Of all things to break on this trip, I discovered before I even left the US that my watchband was broken. I knew I was headed to a place where I wouldn't really need to know what time it was every second of the day, but that watch is somewhat of a comfort-object, that common "I feel naked without it" thing.
With my limited ingenuity I held it together with a safety pin until Sunday, when the pin bent to the point of no longer being able to stay clasped. I was visiting with my Ghanian host (Fannie) and the pastor of her church when they noticed me not-so-subtly trying to jerry-rig that watch back together. Without losing track of our conversation, the pastor said, "Fannie will get that fixed for you." I was somewhat dumbfounded at (1) his boldness in volunteering someone else to do something, and (2) adding one more small thing to the list of my diva-esque demands (such as gigantic bottles of water given on a regular basis and precious air conditioning).
The next day when I gave Fannie my broken watch, my North American host saw my facial expression and said, "you're feeling guilty, aren't you?" Yep. I bought that watch at a local big-box store, and it would cost more to fix it than to buy another one. My plan was to limp along with that safety pin then invest another $12 in a cheapo watch that would probably turn my wrist green in a matter of months.
As Fannie looked at the watch, she motioned for another staff member of my host organization to take the watch. He passed it off to someone else. This was at lunchtime -- around 1:30 p.m. I had my watch back, good as new, in less than 3 hours for about 75 cents (which of course they wouldn't let me pay for). Small price to pay for such a big inconvenience, to have 4 people chasing all over town to fix that stupid thing.
As I processed my guilt over being treated like royalty (not just for this, but everything -- I discovered later that the staff had been up since 5:30 in the morning to get the air conditioning fixed in the building where I'd be teaching. They wouldn't have done that if I hadn't been there), I realized how difficult it is for many of us who value our independence and maybe secretly pride ourselves on our self-sufficiency to receive a gift and to welcome hospitality.
There may be no more hospitable culture than the one where I am now. Can't get in the car without someone opening the door for me, can't get out without someone running up to carry my bag for me. But as I think "I can do this, really. I can carry my own bag, get my own water, deal with my own heat exhaustion, make my own copies, etc." I also know that hospitality is SO ingrained in my hosts that my being a burden or inconvenience never crosses their radar screen. Generosity and service are so natural -- not a trace of resentment in them. And they are so reliant on each other that they knew exactly where to take my $12 watch. It was as close to "no trouble" as you can get.
Similarly, when our car broke down on a major motorway Thursday, two phone calls and 30 minutes later we had 8 people on the case to fix the car and bring us safely back to town. After the reflex thought of "I wonder what we interrupted them from", I realized that if this had happened in the US I would call Triple-A. I pay for a service I may not even need because I want to maintain a facade of independence and not inconvenience anyone.
How much money would we save and how much deeper would our relationships be if we relied more on each other in times of trouble? How much more would the spirit of Jesus be in us if we allowed ourselves to be interrupted from our own agenda by those we love?
It is a rare gift to be able to receive. I'm working on that.
Monet's "Waterlilies" (L'Orangerie, Paris). One of NINE
Monday, January 10, 2011
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Freedom
"For we know that our old self was crucified with him so that the body of sin might be done away with, that we should no longer be slaves to sin -- because anyone who has died has been freed from sin." (Romans 6:6-7, NIV)
Today has been another long whirlwind. I will post more about my actual work soon, but today was the ONE day that I had specifically requested when planning this trip -- a visit to the Elmina Castle in Cape Coast, Ghana, and a trip to a place called Sweet River.
Background -- I poked around my family genealogy a few years back after going through some old family photos. I discovered that my great-great-grandfather on my mother's side had owned a tobacco farm in Kentucky which used slave labor. My great-great-grandfather was a slave master. Now I could dismiss that by saying that he found Jesus and freed his slaves in the 1850s (before the Civil War and before the Emancipation Proclamation). But it doesn't change the fact that this awful chapter in global history is, in fact, now very personal. It turned even more personal when I began my association with the International Justice Mission and learned about modern-day slavery. It is still BEYOND my comprehension how slavery can happen, until I remember, "oh, yeah. Sin."
I don't consider myself a Calvinist. I don't know enough about it to declare one way or the other, but I do believe in total human depravity after today. Let's start not quite at the beginning.
First -- a place called Sweet River. It is called this because the water tasted sweet after those Africans who had been captured from the northern regions of Ghana had marched south to the coast for 3, 4, or sometimes 5 months. They were stripped naked, shaved of all their hair with broken glass, and sorted for auction. The river is divided into 3 sections, because it forks. The first was for most of the women, the second for most of the men, and the third for those who were stronger and might possibly swim away.
As I walked in my khaki capris and black Skechers the same path that these men and women walked barefoot and naked, the pit in my stomach and clanging in my head screamed, "don't cry don't cry don't cry don't cry don't cry." I knew if I opened that gate, the tears would be as strong as the river I stood beside.
The weight in my heart was almost unbearable, but why? I was free. I am as free as anyone currently on this planet can be. I was carrying an American passport (with all the rights and privileges that go with it) in my bag.
Remember my first post, when I said I wanted to have a deeper, fuller experience of life? I think today was a deeper, fuller glimpse into SIN. I hate to turn into a Debbie Downer and use the "s-word" that people don't like to hear. But I WAS a slave to sin. I was a slave (although I would never claim to compare my experience to those who walked this path in the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries). I know that one popular view is to reinterpret Biblical references to slavery by saying, "Well, not all slaves were mistreated. Some were valuable respected members of their household." To use the sanitized Christian word -- BALONEY. The weight of the ball and chain I held in my hands came close to equalling the weight in my heart.
And that was just the first place.
The second place -- Elmina Castle. Built in 1482 by the Portuguese, later occupied by the Dutch and British. The first thing the Protestant Dutch did when occupying the castle was to dismantle the steeple off of the chapel. The second thing was to build a new water reservoir because they suspected the Portuguese would poison it. The third thing was to replace the doors on the rooms that formerly served as holding cells for African goods to be traded (gold, ivory, etc.) with iron bars that would now hold the Africans to be traded.
The first room I went in was the room of condemnation. This was the place where those who actively fought and tried to escape were imprisoned and starved. To death. I could handle that thought just fine, until the tour guide closed the door behind us, leaving us to the lingering smells and utter darkness. The doorpost was marked with a skull above it to serve as a warning.
You tell me. Is that what you'd like to see after fighting to get back the freedom forcefully ripped from you? Is this the image you want after being humiliated like you'd never dreamed possible? You see my point.
There were more rooms and sights and smells and sounds that I will save for another post. I'm sure you can understand that I need to come up for some Spirit-breathed air.
I did not end the day in a hopeless place, so I don't want to do that to anyone reading this.
As difficult as it was to see a physical place where people are held captive and died in that state, it was just as exhilarating to remember that
"My chains are gone, I've been set free. My God, my Savior has ransomed me."
The weight of sin is gone. I am no longer a slave to sin.
Praise be to Jesus Christ for this unspeakable, matchless gift of grace.
Today has been another long whirlwind. I will post more about my actual work soon, but today was the ONE day that I had specifically requested when planning this trip -- a visit to the Elmina Castle in Cape Coast, Ghana, and a trip to a place called Sweet River.
Background -- I poked around my family genealogy a few years back after going through some old family photos. I discovered that my great-great-grandfather on my mother's side had owned a tobacco farm in Kentucky which used slave labor. My great-great-grandfather was a slave master. Now I could dismiss that by saying that he found Jesus and freed his slaves in the 1850s (before the Civil War and before the Emancipation Proclamation). But it doesn't change the fact that this awful chapter in global history is, in fact, now very personal. It turned even more personal when I began my association with the International Justice Mission and learned about modern-day slavery. It is still BEYOND my comprehension how slavery can happen, until I remember, "oh, yeah. Sin."
I don't consider myself a Calvinist. I don't know enough about it to declare one way or the other, but I do believe in total human depravity after today. Let's start not quite at the beginning.
First -- a place called Sweet River. It is called this because the water tasted sweet after those Africans who had been captured from the northern regions of Ghana had marched south to the coast for 3, 4, or sometimes 5 months. They were stripped naked, shaved of all their hair with broken glass, and sorted for auction. The river is divided into 3 sections, because it forks. The first was for most of the women, the second for most of the men, and the third for those who were stronger and might possibly swim away.
As I walked in my khaki capris and black Skechers the same path that these men and women walked barefoot and naked, the pit in my stomach and clanging in my head screamed, "don't cry don't cry don't cry don't cry don't cry." I knew if I opened that gate, the tears would be as strong as the river I stood beside.
The weight in my heart was almost unbearable, but why? I was free. I am as free as anyone currently on this planet can be. I was carrying an American passport (with all the rights and privileges that go with it) in my bag.
Remember my first post, when I said I wanted to have a deeper, fuller experience of life? I think today was a deeper, fuller glimpse into SIN. I hate to turn into a Debbie Downer and use the "s-word" that people don't like to hear. But I WAS a slave to sin. I was a slave (although I would never claim to compare my experience to those who walked this path in the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries). I know that one popular view is to reinterpret Biblical references to slavery by saying, "Well, not all slaves were mistreated. Some were valuable respected members of their household." To use the sanitized Christian word -- BALONEY. The weight of the ball and chain I held in my hands came close to equalling the weight in my heart.
And that was just the first place.
The second place -- Elmina Castle. Built in 1482 by the Portuguese, later occupied by the Dutch and British. The first thing the Protestant Dutch did when occupying the castle was to dismantle the steeple off of the chapel. The second thing was to build a new water reservoir because they suspected the Portuguese would poison it. The third thing was to replace the doors on the rooms that formerly served as holding cells for African goods to be traded (gold, ivory, etc.) with iron bars that would now hold the Africans to be traded.
The first room I went in was the room of condemnation. This was the place where those who actively fought and tried to escape were imprisoned and starved. To death. I could handle that thought just fine, until the tour guide closed the door behind us, leaving us to the lingering smells and utter darkness. The doorpost was marked with a skull above it to serve as a warning.
You tell me. Is that what you'd like to see after fighting to get back the freedom forcefully ripped from you? Is this the image you want after being humiliated like you'd never dreamed possible? You see my point.
There were more rooms and sights and smells and sounds that I will save for another post. I'm sure you can understand that I need to come up for some Spirit-breathed air.
I did not end the day in a hopeless place, so I don't want to do that to anyone reading this.
As difficult as it was to see a physical place where people are held captive and died in that state, it was just as exhilarating to remember that
"My chains are gone, I've been set free. My God, my Savior has ransomed me."
The weight of sin is gone. I am no longer a slave to sin.
Praise be to Jesus Christ for this unspeakable, matchless gift of grace.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Waiting
There are two speeds in airports: super-fast and complete stand-still. Right now I am the latter. Due to the fact that it's January, I scheduled my flight from Chicago to DC with a 5 hour layover before boarding my flight to Ghana. I anticipated all the things that go along with January in the midwest and mid-Atlantic states -- you know, all those things that hit last week? Wind, ice, snow, traffic, chaos...and right now, nothing. It's cold and sunny. Great flying weather, horrible sitting-in-a-terminal weather.
But it gives one time to think, if one likes to do such a thing. I can ponder such wonders of science like "why did my little travel pillow deflate?" and "how do flight attendants wear those high heels?" (Better question: "WHY?") I can ponder the marvels of linguistics and communication, as I eavesdrop on conversations that are in different languages and then turn around and eavesdrop on those same people (in perfect English) ordering grande, skinny, white chocolate mochas from you-know-where.
I have 4 hours to kill. An hour ago, this place was jumping. It was like Frogger, trying to dodge people, bags, wheelchairs, "mind the cart!", strollers, the line at Dunkin' Donuts, people with the deer-in-headlights look, who realized they just passed their gate, the sprinters who realized their gate was changed from gate C-34 to gate C-3, and that flight is now boarding.... all the flurry of activity of realizing that where you are is not where you are supposed to stay. Airports are clearly not designed for those who are waiting. I find myself somewhat wishing I smoked so I could hang at the "smokers' lounge." I haven't found the "I have a 5-hour layover, I don't smoke but I think I saw a Five Guys and now I want a cheeseburger lounge." So here I sit, across from the Hudson News and a gate with a flight to Pittsburgh, waiting. The gates all around me are empty, getting ready for the next round.
It's been good to wait -- I've talked to friends and family who have wished me well. That means so much, as I'm flying solo on this. I am working with an NGO in Ghana, but the travel is just me and my security object (whom I will introduce in a later post).
Airports are a great metaphor for life, I suppose (but again, EVERYTHING can be a metaphor for life. It depends on how much you want to stretch it). We're not where we started out, and yet maybe not where we want to be. As one who is licensed by the state of Illinois and approved by a national professional organization to help people manage change in their lives and relationships, I have also seen that there are two speeds when trying to change -- HURRY UP and get better, or when will my life ever be different? It's so difficult to be patient. I'm living proof of impatience -- just ask my mom. Change is difficult. I do realize there are those overnight/answer-to-prayer healings of addiction, hurt, trauma, whatever -- but more often I see change as requiring maneuvering and persistence and courage and stamina that often we don't realize we have.
At the risk of sounding cliche (and adding to it) -- life's a journey; enjoy the ride. And find a way to enjoy the waiting.
Now -- I think it's time to hunt down that burger and a football game on TV. :)
But it gives one time to think, if one likes to do such a thing. I can ponder such wonders of science like "why did my little travel pillow deflate?" and "how do flight attendants wear those high heels?" (Better question: "WHY?") I can ponder the marvels of linguistics and communication, as I eavesdrop on conversations that are in different languages and then turn around and eavesdrop on those same people (in perfect English) ordering grande, skinny, white chocolate mochas from you-know-where.
I have 4 hours to kill. An hour ago, this place was jumping. It was like Frogger, trying to dodge people, bags, wheelchairs, "mind the cart!", strollers, the line at Dunkin' Donuts, people with the deer-in-headlights look, who realized they just passed their gate, the sprinters who realized their gate was changed from gate C-34 to gate C-3, and that flight is now boarding.... all the flurry of activity of realizing that where you are is not where you are supposed to stay. Airports are clearly not designed for those who are waiting. I find myself somewhat wishing I smoked so I could hang at the "smokers' lounge." I haven't found the "I have a 5-hour layover, I don't smoke but I think I saw a Five Guys and now I want a cheeseburger lounge." So here I sit, across from the Hudson News and a gate with a flight to Pittsburgh, waiting. The gates all around me are empty, getting ready for the next round.
It's been good to wait -- I've talked to friends and family who have wished me well. That means so much, as I'm flying solo on this. I am working with an NGO in Ghana, but the travel is just me and my security object (whom I will introduce in a later post).
Airports are a great metaphor for life, I suppose (but again, EVERYTHING can be a metaphor for life. It depends on how much you want to stretch it). We're not where we started out, and yet maybe not where we want to be. As one who is licensed by the state of Illinois and approved by a national professional organization to help people manage change in their lives and relationships, I have also seen that there are two speeds when trying to change -- HURRY UP and get better, or when will my life ever be different? It's so difficult to be patient. I'm living proof of impatience -- just ask my mom. Change is difficult. I do realize there are those overnight/answer-to-prayer healings of addiction, hurt, trauma, whatever -- but more often I see change as requiring maneuvering and persistence and courage and stamina that often we don't realize we have.
At the risk of sounding cliche (and adding to it) -- life's a journey; enjoy the ride. And find a way to enjoy the waiting.
Now -- I think it's time to hunt down that burger and a football game on TV. :)
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