hut and had delivered ten children with only seven having survived. There were some things that I could not understand about her life and vice versa, but we knew that we both loved God, both loved our husbands and children, and we both loved to laugh. Laughter protrudes delightfully beyond cultural and language barriers, and it was definitely so for Mary and me. Seeming to understand some of my struggles of adapting to her culture, she would show up at just the right time, teaching me so much about living in Liberia. And though she laughed at some of my perceptions of her birthplace, she gently explained some of the unfamiliar nuances as best she could. Months later, she was instrumental in encouraging me to learn her tribal dialect that I studied for the first two years while we lived in Liberia.
Liberian “Chocolates”
From day one in our new home in the West African jungle, Jeff, Michelle and I were initiated into the world of Liberian “chocolates.” It is not a pleasant thing to talk about, but was so much a part of the new missionary experience that it must be told. Bodies that have been pampered with consistently clean drinking water do not passively accept having to ingest water teeming with hoards of deadly microscopic parasites. Have you guessed what “Liberian chocolates” are? Foreign bacteria in water, oily and unfamiliar foods and meats: all those things are very hard on a virgin American digestive system. My journal reads:
Let me go back to our bathroom episodes. Whether it was the water or something we ate, Michelle and I both got the Liberian “chocolates” as Jeff affectionately called this. Shell didn’t know what was happening to her. I found the “chocolates” everywhere. Bless her heart, she would try to go to the potty, but it never came like that. Today Jeff has the problem. Michelle is better but has a bad rash and I think I’m pretty cleaned out for now. It was the total detox program, but one that you would not want to experience very often!
We had only been in Tappi for about three days when I was forced to acquaint myself with one of the ways clothes would have to be dealt with if they became soiled between wash days (mainly on Saturdays). We inherited large metal washing tubs from a previous missionary, so I carried them outside and attempted to wash clothes much like my great-grandmothers must have. I put the soiled “chocolate” clothes in a tub with mild Clorox water, letting them soak for an hour or so, and later rinsed them in the large sink located in our wash kitchen. What an initiation! The only thing that seemed to be missing was a scrub board. Probably just as well as my knuckles would not have appreciated the work out!
Inspired By a White Gio Man
For years, our mission compound had been host to one of the largest Christian conferences held in northern Liberia. The annual Mano/Gio Conference attendees were people from the surrounding region consisting of two cousin tribes (in that many of the words translated close enough so that a Gio could understand a Mano and vice versa). The conference was always held around the first of the year and brought a bustling to our compound that I never imagined could happen in our remote area. In perspective, Tappeta was a rather large town compared to many of the small villages where some of the attendees lived
We had only been in Tappeta for one month when the 1986 conference began, and so it was with great excitement that we planned to attend much of the festivities. The highlight for me during that conference was when Missionary Tom Jackson, an American man, who had felt led to translate the entire Bible into Gio, stood up to speak. A man short in stature and closing in on his 70th year, he bellowed out his greetings in both Mano and Gio—and then continued to preach for almost an hour totally in the Gio language! I was mesmerized. It was so obvious that those attending had the upmost respect for Tom and his wife June. When I asked a Gio woman later about how well she thought Teacher Tom did with her language, she said, “Huh! The man wrote our language! He know it too fine!”
Tom was esteemed as a true white African Gio man. I heard that from several pastors during the conference and it touched the linguistic side of me like nothing else. Always having a love and natural affinity with language, it evoked in me the realization that I, too, could possibly speak to those precious people in their native tongue. Tom was a great encouragement to me over the next couple of years, and even visited on several occasions (they lived in a village about 30 miles from us), passing on his burden for translating the Old Testament in Gio. He was concerned that he would perhaps not live long enough to finish the task and saw in me, the continuance of his dream. I was both honored and petrified! Taking it as a challenge, I offered God my willingness to do that kind of work down the road if it was what He would want me to do.
My first practice site became the weekly market there in Tappi. Each town of any significant size hosted a weekly market day where those living in the area could bring their food or wares to sell. It was a little bit carnival, little bit farmer’s market, and a little bit family reunion kind of thing. When I first visited the Wednesday market in Tappi, I realized that the majority of women who were selling at their individual booths only spoke one of the two local dialects. They did not understand English at all. That was a frustration for me who loved nothing more than to be able to communicate with everyone around me. That realization aroused the need in me to learn the local dialect even more.
The reality was that without me learning Gio, I would never be able to communicate with some of the market ladies, so with a little convincing from my friend Mary and others like Tom Jackson, my attempt to learn the Gio dialect was launched. Loving a challenge and having a great desire to communicate effectively with the town women, I stuck with it.
After about six months of studying and practicing short, simple phrases, I went into the Wednesday market. A little timidly, I meandered around and started greeting the women in their own language, carrying on limited conversations with some of them. The fervor grew when the news that the white woman was speaking their language, and within minutes, some of the market women had put the “fat” white missionary lady on their shoulders and began to dance around the market. The celebratory dance was their way of showing gratitude for my efforts in learning to talk with them in their own dialect. That day remains a highlight of my entire African ministry!
At the following annual Mano/Gio conference in January 1987, I was slated to teach a Bible class to the older women. The first day I surprised the ladies by reading all my scriptures from my very own Gio New Testament, giving all my scripture references in Gio. So thankful was I that God had allowed me to learn some of the language of those around us! I prayed, too, for the ability to love them just as He loved them. Speaking their language without loving them deeply in my heart....well, surely that would be way too brassy!
CHAPTER FOUR
Life is a grindstone. Whether it grinds you down or polishes you up depends on you. —L. Thomas Holdcroft
Full House
No matter how long we ministered in West Africa, I never really became totally accustomed with the constant presence of someone other than family in our house. Granted, they were helping me with the never-ending household duties that seemed so much more arduous than what I ever had in the States. As I’ve mentioned before, there was no glass in the windows, only screen and “rogue bars” (metal crisscross bars to keep thieves from cutting the screen and climbing into the windows). So you can only imagine that dust was a minute by minute accumulation. Despite my discomfort with house help, it was necessary if I was going to be effective in ministry; however, it was still very difficult for me to share my private domain. My journal, after only a couple of days with house help reiterated that:
I am still having a hard time getting use to people in my house working. But I am so thankful we have two good young African men that we can trust. I have to remember that they appreciate their jobs as much as we appreciate their work. Our youngest worker asked us to keep his pay for a couple of months and buy him some new athletic shoes in Monrovia.
Two things compelled me to keep using house help throughout our African missionary career: I knew that it provided much-needed income to Bible school families, plus I recognized that I could not possibly scrub concrete floors, dust and mop a house where the screen windows seem to beckon the dust, haul water from an outside well, build a fire and boil water, and wash clothes in tubs if I was going to keep up with the care of my family and do any ministry at all. No matter what my American upbringing may have been