math and Science. She is also living at home for the summer and looking for work. At this point it seems she may piece together several babysitting, office, and retail short-term jobs. Not exactly her dream summer, especially since her parents and Anna are “ditching” her – me for 7 weeks, Steve and Anna for 4, for our travel to Ghana. I am surprisingly not at all worried about leaving our two teenagers home for 3 weeks alone – except of course their fighting over kitchen and bathroom messes, and whose turn it is to mow the lawn. The neighbors are joking about the parties that will be occurring, but I figure they’ll at least have the good sense to put things back in order before I get home. But I also just trust them – they’re responsible almost-adults.

I am feeling sad about “ditching” them, Grace especially since she’s the more vocal about it, and also am feeling introspective about transitions in general these days. There have been bumps putting 5 people back together in a too-small house (Grace got the dining room this summer – Fox had it last summer). Also my Aunt Skeeter passed away this week. She and my Uncle JB had been married for 66 years. A very sad transition for him, although we all rejoice that she is with her Lord and a company of saints after a year’s difficult illness. Leaving my family during these transitional times leaves me somewhat melancholy.

However, I am excited to see my friends and colleagues at Ashesi University, see how babies TK and Ingrid have grown over the last year, maybe welcome Ingrid’s sibling while I’m there, and also to see our church and missionary friends in Ghana. As usual my luggage is being packed full of requested items and gifts – the things that are hard to find or very expensive there (a particular brand of makeup or shampoo, particular books, coffee, diapers, sippy cup, microwave popcorn). When Steve comes he will bring some brisket and BBQ sauce – a big hit at last year’s graduation party!

So, if you please, wish me a volcano-cloud-less Tuesday and Wednesday, no terrorists, no illness, no delays, just smooth sailing as I transition back to Ghana for 7 weeks. Oh, and one of those planes with the individual movie controls built into the back of the seat would be nice. :-)

Goodbye Hyde Park United Methodist Church

2010-05-22T14:32:00.004Z

Today we say good-bye to an old friend who forever changed the course of our lives. I know that sounds so dramatic as to sound trite, but if we had not walked through those doors in 1992, when Suzanne was expecting with Grace, I don’t know what our lives would have become. I certainly would not be adding this entry to a blog started long four years ago, when we left for Africa.

This old friend we say good-bye to today is Hype Park United Methodist Church, the church I received my call to ministry in, the institution that supported that call, the congregation that listened to my first sermon, where I conducted my first funeral, served my first communion. Maybe received is too strong a word to attach to call; answered might be a better choice. Something happened to Suzanne and I in that Friendship Class room during Disciple Bible Study, and that call I’d been running from since high school, and known about since age six caught up with me, and I answered it.

All week I’ve been thinking about Hyde Park, a church once known as Shettles United Methodist, and before that I think Avenue D Methodist Episcopal Church of the South (that would have been about 100 years ago). I’ve been thinking about people like Bob Swanson who used to stand out in the parking lot and ask people as they drove in, “Methodist Parking?” Hyde Park was in the shadow of a large and powerful Baptist Church of the same name, and their people would often park in our parking lot, but Bob faithfully steered them elsewhere. One of our kids asked about the difference between Methodist and Baptist parking.

I think of Rev. Jim Cloninger, the pastor when we joined, and his 60-40 rule. Jim believed that in a marriage if each person would contribute 60% of the effort to sustaining the marriage, and expect to reap 40% of its rewards, it would never fail. Jim believed this so much that it seemed like between 60% and 40% of the time, his sermons contained that phrase. I saw him the week before he was killed in a car accident. I was walking my son home from Lee Elementary, “hey Buchele,” I heard in his distinctive voice, from the open window of that little truck. Jim had driven up from San Antonio to pick up his daughter, and who knew it would be the last time I would see him?

Jim and I worked habitat houses together, and played guitars on the porches of some of the finest homes in Hyde Park for their Tour of Homes. It wasn’t just me, Jim would get many of us together doing something, remodeling a house, fixing up something at the church, he would get us all together in one place doing something, and then do something he was famous for: be late. We used to call it CST, Cloninger Standard Time, about 20 min. late. I sometimes wondered if he did that just so we’d have to talk to each other, while we were waiting. In fact at his funeral, the pastor began the eulogy with these words, and I’ve never forget them, he said: “It is clear that Jim Cloninger had nothing to do with this service…it started on time!”

One time Jim talked about the streetlights of Hyde Park, how they went off when he was walking or running at night as he passed under them. “Does that ever happen to you?” he asked in that sermon. It happens to me more often than not, and each time it does I think about what Jim said, wondering if it was a warning to him then, to me now, and what the heck did it have to do with the Gospel lesson that day?

I think of Rev. David Gilliam, who followed Jim at Hyde Park. I learned so much from David in the year I served alongside him as a campus minister. David introduced us to the music of Taize, to the art of crafting a worship experience, to Lebh Shomea, the Catholic retreat center in south Texas, and who was always so generous in sharing ministry; never wanted to be the sole person in the spot light. Then David left, and soon I was appointed to serve a new church in Temple. Looking back at those seven years at Foundation, I see Hyde Park was always a part of all I did. I sometimes wonder if I wasn’t trying to create or recreate a bigger and better Hyde Park, combining the ministries of my mentors Jim and David.

I think about the Christmas Eve services, the cold and sometimes wet Easter Sunrise in the park, about Children’s Time, VBS, and the annual Christmas “Play” which was more of a frolic with costumes. I think about singing with Katie Hull, Michelle Schumann, Cayla Cardiff, and the Campus Ministry to feed the day workers on Tuesday mornings at 6am. Bring a dozen hard boiled eggs and tortillas.

I think about the secret places of the building, like under the fellowship hall stage, or above the stage wings, or the trap door under the pulpit. I think about the year we gave up the organ during Lent, and how powerful “Christ the LORD has risen today” sounded on Easter when played with all the stops out. Turns out the organ was broken and it took the six weeks of Lent to fix it.

I think about the amazing people that were such an encouragement: Ruth Hansen, Ambra Reedy, Charlie and Annie Lancaster, Bert Bowman, Jody Cook, Mary Beth Hoffmann, Hank Strange, Bob & Ruth Swanson, John and Sharon Lancaster, Carole Franke, Nate Davis, Dorothy Barber, Wanda & CL Evans, Leonia Cronk, Brick & Dana, Betty & Brock, Ingrid and Scott, and of course the College Class: Kelly & Melina, Kelly Willis, Robert & Susan, Mark, Kristine, Daniel & Julie.

I think about those who came into ministry, or trained for it there: Rev. Sue Abold, Rev. Nancy Day, Rev Ingrid Acres, Rev. Krista Ingram, me, and I know I’m forgetting some, but I wonder, who will love on them as Hyde Park did?

I guess what makes me most sad is that in a generation, all this will have been forgotten, just as I can’t quite remember the stories Bert used to tell about the men of his Sunday School class dressing up in skirts and dancing. I can’t remember why, only that I used to heard this story about as often as I heard the 60-40 rule. It makes me sad that after today I won’t be able to take my daughters, who were both baptized in that sanctuary, back to that place and tell the story of the day they were baptized. Maybe the place is not as important as the work that was begun that day and the people who began it.

Every few years I do a Google search on the name Rev. Jim Cloninger, and usually there is nothing, but this morning I got one. It mentions Jim alongside another clergy, one who like Jim, had so much potential. The author is listing those who have died before their time:

…Rev. Jim Cloninger, whom I was just getting to know, appreciate, and learn from when he died in a car crash. Part of the tragedy in each case was the sense of unfulfilled promise, a gnawing, smoldering feeling of unfairness, that they, and we, and all who loved them, and all whose lives they would certainly have touched in the future had been unjustly robbed, wrongfully plundered of an unfathomable treasure. [blog]

So I guess there is hope, that the stories of lives that the people of Hyde Park touched, and changed will not be lost. So today, Hyde Park United Methodist completes its mission, and like those who have gone on before it, its passing will not be overshadow by what it has already given to this world. Thank you Hyde Park for the journey you began in my life, and for those who you brought into my life. God Speed.

Smoked Ribs Satay

2010-02-03T15:29:00.002Z

Smoked Ribs Satay

For years Suzanne and I have been fond of Thai cooking, especially the street food called Satay. In Austin there is this wonderful, but expensive, restaurant we used to treat ourselves to, and we almost always ordered their Chicken Satay as an appetizer.

Over the past few months, I’ve been studying the art of Thai cooking and along with it, to make a pretty decent Satay, either chicken or pork. This is an adaption I call Smoked Ribs Satay. It has all the flavors of a pork satay, but the meat has the texture of ribs. Steaming the ribs after smoking them makes the meat tender and almost falls off the bone.

2 racks of baby back ribs (pork)

1 16” sheet of Wax paper

Extra wide heavy-duty aluminum foil

16x11 pan fitted with wire rack

Marinade:

1 can (14oz) unsweetened coconut milk.

4 tablespoons Yellow Curry Paste. If you don’t have an Asian store nearby that carries Yellow Curry Paste, Thai Kitchen makes a good red curry paste that works as well.

2 tablespoons brown sugar

2 tablespoons Thai fish sauce

1 tablespoon ground whole coriander seed

1 tablespoon whole coriander seed (not ground)

Combine the marinade ingredients in a large zip lock bag. Cut baby back ribs racks in half so they will all fit in the zip lock bag with the marinade. Marinate at least four hours, or as long as 24 hours.

Preheat a smoker (we prefer mesquite wood to smoke) to 250 degrees. Smoke the marinated ribs for one hour meat side up, keeping temperature between 225 and 275, ideally 250 but never above 300. Baste the ribs every 10-15 minutes with the leftover marinade.

After an hour, remove ribs from smoker and place meat side up in the 16x11 pan fitted with a bottom rack (we support the rack in the middle with a broken chopstick).

Top brown the ribs by placing under broiler for 10 minutes, then preheat oven to 250 degrees.

While oven is preheating, add ¼ inch water to bottom of pan and cover ribs with one layer of wax paper. Now seal the pan with aluminum foil. The wax paper separates the smoked meat from aluminum foil which will react and eat holes in the foil allowing steam to escape.

Steam ribs for two hours at 250, but no longer than three hours. Serve as a main dish with rice or an appetizer, then three ribs to a plate. Serve with plenty of warm Satay Sauce.

Satay Sauce

This wonderful sauce is expensive to buy. When Suzanne and I would order Satay at that restaurant of the same name in Austin, they were always tight with the sauce, and we asked for more, which they begrudgingly provided. This sauce is better, and much less expensive.

1 can (14 oz) unsweetened coconut milk.

6 tablespoons Massaman curry paste (there is no substitute)

2/3 cup smooth natural peanut butter

7 tablespoons brown sugar (or Palm Sugar)

2 tablespoons Thai fish sauce.

½ t cayenne pepper (optional)

Gently warm the coconut milk in a saucepan until boiling, stirring occasionally to prevent burning. Add the curry paste and blend with a wire whip until well blended. Cook for three minutes. Add peanut butter and stir constantly until smooth. Turn down the heat on low and stir in the sugar until smooth and well blended and cook for two minutes. Remove from heat and add fish sauce add if you like things spicy cayenne.

PS: if you need a recipe for homemade Massaman curry paste, let me know and I can send it to you.

The Last Holiday

2010-01-09T19:04:00.001Z

[A snowman we built our first day in Ruidoso, which appropriated my hat and glasses]

We have just returned from what could be our last family vacation, or holiday, as Suzanne calls it. It is a time in my life where I have begun making lists of things I will and will not do in this life. Ski again – yes; learn to snowboard – no. Making lists seems odd for several reasons, but the fact that I am informally making these lists shows that I am cognizant that at some level that this life does end, that the time I have left is less than the time I have already lived, and knowing that there is a fear, or at least a healthy respect for not injuring myself, again. (read: green slopes).

This family holiday, was a gift from St. Phillips UMC, where a new appointment for me began January 1, but I was allowed the grace to start a week later so we could holiday. Thank you!

[Anna, Fox & Grace at Ski Apache]

Maybe I have a tighter definition of family holiday than necessary, but I have defined it as an extended trip with our three kids, driving in one vehicle, staying together in one place, and sharing the same experiences, activities and food. Some might call this a laboratory of human suffering[1], but I see it harkening back to the vacations we took with our kids before they were old enough to object.

[Steve & Suzanne on the drive up]:

This time we went skiing/snowboarding in New Mexico. Skiing is something Suzanne brought into our marriage, a gift she taught me the first winter we were married when we went visiting her half brother Mick in Denver. Every other year since we have gone to the mountains, sometimes with friends (Kim and Austin), her brother (Reg and Julie), our Sunday School class (The Genesis Class at University United Methodist Church), and in later years just as a family on holiday.

As a kid I can’t remember the last vacation we took as a family when my folks, Rod, Beth, Sheron and I would have loaded up in our white 1960s Chevy Biscayne and drove all night to Kansas. When it was happening, I wonder if my parents knew it would be our last time? Another thing I can’t recall is ever taking a family vacation that didn’t involve visiting family, or attending Dad’s professional convention, the American Society of Agricultural Engineers, or ASAE as we called it. Just saying the letters ASAE brings to mind exotic places, and face it when you’ve been raised in Iowa, even Duluth seems exotic. This too was a gift from Suzanne, the notion that a family holiday could be the sole reason for a vacation.

[A Chevy Biscayne station wagon, our family car growing up]:

I am guessing that last family trip together would have been the summer of 1968, a year after my brother started at Iowa State, and right before the rest of my family went overseas for a year. When we came back, it was my sister Beth’s turn for Iowa State and now with two siblings in college, I don't think the folks were able to get us together for a family vacation. There were trips with my folks after that summer, ASAE conventions in San Francisco, Baton Rouge, Minneapolis, Davis, California and other exotic places I can’t remember, but mostly I think of Kansas and visiting the Jagger and Buchele farmsteads and, at least at the Jagger farm, playing with dangerous fireworks (which were illegal in Iowa), and reading through the largest collection of comic books ever seen.

[Fox, Grace and Anna, on the way up]

Which is why I was so determined to remember this family holiday because in all likelihood, it will be our last. We are entering a season of launching, of losing our children to the young adults they are becoming, of watching them define themselves, or at least defining who they are not, and it feels sometimes like that who they are not, is to be part of this family. I remember that stage, and how gracious my family was during it, so I don’t take it personally, but will treasure this last family holiday.

It was wonderful, and at the same time bittersweet, seeing us all laughing together, eating long family dinners, watching Suzanne's intercultural movie picks and making fun of them, skiing or snowboarding the slopes and just enjoying intense family time. It was good. Not to get all theological, but I can’t help thinking that this must be what it is like for God too, when God sees his children playing together nicely, laughing, having fun, enjoying each other’s company and experiencing the wonder that is this creation. It was my prayer this past week riding up the ski lift, thanking God for the beauty of these mountains, trees and for this time set apart to remember what it is like to be family.

[Mountains of Ski Apache]

[1] Term stolen from Bishop Joe Wilson, when he described family vacations in their RV, when their kids were growing up.

Goodbye to 2009 Thoughts

2010-01-01T13:53:00.001Z

This past year has been one of great hopes and crushing disappointments, of fun and frustration, of learning more about the inner workings of my soul than most would ever want to know, and being humbled. We believers often used the word humbled, as a code word to express deep appreciation, using it when we feel that perhaps we don’t deserve the praise, or honors that are being bestowed; but it hasn’t been that kind of year.

“To become humble,” I have heard said, “is not to think less of oneself, but to think less about oneself.” It wasn’t that kind of year, either. So how to process the learning to think less of oneself without sounding all winey, when it really felt like a year of just getting used to my new station in life.

The Journey

This fall Suzanne and I lead small group at Church through ALPHA. The ALPHA Course is 10 week class designed for skeptics of the faith, but our group was mostly long-term believers from the Church. The lecture I remember most was the topic How does God guide us? We listened to a wonderful lecture by Nicky Gumble and then broke off for small group discussion. Somehow my group gravitates toward the question “What if all of life is journey?” I’ve wondering since, what are the implications of such a thought; how could that change the way I approach life? What if there was no destination, no purpose, no point to life other than its journey? That God gave to us this life as a gift to use here and now, complete with a set of guidelines to make the journey the whole point.

The thought is not new, nor new to me. There is evidence that Ancient Israel, before their Babylonian exile held to this concept of the journey, with little thought to the afterlife, or as Simcha Paull Raphael writes in Jewish Views of the Afterlife, a “postmortem judgment associated with Sheol,” or a “philosophy of an individual soul”[1]. But 70 years of exile in a land where such beliefs were held to brought about an early shift in Jewish theology, at least according to Simcha Paull Raphael. But what if the Israelites had it right? That the point of life is the journey, that we are to make the most of life before the frost comes.

Part of that journey was remembered during the first of the Christmas Eve services at Wellspring. It was that feeling of sacredness. I was serving the people communion, something that much of the time isn’t in the repertoire of that church’s pastoral responsibilities. When I talk to retired pastors, Communion is that thing they talk about missing the most. So here I was on my last day, tearing off a large chunk of bread and placing in the hand of a child too young to understand its meaning.

“This means Jesus loves you very much and wants you never to forget that.” It was a first and last for me there, watching the wide eyed the child take the host, nodding his head, or hearing her say yes and I remembered how that once familiar feeling of sacredness warmed my soul. It has been too long. Is this what it feels like for retired pastors?

How, Not What

I wonder if Barbara Brown Taylor misses it. Author of Leaving Church, and more recently An Altar in the World, she left parish ministry in 1998, a year before I started, and eight years before I knew she had left it (she was still publishing her books as if she was still serving). The week before Christmas I was reading about her call, how she had been pleading with God, asking

“What is it you want me to do?”

When her heart was finally ready to listen, God spoke,

“Anything that pleases you,” God said. “Anything that pleases you, and belong to me.” [2]

She writes:

“at one level, that answer was no help at all, the ball was back in my court…whatever I decided to do for a living, it was not what I did, but how I did it that mattered. God had an overall purpose, but was not going to supply the particulars for me. If I wanted a life of meaning, then I was going to have to apply the purpose for myself.”

This understanding of Call, was a revelation to me, it is not so much what I do, but how I do it that matters to God. God wants me to emphasize the how, over the what. Its not that the what does not matter, it does, in fact it informs the how, but the what you do never takes on primary importance over the how you do it.

Its like the what is the melody, and the how are the words. It is the words that give meaning to the melody.

It’s the how we live our lives that give meaning to what we do while living them.

The what is the wrapping paper, and the how is the gift inside it, and longer after the wrapping paper ends up in the fireplace, it is the gift we will remember.

Cognitively, I really connect with this understanding of Call, but experientially, my mileage has differed, mostly from being a weed. My father says “A weed is just a good plant in the wrong place.” In other words, it is lost, or misplaced and I think that ties in well with what Ms. Taylor wrote about consenting to be lost (previous blog post), “since you have no other choice.”

No matter how hard that weed tries, how God honoring that weed is, how well that weed functions, at that end of the day, it is still a weed…a good plant in the wrong place. It is not a reflection on the garden, or on the weed itself, both are good and at the same time, ill-suited toward each other. I hope this is the lesson (or humbling) I was to learn this past year; it is not a class I want to retake.

I came to Wellspring thinking I could fit in anywhere, do anything and that as long as I belonged to God, all would be well with my soul. It didn’t matter what I did, just how I did it; it wasn’t the melody that mattered, just the words.

I was appointed to do music, something I loved, but had walked away from as a main source of income 25 years earlier. “When the music you love to play becomes the music you have to play to pay the rent,” Ms. Taylor writes, “your heart can suffer from alienation of affection.”[3] I imagine when she wrote those words, music was for her a metaphor but for me there was nothing metaphoric about it. She adds “people know when their gifts are being wasted, and this knowledge can eat away at the soul like a cancer.”[4] It wasn’t the gift of music wasted, it was not having a place to use all I had learned, over a lifetime of experience. It happens to musicians, they get put in a box, like that is all they are or can do. Cancer, is an apt metaphor, errors or genetic mutations duplicating or spread throughout the body disrupting its more healthy parts, in other words leading to a “alienation of affection.”

I think that is what weeds do, and why we hate them so. They spread.

Well the long wait is over, the Wellspring journey has ended, and now we wait for another year and another journey to begin at St. Phillips United Methodist. The excitement between these journeys has been Christmas, and soon a family ski vacation. The journey continues.

[1] Simcha Paull Raphael, Jewish Views of the Afterlife, p57, 2009

[2] BBT,An Altar in the World, p110.

[3] BBT, p116

[4] BBT, p113.

Steve@50 – part 3 The year of Enculturalization

2009-10-14T14:32:00.002Z

Steve@50 – part 3 The year of Enculturalization

It has been raining here for weeks now, the San Gabriel has filled with water and driving past it, I too am filled with hope that things are about to change. In missionary training, I am told it is called the end of the year of enculturalization, meaning that first year when the missionary is not active in the work they will do, but active in integrating with the new culture. I’m told it is often one of the hardest years, to be in a place that has so many needs, and yet being unable to do anything about it, other than to be present. In pastor training, its called that first year, or the Honeymoon, when wise pastors won’t change anything, at least until they understand exactly what they are changing, and why. They too are learning the culture of that new church. Sometimes if feels like you are just sitting around, and the words of Will Rodgers come to mind who said that “Even if you are on the right track, you’ll get run over if you just sit there.” So being run over is not a function of right track or wrong, but of just sitting there, even if that is exactly what you are supposed to be doing.

As I said in the first of these Steve@50 posts (which is on the blog: www.buchele.blogspot.com if you’re reading this “note” on facebook), I talked about finding myself in learning to cook Indian food. It was a process that started long before I needed it, and isn’t that just like God to prepare me.

It was during our first year in Ghana (April 07) when Suzanne discovered a love of Indian food; so I bought an Indian cookbook. After several tragic attempts, I asked our friend Veena, who makes the most amazing Chai, if she could teach me to make Dal. We invited friends over, and she patently taught me, giving me a glimpse into its process—albeit it a short lived one—soon after I was back to my tragic ways. Another year, another cookbook that yielded similar results. Now a third year, but back in the states and seeking purpose and meaning in my life, I picked up yet another cookbook, and started with Dal. I figured if I was ever going to master this process, I needed to master Dal, so we ate nothing but Dal for weeks until I could make a fairly decent one.

Here is what I learned:

1) Cooking Indian Food take time, like three hours, plus that last hour when you just let the food rest and the flavor changes.

2) You can’t hurry the onions. When the recipe says brown the onions, it means fry them for 30 minutes at least, over medium heat, stirring constantly until they are really brown.

3) There are no short cuts. (see #1) When I was a programmer, we used to say “Nine women, no matter how smart, intelligent, or clever can’t make a baby in one month,” and that is the same way with Indian food, you can’t hurry it.

4) Good food is meant to be shared among friends.

I cooked my way through Classic Indian Cooking, inviting friends over to dinner as often as we could without over Dal-ling them. For my 50^th, Suzanne arranged a celebration of friends (from a life two lives ago) in Austin. Suzanne and I spent most of the day cooking, and when our friends arrived, there were jobs for the men and children, while the wives sat at the table and talked. The kids made Naan, rolling the dough out and cooking it outside over a wood fire on the smoker. The men gathered in the kitchen, cooking the vegetables, and talking about manly things.

Then we gather for the blessing. It happens every time, it could be my mother-in-law’s pot roast, a Thanksgiving feast, or a gathering of friends who are now holding each other hands, encircling the kitchen or sitting around the table. I look around the room, into the eyes of friends, or family and I see their faces in the eyes of their children. It is a room filled with gratitude and each time I can’t think of a place I’d rather be, even when I am not sure, in the greater scheme of things, exactly what I am doing here.

The practice of being lost, writes Barbara Brown Taylor, “consists of consenting to be lost, since you have no other choice.” This consenting itself “becomes your choice, as you explore the possibility that life is for you and not against you, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary.”[1]

So that has been my choice of late, to choose to be lost, even when I know exactly where I am, just not why God put me here.

[1] BBT, An Altar in the World, p80, emphasis mine.

Steve@50 part 2 – Walking a Dry Riverbed

2009-09-30T13:40:00.005Z

Steve@50 part 2 – A Walk in a Dry Riverbed

Conventionally, lostness has to do with location, and not knowing where one is in relation to the rest of the world, but the lostness I feel is knowing exactly where I am, but not what I am to be doing here. Is it the same question God ask of Elijah in 2 Kings 19, “What are you doing here?” except the roles are reversed, and I am the one asking “What am I doing here?”.

Elijah had prayed for the rain to stop, and it stopped raining for three and a half years. I’m not sure who prayed here, but up until a few weeks we were experiencing an exceptional drought (exceptional being two stages past extreme). I woke up one Saturday morning and went for a walk in the park near our house. It hadn’t rained in so long; I followed the dry riverbed of the San Gabriel, walking on dry bedrock well below the usual water mark, or put another way, I would have been completely under water in normal circumstances. I had the feeling then, not a voice I could hear, but a thought that said to me, “this is my church, and the water my spirit.”

I noticed a few ducks scrambling over to a muddy puddle to sip what water there was, and like the drought they were experiencing, I understood it to be today’s church, squabbling over its little puddles of what is left of God’s spirit; there has been no fresh outpouring in so long. God designed the riverbed to be filled with water, and here it was dry, almost as if God’s hand of blessing had been withdrawn, that God’s Spirit had been diverted, that God’s Holy Spirit did not rain down on it, nor wish to enter what is called the church today.

Why, I asked. Now many of you know I’ve been walking the more conservative side of the road these past 10 years, believing I was still in the middle, but somewhere the road shifted, and today I find myself not so comfortable with what I once believed. We were told it was the way to grow your church, to believe these things, be inviting to these people and we did, and it did. But I am not sure we helped people the way the church was designed to as that more conservative way of the faith did not always help the living of it. We were sold a bill of goods, a set promises that can not deliver. I’ve tried to live that way, by those books, by the ideals or purpose driven notions and failed. What I have learned is

a) It is near impossible to live that way, and life feels like a failure, and guilt ridden.
b) When I do manage to ratchet down my humanity and live that way of life, it is joyless (and if there are small periods of joy, it is from condemning others who can’t live it)

So I’ve had a bit of a conversion, and sharing this with a friend who had not lost her way (and didn’t give up on me when I had). I now see empirically what she’s always known, that God’s kingdom invites a larger set of people than I could have imagined and I guess that is contributing to my sense of lost-ness too. Where is the box?

It is a lesson people of the faith have learned, or had to learn throughout the centuries, that a life of faith is lived by more than a set rules, but by a shared love of all peoples. I have found that subtle switch enough to let me live more faithfully than I have in a long time. It is amazing what love can do.

At the end of the walk, I laid flat on my back in the dry riverbed looking up, arms out stretched and confessed. I asked God to show me a new path, let me learn its ways by walking it, let me swim in this riverbed called the church, swiftly flowing with God’s spirit.

Steve@50 part 1 – Finding the Path by Walking It

2009-09-29T14:36:00.000Z

Steve@50 part 1 – Finding the Path by Walking It

I am now 50 years old, and a month, and a day. Ouch.

Before I turned 50, I heard one of those sermons that keeps working itself out in my thoughts, specifically, it was the introduction to the sermon where Dr. Beverly Jones, the Chaplain of Southwestern University was remembering a cathedral she visited years ago in Europe, how she noticed a labyrinth built into its stone floor of the narthex. It was a room crowded with tourists rushing their way to see the sanctuary, and she looked down and saw this ancient stone path.

Dr. Jones talked of following the labyrinth to see where that experience led her; how it felt to follow a path oblivious to those pushing toward a view of the Chancel. She spoke about walking a path that others do not follow, know about, or see, and how we are still called do it, even when we don’t know where it will lead us. Quoting ancient wisdom “we find the path by walking it,” she said, and I knew it to be true to my soul.

That sermon began an interesting conversation in my mind with Barbara Brown Taylor’s latest book, an Altar in the World. Taylor talks about the spiritual practice of lost-ness, how she set out to be married, and ended up divorced, to be healthy, ending up sick, to be a village priest, and now teaches college. I think of my own journey, musician, computer scientist, pastor, and now 30 years later back to being a musician, working in a church. Like Taylor, it is a path “no one in their right mind would have chosen” , but whose treasure outweighs the “projected wages in the life I had planned.” Esteemed philosopher Guy Clark observed the same

Sometimes you write the songs, sometimes the songs write you.

We went to see the movie Julie and Julia a few weeks ago, a wonderful movie that chronicled the story of a historical Julia Child set against the modern day blogger Julie Powell as she cooked her way through Julia’s first book. Similarly lost, both Julia and Julie found their way in the art of French Cooking. It was a lostness I understood, a movie I totally connected with, because I’ve been finding my way in the kitchen too, not a French one, but an Indian kitchen, through the teachings of another Julie, Julie Sahni, and her wonderful book “Classic Indian Cooking”. If the ancient wisdom says we find the path by walking it, then I’ve found my path by cooking it. It has been a delicious adventure.

The Pastor’s Privilege: A Tribute to Jerry Barnes

2009-09-19T13:34:00.002Z

Jerry Barnes died earlier this week while driving a school bus that collided with an 18 wheeler. That’s about all I know about how he died. What I have been thinking about this week is how he lived. At his memorial service, we heard stories of how Jerry loved fishing, never met a stranger, always had a winning smile, a man who didn’t let the circumstances of life define his attitude toward it, a person who, when judged by the quality of his friends, was indeed very rich. All true, but what keeps coming back to me this week is how he invited me into the sacred moments of his life.

Jerry was a good salesman, and being that, he had an innate ability to make people feel good about who they were. It wasn’t hollow or undeserved praise, it didn’t have really anything to do with what you were doing, you just felt better about yourself when he was around, and as I think back on it, that’s what I enjoyed most about being invited in those sacred moments.

The story always starts with when you first met them, and for me, it was visiting Jerry and Janet in their home in Morgan’s Point after church one Sunday afternoon after they had visited that morning. I’m sure one of my kids in tow. I brought them a mug, and stayed too long, we fed the deer, but what strikes me about that day is the people I met at their house and how in the years to come, we would see each other these sacred moments.

Like when Janet’s body died, holding her hand, along with Gayla, and the kids in that hospital room after her mind had been taken from a stroke earlier. It was just a shell, but we stood there, thanking God for her life, for the mother she had been, and love she had given the world and wondering about the huge hole she would leave in Jerry’s life, one that the church and good friends would try to fill. A sacred moment, a privilege to be there, and one that made saying good-bye at the memorial so much more authentic. I think back to that service and something I heard about the foods that Janet loved to cook, but her favorite thing to make was, reservations.

Or their daughter Heather, when she married Chris in that amazing castle in Burnet, as Suzanne and I were invited to witness it and feel much like one of the family. Or like when Jerry fell in love with the future Mrs. Janet Barnes, the second. How watching those two fall in love reminded us what it was like to be in love. And they were. Each had lost their soul mates a year or so earlier, and found in each other, rest from those empty places in their hearts. For a while they were together and made each other whole, but once healed from that brokenness, I guess, that which had brought them together was not enough to keep them together, and so that marriage ended. Still it is a favorite memory of mine of watching them hold hands in the parking lot after church and almost skip across it.

At the memorial service, I wondered was it me, or just the office of pastor that Jerry had invited into his life. We were not that close but I had been a part of so many sacred moments, and this being one more, I wanted to be a part of it—for my sake—and I know, when I want something for reasons like that, its never good. So I wondered when seeing his kids after the service, would they remember? Kim saw me first, and she rushed over and gave me this deep hug, saying “Steve…” Then Cal, with that great smile of his father’s, saying, “hey, I remember you!” Or Heather introducing me to her two children, both beautiful and handsome. I knew that even if it was just the office of pastor, I was the one who sat in it, and to be invited into a family such as this, and to share in some small part of the lives of the children of Janet and Jerry Barnes was indeed a privilege, and one I am deeply grateful for. I got all that from one good hug.

As much as I want this to be about me, about the pastor’s privilege, it is really just a tribute to the way of Jerry Barnes and how he touched my life and maybe yours. I would like to close with a poem by David Swing, that I’m told that was one of Janet’s favorites, and we read it at her memorial.

Let us learn to be content with what we have.

Let us get rid of our false estimates, set up all the higher ideals—

A quiet home

Vines of our own planning

A few books full of the inspiration of genius,

A few friends worthy of being loved and able to love in return.

A hundred innocent pleasures that bring no pain or remorse

A devotion to the right that will never swerve,

A simple religion empty of all bigotry, full of trust and hope and love—and to such a philosophy this world will give up all the joy it has.

God Speed Jerry, and thank you.

Returning to Ghana #4 - A visit to Eric's Village, part 1

2009-06-29T16:34:00.005Z

Returning to Ghana #4 - Visiting Eric's Village, part 1

For years it seems like I've been talking about visiting Eric's village, the one he grew up in. Eric was born in Kumasi, but was raised in Adenkrebi, about an hour north of Accra. This is the photolog from that visit.

So Eric warned me that it was a lonely place, that there was nothing there, and he wasn't kidding. I think for me, the best part was watching how people welcomed him. The closer we got to Adenkrebi, the more people recognized him, and yelled out his last name as we drove by. This is the road to Adenkrebi, the one that turns off the main road.

This is Eric's oldest brother. Notice the heavy coat. Its rainy season and we're out side Accra on one of the hills that surround it to the north. Its maybe 70 degrees, and he had a coat on.

Here is the "town drunk". Eric tells me again that if I want the truth about anything or anybody, ask him. Because he is the drunk, nobody pays any attention to him, and he sees and hears everything. (click here for more about "town drunk")

Here is the kitchen, located in the courtyard.

To the left of the cooking area, will be water collection barrels, capturing rainwater from the roof. They barrels are 55 gal. steel barrels with concrete on the inside so they don't rust.

Outside the building I see a familiar site, a new bore hole pump, except it isn't locked, and looks--- I don't know--lonely. I've seen many of these pumps, and usually people rush to show me it works, or I see people lined up to use it, but this one sits alone, overlooked, idle. I see it was installed May 17, 2008.

I ask about it but the subject changes and we move on. Later we walk by it again, and I ask again. "It is spoiled," I am told, and I wonder, how long did this pump work?

I wonder if the Rotary Club of York, Maine knows this. Visiting their website, I find a picture of it working a year ago, but today its spoiled. [website]

I am told the more sustainable bore hole projects are set up on a nominal fee based use system. Each gallon of water pumped accrues some nominal fee. The money collected from that fee goes into a maintenance fund so that when something breaks, there is already money saved to have it fixed. I've spoken to a few Christian organizations wanting to drill bore holes, and install pumps, and I always ask them if there will be a fee for the water? The answer is always "NO!" it will be free!

"What happens when the pump breaks...who will pay for it to be fixed?" I ask. Not always, but often this is a question that has not been asked, and usually there is no answer except the water will be free. Charging money for water seems cruel to these organizations, but it seems to me even more cruel to give someone a well with no plan for its maintainability. I don't know the setup for this bore hole in Adenkribe, but I suspect it was not fee based (there is no lock on the pump) and today, a year after it was installed, it sits idle, unused, broken.

There are stories passed around the expat community of cars, bicycles, pumps, generators, other things that require ongoing maintenance being given to a community, or a household. When they become broken, the expat gets a call saying "Obruni, your __________ has spoiled, come fix it (or send us money to have it repaired)" I wonder if the York, Maine Rotarians received such a call. I've emailed their president to let him know, and wonder what he will do.

This is the Presby Church in Adenkribe. Its the one Eric was raised in. Outside there is a bell tower built by some Germans.

Eric tells me it rings three times before the worship service. 45 minutes

before, so people know to come in from the fields, 10 minutes before to let people know its time to leave, and when worship starts.

Inside the worship area:

Here is the most alarming part, the white Jesus. I ask Eric about it, and he says "Your people gave us these pictures of Jesus..."

I don't know if I should laugh or cry. I believe that one should never take away or explain away a belief system, or understanding without having a better one. What sort of picture could you replace them with? I mean I understand I'm in no position to say or doing anything, but if I were, what would I do, I wonder.

Comments are most welcome!

Return to Ghana #3 (Chicken with Red Sauce)

2009-06-22T18:32:00.002Z

Return to Ghana #3 (Chicken with Red Sauce)

Food. There a few things I enjoy more than the food of a different culture, learning how to make it, or getting into conversation about it, it is a passion of mine. I had learned (and posted) many recipes in our years in Ghana, and I continue to make this great foods since we’ve been back, but there was one grave omission: Shelia’s Fried Chicken and Red Sauce. Eric calls this Obruni food, but its like nothing I’ve ever tasted before, and so it was I came back with a determination to learn how Shelia made it.

It seemed rather rash to land at the airport, and immediately ask Eric if his cousin could come over and cook for us, so I waited a few days, and it turns out that when Shelia heard we were coming, she too asked if she would be allowed to come cook for us.

It was a Thursday afternoon that Shelia came over and entered into this Kitchen that was not hers. There are some dynamics I completely miss, like the sense of ownership that the house help feels toward the house they work in or the animosity that southern and central Ghanaians feel for northerners. The Mosleys are so good at understanding this, and me, so completely clueless. Inviting Shelia to come into this kitchen, and then spending the afternoon working with her (thus displacing the usual crew) was one of those “not well thought through” moments. It was not well thought out in that there was some internal conflict in the household. We had a great time cooking together, talking about life, and enjoying each other's company. Here is her wonderful Fried Chicken and Red Sauce.

Shelia’s Fried Chicken and Red Sauce

This was Suzanne’s favorite in Ghana. There are two recipes that are cooked concurrently, often in the early afternoon before the house got hot. The chicken was served room temperature, but the red sauce was served hot along with white rice and a fruit salad.

Fried Chicken

8 medium onions, quartered

2 fists of garlic, skinned and cut

4 fingers of ginger, skinned and cut into slices

3 chickens, cut up.

2t salt

Oil for frying (safflower or sunflower)

Chop onions, garlic and ginger in a food processor or blender until rough-smooth. Pour over cut up chicken and cook on medium-high heat for 10 minutes. Add salt, stir and continue to cook until chicken thoroughly cooked and just starts to pull away from the bone. Shelia calls this “steaming the chicken.”

While chicken is “steaming” start work on the Red Sauce (see next recipe).

When chicken begins to pull away from the bone, perhaps as long as 30 minutes later depending on the tenderness of the chicken, turn fire off and pick chicken with tongs and place in a colander, capturing the stock that drains off and returning it to the stock pot. Let chicken cool slightly

In a large, deep frying pan add one half to three quarters inch of light oil. Heat oil until hot, then carefully add chicken to one layer. Cook until chicken is deep brown on all sides and remove. Drain on paper towel, and cover. Cook chicken in batches.

Sheila would often cook chicken in the afternoon so it was cool by the time we ate dinner. The Red Sauce was served hot along with rice and a fruit salad.

Red Sauce

32 Roma Tomatoes , quartered.

3 handfuls of small hot peppers, steamed and seeded (if you want to reduce the heat).

3 medium onions, halved and then sliced in half moons.

1 cup light oil (safflower or sunflower)

2 tins of tomato paste (70gr each)

½ c dried shrimps (or 4 cubes of Maggie – Maggie is a concentrated flavor cube [wiki])

3 green peppers, cubed, or cut in nickel sized pieces.

3 T curry powder.

In a large stock pan, fry onions in oil until just brown at the edges, then add tomato and pepper blend.

While onions are frying, puree tomatoes and peppers in a blender of food processor until smooth.

Cook on high heat until reduced by half (about 40 minutes, stirring occasionally to prevent burning).

When reduced by half, add 2 tins of tomato paste, and blend until smooth, cooking on medium heat.

Add half cup of dried shrimps (or 4 cubes Maggie). Stir often to prevent burning.

Add 4 cups of stock from the chicken, (which should replace half of the liquid that was reduced by cooking) and then continue cooking until thick. Add in 3 T curry powder and turn off fire and correct seasoning, adding salt if needed.

Just before serving, stir in cubed green peppers.

Serve with rice and fruit salad.

Thoughts on Cooking

I wonder why it is I am drawn to doing the things that only last for the moment, performing, like preaching, like cooking, things that are fully consuming, but once completed, are just memories. I look at the artwork my kids have made over the years, and they are for us, a moment in time, captured. But for most of what I enjoy doing, I have only memories. Like my mom teaching me to make what I call "Iowa Chili," though it should more rightly be called "Kansas Chili" because that is where she was raised, but I learned it in Iowa. Iowa Chili doesn't have garlic, it does have kidney beans, along with ground beef, and uses tomato sauce along with the while tomatoes. Texas Chili is way different, as is Grubstake Chili. Each has been taught to me in a kitchen of shared love, love of food, love of the cooking process, love of the companionship of learning and teaching food, and the stories.

At my old church, the kitchen was where everything of import happened. We cooked together, talked, enjoyed each other's friendship in that room. If I needed to think or talk to someone, staff knew it would happen in the kitchen. At my current church, none of that can happen in the kitchen, its a room designed by someone who doesn't cook, or love cooking. It lacks a soul, which is so odd because the rest of the building has such character. I know rooms are not alive, that they don't have a soul, but there is something about this kitchen that is missing. It may be what my daughter Anna talks about, when she says "chain food" doesn't have love in it. She can taste if the love is there, she says, and knows if the person who made it cared.

Eating dinner that Thursday night around the Mozley's large table, eating this wonderful food, with these great friends, I remember thinking, if my Anna was here, she would taste the love, and the friendship that produced and shared this meal. It made me think that food is not just to something to sustain our bodies, but when shared, to sustain our souls.

Return to Ghana Blog #2

2009-06-18T12:46:00.002Z

Last year when we left Ghana it was with the hope of returning soon if we could figure it out (we didn’t). This time I came wondering if I would still love it like before, still want to return, or wonder why did we love it so? Its not so strange. Suzanne and I fell in love after she moved back to Connecticut. We met in Austin in the fall of 2003 during her “Junior year abroad” at The University of Texas. In those days were just friends but then but she went back to Connecticut College for her senior year, and that’s when we fell in love. A year later and now graduated, she moves back to Austin, and we decide to see how it we like living in the same town, and dating proper and to see where that led. It was a shared sense of caution to not to be
moved into commitment by the sheer momentum of the events. It was that same caution that guided our return to Ghana.

Life in the Mozley household was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Each day was a celebration of relationships, of different people stopping by, stopping in, greeting us, coming over to dinner, showing up for breakfast. The sheer volume of people coming through the house was dizzying, and the graciousness that each was received, amazing.

Each morning started for me at 6:30am with coffee and conversation with Michael. He would be coming back from the gym having worked out with our new friend Gary (aka Soldier Man). Michael would be doing his Bible study, I’d be working on either a sermon for Asbury Dunwell, or slogging through the books for seminary (which was starting the day after I returned), and we would talk about life, and where we felt God’s calling, or seen God moving.

I had enrolled in a doctor of ministry program at Austin Seminary where I graduated 10 years ago with a M. Div. It was something I’ve wanted to do for years, but the timing was illusive. Since I am currently underemployed and the kids are mostly out of the house, this seemed like the perfect time to go. The books I was assigned to read were three dissertations, and one book on Roman/US imperialism. Officially, the course is called “The Bible and the Practice of Ministry,” but its reading list was a collection of feminist, queer (the book’s term for it), and imperialist readings of Paul’s letters that had as much to do with the practice of ministry as WMD had to do with Bush's invasion of Iraq. Now imagine reading them in the Ghanaian context. Ghana is a place where faith guides people’s lives, where church is more than just a place to go, but a community to live out life from.

In February, I had had a wonderful experience at Austin Seminary’s MidWinter Lectures, where two of the three invited speakers were of national acclaim. I saw that it was indeed a new day at Austin Seminary. Originally, I hadn’t thought of returning to this place that has so resisted the changes that were modernizing the church, but seeing how much it had changed, I thought, “I want to go to this seminary.”

[Nooma (the bird) and Cat don’t share Michael well]

Each morning at the Mozley’s I sat outside, drinking wonderful coffee, watching the animals flock to Michael, and working on my sermon was good day. For the sermon, I wrote it old style; not using a computer, or the internet, or any books that might shape the message. Bishop Violet Fisher had had a profound effect on me when she came to Wellspring, and after her first sermon, wrote the next two from her experience of the church. They were right on target. I wanted to try the same thing, that and to greet this new land that Asbury Dunwell Church was buying, and be open to what it had to say to the church.

ASBURY DUNWELL CHURCH

[Asbury Dunwell Church Future Site, with Phillip, the Administrative Assistant]

For many years the congregation of Asbury Dunwell Church has met in a chapel on the Methodist Church headquarters, though, officially, it is not a church of the Methodist Church of Ghana, though it is the tradition that the Methodist Bishop appoints one of his pastors to the church. They know that this relationship can not last forever, and especially as the chapel is 110% full on most Sundays. Walking around this raw land, it was hard not to get excited about its possibilities.

It will be quite a change for the church, which has been located in central Accra, to move East of the city to a yet undeveloped area, though the city is growing in that direction.

[Neem Tree, with Auntie Pamela in its shade]

Having been the pastor of a church that built a 1.2 million dollar multi-purpose center as its first building, it is one thing I swore I would never do again. But walking around that land, and then preaching in that church on Sunday, I felt those familiar yearnings, like wouldn't this be fun? Maybe its akin to a mother in the midst of childbirth, swearing off more children.

BABIES

While we were gone, three of our friends had babies, so we went to greet these beautiful babies:

[Steve & Steven, Eric & B’s son]

[Suzanne and TK, Adzo & Nii’s son]

[TK and Ingrid, Matt and Astrid’s daughter]

Seeing these babies was the only part of our visit that made it feel like we had been gone a long time. It was wonderful to hold these babies, and see the parents God had blessed them with.

Returning to Ghana, part 1

2009-06-07T03:31:00.003Z

Our firstborn is a high school graduate from Lincoln Community School, Accra, Ghana.

Suzanne and I returned to Ghana to witness and celebrate the event and with us, brought a little bit of Texas for our friends: 18lbs of mesquite smoked beef brisket, Stubbs BBQ Sauce, El Lago corn tortilla chips, Velvieeta queso and plenty Central Market flour tortillas. It was a grand graduation party, but the best part was seeing the sheer pleasure the brisket wraps brought to our friends. “This is really good,” we heard watching folks go back three or four times.

The other, and ongoing, part of our trip was to see if we still got “that lovin’” feeling about Ghana. We had had two remarkable years there, some of the happiest times of our life, and 11 months away from it, we went there wondering “would this place still pull so strongly at our heart strings?”

Fox had stayed in Ghana when we returned, living with our dear friends The Mozleys. and in country, we got to enjoy their famous “Boy’s Quarters” where so many interns (Tatum, Rebecca…), and visiting friends had stayed. It felt like a right of passage.

[Fox and his Ghana Family and Tori]

Arriving on Friday night, I preached at Elim International Family Church, and played guitar with the youth group I used to help with, who also lead the worship music that morning. Olivia is leading the group now, they sound great, are doing challenging music, and doing it well. What joy it was sing, and see the God honoring worship leaders these young people have become. Their spirit was servant-like, their musicality, superb, and it made me proud to have once been a part of this group, and to see what they have become.

It was fun to be preaching in the African context again, their responsiveness, the seemingly unlimited time to speak (I think I spoke for 30 minutes), and the deep hunger to just hear a word from The Lord. At the second service it was light out in this usually well air conditioned room, so the heat inside was rather intense. I don’t ever remember the electricity going out during any worship service.

I didn’t blog while in Ghana this time, in part because I didn’t have my computer, or regular access to the internet, but also unlike when we were here, I didn’t want to share my thoughts so quickly. In those days I posted our life and the African experience as it happened, this time was it was reserved, it was our time, and I didn’t want the shared observations to shape what we were doing.

“Ghana is Changing-oooo,” Michael said that first night. The oooo tagged on to a verb, well really anything, to add emphasis. He speaks from firsthand experience. His family was robbed at gunpoint some six weeks ago, and the emotional bruises still ache. Many homes in the area where our friend’s live have been robbed, and the attacks seem to be getting more violent. I remember the first year we were here, two of the Ashesi professors were robbed in our neighborhood, being forced to lie face down in the dirt with a gun to their head, while their belongings were taken. They both left the country at the end of the term, and I wondered then about the long term affect this act of violence had, scaring off those who have come to help Ghana. Michael had the same experience of laying face down, while his kids were held outside, and Claire showed the armed robbers around the house.

Equally disturbing is the lack of press coverage about the robberies. If you are not a part of the community that is being hit, it is likely you have not heard about it, and certainly not in the Daily Graphic.

So that felling of threat was always with us, especially at night when we would call ahead to have someone ready to open the gate, and close it quickly before the compound was crashed. One night we drove by it several times, not sure the intensions of the car following us, nor the one oddly parked just ahead of the gate. It was the same night Fox graduated, and tension driving around, wondering is it safe, was in odd contrast to the joy experience earlier. In fact two days before the graduation ceremony, the principal of the International School was also robbed. Now as I’m writing this and watering our lawn so the homeowners association won’t send us another threatening letter about our brown grass, I wonder about my place in this life here. Brown grass, geesh.

I was listening to my pastor yesterday talk about a formerly successful colleague who was not so at peace with what his life had become, his station in life. That is me, I thought and I don’t want to be that guy, caught in what is, and wanting something else. “It is already written,” an Indian friend of mine would say dragging his two fingers across his forehead in resignation. The two fingers reveal your station in life as already written across your forehead only you cannot read it, only experience their meaning. Is this season of life, or a station? Is it just for now, or for always?

Marriage and Family Day

2009-03-28T14:25:00.004Z

Yesterday was marriage and family day. One of the joys of being a Methodist Pastor is mentoring the next generation of kids who want to grow up and be Methodist Pastors. We’re called Clergy Mentors, and we walk through the process, really a thick book for the student (or mentee) to work through, and ask the mentor, questions. Yesterday was marriage and family day.

If you know me well, then you know I’m a process guy. I like to figure out how the system works, and the develop a process to guide or inform that system.

Ordering One’s Life:

God, Family and Everything Else – by everything else I mean your job, truck, boat, soccer league, church (yes church), and anything else that isn’t family or the divine. This is the life God blesses, its not an excuse to not get things done in the everything else category, for the sake of family or God, but to order or set your priorities so that your life can be ordered this way. This is the life God blesses, change the ordering...and you're on your own.

Then Do These Things:

1) Find a hobby, shared experience, or something you can do with your spouse on a regular basis. For my parents it was playing golf. I don’t care for golf much, but my parents did. They were not crazy for it, but did enjoy 9 holes every few days at the country club in my home town. Even as a high schooler, I remember how different they were when they came home from playing, I could see that they loved each other, and I’ve attributed that to this shared activity that they both loved and did together.

2) Develop a mutual admiration for how the other spends their days. Admire the work that they do, take pride in how well they do it, brag on what your spouse is doing.

3) Eat dinner together around a table with no distractions. I used to say with the TV off, but these days the bigger problem is the internet, or txting. It isn’t such a problem for Suzanne and I, but this next generation is going to have to figure out how to disconnect and be fully present. The thing about eating a home cooked meal around the table is that family talk and tell stories, and interact in ways that life does not encourage.

In premarital counseling I would run down this list, and then ask the couple if they would be willing to spend one hour doing this one thing that would virtually guarantee that they would be happily married the rest of their life. It would take an hour a week. They would both smile at each other and say yes, and then I’d ask, do you know what that one thing might be, and then to the husband-to-be, its not what you’re thinking.

4) Be active in a faith community, and it doesn’t matter what kind. By active I mean commit to going together to at least three out of four gatherings of that community’s worship service.

So these are the things I discussed with my mentee, and by way of review, with those who want to stay happily married.

The Changing Questions

2009-03-18T15:10:00.002Z

The Changing Questions

Missiologist Dr. Darrell Whiteman, in a lecture to the Accra Missionary Community[1], said “The center of Christianity is shifting to the Global South[2].” Whiteman quotes data from Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary’s Center for the Study of Global Christianity. The Center concludes:

Over the past 100 years, Christianity has experienced a profound southern shift in its geographical center of gravity. Whereas in 1900 over 80% of all Christians lived in Europe and Northern America, by 2005 this proportion had fallen to under 40%, and will likely fall below 30% before 2050.[3]

According to Whiteman, over that same period Christianity in Africa grew from 9% (or 8.7 million) in 1900 to 48.9% (350 million) in 2006. Latin America, India and China (since 1951) experienced similar explosive growth. Overall, Christianity, as a percentage of the population, has remained almost constant, 33.4% in 1900 and currently 33.3% in 2006. Even though Christianity has declined in Europe and North American, it is growing in the Global South. But Whiteman also warned that “if this explosive growth is not disciplined, we’ll have a very weak church. Without discipleship, the church will fall into nominalism and mediocrity.” He adds “decisions for Christ are easy; disciples for Christ are more difficult.”[4]

As the center of Christianity shifts, the questions that guide its witness are also changing. The answer remains the same, Christ, but who is asking it, the context in which it is being asked, and the implied need within the questions are all changing. Missionary John Taylor observed in 1963 that “Christ has been presented as the answer to questions a white man would ask, the solution to the needs that western man would feel”[5]. With this new center of Christianity, there will be different questions, ones that are not framed out of a Western mindset, pointing toward solutions, a developed world would expect.

It is not only the questions that are changing, but context they are being asked is from. Globalization is changing the context. For example, in Ghana our second year, we hired a driver; Eric is his English name. Eric has the equivalent as of a 9^th grade Ghanaian education. He finished Junior Secondary School, but did not continue in Senior Secondary School. Ana, one of the Fulbright Student Scholars who stayed with us left Eric her laptop, when she returned to the states. My son, Fox who stayed in Ghana to graduate high school, taught him the basics. I had taken Eric to an internet café and introduced him to the world of the internet, and now with his own laptop, and WiFi access, we correspond weekly on Facebook. Globalization.

The needs that drive these new questions are also changing, influenced by a Global South worldview, along with the other world religions that enter into that conversation. In our part of Africa, Muslims coexisted well with Christians, in fact when we had student gatherings at our house, it was not uncommon for students who were Muslim to pray for us, and do so in the name of Jesus. Current thinking about how to reach Muslims[6] suggests not asking them choose between Christ and their cultural identity that came with their Muslim upbringing, but to offer Jesus Christ into the mix, and disciple them in his teaching, slowly incorporating all that He brings to a believers life. It is indeed a beautiful thing to watch a—and I hesitate calling them a convert—but rather a new believer to continue to bow down and pray five time a day, and abstaining from food and water during the daylight hours of Ramadan, and do so in the name of Jesus. Christ is still the answer, but the questions are changing, along with the context they are being asked from, and the needs behind them.

After two years away from the States, I notice that the questions here are changing too, influenced by an increasingly smaller world, one that the West does not control as it once did. We think of Globalization as something that happens to them, there, but it is also changing us, here. I suspect there has also been some cultural drift in the answer. John Wesley is remembered for saying “Offer them Christ,” but I realize that the church I once led, was offering a lot more than Christ, and not all of it helpful. Recall what Missionary John Taylor observed about the African Missionary Churches in 1963, that “Christ has been presented as the answer to questions a white man would ask.” I wonder if that applies to us in the American church, if we are seeking solutions that meet “the needs that western man would feel,” when what people need is to be offered Christ. I wonder what would happen if our church mindset changed to be a missionary mindset (or International Church mindset). Because church like an extension of society, one that ultimately meets the needs of the society, regardless of people’s individual needs. What perhaps almost burned me was not knowing that Society’s needs can never be met completely. People’s can, however, when you offer them Christ, and Christ alone.

[1] Whiteman, Dr. Darrell, Being and Doing Missions in a Post Colonial World, lecture.

[2] Global South meaning: Africa, Asia, India, South and Central America.

[3] Johnson, Todd M, Christianity in Global Context: Trends and Statistics, webpage

[4] Whiteman, powerpoint from the lecture to Accra Missionaries

[5] Taylor, John V., The Primal Vision – Christian Presence in Buganda (London SCM Press).

[6] Decker, Frank, Sermon at Asbury Dunwell Church, Accra, Ghana. March 2008.