Christmas Day was a very emotional day. It was the hardest day we had so far. It wasn’t just us, all the missionaries were like that. I never really realized how hard it is for missionaries, and most of the time we never even take the time to pray for them during holidays.
I could find nothing in my journals or letters where I accurately described how overwhelmingly hard that first Christmas in Africa was. When I asked Jeff what he remembered, he simply said, “Weird.” As for me, I do remember being painfully cognizant of the time difference and what would be going on in the States at a particular hour.
However, having the entire missionary population of Tappi at our house that Christmas Day helped to keep me from despair. It was only when everyone was seated around the table that I realized my struggles with Christmas were not unique to me nor would they necessarily go away in the years to come. All the missionaries seemed to be a little more open and sentimental, speaking nostalgically about family and holidays in the States. Oddly enough, knowing that I was not struggling alone with missing loved ones and family traditions helped me make it through that day.
I do believe that I started to feel like “one of them” that day, clasping my heart around the knowledge that we all shared a bond that knitted our hearts together as family. In time, they did become our “African” family and remain as such to this day. Twenty-five years later, we stay in contact with almost every one of them who sat around our table that Christmas of 1985. If, by chance, we are able to personally see them, our time together is sweet and we simply pick up where we left off. Family does that. Or should.
CHAPTER FIVE
We teach what we know, but we reproduce what we are. —John Maxwell
The First Reality Show
The African kids (and sometimes the adults) had no problem nor felt any shame in sitting on our porch and watching us inside our house. It was the best television program ever—a reality show, for sure! Jeff was constantly, but gently running people off our porch. Because we were new, they liked to come and watch us unpack our boxes, mesmerized at the different items we had brought with us from America. Jeff was really good about explaining that his wife was American (as if he wasn’t) and was not used to the public display of curiosity.
To add to that, during our first few days in Tappi, we saw several young guys walk behind our house, and after some questioning, we found out that they had shot with a slingshot a chicken hawk who had been perched in one of our trees. Unfortunately, as the rock hit its mark, the hawk had spread its wings as it involuntarily descended and was caught in a branch. One of the African boys started climbing the tree, hoping to shake the hawk loose. Now, I always loved to climb tress when I was young, but that little boy had made a profession of it! He slid up that tree trunk in a way that I had never seen! The chicken hawk fell, but still was not completely dead. I felt sorry for it and could not watch as they finished it off. However, my very inquisitive two year old Michelle was fascinated by the whole process, even after one of the young fellows had slung the limp, bloody bird over his shoulders and headed down the path dreaming of a meaty supper.
I knew that I needed to get used to people working in our yard as well as in our house. It was nothing like America where people had distinct boundaries and sacred personal space which others usually did not invade. That incident with the chicken hawk helped me to understand that sometimes, especially for the young African boys, the only food they might eat in a day’s time was what they killed themselves. Even if we caught them early in the morning, during our afternoon rest hour, or late in the evening climbing and shaking our mango or avocado trees, I tried to remember that I had plenty to eat, but they probably did not. On the other side of that was the desire to teach them to at least ask permission since the trees were in our yard. That is where the line of intersecting culture and biblical beliefs must always be carefully considered in a sensitive manner. We lived off the cuff with those kinds of situations, attempting to pad authority with love and humor as much as possible.
Perpetual Balancing Acts
In January of 1986, I wrote in my journal:
Yesterday a little boy came to our house wanting a Bible. Jeff talked to him for quite a while about his salvation. He even brought money to pay for the Bible, but Jeff gave it to him for free. Today another boy came and asked for a Bible. I talked to him and found out that he did not bring any money, but was also expecting us to give him one for free. I did finally give it to him–how can you refuse to give anyone a Bible? However, it started something. Later that day fifteen boys came and asked for Bibles. I had to send them away because we did not have that many Bibles. It was a sad time for me.
Little did I know that the constant asking for things, money, food and more would become the norm for so much of our African ministry. During our many years in West Africa, hundreds of people came to our door wanting something. Unfortunately, the majority of the time it was not for a Bible or even spiritual help; it was for monetary substance.
We never became accustomed to dealing with the constant begging for money though we learned to always weigh each request individually. There were times when we also knew that we were not hearing the entire truth from the person asking. In our later years while in West Africa, there were days and sometimes weeks that we just refused to go to our gate because we had grown so weary of the begging. We were too overwhelmed and tired to constantly discern whether a person truly deserved help or not. As an alternative to shutting down from the daunting needs of those around us, I prepared sacks of food essentials for anyone that came to us begging. We had long since stopped giving out money except on those rare occasions when we felt distinctly that we were to do so. Measuring out rice, onion, canned meat, oil, and bouillon cubes and putting it all in a bag, I would give it to the person who said they were in need. Often they would be extremely grateful, but too many times, I had the bag of food refused or thrown on the ground. That did help me to divide the sheep from the goat, so to speak. If a woman with a little child in her arms could throw down my gift of food along with my promise to give more the next day, then I knew the woman was not speaking truthfully about her need to feed her child.
Different Points of View
Even in the middle of the myriad of cultural collisions, there protruded into my unrealistic fantasy the hope that all missionaries were created equal: meaning that we would always think the same way, feel the same way, minister the same way, and live the same way. In case you don’t already know the fallacy of that thinking, learn it now. Missionaries are all different. We think differently, minister differently, and run our homes differently.
I am sure that it may have seemed extreme to some that I packed so many “niceties” in our first container from America. More than anything, it was simply a matter of preference and priority. In my journal I wrote this:
Yesterday one of the missionary wives was talking about how she could just walk away from her house tomorrow and not worry about leaving a lot of things behind. My philosophy is that the Lord called us here to live and minister. If I do not try to make this “home” and live totally in this place, I feel I am only halfway serving God. Sure, if we were forced to leave tomorrow, I would probably cry to have to leave some things, but I refuse to live in that attitude. I will trust God with those matters and put my whole self into these people and the work–and at the same time–I will strive to have the best home for my family right here, not saving all that for a one-year furlough time in America.
In the following fifteen years of ministry in West Africa, my philosophy concerning my homes in Africa changed very little. Though after our first evacuation and the loss of our household goods, I did become a little more selective on the things that I brought from the States; it was still in my heart to make my home as comfortable and colorful for my family. As I stated earlier, I learned that a missionary should not only be willing to adapt to another country, culture, and people, but also be willing to embrace the challenge to learn and accept the philosophical differences of each missionary with whom we had the privilege to minister.
Missionaries come from different parts of the United States, so there were those obvious “subcultural” variations. Accepting the unique characteristics found in Minnesota, Iowa, Michigan, New York, and other