Grace and Good Earth

White Chocolate!

2010-11-29T14:49:00.000-05:00

My dear friend Diane is allergic to chocolate. You heard me. The good stuff.
She is also allergic to apples and grapes if any one is interested. For some reason, during college I could never remember this. I was forever offering her brownies and apple pie, grapes, you name it. Bless her, she would just stare at me for a minute then calmly say, "Sue, I'm allergic to [chocolate, apples, grapes], I can't eat that."
Her theory is that I love chocolate so much that I just can't allow for the possibility that somewhere in the universe there are people who can't eat it too.
I think it's a good theory. That and I'm horribly forgetful.
Well, Di is getting married soon. And several bridesmaid events have called for the making of some scrumptious baking goods- giving me the chance to branch out of my usual apple pie/chocolate frosted chocolate anything repertoire. And it's also introduced me to my new best friend: white chocolate.

I will try not to gush, but suffice it to say I put it in every thing I can think of nowadays.
I've even converted my husband, a die hard white chocolate hater, into a "i'll eat it IN things" white choc lover.
One of the winners we've tried lately:

White Chocolate Raspberry Scones (oh my gosh amazing)
from Sarah's Cucina Bella
1 3/4 cup all purpose flour
1 1/4 tsp baking powder
2 tbsp sugar
1/2 tsp Kosher salt
1/4 cup cold unsalted butter (1/2 stick)
2 large eggs
1/3 cup heavy cream
1/2 cup white chocolate chips
1/2 cup frozen raspberries

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. Whisk together the flour, baking powder, sugar and salt in a large bowl. Cut in the butter using two knives. Stir in the chocolate chips and raspberries. Set aside. In another bowl, whisk the eggs. Add the heavy cream and whisk some more until fully combined. Make a well in the center of the dry mix and pour the egg mixture in. Use a rubber spatula to gently stir until just combined. It will be dry and crumbly and won’t hold together well. Turn out the dough onto a floured cutting board. Using well-floured hands, pat the dough into an 8 inch circle, about 3/4 inch thick. Use a pizza cutter to slice into eight wedges. If desired, brush the tops of the scones with 1 tbsp of heavy cream and sprinkle with course sugar. Transfer the wedges to the prepared baking sheet and cook for about 15 minutes, until lightly browned. Serve immediately. These are best eaten within two days. Store leftovers in an airtight container.

More? Sure! Come back tomorrow for: White Chocolate Cranberry Oatmeal Cookies

Thanksgiving Culinary Attempts...

2010-11-29T10:36:00.002-05:00

I tried a few new recipes for our family Thanksgiving. Being the youngest and potentially most irresponsible I am not yet charged with the important stuff like turkey, or, well, anything requiring cooking. When asked what I, as a new bride and officially "grown up member" of the family should bring, my sweet momma thought for a second then graciously asked if I could bring bread. Bread. "Just whatever you can get at the store would be great!" Being the Home Economics major and Martha wannabe that I am, I decided to prove my awesomeness by making the bread myself.

Part I: Recipe Selection
I actually have a pretty awesome basic French bread recipe I make when I'm feeling especially culinary and actually have time to be culinary. It turns out as expected about 8 times out of 10. Because I am not smart and have not learned from the age old adage that you never try a new recipe on guests- I decided to tweak the recipe by substituting three cups of white wheat flour for regular flour (so that meant three cups white wheat and four cups regular flour). The recipe for the awesome French bread is found here: http://www.grouprecipes.com/77888/kitchenaid-french-bread.html

I bought like 20 pounds of cranberries a few days ago so decided to include them in the baking in some form or fashion. Since cranberry French bread hasn't caught on just yet, I decided to go with cranberry white chocolate muffins. http://busycooks.about.com/od/muffinrecipes/r/cranberrymuffin.htm

Part II: Recipe Execution.
Also, because I am not smart, I didn't count carefully while measuring in said cups of flour and probably added a cup too much. Needless to say, the bread didn't quite rise right, didn't roll out quite right, didn't stay together quite right, and didn't taste quite right. Pretty sure it was the combo of too much wheat flour and, well, too much flour in general. I don't want to talk about it.
The cranberry white chocolate muffins were the balm to my injured pride. I substituted a cup of yogurt for the sour cream the recipe called for (my attempt at healthy baking). The fresh cranberries were WONDERFUL...they lost the eye opening tartness with the baking and were a pleasant counterpart to the sweet white chocolate. The crumb topping ended up as brown sugar glaze as I forgot to mix in the flour before spooning it over the top. (Probably because I had used the all the flour in the bread). Surprisingly, that was a nice addition...making it a slightly crisp, crunchy muffin top.

Part III: The Review.
The muffins went fast. Yay for new muffin recipes! The bread, uh, lingered. My mom and dad dutifully ate it through the weekend with smiles and compliments but I know the truth. Next year I'll probably buy Sister Schuberts rolls and call it a day.

Hope your Thanksgiving was as lovely as mine! Graham and I have started a strict no sweets, three mornings at the gym regimen as a result but it was totally worth it.

Can't wait to hear about your Thanksgiving too!

Two years since Africa.

2010-11-23T16:29:00.001-05:00

It had been a week full of thoughts of Africa. My time there, friends going there or living there now, friends adopting from there now. Mostly of how strange it is that I am coming on the two year mark of NOT being there myself. It’s such a strange bittersweet feeling to be loving the life that the Father has laid out for us here and now, and still be so intrigued and connected to the world I left there behind.

Last week, visiting with a dear friend in South Carolina recently returned from a stint overseas herself shared a bit of insight. She said that our minds have trouble allowing the possibility that both the America we come home to and love and the poverty stricken overseas world we love and work in can coexist. In order to process our time overseas and our guilt of being back, safe in America, we must allow the reality that both worlds not only coexist but continue, rather unaffected by our absence.

When my direct involvement there ended, I separated myself mentally. Africa became an accumulation of my memories and recollections, a concoction of my own experience. I forget sometimes (many times) that my friends there, the places I walked and slept and ate and bought oranges at are still there (in some form or fashion). They are living their lives just as I am living mine.

With the realization has come a flood of memories of my time there, sweet memories this time. Being in the south of the country at a conference and walking down these little dirt roads past families washing their clothes or driving in a totally ridiculous rickshaw blaring Akon as we drove puttered down the long road from the airport to our compound with the hot wind in our faces. Laughing with our language helper over something silly or that time I couldn’t say a national friend’s name to save my life (Her name and the Arabic word for small goat were almost imperceptible…at least to me) but for some reason Little Goat was convinced I could say and probably repeated it 20 times.

It’s a good place. And I do miss it.

I hope to go back again one day and take Graham and my babies to see those places that were so hard and good and meaningful. I want to hug my little African momma’s Nufeesa’s neck and see my friend Weesal’s weird, tacky wedding pictures.

I’m smiling as I write this, because there were times over the two years I was there (let’s be honest, there were times in the two years SINCE I’ve been there) that I never thought I’d miss anything about that place. I’m so glad I do.

My narcissistic mind has trouble wrapping itself around the fact that life continues, unabated, without me anywhere I’ve been and left. But it’s sweeter now thinking of that. Thinking of my friends and the dirt and the heat and the weird smells and the awesome bread.

So if you think of it today, pray for them. Pray that they are well and smiling today too.

OH YEAH, this is happening.

2010-11-10T10:25:00.002-05:00

So, Graham and I have joined the ranks of those committed to sit week by week in a cold classroom and watch a guy on a video tell us how to handle our money. And love it.

That’s right, we’re enrolled in Dave Ramsey’s Financial Peace University this semester at our church. Each week, I rush home from work, scarf down some dinner and we bolt out the door to make it in time for the “ladies and gentlemen…Dave Ramsey!!” video opener that plays each week. It’s stressful getting there. It’s a little stressful being there. And it makes for a long night with a lot of awkward conversation with people we don’t know all that well.

But we go every week anyway.

Because for the first time in our little youngest in the family, don’t care about money, never balanced a checkbook lives…we’re becoming aware of our finances. Surprisingly, that’s a really good feeling.

The rather annoying tag line Dave (my husband hates that I refer to him by his first name…) says all the time is “Live like no one else so you can LIVE like no one else…and GIVE Like no one else.” Silly. Repetitive. And true. The thing is we already feel like we’re living like no one else- we’re in seminary- Graham’s a student, I work at a church- not exactly the recipe for success (more like the recipe for a life time of hand me towns and couponsJ). But even within that, we’re learning to say no to things now so we can say yes to them later. Or even better- saying no to things now so we’re in a position to say yes to Lord.

So all that to say- we’re learning a lot. We have our first budget (gasp!!! Budget?!)- oh yeah. And we’re even trying the mystical envelope system. I’ll let you know how it all goes.

As always, we covet your prayers that we would be found faithful in the small things so he’d count us ready for the big things.

Quality Time

2010-07-20T19:16:00.000-04:00

The other day my husband Graham and I had a rare afternoon at home. We had met with students in the morning and had more appointments later that evening- but somehow we had managed to steal a few hours to rest.

I was sitting on the bed doing my daily Bible reading and journaling a bit when I heard him walk through the back door. His characteristic loud footsteps sounded down the back hallway and into our room.

He chatted happily and he moved around the room, putting things away and getting ready for the afternoon. Being the needy wife I am, it wasn't enough.

I sheepishly asked him if he would sit with me for a while and catch up.

I didn't want to just be in the same room as he was. I didn't want to just be doing the same thing as he was. I wanted him to climb on the bed and talk to me, to hold my hand and "be" for a little while. I wanted his full attention.

Being the amazing husband he is, he happily complied, abandoning whatever productive plans he had for that moment )and without even ONE comment about how needy I was) he hopped onto the bed and we caught up on the day. As I sat there with him, talking about the morning and holding his hand, sitting close, and enjoying his nearness so much I sort of wanted to cry, it hit me.

Isn't that what God wants from us?

Not just to work on his behalf, or be present in his house.

But to be with him.

To commune, undistracted.

To sit together closely, talk through the day, enjoy each other. To delight in Christ and be delighted in by him.

In 1759 Joseph Hart penned these words, and they are resonating in my heart today:
Come, ye sinners, poor and needy,
Weak and wounded, sick and sore;
Jesus ready stands to save you,
Full of pity, love and power.

I will arise and go to Jesus,
He will embrace me in His arms;
In the arms of my dear Savior,
O there are ten thousand charms
O there are ten thousand charms! May you enjoy the nearness of a Savior who desires nothing less than your whole heart, and whole attention today. And pray the same for me.

Perspective

2010-05-19T11:27:00.000-04:00

This morning I was driving to work and thinking about how tired I was, how out of shape I was, how I wished I had more time to clean up the townhouse before I left, and how I had forgotten my lunch.

Now I'm struck with the general inconsequence of all that. Yesterday, three Samaritan's Purse workers were abducted in Nyala, Sudan- a place I know and love- while they were going about THEIR daily business. (click here to read the story)

I'm still not sure what that means- how the perspective that comes from KNOWING that the things that I struggle with, while important and valid, are not as serious as I make them out to be. And that there are people who are right now in situations much more dire than I. I don't know how this should change me- change the way I live and think.

But it's probably worth the consideration.

What is my role as a seminary wife, confident of God's call for me to be here, fully present, in America for this season, yet not so far removed from time overseas to have forgotten the realities of the world beyond my view? I'm honestly just not sure how that looks. Wisdom is welcomed.

In the meantime, while my current identity crisis is being resolved, I will fall upon the only thing I know for certain. That prayer is the greater work, no matter where we are and what we're doing. And that I have a God who hears...and knows...and listens.

Pray with me today for our friends in Sudan. They (both those in captivity and those trying to get them out) have long days ahead of them. The adrenaline will soon fade and the long hours and lack of sleep will set in. They need strength, clarity and wisdom as the second night is now upon them. And peace. And grace. And sleep.

http://www.samaritanspurse.org/index.php/articles/mb/three_staff_abducted_in_sudan/#

MMMMmmmmm. Grease! Southern Cooking!

2010-03-29T10:43:00.000-04:00

our sunday lunch

who knew it was so good.

and dangerously close to my house.

Some credit where it's VERY due...

2010-03-26T16:49:00.000-04:00

Some of the photos (from our wedding and that sort of thing) around here are by the incomparable Carmen B. Michael of CBM Photo. She's based in Birmingham and is quite lovely all around. Just wanted to make sure that was clear: The good photos = Carmen.

She also happens to be my sister-in-law. But that's sort of besides the point. Sort of.

Carm, you're fabulous. Thanks for documenting almost every special moment in the last year for us. We couldn't be more grateful.

The new man in my life. (don't worry, he's my nephew)

2010-03-26T08:55:00.000-04:00

He came on St. Patrick's Day.

I love him.

Look at that face.

My Grandmother calls him Zeke. We're not sure why.

Joshua Parker

March 17, 2010

7 lb. 11 oz.

Spring

2010-03-25T14:46:00.000-04:00

It’s Spring. I returned to the States at the beginning of last year, but somehow this year feels like the first spring I’ve had in oh so long. Perhaps I was too deeply embroiled in culture shock and recovery from two years living in Africa, or long distance dating Graham from Virginia to Alabama, or just too self-focused and neurotic to notice the changes all around me.

For whatever reason, I missed it. Judge me, it’s alright.

This year, it’s different.

I was driving back last weekend from my parent’s home in Virginia to North Carolina along highways and country roads and everywhere I looked somehow, overnight it seemed, it was Spring. A little something inside me melted as I took it all in, and a grin settled on my face as I drove in the gathering dusk across the stateline. Flowering cherries, Bradford Pear trees, redbuds, tulip trees. Green, green grass and daffodils popping up all over the place.

At the risk of sounding insipid and ridiculous, I was enchanted. Any moment I excepted little fairies to spring out of the woods carrying small lanterns and offering me a pretty dress to wear (they do that, you know). Leave me alone, I want to have my moment.

It was as if all was right in the world and all that was once (and perhaps still) uncertain would most certainly be okay.

Anyway, I just wanted to say that this year of all years, I’m enjoying seeing little saplings sprout and trees that were dead and dry bloom, and feeling the sun again. I even resent the freckles will inevitably begin their annual takeover of my face a bit less this year.

Maybe it’s because I’m married and all lovey dovey. And that’s probably a part of it. Or maybe it’s just so hopeful seeing little daffodils poking out after such a long winter. And that my heart is slowly coming out of an even longer, harder winter. Last year was such a strange time for me. Coming back and feeling all those things after my term in Africa (I call it affectionately “the crazy”), working through it with Graham, my family, and a well trained counselorJ, getting engaged and married, beginning a new life in a new place with a new job. The crazy seemed ever present.

But joy comes in the morning. Somehow, I am and continue to heal. To hope.

It’s really nice.

So, it was a long winter. That happens.

But it’s Spring now. For all of us. I pray today brings you hope.

Go do something Springy:

http://www.nationalcherryblossomfestival.org/cms/index.php?id=390

http://raleighdurham.about.com/od/localeventsandfestivals/a/Springtime-Festivals-in-Raleigh.htm

You, Me...Life.

2010-03-24T09:01:00.000-04:00

Three years ago on Friday, this guy asked me if we could talk one afternoon. I didn’t know him all that well, really. We were in Virginia, at a training to prepare us to go overseas and work. He was headed to South America. I was headed to North Africa. There were a lot of people our age at the training and with such different destinations, we weren’t around each other much. Nonetheless, after dinner, this guy and I walked to a swing set (centrally located, I mean I don’t know this guy, right?) and he began to express that he had feelings for me (the good kind) and had had them for some time. He wanted us to get to know each other and see where it went.

I just sort of stared at him, kept swinging on my seriously child-sized swing, and thought about it.

On one hand, this was weird. I mean WEIRD. He was a wonderful guy –that was clear, but we didn’t really know each other. And in exactly 10 days we would leave said training center and go to different continents for the duration of our two year terms. Two years. 10 days. And did I mention the different continent thing? Yeah. Who does that?

On the other hand, I had felt very clearly in the months leading up to this day that I wasn’t going to just date to date anymore. I was sick of guys who didn’t know what they wanted. I was confident that the Lord had someone for me who would know what he wanted. He would be able to discern his feelings and tell me. Then and only then would I take him seriously. (SIDE NOTE everyone thought I was crazy for thinking this… I mean what guy would do that? Plunge forward into relationship wilds with no hope of a returning of feelings?)

So I told him that we could get to know each other.

And now we’re married. The end.

There’s actually a lot in between, but I’ll save that for another day.

For now, I’m so thankful. That he was a man who knew what he wanted and knew what his heavenly Father was telling him and was willing to move forward in confidence. And then for being utterly lovely ever since. I love him a lot. As in a WHOLE lot.

He might as well have come with a note attached to his sleeve that read "Dear Sue, You're welcome. Love, God"

Happy three years Graham.

Just call me...indecisive. That's for sure.

2009-12-13T17:37:00.000-05:00

Decisions have never come easily for me. Let's just be honest...if you have ever lived with me, been a close friend to me, or eaten at a sit down restaurant with a large menu with me, you know this.

In Africa, the decisions coming my way were of a different sort than I was used to, and oddly enough, I was relatively good at making them. Rickshaw or Walk? Check the temperature. Over 100, rickshaw. Under, uh, rickshaw. Bring the satellite phone or leave it? Bring it- you never know when this place is going to explode. Moullah Bamia (okra stew) or chicken kabob? C'mon.

Ironically, when life and survival weren't quite so easy, choices became much clearer.

And yet, here I am back in the land of opportunity and plagued with the same chronic indecision I suffered from before. Cutting off options by making a decision is more difficult when the alternatives are more pallatible than okra strew and walking in 110 degree weather. Where to work? What to study? How to spend my time? How to spend my money! Should I go to grad school or go back to teaching?

So I am struggling through them as before, but this time it's a bit different. I have another half to make decisions with. His name is Graham. And we're getting married in like 18ish days (January 1). He wants me to be me more than even I want me to be me. Somehow that makes me want to be me very badly.

And it turns out Jesus wants that too. Don't misunderstand, I'm not advocating a narcissistic mentality of "getting yours" at the expense of others- or even prioritizing MY STORY over the rather amazing story that is and was unfolded in the Gospel. Quite the opposite. It turns out that Jesus made me to FIT quite nicely into his already unfolding story of hope. So I'm asking him to continue to dredge and clean up those parts of me that do no one any good (there are many) and help me fight for the parts that he put in me "special order".

So while this realization has not yet made my grad school choice or revealed my ultimate calling, I am confident of two things: 91) when God set up marriage- that was on purpose. We need each other. It'll probably be stinky sometimes, dating is sometimes when one or both of us gets lost in ourselves. But I wouldn't go back. And I'm thankful to be Graham's biggest fan and know that he's mine. And (2) The Lord will show me, and it'll come together. It always does. I decided the whole "man I'm going to marry" thing AND lunch today at O'Charley's so I bet grad school and life calling are right around the corner.

She's Back!

2009-10-01T23:00:00.001-04:00

THAT'S right folks...she's back. Only this time she's bigger, back in America, and better than ever.

Or something like that.

I am back in America. I live in North Carolina now. It's quite a change from life overseas in a place like Africa. I am also engaged. Mind blowing, I know. Well, that's not entirely true, mostly likely as those who read my blog are probably people who would know that already- considering that my two dedicated readers are my fiance and my mom. Thanks guys!

Anyway, life may not be exciting in the same ways, but it is what it is and I'm thankful to write about it. Ironic that it's been almost a year exactly since I last wrote- the Autumn Backdrop still works!

Wedding: three months from today.

Lovely, now and then.

2008-11-08T06:43:00.000-05:00

Life here can be frustrating. Most days I react to this fact with, well, frustration. I bite my lip and take deep breaths and try not to cuss people out for the ineptitude and general uselessness that is sometimes demonstrated. The generator repair man who doesn’t notice the glaring error in not reattaching the fuel line. The guard who decides to take some “me time” in the middle of the afternoon to wash his clothes, in our house, with our soap, when he should be, uh, guarding. Going back to the offices of the aid commission for the 17th time for a task that should have been completed in one visit.

And yet there are those days in the middle, that somehow the frustrating elements to daily life turn into amusing and almost lovely displays of randomness. We were attempting to get my country director and two volunteers out of our area on the UN flight the same day the arrived on a heli from the village- so it was a matter of exact timing and planning (neither of which have any place in the general vicinity of anywhere close to here)…so we had the guard call for a taxi and decided that we’d all go to try to catch them before they left to say goodbye and hand over last minute paperwork to be sent to the capital. Our national logistics worker piled in the little hatchback taxi, I crawled into the middle, and my roommate took the other side. One of the workers from the field in town on rest clambered into the front. The dilapidated taxi groaned and sputtered as it pulled away from our compound on the pitted dirt road- bottoming out at least twice on the huge holes before hitting the tarmac road. And so we creeped down the road and up over the mountain to the airport- our little rag tag family on an outing. It should have irked me that we still don’t have a car or that we were running around when I had work to do in the office, but, strangely, it didn’t. I found myself smiling a little as I stared out the window into the desert around me- the scrubby trees and bushes still green from the rainy season passed and the people on donkeys with loads of dried palm branches piled so high you wondered how the poor animal kept his balance. And it felt right. Good. Andrew Bird’s Scythian Empire kept playing in my head (random I know) and I was delighted- to be here in this strange and frustrating place with these sometimes strange and frustrating people in this horrid taxi at this moment.

I’m sure it had something to do with hot season winding down and sweat NOT rolling down my back like it usually does in situations like that one.

But mostly I was just thankful to have made it his far. And thankful that Jesus helps me push through the lip biting moments to the joy waiting on the other side.

Current Playlist:

Andrew Bird: “fingerlings”- the entire album is lovely but Scythian Empire, Dark Matter are quite excellent in my opinion.
Frou Frou: “It’s good to be in love”
Chris Tomlin: “God of this city”
Regina Specktor: “On the Radio”
Duffy: “Mercy”
Sanctus Real: “Face of Love”
Jason Upton: “I will wait for you”

This just in...

2008-11-08T06:38:00.002-05:00

Last year around this time, I hopped on a crazy ghetto domestic flight from the city I live in now to the capital, dropped off my things, and went to pick up my mom at the fancy international terminal (imagine crystal-ish chandeliers, air conditioning, and duty free shops 20 feet away from the dust and heat of the city- still astounds me with its randomness). It had been seven months since I had seen anyone from home and I will never forget peering through the grimey glass windows and seeing her little curly head and purple jumper power walking through the customs line to get to the exit. I had a volunteer from the states and my boss with me to help with her things (she brought four bags of American goodness), but there was that moment of unbelievable stillness, almost to the point of surreal, when I realized she was truly here- and she was here for me.

I dragged her around the city for the next two weeks: we cooked and laughed and bickered and watched movies and went through the glorious array of things she had brought from America (Bacon! Pepperoni! Tortillas!) . She in turn organized my kitchen, scoured the market (with me lagging slightly behind, her stamina is incredible) for material for curtains, sewed, bought me random African Tupperware, and generally dazzled my friends, colleagues and whoever she met with her southern charm.

She was, is, wonderful. Perhaps you'll meet her one day and say the same.

The reality of it...

2008-11-08T06:35:00.000-05:00

When I began this blog a rather long time ago I had intended to carefully chronicle my time overseas- adding a delightful anecdote here, a heart-wrenching story there, and general wonderment throughout.

As you can see, this has not been the outcome.

I find I apologize more for NOT blogging than actual blog anything of substance.

So here I am, less than three months left here of what was to be two years of successful storying and very little show for it in the world on online record keeping but I am only a little sad, really. It’s been a bit busy around here.

Perhaps one day I’ll be a faithful blogmeister who thrills in updating this thing in a quality effort to keep the people in her life updated if they care to be. Until that day, we’ll just keep going. The two of you who read this and me.

I wonder what America will do to my writing habits. We find out soon enough!

The countdown:

10 days until my dad arrives
18 days until Thanksgiving (my favorite food day of the year: Turkey Dinner!)
47 days until Christmas
(something like) 80 days of contract remaining…and everything that comes with it.

It’s hard to believe most days. Some days it’s not hard at all.

I would like to write an emotional summary of the time I’ve spent here, how hard it will be to leave and say goodbye to all that has happened, all that I’ve seen, and how it’s changed my life. All those things are true…but I’m not quite ready to talk about it yet. Maybe in a little while. Or after a few weeks of staring at an ocean or a forest in America and letting it all settle in and sort a bit.

Until then…know I’m alive. And growing.

since april....

2008-09-18T05:32:00.000-04:00

Since it has been since April since I last updated this (I know, I know- no one cares)...I thought a numbers list was in order to catch up...

Number of times my guard called me outside to see the three tiniest cutest kittens I'd ever seen...1
Number of times I thought it would be great to show my roommates inside the compound a kitten...1
Number of times I corralled said kittens with the help of my guard and picked on up...1
Number of times the kitten I did catch bit me with a vengeance...1
Number of times I have contemplated where I went wrong in the decision making process...12560
Number of rabies shots given as a result of kitten bite...2
Number of times I have been reminded by others of the above experience when commenting on the cuteness of street animals I pass...4
Number of animals other than my own that I have touched since...0
Number of visits to America in June...1
Number of times I visited Chic-fil-A in that time...4
Number of times I was reminded of how great my friends and family at home are...103
Number of times I questioned the rightness of coming back to Africa...0
Number of planned trips to Ethiopia that leave tomorrow...1
Number of days I will be out of country...16
Number of countries I will visit...2 (ethiopia and zambia)
Number of wonders of the world I will witness...1 (Victoria Falls)
Number of old friends I will see...4 (Hey Helgrens!)
Number of new little friends I will meet...1 (Yay Lauren!)
Number of times I will think of you all...568 (at least)

Rainday

2008-04-25T10:57:00.000-04:00

Remember how in elementary school and middle school (and, let’s just be honest, college) the first snow day of the winter would come like a long awaited and much celebrated friend returned from a long journey in parts unknown. The night before your big test the air grows cold and fresh and you smell it coming and you know: tomorrow’s going to be a snow day. And so you wait and try not to look at the window too often but can’t really help it. When it finally comes, that first snow, life slows and we would alternate between running around in the snow outside and coming in to thaw and drink cocoa. My family used to watch the entire set of Anne of Green Gables on days like that.

And so it is here. Sort of. Where I live the sand and bleached dirt stretches for miles all around, small scrubby bushes and trees dotting the horizon in every direction. So, as you can imagine, we do not get much snow. But each year, at the moment when the heat and dust have grown so strong that we wonder if water even exists in other parts of the world…it rains. And the whole world changes. We stop and smell the dust settling and the rain covering everything. The traffic stops and the people run for cover and then just stay where they end up.

In a desert society, seasons revolve around the state of the rain. It is either Rainy Season or it’s Dry Season. There are no others. Dry season is hot and, well, dry. Rainy season is hot and humid. (In fairness, there are also two lesser seasons entitled Hot and Cool season. But they would be more accurately described as Very Hot Season and Hot Season)

Rain is talked of and rumored for weeks before it arrives. I have sat in NGO meetings each week for the past month and heard of how it rained in the outskirts of this town a few days ago and in this neighboring village last week… “it’s coming” they murmur to each other with a mixture of delight and foreboding in their expressions.

And last night…it came.

We awoke in the morning to a delightfully strong breeze and as I went about my morning routine I felt the first sprinkles of what I was sure would be an enormous rain storm. It grew heavier but then stopped abrubtly. Sort of like those mornings you wake to a slight covering of snow but the sun comes out and you realize it’s not enough to cancel school. The sun came out and dried the ground and the day continued as normal, only hotter and more humid than I though possible.

But as the sun set, the clouds returned, this time with thunder and lightening. And suddenly it was raining. A lot. To reach any other part of the compound, you must walk outside…and I found myself intentionally running from one room to another on made- up errands just so I could feel the rain and wind and stomp through the puddles created by the cracks and uneven places in the courtyard concrete. I couldn’t help but notice the others doing the same, wide smiles on our face. The night passed pleasantly in marathon games of cards and doing “nothing,” comments passed around that it was a perfect rainday.

Tomorrow we will have to deal with the problems and issues that arise from the glorious cool rain falling in sheets all around us. Water will fill the streets and overflow the creek beds that have served as trash dumps for the past months of dry season. Diseases like cholera, malaria, and dysentery will begin springing up in place of May flowers and we will go back to work with an entirely new set of problems to solve.

But for now, we will enjoy the cool rain on our face, and fall asleep to the sound of it pattering on the tin roof of our house- content as fourth graders after a long day of snowmen and hot cocoa.

driving 101

2007-10-22T13:23:00.000-04:00

So I've been trying to convince my boss to teach me to drive a manual...so I can start driving around here. He usually chuckles and changes the subject, as if I am not capable of adapting to the driving style of my national friends and neighbors...I disagree. In fact, in my months here I have picked up valuable and useful tips and methods of getting around in a vehicle that should make my transition onto the roads this African city much more smooth. Riding along in a taxi watching everyone drive can be the best classroom:) I thought I'd share a few of the lessons learned with you.

If there is no noticeable traffic pattern...make your own. Curbs, sidewalks, and road shoulders are good options if the road seems blocked.

Traffic police don't have guns...therefore it is not necessary to really pay attention to them. I mean, wow, that whistle is scary.

When pedestrians walk into the street in front of you (as they are wont to do around here), the best course of action is to accelerate quickly, so as to show them that you, the driver with the large vehicle, are serious about maintaining your course and they had better move it or loose it.

If said pedestrian does not take your kind and gentle suggestion to vacate the road and get on the sidewalk where they belong, it is best to slam on your brakes in such a way to come to a full and complete stop one to two feet away from the now frantic pedestrian. This insures that this pedestrian will never again step into the road without second thoughts. It's really for their benefit...really.

The lines in the roads are suggestions. If four cars can fit across a "three lane" highway, why not? Really, it's more efficient this way.

If the line of cars in the turning lane begins to grow long, just start a new one if the next closest lane. Waiting can be so tedious...

Talking on a cell phone while driving is illegal in the city, so drop the phone on the floor when you see a traffic policeman. While you're at it, throw your seat belt around one arm- it totally looks like you buckled it. Totally.

Pot holes and bumps in the road are par for the course here, so why avoid them? Who cares if the white people in the back of your rickshaw keep banging their heads on the ceiling...they should be paying better attention.

While it is technically correct to drive on the right side of the road, it is 100% understandable to cut across traffic, and drive on the other side of a divided highway against the flow of traffic if your destination is on that side. Or if you just want to. I mean, we're never in a hurry to get anywhere, but if driving in the wrong direction can get us there two minutes earlier...why not? It'll mean I have time to grab some tea with the guys before my meeting.

Speed limits...what speed limits?

So I'm still trying to glean what I can from the people around me before my first lesson behind the wheel...but I think I'm really catching on. Besides, I haven an international driver's license from Triple A (AAA is how you really are supposed to write it I guess)- what more do I need?

So if you have been thinking I'm serious while reading this and are, even now, punching in the numbers of my mother's cell phone number to warn her that I am out of control...allow me to ease your mind. I won't really adopt these sandbox driving practice...at least not most of them:) Talk to you all soon.

A few pictures to whet the appetite...or something like that.

2007-10-04T02:17:00.001-04:00

Met her on the side of the road when we were walking into the "Downtown", she was going to get water in the wadi. And decided she needed to have a picture taken. I totally agreed.
Pace of life is different...so it's a pretty common site to see people just hanging out, sitting around (who needs chairs anyway? chairs are for sissies. and white girls with namesthat start with an S)

So the village we'll be semi-living in doesn't really have public transportation. Unless you consider this to be public...I didn't see an owner anywhere nearby at least...but careful, they spit.

More pictures to come...big momma wouldn't upload.

So I've been traveling a bit....

2007-10-01T15:31:00.000-04:00

So in the past three weeks I have been on five plane rides, two helicopter flights, one very long journey in a minibus, one long hike with my trusty pack through ankle deep mud, and a six mile walk through some of the most beautiful country in the world. I have slept in a tent, fought off locusts, had my passport taken, had my passport returned, screamed at spiders, and spoken with a sultan. And I'm tired:)
But well.
More to come...and pictures, lots of pictures.

Death March 2007 aka. A Day at the Farm

2007-08-04T14:15:00.000-04:00

So after the run in with the friendly chickens, we embarked upon the Sandbox Death March of 2007. What began as a "we'd love to see the orchards" turned into an hour and half walk over the whole property...from the farm, through the fruit trees (amazing...but not quite like the neat and tidy orchards you may think of at the Motts Apple Farm), to the River, through the fields, and back to the farm. Strangely enough, despite our best attempts at going early in the morning, we still managed to be walking in the heat of the day.

The good news is that I had my camera this time, and have a few to share with you. A Date Palm (they really exist)
My new friend. She was my walking buddy.
Mango (it's almost ripe...I ate it's brother yesterday)
Brother and Sister (with some mango in her mouth. gross)
out of the forest and to the river

My little friends, in the cornfields

The shore of the river...mud turns quickly to cracked earth in the heat

A Sandbox Scarecrow

Grapefruit.

SOoooooo in the end, we arrived back at the truck and drank water, recovered from the long walk, and ate our fruit with a sense of satisfaction that only comes from knowing that you earned it.

REJECTED

2007-07-30T15:29:00.001-04:00

On Friday I visited a farm outside of the city. Now when I say "farm" I mean a place where things are grown, not necessarily the farm picture you probably have in your head when I write that. I know this because I had the picture of green hills and a white farmhouse in my head as I woke up and got ready to go- why I still thought this after living here three months I do not know. There was no white house or front porch. There were no green hills. But there were chickens. Lots of chickens.
I like wearing the covering ladies here wear- it goes over all your clothes and around your head and then over your shoulder (sounds complicated. kind of is...but the good news, I haven't tripped on it on a while). The covering I was wearing on Friday was a bright hot pink...and I was feeling pretty and cheerful (don't bother calling me out on my vanity...it solved itself later I promise). So our national friends are giving us a quick tour of their property- and take us to the chicken circle. A courtyard surrounded by huge chicken coop (sp.?)- each holding probably 300 chickens at least. As I slowly meander into the courtyard and approach the first chicken coop (sp?), I begin to hear some rustling in the pen. Then the rustling grows louder as the chickens begin to stir. Then suddenly all 300 chickens are flying around madly and bumping into each other and squawking like I'm there to kill them. I watch with interest, wondering what could be causing this ruckus...mentally berating whatever naughty thing would get the chickens all riled up in this way. I move away from the party coop and am astonished to see the same thing happen in the next pen. And the next. And the next.
A gentleman, apparently one in charge of the rather excited chickens, smiles at me and points to my tob and I smile back and wave- figuring he was interested to know why I would wear the slightly awkward covering. He did not stop pointing though and began speaking to me in Arabic, but alternated pointing to me, then the chickens, then the tob, and then all three over again. I could not hear over the ruckus, so I was puzzled, but kept smiling and shrugged a bit (I've learned when they think I'm dumb, they just leave me alone...lately it has not been hard to convince people of this). Finally a friend who spoke English pointed to my tob and said that the color was upsetting the chickens.
Again with the shrug, but the friend continued and said that I would have to leave the area, I was scaring the chickens.
Nice.
Apparently (don't judge me you people who already know this) they won't lay eggs when they get really scared of something. Friday, that something was me.
Rejected, by chickens.

It's Been A While

2007-07-24T07:18:00.000-04:00

Considering it's been almost two months since I last posted one of these (go ahead, judge me), there are two options before me, as I see it. The first would be to write a unbelievably long blog that explains everything I have done since the last time we talked (those who know me would not consider this out of character), and the second is to simply start from here, duly chastised, and try to be better from now on.
So I'm going to go with....number two. Yeah, definitely number two.

It's good to be back. I've figured out how to put pictures on this stupid thing (I think) so I may even put a few of those on. Maybe. See you soon.

Extreme Home Makeover: Africa

2007-05-05T15:27:00.000-04:00

We are in the midst of a full scale (on African terms) renovation of our little apartment. Walls that were once a non-descript creamy color are quickly (or at least not slowly) becoming green, robin's egg blue, and the same color pink as the skittles you get in the purple bags. I have learned to stand up to a contractor twice my size who has his own interior decorating ideas ("orange walls look good, yah? same as in my house!")- that we want "white trim, yes white trim, yes Mr. Boss, not brown, but WHITE trim. That's right, white. Impossible? Surely not. If its just very very hard then I expect you to try very hard to do it. That's right." Hope you all can see the end result one day soon.
Pictures to follow- as soon as I figure out to upload them (which may be a while. I'm soooo good at this:). So for the two of you who read this, hold your horses- the visuals are on the way

I Pity the Fooul! I Pity the Fooul.

2007-05-04T14:05:00.000-04:00

Every country has foods they are famous for (okay not every country- I mean does anyone know what Djibouti is famous for? The Maldives? Feel free to comment if you do). Italy has tiramisu and, well, Olive Garden of course. Ireland has potatoes and well, you know the other stuff. Fish and Chips for England. Hamburgers and Fries in America, you get the idea. Good things right? Well, the country I now call home is known for fooul. Yes. Pronounced “fool.” Translation: take some beans, add some water, then cook for hours until they are kind of mushy but still maintain their basic shape. When you add some chopped tomato and onion, a whole lot of salt, and eat it with fresh bread, it can be quite tasty. Every corner shop has a few clay pots (they look like beehives) out front simmering the mixture over a little coal fire in the morning and evening. Each day, people come to the fooul vendor, buy about 50 cents worth of the strange bean dip, the vendor scoops it out of the clay pot and into a plastic bag, and the happy customers take it home to their families.

Being the culturally sensitive people that we are, my sweet sister friends and I decided we would begin buying fooul for breakfast too. Our first night in our apartment, the two adventurous ones (that’s the other two) set out on a late afternoon food jaunt to buy a few things at the dukan and buy fooul with the locals. I straightened up around the house until they arrived home (we were waiting for our appliances to come-they never did), and finally heard weary steps coming up the stairs. The door opens to reveal two faces, slightly defeated but still hopeful. I wasn’t sure how to take this.

“Not ready until 7:00 pm,” they said. So we rested in the darkening room until 7:20. Just to be safe. This is Africa, after all. The three of us set out with high spirits- seeing dinner in sight. Without a fridge, we were limited in our food choices, so by this time we were all very hungry. A half hour of wandering later, we returned home with no fooul and very little dignity once again. Fooul still not ready.

Today the sisters jaunted out once again determined to eat fooul with the rest of the country. Seriously, they have to sell it somewhere- this is the national food for goodness’ sake. A few short minutes later they returned while I was chopping the tomatoes and onions, slammed the door, and came into the kitchen. “Not ready.” They said quickly and left the room.

Three strikes. Yet the hunger remained and we were determined to win.

Two hours later, the two adventurers went out once more…and returned victoriously. Mostly.

I went into the kitchen to grab the vegetables and heard a crash followed by May’s scream and Sahara’s hysterical laughter. Poking my head around the doorframe I was confronted with the sight of fooul spread across the concrete tiles. May’s face looked totally perplexed and slightly defeated, but I couldn’t help but join Sahara in her laughter. Foolish Fooul. It was trying to get the better of us, but then again, it’s just beans. We’re smarter than it. We’re bigger than it. We will win.

And we did. A short while later, we were sitting around the table eating our first fooul and esh (bread) meal. It was, uh, almost everything we hoped for and more.

Pearls

2007-05-03T13:24:00.000-04:00

I realized the other day, as I put on my pearl stud earrings for the seventh day in a row, that I have been wearing these little pearls a whole lot since I arrived here. Exclusively actually. This may not appear strange for those who know me, for I was known to wear pearls often and with every outfit possible (my roommate in college used to-still does- make fun of me for not changing my pearl earrings when we dressed to go the gym, “pearls with a t-shirt? Sue, seriously?”) back home in the states. But in the two month before leaving the country I hadn’t worn them once. Not once. I threw them in the jewelry bag as an afterthought. I mean who wears pearls in Africa? I had carefully packed my dangly, funky earrings that would match the brightly colored dresses and coverings I would wear here. I put the pearls on for the long flight over, and somehow, just never took them off in the days that followed. Each morning as we prepared for the day, the sisters with me would put on their fun, funky earrings and offer me a choice from their vast selection. Yet each morning, I would put back in the little white pearls from home.

And then it hit me. Everything in my life right now is unsettled and unfamiliar. The foreign country I now call my home is still very foreign to me in almost every way. The food, the water, the housing, the weather, the language—all new. All of my clothes were strange and different from what I would wear daily at home. So I hold on to the familiar—to the one thing I can control. Each morning I put on this little part of who I used to be: Clean. Sweet. Classy. Put together. In control of my situation. All things which I no longer feel I can possibly be- at least not yet (well the clean thing is questionable for the duration of our time here).

I cling to the familiar- we all do I suppose. When everything around us is uncertain, we hold on to the things we know. In the days since the pearl revelation I have seen that there are other things to hold on to as well: the loyalty and love between my two sister friends and I (despite, uh, less than perfect situations, our conversations grown sweeter and funnier- maybe it’s the heat), the love and thoughts of my family pr for me at home-and writing daily to tell me they love me and haven’t forgotten me, and friends whose wise words for me come always at the exact right time.

Yet the one thing that is certain- even more than these- is that you, L, are faithful, and you, L, are true. You do not shift like shadows—Your promises are the same yesterday, today, and in the days to come.

He will be faithful. He will provide for my needs—ALL of my needs. He will never leave me nor forsake me. He will finish this work he’s started in me. He started it, he maintains it, he will finish it. All of it. He will be my strength when I am so weak I cannot stand any longer. He will be my voice when I have no words. He will lead me. He will guide me. He will fight this battle for me- for it is his battle, not mine, anyway. And he will win. Every single time. He will lead me by his mighty right hand besides still waters. He will lift my head, he will be my joy, he will be my hope. He will be my security- my strong tower that I can run into and be saved. He will hide me in the cleft of the rock, and renew my spirit. He will create a clean heart in me- as I die to myself every day. He is my true love, and I will love him most, best, and first. I am his beloved and he will love me unconditionally, consistently for all the days of my life.

There may come a day (will come a day- I loose everything !) when I loose the back on one of my pearl studs, or loose one all together and I will need to put them away for a season. And when that day comes, even thenJ, I can rest in the absolute certainty that he will be faithful and true. And that will be enough. More than enough.

Macaroni and Cheese (and other small comforts)

2007-04-25T12:38:00.000-04:00

Macaroni and Cheese (and other comforts)
I have found that when life is totally unstable and uncertain, little things that can bring comfort become very big things. Today I woke to electricity going out (translation- really quiet, really hot) and lay in bed wondering if grace would be enough today (it was, in case you were wondering. MORE than enough). Before 9:00 am, our plans had changed five times over, and at 9:30 I found myself sitting in a language lesson for the second hour of learning the alphabet. I look back on my kindergarten years with amazement and fondness now- why couldn’t they make picture flashcards for Arabic? Seriously. A is for Apple, B is for Ball- I mean, those make sense. By 10:30 am, I knew the alphabet about as well as can be expected and wanted nothing more than a long nap and a little stability. It turns out neither were in the plans for the day, but the Father knows what he’s doing (shocker) and in exchange for the nap I got fajitas. With salsa and sour cream and real cheddar cheese. And the best steak I’ve had in a long time (or maybe it was just steak in a place I didn’t expect it…always makes it taste better). I spent an hour in the kitchen making the salsa and preparing with my supervisor and had wonderful conversation while my other two sisters were out recovering lost baggage (TIA). Unexpected down time after washing dishes lent to a spontaneous pedicure party for all the females of the house complete with the first music from home I’ve heard since leaving it (oh Ipod, how I love thee). An hour later, our toes were sparkly, our heels were smooth, and the three of us were the only ones left. We lay on the cool tile and talked as if we hadn’t been together 24-7 for the last six days. Listening to Derek Webb’s “House Show” for the 600th time, I realized that despite the total instability that characterizes this season of my life, contentment comes in little doses that go quite a long way. The Father does not ask us to be lone rangers, picking the hardest thing we can find just to prove we can do it. Neither does he send us places just to laugh at us when the pressure almost breaks us. No indeed, we cry out to him and in return he sends his love and kindess (Ps. 57). In little things like fajitas, good music and conversation, and clean feet. These things are not guaranteed, they are just little gifts…a hand squeeze from a Dad who loves us a whole lot, sees us right where we are, and has promised to be faithful no matter what.

And if all that wasn’t enough, we had macaroni and cheese for dinner. Heaven.

Dance Dance Revolution

2007-04-24T14:24:00.001-04:00

So despite being thousands of miles away from home, bits of home are never far away. Like dance parties, which is a good thing since dancing is one of my favorite things. My roommates and I were up in our room this afternoon working on straightening the seeming impossible mess gathering in our room, and a small head (belonging to a small person who also lives in the house) poked in and asked, “anyone want to play DDR?”

The revolution has reached Africa. Just in time.

THEY'RE OUT (Part 2): Crossing the Street

2007-04-24T14:23:00.001-04:00

This morning as I was slowly waking up, trying to open my eyes and think clearly (the usual thoughts “where am I? Why am I sweating already? What’s going on?), my roommate burst through the door with the most exciting news so far: the three of us were going to the market! All alone! I was suddenly very awake.
As I threw on a head covering and sunglasses and rushed out to the kitchen, our supervisor prepped the three of us girls, handing us money and carefully repeating our lines: “salata lee fein” “shu khran” “ma salama” (or however you spell those) .

So in our city, crossing the street is an art form. We approached the main street and were immediately hit with the dust of the speeding traffic and paused on the side of the road. As we surveyed the scene in awe, my wise, slightly insane, roommate Sarah said with deadening calm: “Well, if we don’t just go, we’ll never go.”

With that, she started walking into the street, followed by Maria. A brief glance in the left direction showed a white car coming towards us all at alarming speed. A glance back to the roommates proved they showed no signs of stopping. I shifted my eyes straight forward to the other side of the street and sprinted as daintily as possible after them (trying not to hear the car honking). By dainty I mean as fast as possible in a skirt and head covering.

We managed to make it across the street in one piece (amazing feat) and looked up to see the shopkeepers laughing at us. But then again, we’re stupid, we’re white, and they don’t expect much different from us. At the vegetable stand we all recited our carefully practiced lines to the vendor and he grabbed the tomatoes, onions, and salad greens from his wooden crates. Soon we each had a small plastic sack filled with vegetables but were at a total loss what to do next. Our supervisor had given us a little coin purse filled with several bills and handful of coins (coupled with a hasty explanation of how much we would probably need, a shrug, and a “well, come back with whatever you can”). At the time it had not made much sense, but as we gathered around the small purse (not obvious, right?) discussing how much we should be giving them, the shopkeeper began to become impatient. I handed him a large bill (or it seemed large to me) and but his hand did not move. We eventually handed him every bill in the coin purse, one by one until he seemed satisfied. We walked away, slightly defeated, but convinced that the supervisor wouldn’t have given us a whole lot of money—not on our first market outing. Surely they knew that newcomers get ripped off all the time. Surely she hadn’t given us more than we needed. Surely not. Whatev. We held our head a bit higher after crossing the street for the second time without an incident. I mean, crossing the street twice in one day without loosing a leg has got to count for something.

Or that’s what we’re telling ourselves. That salad was really good too, totally worth every cent.

THEY'RE OUT (Part 1): Visiting

2007-04-24T14:20:00.000-04:00

Today we ventured out of our temporary home for the first time. Our supervisors thought they had found a home for us in the city and decided to take us visiting to “check it out” and meet with our prospective landlady. A ten minute ride in the four by four and we pulled up into a surprisingly quiet street, exited the car, and walked through the gate into the loveliest of surprises: a beautiful garden.
We rang the doorbell, and surprise surprise, no one home (despite calling twenty minute prior to let her know we would be arriving- This is Africa). So we sat outside for bit, admiring the view of the, uh, wall, and uh, iron door, and then tried the doorbell once more. This time a young house helper came to the door and silently motioned for us to go upstairs. At the top of the stairs, a lovely, middle aged woman greeted us with the classic hand on the shoulder followed by a handshake. I, of course, did not know this was the classic greeting and fumbled my way through—first offering a hand as she lightly touched my right shoulder and then catching on too late—touching her right shoulder as she offered her hand. I couldn’t help but laugh at my awkwardness and she smiled graciously, even giggled a little with me. We toured the apartment for a time, then settle in on the couches to chat (or rather, for me to listen and the others to chat). The landlady left the room for several minutes, and the three of us looked at each other a bit confused, wondering if we had somehow offended her with our stupidity. She returned with a tray of tea and sent the house helper out for “biscuits” which I assumed meant cookies. With that, tea commenced. By “tea” I mean taking a cup, filling it half way up with sugar, pouring boiling hot tea into the remaining space, and adding an extra spoonful of sugar for good measure. Translation- really, really good tea. As I was sipping, the helper returned with a tin of little cookies, which the landlady passed around to us. We each took one, ate it way too quickly, and then were offered another. Just as I was finishing the last bite of the second cookie a memory flashed into my mind of a friend telling us that in this culture, it is customary to leave one bite left on your plate to demonstrate to the host that you are indeed finished and in need of no more. I froze in mid-chew pondering my options. Spit it out and put it on the plate –not an option. Take another cookie if offered—bad idea since it probably was already a stretch on a limited pocketbook for us to have had two. Pretend to be a stupid foreigner who doesn’t know anything but smiles a whole lot and seems pleasant enough –seemed like the best idea. So smiling broadly, I covered as much of my tea saucer as possible with my hand and tried to seem normal. The evening ended with our first ride on a rickshaw (I hope you all can come and ride one with me one day soon, it’ll change your life). Four grown women stuffed in the backseat of an African rickshaw. A great way to end a day

oooooohhhhhh the first post

2007-03-30T17:15:00.001-04:00

First of all,

the pressure here is to begin and begin well [in reference to posting, of course], while seeking the approval of only One yet writing for the benefit of many.

thereby, i want to write with elegance timely reflections on my story; and at the same time, by Grace, allow the Story to be written in me.

now with the Firstfruits of the New already come, the First has guaranteed the Fullness [though the earth still groans]. so then, i too am compelled to tell of the New in me to the earth that groans for Good to be revealed [in us].

the pressure here is, now, to finish and finish well, because the One who calls us [and this] good was [and is] the Beginning [on our behalf]. all that remains, then, is to be faithful unto Fullness [in reference to posting, of course].

your thoughts are encouraged. your participation is Desired.