Bethannrichardson's Blog

I’ve been wanting to write for a while on this topic.  Since our visit to Africa,  I’ve been mulling it over and over in my mind.  God is definately working in my heart, and I find it quite amazing.

I had been to Togo before our visit this fall.  I went as a missions intern when I was a college student in 1994.  And on our recent trip, things in Africa were much as I remembered them.  But one thing that really got to me this time that I didn’t really remember being as bothered by when I was an intern was the dirtiness.  It was everywhere, and inescapable.

In Kara, there is no city sanitation system.  The missionaries we stayed with paid for some sort of service, which involved two guys coming by the house with a large wheelbarrow, into which went all the trash, and they took it away to God only knows where.  But most people cannot afford such a service, so they just dump their trash wherever they can.  On the side of the road.  Into the stream.  There are piles of trash and refuse just about everywhere you look in the city.  You can smell it, too, especially with the heat.   The smells of the trash mix with the smell of the animals (a myriad of chickens and donkeys and goats  roam all over the city) and the smell of hot, sweaty people who aren’t able to use deodorant.  And the little black plastic bags lying and drifting everywhere are a real eyesore!  In Kara, all purchases are wrapped up in these little black plastic sacks (like the bags you might get here from Wal-mart or Target or any grocery store, only smaller and black).   Unfortunately plastic does not degrade, although it can get torn, so there are black plastic bags and pieces of black plastic bags everywhere you turn.  And I haven’t even begun to talk about the mud puddles.  We were in Togo during the end of the rainy season.  The  daily rainstorms leave huge puddles that seem to radiate dirty humidity once the sun comes back out.  The mud, and later in the year, the dust, leave permanant stains on the concrete buildings in the city.   Even inside the missionaries’ homes, there is no real getting away from the dirtiness.  The mud follows you inside and soils the tile floors; the dust and the smells drift in through the slatted windows that can’t be shut completely.  After being in Kara for just a week, my eyes literally felt tired of seeing all the dirt and mud and trash.  I wanted to shut them and cover them up so I didn’t have to see any more.  Truly, it was as though the ugly dirtiness actually hurt my eyes.  By the end of our short stay, I was longing to feast my eyes on the pristine cleanliness here in the States:  the sharply cut lawns trimmed with bushes or flowers, the clean smooth streets, the unstained houses and businesses with clear glass windows, the air untainted by animal smells and rotting trash(and often supplemented by candles or perfumes).

I felt somewhat ashamed of this struggle;  after all, I should be able to see past the dirt, especially in Africa, where there are so many needs.  My heart should be able to get beyond such a surface issue.  But there all that dirt was, and I was truly having trouble dealing with it.  Maybe it bothered me more on this trip than when I had been to Togo before because my children were with me this time.  We like to keep our kids clean and germ-free, right?  Whatever it was, I was having a tough time keeping my eyes open!

I talked with my dear friend Nicole about this.  She is one of the missionaries in Kara, and my family stayed with hers while we were there.  How can you live amongst all this ugliness?  I asked her.  How can you keep looking at it day after day?

And Nicole challenged me to find the beauty.  It is always there, she said.  In every place, in every circumstance.  But we have to have our eyes open to see it.  And we have to have our hearts open to receive it.  God will show it to us, if we are willing to keep our eyes and our hearts open.

I pondered that for the remainder of our stay in Togo.   I began to pray  for open eyes and an open heart.  And God started to answer that prayer.

I saw a woman wearing brightly colored garments, balancing a brightly painted enamel bowl on her head, her sweet toddler tied to her back.  I thought about the hardship of carrying both a full bowl and a growing child,  often in the pouring rain, and I marveled when the woman smiled at me.

I saw a child, dressed in dirty brown rags, who peeked shyly at me, and grinned when I waved.

I listened to the story of a woman who had searched for God all her life.  Her childhood had been filled with extreme poverty and loss, yet there was no bitterness in the story she told me, only praise for a God who loved her and had found her.

I traveled to a retreat center built up in the mountains, where bright orange flowers grew everywhere among the quiet, peaceful stillness overlooking the city.

I worshipped God with people who spoke a different language but sang the from the same Spirit that I do.

And here, back in the good old US of A, I continue to learn to have my eyes and my heart open.  Just recently I visited a nursing home where my father is a short-term resident.  It was a difficult thing to do, given all my history with my dad, which I won’t go into, except to say that my dad’s choices continue to put him in very sad places.  Just seeing my dad there was heart-breaking.  It’s a typical nursing home, smelling like urine and inhabited by people the world has forgotten.  But even there, I found beauty:

In the upbeat personality of a woman named Karen, who liked listening to gospel music.  She couldn’t get all of her words out well, but she remembered my name and my sister’s name when we came back the next day.

In the innocent sweetness of another lady named Joyce, who has Alzheimer’s.  She spoke to my sister and I at length–and we could make little sense of any of it–but all the while, she smiled and giggled.  Becky said to her at one point, “You are always smiling, aren’t you?”  And in a moment of complete clarity Joyce responded, with all seriousness, “Well, you’ve got to, don’t you?”

In the clear blue eyes of a man named Stanly, who wheeled himself up and down the hallways, over and over again.  My dad dismissed any idea of speaking to Stanly, saying “He can’t talk back to you.”  But Becky and I talked to him anyway, and once, his somber face cracked the smallest of smiles, and another time, he waved back at me when I waved to him.

In the faith of a Baptist preacher who comes to the nursing home every Sunday to conduct a worship service for anyone who wants to atttend.  My sister and I didn’t get to meet him, but Dad said that he usually goes to the service, and I am grateful for what this man of God is providing.  He hasn’t forgotten the people there, like the rest of the world has.

I find these discoveries very exciting.  No matter where I may find myself, no matter what the circumstance, there will be beauty to behold.  God will show me where to find it.  I will never be in a place where His light cannot reveal something lovely, something of light, something He has touched.  So it is that He can change what seems to be dirty, destitute, left-over and forgotten by the world, into a thing of wonder and joy.  That is one of the mysteries of the gospel.  And it is truly beautiful.  My eyes and my heart are open.

The above pictures show Katie and I in the market, Aaron with his new admirers after church, Katie holding a goat in the village, and Aaron and I during worship (not necessarily in that order as I can’t see the pictures while I am editing!).

We had meant to post sooner about our experiences, but for several reasons we have been unable to; I will write about these in a minute.

First of all, I wanted to write about our time in worship with the church in the Kabiye village, Lassa Tchao.  It has been my favorite thing so far.  We headed out of Kara with Matt and Andrea Miller and their four children (they are missionaries here) in their Land Cruiser.  Lassa Tchoa is not far from Kara, maybe twenty minutes or so, and before long we were bumping along a red dirt road lined with tall grass and vegetation.  We came in sight of the village–clusters of round red mud huts with thatched roofs alongside some longer rectangular buildings made of mud, some with metal roofs.  We parked right in front of the church building, one of the rectangular buildings, full of wooden benches inside, with metal doors swung wide open and several windows without glass letting in the breeze.  It was a cool morning as it had rained the afternoon and evening before, so it was not uncomfortable to be squeezed next  to my family on the hard wooden bench.  Many people squeezed into that building–which was a little bit larger than my living room in Memphis–about 80 people in all, 59 of whom were children.  A man spoke several times from the Bible, reading a passage in Hebrews about God’s discipline on those He loves (Matt told me this was what they were reading; I wouldn’t have known otherwise as it was all in Kabiye!).  My favorite part, of course, was the singing.  The people rose to sing, someone beat a large drum and a few children had  instruments with shells on the outside that they shook, and the people clapped and sang.  Matt said that the  song spoke of no longer needing to make a sacrifice for sin, since Jesus already made the sacrifice.  A good thing to sing about!  Our family clapped along with them.  During the songs, I stole glances at the children and some of the older ladies sitting nearby me.  I smiled at them, trying to show them my heart, and they smiled back, their smiles full of warmth.  Without using words I think we communicated our connection in Jesus.  My children did a very good job sitting patiently on the hard benches, unable to understand any of the words being spoken or sung. Ryan and I did have to take turns carrying Aaron out a few times; he doesn’t like to be still for long!   The most interesting part of the service was the contribution: a small basket was laid on the table that had held the communion emblems a few minutes earlier.  The people sang a song, and each person who could give half-walked, half-danced to the table to drop in their coin.  Ryan later said to Matt that he wondered if the churches in the States would embrace a similar practice!!  (ha, ha!!)

After church we followed Matt and several of the church members to a well that the missionaries had helped install in the village.  On the way there, several children decided to adopt Aaron and carried him there.  He especially liked a young girl who wore a beaded necklace that he found fascinating!  The children touched his yellow curls and made over him greatly! It was not a long walk to the well.  It’s a simple tool, made with locally available materials, so that its parts can be easily and inexpensively replaced if they break down.  The people showed us how the well worked, filling bowls with good, clean water and drinking it.  Jonah had fun taking his turn to pump!

Then back we walked through the village.  Katie was enchanted with the goats and a chicken with several small chicks; she asked to hold them all and was given the privilege.  She cradled the baby goat in her arms, and one Kabiye man joked, “She has given birth to a goat!”  I know they found her fondness for these common animals (all kept for meat, and the chickens for eggs as well) rather funny!  But I think Katie would have happily moved into the village if it meant she could be near those chickens and goats for always!  (She has been just begging me for a chicken, a goat, or a pig. Mom, it’s not fair, she says, everyone else here has them!  Which is true!)

It was the best thing we’ve done so far.  I loved knowing that these lovely people, the older women with the kind smiles and the young children with the laughing faces and the men striving to walk in Christ’s footsteps, are my brothers and sisters.  Together, we have been redeemed.  Though our lives are so different, we are all of much value in our Father’s eyes, and we share the bond of His salvation.

Now on to other things… we have not been able to post much as we are very very exhausted!!!  From the jet lag to just the weariness brought on by being out of our own home and beds and routine, and the difficulty of life here, and the heat–we are extremely tired!  For anyone who reads this, would you pray for our energy and strength and wellness?  I ran a low-grade fever last night and Katie has a yucky fever today; not sure what these fevers are for yet, but hopefully nothing serious.  Aaron had frequent yuck-o diapers when we first arrived but those have finally tapered off.  Jonah has been perfectly healthy, although he has had a hard time adjusting to foods that are somewhat different.  Ryan has had some diarrhea the past few days and is feeling a little queasy.  So you see we need prayers for wellness and rest to continue for two more weeks!   Thank you, anyone who prays for us.

The one who has really been sick here, though, is Michal, the youngest daughter of Mark and Nicole Kennell, the missionaries we are staying with (and whom we dearly love).  On Friday she came down with diarrhea and a fever.  Mark and Nicole immediately tested her for malaria and it was positive, although the count was low.  They began treating her with medicine to treat the malaria, but after a day and a half Michal was no better and was in fact worse.  The Kennells then took a stool sample to a lab here in Kara, which revealed that Michal had a parasitic amoeba in addition to an infection.   Michal has been very, very sick.  She ate nothing for several days and did not drink much, and she was continuing to have diarrhea very regularly.   I will not go into any more details so as not to overly alarm, but suffice it to say that it was quite alarming.   Nicole did call an American doctor at a hospital that is several hours away, and he reassured her that recovery from an amoeba is very gradual.  He admonished them to continue the treatment they were giving her, and to continue to watch for dehydration.  Today, Michal has come out of her sick room and is actually eating some rice, broth, and toast, and just to look at her is reassuring; she is definitely, though still slowly, recovering.  But it’s been quite the eye-opening experience for us, as well as given us more understanding of how easily something like this could be fatal for an African person living in a village.  They will often wait it out a bit when symptoms like Michal’s show up, mainly because the cost of coming into town and paying for the diagnostic tests and medicines will cut deeply into their finances–that is, if they can gather the money together at all.  They may have to go to ask for the money from a relative.  So they will wait to see–but waiting when someone has an intestinal amoeba can be fatal.  Michal was able to be diagnosed and treated quickly, and even still she has had a rough go of it.  Someone who waited would have such a hard time overcoming the effects of the parasite (which basically eats away the intestinal wall)–if they could overcome it, at all.  Please keep Michal in your prayers, that her recovery will continue and she will be back to her sweet energetic self!

Another reason it has been difficult to communicate in  this format is that we don’t have our own computer here!  We have to use Mark’s or Nicole’s macs, and the internet does go out from time to time, so there is just very limited time to do things like this!

Finally we haven’t posted pictures yet because we forgot to bring our camera battery!   We left it in the charger in Memphis!   So, we’ve been borrowing Mark’s camera, but somehow, since it’s not our own camera, we haven’t remembered to bring it as much.

We are so appreciate to all of the missionaries who have been having us in their homes!  They have made such yummy meals for our (not so small and healthy eating) family, and have been so gracious.  We have truly enjoyed spending time with all of them.  And we are so grateful to the Kennells, who are hosting us even through a very stressful time for them, with Michal being so ill.

I am going to try to include some pictures here–hope it helps everyone get a small glimpse of what we are experiencing!

Remember to keep us, and especially Michal, in your prayers.

Six days to go ’til we leave for our visit to Kara, Togo, West Africa.  We’ll be staying with Mark and Nicole Kennell, our dear friends, and getting to better know our other future teammates, as well as getting hands-on knowledge of all the work that is being done among the Kabiye people and beyond.   For me, this trip feels like the real beginning of our journey as missionaries.

Everyone I talk to asks me, “Aren’t you so excited?”  And I am, I really am.  But honestly, I am also very, very anxious.

Jesus once told Peter that Satan had demanded to sift him like wheat.  I feel, to some degree, that he’s doing the same thing with me now.  As this trip draws nearer, I have wrestled more and more with Fear.

Fear is nothing new to me.  It is really my greatest enemy.  Much of the struggle I come by quite naturally.  My father has struggled with Fear all his life and, at the cost of sounding disrespectful, I must say he has let his life be controlled by it, so that he is living in a very sad, wasted way today.  I have witnessed his descent.  Did I inherit this tendency genetically, or did I learn it from him?  Maybe both.  In any case,  peace has always been hard to come by for me, and one of my greatest fears has been that I will wind up like him, having allowed my anxieties to choke the life from myself and from those I love.

However I came by it, Fear has been my nemesis from day one and as we approach our departure day, Satan has turned it up a notch and is really going to work on me.

For one thing, I’m anxious about traveling with my three small children.  Will they scream the whole LONG flight (s)?   We’re talking seven and eight hour flights here.  And then there’s the nine hour drive (which will be broken into a two day trip) from Accra, Ghana (where we are flying in to West Africa) to Kara, Togo.  Will they be raging maniacs by the time we get there?  Will Ryan and I become so insane we are unrecognizable????  Several of the Togo missionary families with young children have been very comforting on this point, saying that for the most part their kids did quite well and the airline staff are very helpful, etc.  But, having never flown with my kiddos overseas myself, I retain a great deal of nervousness about the whole thing.

Mostly, though, I’m anxious about the Whole Deal.  As I said, this trip marks the beginning for me.  Once we go, it’s the real thing.  No turning back.  Not that I want to turn back; I truly don’t.   God has asked us to go, and we will obey, no matter what.  It’s that important.  Nevertheless, this trip makes it a reality.  And as I’ve already written in previous posts, there are many things to fear regarding our move to Togo.  Disease.  Bad roads.  Unstable governments.  Snakes.  Etc.

Satan really hits me with, What if something happens to my children? He presents all kinds of horrible scenarios to my mind.  Especially involving my baby, Aaron.   What if something happens to him?

For the past few weeks I’ve been praying for greater faith.  For greater revelation of God’s love.  For more than what I have, to deal with the stuff that’s being thrown at me.

Tonight I spoke of it to my husband, Ryan.  I cried and told him how tired I am of being such a coward.  I recently read an article about a woman with Alzheimer’s.  She had forgotten everything, except how to love.  The doctor who was attending her believed that the main character qualities of a person’s life came out at times like these, and it was obvious that in this woman’s life, love had been the driving force.  I told Ryan that if I wind up with Alzheimer’s one day, the only thing recognizable about me will be my paranoia, because Fear is the driving force in my life, and I hate that.  Ryan, of course, was a good listener and told me I was being too hard on myself.

Later on, I thought about that.  And then I think God spoke encouragement to my heart.  Because I realized that Fear hasn’t been the driving force in my life.  It’s been a force to be reckoned with, all right.  But it hasn’t driven me.

A few of my life’s snapshots came to my mind.  The first one was my first year in college.  It was really tough for me.  I came from a close-knit, very dysfunctional family, and I had a really hard time separating myself from them.  I was so very homesick for my family, and so very afraid to be on my own, so far away from home.  It actually affected not only my sleep (I couldn’t) but also other aspects of my health which I won’t go into as you, the reader, would rather me not.  And the easiest thing to do would have been for me to turn around and go home.  Lots of people do it, come home after a year or even a semester.  But I knew I had to stick it out.  I knew I had to grow up, get some perspective away from my family.  I knew God wanted me to stay.  And so I stayed.  And I loved college.  I made some of my dearest friends and heard God speak in so many ways, and had so many amazing life-changing experiences.  I grew my faith there, just me and God.  And I had a lot of fun there, too!

The first year of my marriage is another snapshot.  Ryan and I had a very rocky start.  I cried during our honeymoon, convinced we’d made a mistake by getting married.  We went to a counselor, who, after a few sessions, told me that it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if we got a divorce.  And lots of people did, for lesser reasons.  But I told Ryan, “We can’t go back to that guy again.”  And we stayed committed.  More than that, we have WORKED and WORKED HARD on our marriage.  Honestly it’s been the hardest work I’ve done all my life.  And we’ve both prayed.  Asking God to make our marriage a blessing.  Asking God to make each of us the spouse He wants us to be.  And He has done great, great things for us in our marriage.  God has worked miracles.

One more snapshot came to my mind.  Once, during my college days, I went for a bicycle ride with a guy I had a huge crush on.  Now, I enjoy biking.  In college, I did not own a bike myself but regularly borrowed my friend Heather’s mountain bike (she always made me borrow the helmet, too, which I would politely take and then not wear because I thought I looked silly in it).  Anyway, I had borrowed Heather’s bike for this occasion.  And this guy had some serious biking in mind.  About 13 miles of it, which was a lot for me.  It was pretty tough, but I huffed and puffed and pedaled on (anything to impress a guy!).  At the end of our road, we stopped to talk for a while before biking the 13 miles back (I’m sure he could see that if he didn’t let me rest for a minute, I would fall off the bike in exhaustion!).  He said something I’ve never forgotten.  “I can tell you’re the kind of person who doesn’t give up.”  Wow.  Was I really?  I mean, let’s be honest, I really liked this guy and that provided a lot of motivation to keep going when my legs felt like jelly.  But the more I thought about what he said, the more I realized it was true.  And maybe God was saying those words through him (he really was quite a spiritual guy!   )

Tonight those words came back to me again.  And I thought of the passage in Philippians, “I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength.”

Left to myself, I would be a complete coward.  I would be controlled by Fear.  Maybe, probably, end up like my dad.

But I’m NOT left to myself.  I am walking with Jesus.  Weak and afraid though I am, I am trying with all my heart, soul, mind and strength to love God and obey Him.  And He has given me the strength I’ve needed, in those key moments of life, to not give up.  To stick it out in college.  To stay committed in my marriage.   To follow Him to Togo.

So I’ll walk through Fear’s attacks.  Go ahead, bring it on!  You’re not going to stop this girl.  God has asked me to do something.  And I’m going to do it.  In His strength.

Six more days!….

Once, after many of Jesus’ followers had left, deciding that he was just asking a bit too much,  Jesus asked his disciples if they didn’t want to leave, too.  Peter replied, “Lord, to whom should we go?  You have the words of eternal life.”  My sentiments exactly, Peter.  What else is there?  Where else can I find unconditional love?  Who else can really give me the gift of grace–complete forgiveness, whether or not I deserve it (I don’t)?  Who else understands me so intimately, when I don’t even understand myself?  Where else is Hope found?

But there is such a price to be paid.  Oh, I know, not everyone thinks they have to pay it.  Many Christians sit in church week after week (or not) and tell themselves that it’s enough.  God wants us to be happy, right?  He wants to bless us and bring us success.  Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness–those are my rights.  Jesus forgave me at the cross and now I am free to go on my merry way and live my life.  If  I give to charity now and then and pray for our soldiers and the sick and go to church and try to be nice to my neighbor (at least when he isn’t crossing me) than I’ve done my part, haven’t I?

I’m not sitting on judgement on anyone here.  All I know is that Jesus said that whoever wanted to follow him would have to bear a cross.  For Jesus himself, that cross meant a whole lot of suffering and sacrifice.  So I think that’s probably what he had in mind for those who would follow him, too.

I read somewhere (not a Christian publication) that all good things are borne out of sacrifice.  And in this world, that’s the truth.  But I am a coward.  I am afraid to suffer, afraid that when it comes my turn, somehow I’ll fail, won’t be strong enough.

So here’s the thing I’m struggling with.  God has made it clear to us that he wants us to follow him to Africa.  To a beautiful country where suffering is right out in the open.  Where people are dying of AIDS and weak from malaria and diarrhea.  Where people live in cycles of fear, always wondering if they are appeasing their anscestors or the gods enough, or have their offenses been enough to warrent retribution on their lives?  Where the governments generally do not find their basis in justice and equality but in bribery, in might makes right, in power for the highest bidder.

That’s where I’m going.  To live.  It really is a beautiful place though.  The people there are lovely, not hindered by busy schedules and so much STUFF.  It’s a place where comfort zones and facades are stripped away, so that the real STUFF of life can finally be found.

Joy and the cross.  How do they go together?  God is asking my family to go to Africa, to sacrifice our (illusion of) safety and comfort and convenience for this cross.  I know the sacrifice will lead to what is good.  The real stuff of life.  But I guess I’m not sure as yet how it all works.

I know too that God doesn’t ask everyone to go to Africa.  He brings the Cross into each person’s life in a unique way.  Everyone has the choice to pick it up, or to turn away from it.

As I said, I am a coward.  But coward that I am, I will NOT turn away from the Cross.  I refuse to go away sorrowfully like the rich young ruler.  No, my heart cries instead, Help me, Lord.  Help me to give it all away.  It is too difficult for me to do alone–please take my hand and help me to do it.

God said in Isaiah 55:2, “Why do you spend money for what is not bread, and your wages for what does not satisfy?  Listen carefully to Me, and eat what is good, and let your soul delight  in abundance.”  And Jesus said in John 6:35, “I AM THE BREAD OF LIFE.  He who comes to me shall never hunger, and he who believes in me shall never thirst.”  I will take up the Cross,  coward though I am.  I refuse to spend any more of my life on what is not real.  I will give all I have to eat what is good.  Help me to do it, Lord.  And show me how to find the joy that comes through the sacrifice, Amen.

There are many reasons for us to go to Africa.

Ryan and I both went on African Mission Internships while in college.  I especially loved the country, the people, the animals.  Mostly the people.  They were so real, with their dark faces and white smiles.  They had next to nothing, and so there was no facade to hide behind, no keeping-up-with-the-Jones to get caught up in.  They were generous, and kind, and even funny.  And though they lived so differently from the way I did, they were exactly the same as me, on the inside.  We both could love, and cry, and laugh, and we both longed to be loved–and mostly, we both needed Jesus so much.  I longed to go back someday.  It was one of the things that truly attracted me to Ryan–the fact that he had been there too.  We spent the first year of our daughter Katie’s life in Maryland working with a French missions initiative, hoping to join up with some teammates and go to a mission field, but nothing transpired at that point.  So we’ve been waiting all along for the opportunity to GO.

Our dear friends, Mark and Nicole Kennell, are there.  They are on the team of missionaries we will be joining.  They have been praying for us, talking to us in persuasive tones, for quite some time now.  Nicole has been my dear friend since we were five years old, and we roomed together for five years in college.  She knows just about everything about me and still genuinely loves me.  We have been through great tests of friendship which has made the bond we share all the richer.  She knows when I need to be challenged spiritually, and she is always a voice of encouragement for me.  How many people have a friend like that?   Mark’s and Nicole’s daughters, Maddie and Michal, are dearly loved by my children.  Michal and Katie, particularly, are extremely close.  When the Kennells lived in the States and both Mark and Nicole were teaching school, I kept Michal at our house during the day for a year.  So Katie and Michal are really like sisters.  The neat thing is, they really are two peas in a pod, kindred spirits, both very imaginative and full of stories about princesses and ponies and dragons and African Wild Dogs!

So you see we’ve had our eyes opened for the opportunity, and our dear friends are there already, and our children have close friends there too.  There are many reasons for us to go.

But I don’t know if we ever would have made it.  You see, we’re sort of settled here.  Sort of.  We’ve got a nice house and a great church and two (used and older) cars and cable TV and we’re right across the street from Wal-Mart and I love our (American) pediatrician.  We have three children who love their grandparents and other extended family members, not to mention our two cats.  Everybody I know speaks English and, even if Whitehaven isn’t the safest community to live in, I still feel pretty secure when my doors are locked. I could go on.  We’re not young and naive anymore.  We would’ve stayed here, and been pretty darn pleased about it, if God had not made it clear that GOING was what He wants for us.

About a year and a half ago, we were looking for a job change.  Ryan loves his work as an associate minister at Holmes Road church of Christ, but he was wondering if he was ready to move into a position of more leadership.  Or was he wanting to move out of paid ministry, and into a teaching position?  These were some questions he was pondering, and we made several trips for job interviews.  And then I began having Dreams.

I can’t remember exactly when I had the first one, and I can’t remember how many total I had. More than three.   I do remember the content, and I remember how I felt.

In every dream, Ryan and I and our family were going to Africa.  In some dreams we were moving there, and in others we were visiting, but always with the intent of coming back to stay.  And in every dream I felt EXCITEMENT!  And JOY!  And FREEDOM!  Finally, finally, we were doing what we were supposed to be doing!  Finally, finally, we were on the path of faith, letting go of all the fears that stood in our way, and GOING!  God was working, and I was a part of it, and it was great!

I woke up from each dream with the same very strong conviction: God wants us to go to Africa.

Then I would think about it a bit.  And Ryan and I would talk about it a bit.  It’s true, I’m a pretty avid dreamer.  I very frequently remember my dreams and they are usually filled with rather strong emotion.  And the dreams began right about the time the Kennells returned to Africa (they lived in Togo for a few years, returned to the States for a while, and then decided to go back again).  Not only that, but I was reading the No. 1 Ladies’ Dectetive Agency series by Alexander McCall Smith (great books, by the way) which are set in Botswana.  So with all that, I had Africa on the brain.  That’s why I was having these dreams.  I was just a person with strong and strange dreams, and all this stuff in my subconscious about Africa was coming out at night.  Right? Besides, in the church tradition we grew up in, most people don’t believe God speaks through dreams anymore.  Dreams are too subjective, anyway.  Who can know what they really mean?

So we’d talk ourselves out of the conviction.

And then I’d have another dream, and be convicted again, and we’d talk ourselves out of it again–but each time I was becoming less and less convinced that it was just me and my subconscious.  I started praying about it, really asking God, Is this what You want?  Are You trying to tell me something here?

Finally we had an interview with my sister’s church in Ohio.  The position really wasn’t any different from Ryan’s current job, but we’d be living RIGHT BY my dear, dear sister, and southeastern Ohio is a beautiful area of the country (I lived there once).  The community they live in is WAY safer and more family friendly than Memphis.  Ryan and I thought, this must be it.  This is what we’re going to do, where we’re going to go.  My sister was so excited at the thought of us actually living in the same place.  I began to set my heart on Ohio and the job at Becky’s church, although in the way back of my mind, there was a nagging feeling.  Was this really what God wanted for us, right now?

The night we came back to Memphis from the Ohio interview, I had my very last Dream.  Same thing–we were going to Africa, at last, at last we were doing what we were meant to do, and what freedom to have let go of fear and walk in faith!  The first thing I thought of when I awoke, in the middle of the night, was, OK, God.  I hear You.  You really, really want us to do this.  And my next feeling was one of anxiety.  How would we tell my sister?  How could we go now, when she was so looking forward to us coming there?

The next morning, I spoke with Ryan again.  I told him that I really, REALLY thought God was trying to get our attention.  I told him that I couldn’t talk myself out of it this time–we had to do some serious thinking and praying.

We went to talk with Mark Berryman, the man who had led the African Mission Internships we had been a part of in college.  After speaking and praying with him, we were both more convinced then ever of God’s direction for us: Africa.

It was heartbreaking to tell my sister.  We were offered the job in Ohio, and we had to turn it down, and it deeply hurt my dear sister (although she quickly took her own great steps of faith by allowing God to do what He wanted with us, trusting Him even though it came at great cost to her to do so).  All the way around it was the hardest decision we’ve ever made, but I know it was the right one.

I haven’t had a dream since that last one, before we made the decision to GO.  I guess I don’t need them anymore.  We listened.  We got the message.  We’re GOING.

I’ve been reading a book entitled, A Chance to Die.  Written by Elisabeth Elliot, it is the biography of Amy Carmichael, a missionary from the late 1800’s.   To be perfectly honest, as I ponder on the life of this pure-hearted woman, my own heart is pierced with both anxiety and discouragement.  Anxiety, because when I read about the difficult circumstances Amy encountered as a missionary, I wonder, what troubles lay ahead for me and my family?  As we begin our lives as missionaries to Africa–a place where medical services are far from the comforts I know here in the States, a place where mosquito bites mean malaria, a place where speed limits are unheard of and the roads are filled with craters–will my family encounter danger?  And what about those I am leaving behind?  What if something happens to my mother while I am gone?  Or my sister?  Or my dad?  And then I feel discouraged, because my heart, my attitude, my strength, do not measure up to what I read about Amy.  Here is a girl who was resolute in her faith, unwavering it seems, who refused to complain about difficulties and who strove to be thankful in the worst of cirumstances.  As for me, I constantly have to pray for greater faith,  I struggle with a poor attitude when times are tough, and my first response to God when I am hurting is often anger, not praise.    My heart is sore distressed to think of how short of the mark I fall.  Why would God want me to go?  Can He really use me?

Today as I thought about these things I was reminded of when I was a college student at Harding University.  I remember, as a freshman, going to listen to a newly-formed missionary team tell about their future plans.  They, too, were headed for Africa, but to another country, Uganda.  As I listened to them, I experienced the same discouragement.  They are so far above me, I thought.  I could never measure up to the faith that they have.  Who am I to ever think that God could ever use me? I remember actually feeling like I should just crawl away from there.  I was  so far beneath these giants of faith.

But today God whispered something else to my heart.  This is not about you, He said.  I am the one who has asked you to go. I will be what you need.  And you will know that faith, that peace, that thanksgiving do not come from yourself, but from Me. Not only that, but others who see what God does will know that the work could only come from God–because it certainly could never have come from me!!!

And then God addressed my anxieties by reminding me that there is no safe place, not really, except hidden beneath the shadow of His wings, with His everlasting arms underneath.  I am not safe because I am in America with its medical advances and smooth highways.  My loved ones are not safe because I am near to them.  None of us necessarily have any promise of protection from danger in this life, but we do have the promise that He will never fail or forsake us, that He will give us what we need when we need it, and that when it is all said and done, we will be with Him, forever truly safe at last.

So who knows what will happen as I begin this journey of (my very small) faith?  One thing I know is that God is with me.  And He will not leave.  And even though I do NOT measure up to the job, He will be enough.

We began the fund-raising adventure by asking individuals for donations toward our fall trip to Kara, Togo, West Africa,  scheduled for this fall.  For me, the mere thought of the word fund-raising (OK, it’s two words connected by a hyphen) makes me take a deep breath and pray for greater faith.  God has been good to provide what we need.  Many friends and loved ones and have donated rather large and generous amounts of money toward our trip.  But it is one of the smaller donations which has brought sweet joy to my heart.

About two weeks ago we received an envelope in the mail containing a check for a (relatively small) sum.  The check was from my sister and there was a short note explaining that this was to help with our fall trip fund-raising.  I called Becky to express my thanks to  her and to James, her husband.  James answered the phone and, when I expressed my appreciation, somehow let slip that the money had come from Becky’s recent garage sale.

Now, I had known that Becky had organized a sale a few weekends ago.  I had actually been on the phone with her while she was outside waiting for customers, but had had no idea what she intended to do with the money.  In fact I think I said something along the lines of needing to get rid of a few things myself but not having the time to do it.  And she never once let on what her plans were.

James and Becky are by no means poor, but by our country’s standards they are certainly not wealthy either.  They have three children and are living on a single salary in an older (beautiful) home in a part of the country where real estate is much less expensive.  Every penny counts to them (as it does to us), so I understand the depth of this small sacrifice, which is not so small to me.  Becky and James could’ve used all–or at least some–of the money they made for their own purposes: new clothes for the kids, a piece of furniture.  Instead the total results of their efforts are being used for our trip, because they believe in what God is doing with us.  This is especially meaningful to me, because it was hard at first for Becky to hear of our plans for Africa.  Becky and I are very close and this separation will tear at both of our hearts.  But my dear, brave sister has chosen to lay this heartache at the feet of Christ and bless my family with her sacrifice–on t he outside, a small financial sacrifice, but on the inside, a huge sacrifice of the heart.  And it is this sacrifice which mirrors the one Jesus made for us, and it is this sacrifice that has boulstered up my faith in God’s willingness to provide for our needs, even our fund-raising needs.