God is the Author of Her Story

As we have watched our dear children grow through adolescence and then become adults, nothing has brought us more joy than seeing them grapple with and then embrace the fact that God is the author of their story. A loving, gracious God who has superintended every joy-filled and every painful experience in their lives.  He, the loving, the good, the tender Shepherd has always been at work in them to make them who they are today.

Having Lindsay live with us this semester has been such a gift from a loving Heavenly Father.  He knew this mom needed one of her kids around her as she adjusted to her new life in Niamey.

Last Thursday, Lindsay was asked to tell her story in the weekly junior high/high school assembly at the school where she is teaching.  She was vulnerable and open as she shared the deep pain and loss she experienced  in leaving Africa in 2005.   And then, tears came to our eyes as she shared coming to a profound understanding of who this God is that she worships.

Here are a couple of quotes from her talk:

"Although I accepted Jesus as my Savior when I was 9 years old, I was not worshiping the right god. I was worshiping a god who existed for my happiness and who I had shaped and formed in my mind. I was seeking the God I wanted, not the God who is. You see, when you transform God, you are worshipping an idol. When you believe what you want to believe, you morph God into what you want Him to be. You believe in a god that suits your taste. That’s idolatry. When I moved back to the US, the god I had created in my mind was failing me. He had planned the wrong story for me. I was disappointed in His plan..."

"... I may never know “why” until Heaven, but you know what makes it easier? The God I obey and the God I have faith in is a good God. He’s completely good. And He’s eternal, so He’s eternally good. He’s sovereign, so He’s good in all areas of everything. He’s the Perfect Author, so He only writes good stories..."

 "...But one thing I know, I serve a God who is good and it was good for me to go back to Kansas in 2005."

 This is when she was saying,  "I love, love, love, love my family!" 

34 Spring Breaks later...

Ever since the day I got involved with Cru at Fort Hays State,  vacations have meant conferences:
Fall Get-away, Christmas conference, Spring break conference.

Way back in 1978, my second year at FHSU,  I was invited to go to a spring break conference at Daytona Beach with Campus Crusade to learn how to share my faith. I wrote home asking for permission and, of course, money and I still have the note written to me by my Dad, on a tiny slip of paper, with his absolutely minuscule, neat-as-a-pin handwriting.   His little note started out "To my little missionary...".   How did he know?

That was many years ago and I'm still going to spring break conferences that teach students how to share their faith in Jesus Christ with others.

( I also have horrible memories of wearing my sister Donna's homemade  swimsuit! Yellow flowers. We had both made our own the previous summer out of calico fabric.  Two piece--well, kinda.  It was like baby doll pajamas if you know what I mean. It worked great for hoeing weeds in the garden when we wanted to get a tan, but wearing it on Daytona Beach?!!  I was absolutely mortified to wear it back then and I'm mortified today just remembering that I actually wore it in public!  I'm sooooo glad I don't have any pictures of that and hope no one else does either.)

Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday of this week we met from 8:00am to 5:30pm at our office.  There were approximately 30 students who participated in the two levels of training.  The mornings were given to teaching and training and the afternoons the students practiced sharing the gospel with students in the neighborhood and on campus. It was a great time.

An awesome teacher!  

Our group met outside in a covered lean-to.
 It's been a very windy, dusty week so we were always covered in dust by the end of the day.  

We ate sumptuous noon meals everyday cooked over the fire.  I told the cook she could come to my house once a week to cook for us!  She did a fabulous job.

                           Pumpkin squash, eggplant, peppers, tomatoes, cabbages, carrots and of course, lots of onions
                                  went into the sauces served with rice.  Vegetables are plentiful at this time of year. 

and we washed all the dishes like this. 

The Grandsons come for dinner

We love having students over for dinner and tonight was the first since arriving in Niger.
Our guests were the ones who love to call us Grandmère et Grandpère. (Grandma and Grandpa)
The five of them, plus one more, share a dorm room that has 2 single beds.
They were invited for 7:00 and finally all arrived at 8:00.
We'd invited 4 and 5 came.
They greeted me "Bonsoir, Grandmère."
I replied (kindly and with a smile), "Je m'appelle Marcy." (My name is Marcy)
               

I realized too late in the day that I really didn't have serving plates/bowls for serving food at the table.  My mom taught me well--NEVER put kettles on the table!  Sorry mom,  I had no choice.

The salad was served on the plastic lid of my cake pan.
The bread was served in a pie plate.
The couscous was served in my tupperware bread bowl.
The sauce for the couscous went on the table in the kettle it was cooked in!

 I really think I was the only one who noticed or cared.

Salad and baguette with vinaigrette dressing
Everyone loves this dressing.  
The recipe is from my dear friend, Nancy Burg.
Even the boys asked for the recipe!

Couscous is a common meal here. We love it.
 I made the sauce with lots of vegetables which are so available right now. 

Peanut butter cookies for dessert
 along with "Lipton"(tea) and "Nescafé"(instant coffee)... and LOTS of sugar cubes. Oh, my!  

They wanted the "American" experience of eating so Tom explained:
           that we sit at the table for our meals.
           we pass the food from one person to the next.
           if we need something we ask "please pass the ____."

Quite a new experience for them.
Tom was a regular "Emily Post".
They were aghast that they would be served first, rather than Tom, the older man and the host.
They didn't even notice that I didn't eat with them--just served them.

A great evening.

If you haven't read about our titles, grandma and grandpa, click here:  
http://marcyandtom.blogspot.com/2012/01/grandfather-and-grandmother.html

Walkin' the plank

Road construction.
         From a-z.
A whole new road.
         In front of our house.
         Dust and more dust.
Lots and lots of workers for Tom to make friends with.
Hauling out hundreds of truckloads of sand.
Reminds me of the parable of the house built on the rock and the house built on sand.   
              

There are two bridges over the Niger River here in Niamey:
         the "old" two lane bridge
         and a new four-lane bridge built recently by the Chinese.
The old bridge is the connection to downtown so is very, very busy but it is often blocked with broken down trucks or accidents or a cow dying as she was crossing the bridge (really, truly!).


So the new bridge is beautiful with its four lanes and sidewalks, but no one uses it because there is no good road connecting the bridge to the main road.  Soooo the Chinese are mid-way through a 14 month project of constructing a paved road between the two bridges and it passes directly in front of our house.

The latest step in the road building is digging water drainage canals on the sides of the roads. All done with pick axes and shovels.  That took another 5 feet off our driveway and left a deep chasm between me and the road! 

Tom tried to jump it, 
         before it was quite so wide.
           He made it, but our neighbor scolded him, saying "Old men shouldn't do that!" 


The same innovative neighbor found a plank that just fit across the gap for us and all the rest of the neighborhood to walk across.

What my dear neighbor didn't understand is that I have a horrible fear of chasms and narrow bridges--especially planks without rails! 


Joan M., you remember our being jettisoned into outer space on that red machine so we could paint the soffets on our house? Petrifying.

Erika, I know you understand.  Now is not the time to come visit us, dear.


I've gotten braver and no longer have to hold someone's hand to cross over.  It's given the neighbors something to laugh about as they watch the white lady creep across the plank.


The other day when I arrived home in a taxi with my bags from my monthly grocery shopping I panicked, wondering how I would carry a flat of 30 eggs- expensive eggs,  several heavy bags and a box of groceries and keep my balance crossing the bridge.  Fortunately, there was a crop of neighbor boys, thrilled to help me for a hundred francs.  

One day the road will be finished. In the meantime I'm facing my fears and walkin' the plank.

A Weekend to Remember

Our first trip into the interior of Niger!  


We had arranged the night before to have a taxi pick us up at 4am to catch the bus at 5am.  We went with our African national director and his wife and their 2 year-old boy.


The 11-hour trip didn't seem too long as there was always something to look at as we rolled by:
           villages. 
           onions and more onions.
           herds of camels. 
                    

The bus stopped several times for the Muslims to pray and we made two bathroom stops ( I won't even attempt to describe those outdoor stalls.  Fortunately, for odor reasons there were no roofs and we each had a tea kettle of water.  Use your imagination!!). 

Laundry soap produced across the border in Nigeria. 

At our up-country destination, we were met at the bus stop by the missionary who had planned and organized the Weekend to Remember marriage conference.  They have a huge burden for the marriages in Niger.  The divorce rate is very high in the Muslim communities and this culture affects the church negatively as well.  


There were 30 couples who showed up for the first session.  Tom, Akora (CCC Niger national director) and I taught the sessions.  Tom did the majority of them and I taught the two designed for the women only.  


We spoke in French, which more than half of the audience understood, and it was translated into Hausa for those who didn't speak French.  They were all ages and from all walks of life.  What an incredible opportunity to show them Biblical principles that cross cultural lines.  

This little girl's name is Hulda; her parents attended the conference.  
Now we know there are two Huldas in the world! 

Saratou translated my French into Hausa.  

 The message that caused the most discussion was Sunday's talk on forgiveness.  The comment was made repeatedly that in traditional Hausa culture men don't ask their wives for forgiveness.  Needless to say, the challenge from God's Word was powerful and discussions were animated.  

Several ladies cooked our meals of spaghetti or rice or couscous.  Tasty, good food. 

Tomatoes and Peanut Butter

Cook a couple of sliced onions in some oil in a pan. 

 Add some chopped tomatoes. 

Voila! the sauce is ready for rice or couscous or beans! 

 As my Nigerien friend said, " as long as we have onions and tomatoes we can make a sauce."  Sometimes we add a bit of chopped meat and/or peanut butter, serve it over rice and that makes it a dish fit for a king! Just ask my kids. 

Tomatoes are in season now and coming into the city literally by the busload.   The outlet is at the market close by our home so a friend and I decided to skip the middle man and purchase our tomatoes "en gros."   

Fortunately, my friend had her vehicle so I didn't have to transport them back on my head!  

The tomatoes made great sauce and salsa.  My only problem was I had none of my canning supplies here.  Nor did I have extra plastic storage containers.  So I froze it all in pans, cut it in squares and re-froze it in plastic bags.  As long as Tom doesn't mistake it for brownies we'll be okay.  

I suppose Americans eat peanut butter like our African friends eat tomato sauce.  In the early 90's when we lived in Central African Republic, peanuts were abundant.  Melissa's first way of earning money was making and selling peanut butter to other missionaries using our Oster Kitchen Center blender we had received as a wedding gift.  In Ouagadougou, our pastor's wife had a peanut butter machine and we could buy it from her, a dishpan at a time. 

Here in Niger, getting peanut butter is a bit more complicated so I decided to see if my Bosch blender was up to the task.  But I had forgotten how time consuming making peanut butter from scratch can be.  All the recipes that I read on-line started from peanuts you buy at the store that are shelled, skinned and roasted already. 

It took awhile to find shelled peanuts in the market but thanks to Tom's searching, I now have a source.  

After sorting through the raw peanuts,

 I roasted them for a bit  in the oven and then began the arduous task of taking all those pesky red skins off.  That was a great thing to do during the "Friday night at the movies" time.   

Saturday morning, since there was no breeze to help me, I set up my artificial wind to blow all the red skins down the driveway. 

The blender worked perfectly and I now have enough peanut butter for a while.  No orders, please! 

  P.S.  I still prefer Skippy!

Grandfather and Grandmother?!

Every culture has polite and proper ways to address people.  As children, we were severely reprimanded if we failed to use Mr./Mrs. before the name of an older person.  There has been a progression of names that people have called us over the past 20+ years in Africa.  First, we were called "Tantine" (Aunt) or "Tonton" (Uncle).  Or they used the names "sister" or "brother" with our first names.   I was often introduced as "Madame Tom."

Then as the years passed, we began hearing the terms "mama" and "papa" in combination with our first names: Mama Marcy and Papa Tom. We understood that it was a term of respect.  But last week, we received the ultimate blow.  Tom was walking home from the dorms late one night with some university students and they said  "Goodnight Grand-Père" (grandfather); "Give our greetings to Grand-Mère (grandmother)."  That would be me!!

Grandfather and Grandmother?!?!?  Do we look that bad?   We were a bit alarmed so yesterday, when Tom was again addressed as Grandfather on campus, he told the student that I had been a bit insulted by that title.  Tom explained to him that in American culture, being called Grandfather only occurs if you have biological grandchildren and usually conveys the idea of being old, past one's prime, on the sidelines; respected, yes, but kind of worn out and lacking the vigor of youth.  Well, now it was the student who was taken aback!  He explained to Tom that in Niger culture to be called "Grandfather" had nothing to do with having biological grandchildren and carried no negative connotations but conveys only the highest respect and honor and dignity.  It conveys the idea of wisdom and insight, and then he added the French word which translated means "formidable" and he insisted on that word.  He also added that to be raised by a grandfather was even a greater blessing than to be raised by one's own biological father.

So, I'll just have to "get over it!" mentally, see myself as still young and adapt to my new host country and culture.

Yours truly and formidably,

Grandfather Tom and Grandmother Marcy!!