Today, my househelp Camilla and I spent the morning at the market getting fruits and vegetables, and then Camilla very obligingly showed me how to properly prepare two traditional dishes, one of which was groundnut soup. Other than fufu and njamma jamma, this is the most Cameroonian meal I can think of. It's well-balanced, nutritious, and could be creatively presented with a sprig of herb or a few peanuts sprinkled on top. Looking for a quick dinner? Skip the meat--the peanuts provide enough protein on their own.
Groundnut soup
1/2 pound beef, cut in one-inch cubes
1 onion
3 tomatoes
1 sprig fresh parsley
2 small stalks celery
1 sprig fresh basil
2 cloves garlic
3 tablespoons vegetable oil
¼ cup unsweetened peanut butter
1 Maggie cube (or soy sauce to taste)
salt to taste
4-5 cups cooked rice
Put the beef in a medium pot. Cover and cook on low heat until the fat has simmered down. Add about 4 cups water and continue cooking until the meat is tender. Remove from the pot, reserving the liquid.
Meanwhile, coarsely chop the onion, tomatoes, parsley, celery, basil, and garlic. Liquefy them in a blender, then add them to the pot. Cook until the liquid is mostly gone, then add the peanut butter, Maggie, and salt. Stir, then add the beef again.
Serve the soup over a bed of rice, with a few pieces of meat on the top. Serves 8.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Level Paths
This evening I returned from what felt like a journey to everywhere in Cameroon. Last Thursday I left right after school to travel to Bamenda, a cool city in Cameroon's northwest, with a family I know from the school. The day after that, we finished the journey to Mamfe, a steamy city in Cameroon's southwest. We stayed in Mamfe for two days before another teacher and I traveled back through Bamenda and up to a village, Bambalang, in the Ndop plain. We enjoyed the village for a day before returning to Bamenda for some relaxation and fellowship in the cooler mountain weather. This morning we hit up the Bamenda food market for some fresh produce, including broccoli, cauliflower, and peas, which are hard to find in the capital, and then returned to Yaounde.
Confused yet? Not to worry. I'll be writing more about what I was doing and posting pictures very soon. Suffice it to say that I thank God that we arrived back safely and that we were blessed in so many ways along the way.
Confused yet? Not to worry. I'll be writing more about what I was doing and posting pictures very soon. Suffice it to say that I thank God that we arrived back safely and that we were blessed in so many ways along the way.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Can I have some zocalo?
My repertoire of Cameroonian dishes is slowly expanding, most recently to zocalo, which is also called pile. I ate it for the first time in September, and just yesterday got around to trying it for myself. This simple, filling dish consists of mashed ripe plantain with beans. When I mentioned to some Cameroonian friends that I would be making it, they all wanted to come try some! The pot I made fed three children, me, the woman who sold me the palm oil to make it, and had some left for a couple other friends that were delighted to get a little. One commented that I'd done a good job, but could mash it a little more the next time--there were still a few chunks of plantain in it this time.
Some of the ingredients might be hard to find in the U.S. Jennie, one of the girls who tried some, told me that her mom has made it with potatoes. I could see that working, but I think yellow potatoes would be best. I used dried beans that I had already cooked, but canned beans should work just as well if you're in a hurry. Unrefined palm oil gives the dish a lovely orange color (unsurprisingly, it's high in Vitamin A, but also in cholesterol). I doubt you can find it, so some vegetable or olive oil and a bit of achiote (annato) or paprika might do the trick.
Zocalo
8-10 very ripe plantains
2 cups cooked red beans
1-2 onions, chopped roughly
3 tablespoons unrefined palm oil
salt, to taste
Peel the plantains and boil them until very soft. Meanwhile, cook the onion until translucent. When the plantains are easy to pierce with a fork, drain the water. Add the beans, onions, palm oil, and salt and use a potato masher to mash the plantains.
I served this with green beans and carrots that I simply diced and simmered a bit--the combination is fairly Cameroonian.
Bon appetit!
Some of the ingredients might be hard to find in the U.S. Jennie, one of the girls who tried some, told me that her mom has made it with potatoes. I could see that working, but I think yellow potatoes would be best. I used dried beans that I had already cooked, but canned beans should work just as well if you're in a hurry. Unrefined palm oil gives the dish a lovely orange color (unsurprisingly, it's high in Vitamin A, but also in cholesterol). I doubt you can find it, so some vegetable or olive oil and a bit of achiote (annato) or paprika might do the trick.
Zocalo
8-10 very ripe plantains
2 cups cooked red beans
1-2 onions, chopped roughly
3 tablespoons unrefined palm oil
salt, to taste
Peel the plantains and boil them until very soft. Meanwhile, cook the onion until translucent. When the plantains are easy to pierce with a fork, drain the water. Add the beans, onions, palm oil, and salt and use a potato masher to mash the plantains.
I served this with green beans and carrots that I simply diced and simmered a bit--the combination is fairly Cameroonian.
Bon appetit!
Friday, November 26, 2010
A Chance Encounter by Godfrey Kain
In October, I had the privilege to visit the Kom Multilingual Education Project, where I was amazed at the level of engagement from students and teachers. A few scenes from the school are featured in a video that I posted several weeks ago; please let me know if you are interested in the link to it. Today I received this short story from a friend. It was written by Godfrey Kain, a Cameroonian who designed many of the materials that the school is using to teach students to read in Kom and then in English.
A Chance Encounter
This past July I went to Fundong (a market town) to take care of some project business. While there I visited some shops looking for items I needed for the house. Standing next to a book store, I was suddenly surprised by a young child who came up to greet me. I didn’t recognize the boy so asked, “Are you going to school?”
“Yes, I am,” said Sederick. "I am attending the government school in Mboh (which teaches the kids using the Kom language)."
“What grade are you in?” I asked.
“I just finished grade 3,” said Sederick.
“Can you read?” I asked.
“Yes, I can,” said Sederick.
I then asked, “In which language can you read?”
“I can read in both English and in Kom,” said Sederick.
“Do you also know how to write as well as read?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Sederick.
At that point I decided to test the kid. I bought a piece of chalk from the bookstore and wrote four sentences on the sidewalk, two in English and two in Kom. Sederick read all four sentences without hesitation. People walking by began to gather in a small crowd to see what was going on.
Then I gave the chalk to Sederick and asked him to write anything he wanted to on the sidewalk. Sederick proceeded to write two long sentences in Kom and two shorter sentences in English. The small crowd now watching stared in amazement and then began to clap.
Among those in the crowd was Sederick’s mother. As the crowd began to disperse, she came up and greeted me amazed that this simple demonstration had produced such applause for her young son. Her eyes brimmed with tears of joy at this public acknowledgment.
A Chance Encounter
This past July I went to Fundong (a market town) to take care of some project business. While there I visited some shops looking for items I needed for the house. Standing next to a book store, I was suddenly surprised by a young child who came up to greet me. I didn’t recognize the boy so asked, “Are you going to school?”
“Yes, I am,” said Sederick. "I am attending the government school in Mboh (which teaches the kids using the Kom language)."
“What grade are you in?” I asked.
“I just finished grade 3,” said Sederick.
“Can you read?” I asked.
“Yes, I can,” said Sederick.
I then asked, “In which language can you read?”
“I can read in both English and in Kom,” said Sederick.
“Do you also know how to write as well as read?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Sederick.
At that point I decided to test the kid. I bought a piece of chalk from the bookstore and wrote four sentences on the sidewalk, two in English and two in Kom. Sederick read all four sentences without hesitation. People walking by began to gather in a small crowd to see what was going on.
Then I gave the chalk to Sederick and asked him to write anything he wanted to on the sidewalk. Sederick proceeded to write two long sentences in Kom and two shorter sentences in English. The small crowd now watching stared in amazement and then began to clap.
Among those in the crowd was Sederick’s mother. As the crowd began to disperse, she came up and greeted me amazed that this simple demonstration had produced such applause for her young son. Her eyes brimmed with tears of joy at this public acknowledgment.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
An Action of Thanks
Thanksgiving is an American holiday.
The impact of those words hit home for me this week, as I'm celebrating it outside of the U.S. for the first time. I'll be dining tonight with my American roommate, a Canadian neighbor, several other American friends, and several Cameroonian friends and colleagues. It's exciting to be able to share this holiday with people here, just as I'm sure it was exciting for my Asian university friends to tell us about their holidays. But it's so different.
To give you a taste of the differences, let me share the last 24 hours with you.
School yesterday was normal. No tropical rains, a pleasant temperature in the afternoon. I went to a meeting about middle school final exams until about 4:15, and then Heidi, a missionary friend, gave me an informal haircut. As she chatted, I sat on a folding chair under a tree, watching brown tufts lift in the breeze and drift onto the green grass. A Cameroonian friend walked by with a grin, possibly thinking that we were starting to fit right in. Here, it's normal for friends to braid each others' hair, often sitting on their porches for hours, depending on the intricacy of the design. Soon after she finished and I checked the finished product, we headed home. Dinner was reheated avocado pasta (recipe coming soon), eaten comfortably in a comfy green disc chair while watching Seinfield episodes with my roommate.
After dinner, Thanksgiving preparations started. Well, really, they started several weeks ago, when I asked my househelp to get a squash that I baked and pureed to use in pie. Last night I thawed a 15-oz bag of it that I'd been keeping in my freezer. Also from the freezer came a pie crust that I had leftover from a dry run a few weeks ago. No matter how many times I've made something before, making it here is like making it for the first time, using new equipment and sometimes different ingredients. A practice pie had banished any worry that my star dessert wouldn't come out. I pressed the crust into the pan, as my test pie had revealed the difficulty of rolling out a crust made with our margarine here. At the same time, I mixed up a chocolate cake. Cameroonians don't usually eat pumpkin pie. Really, nobody but Americans and maybe Canadians eats pumpkin pie, to my knowledge. It's kind of a strange idea, making squash into dessert, so I decided to add a chocolate cake to the menu. Friends that have been here longer have assured me that my Cameroonian friends will enjoy it. So the cake and the pie were finished last night, my only contributions to our potluck meal today.
My alarm went off in the dark this morning. Waited for my shower to heat, knowing without testing by the buttery clay smell dissolved in the warm liquid that it was. I washed, paying special attention to my feet as they're always dirty from being bare, or at most covered in sandals. Dressed in short sleeves and a skirt, washed my hair and put on a favorite pair of elephant earrings, so African that nobody wears them here. Realized that I didn't have bread for breakfast, so I mashed half an avocado with lime and trotted over to the corner store, where the owner, Silas, sold me a baguette for 150 cfa (less than 50 cents). I met the other teachers at our van and chewed my bread with guacamole as we drove to school. A hectic morning ensued. I had two classes to teach, an independent Spanish student to meet with, and needed to finish preparing materials for a professional development session about English language learners that I'll be helping with tomorrow.
But one moment morning stands out. In my Spanish class, in lieu of writing the date as usual, I wrote "El Día de Acción de Gracias.¨ I paused to consider the phrase. Spanish-speakers don't say "Thanksgiving." They call our holiday "The Day of Action of Thanks." And fittingly, "Acciones de Gracias" are commonplace in Latin America. Many churches ask for them every Sunday. ¿Alquien tiene una acción de gracias?¨ And people walk up front, sharing what God has done in their lives. Safe trips. Healing from disease. Beautiful families.
So this is my action of thanks. I thank God for those of you that are reading this. For my family, who may have a harder time than me, celebrating while I am millions of miles away. For my churches, the brothers and sisters there who sent me here, who are praying for me, who encouraged me and keep my spirits high. For all the missionaries who have gone before, the people who invented airplanes, the doctors that developed antibiotics for when I got skin infections and antimalarials to keep the chills away. For my ex-pat friends here, the other teachers, my Yaounde brothers. For my Cameroonian friends, those that put up with my poor French, my constant questions about how to act, that have braved my cooking. And most of all, I thank God for himself. That he lives here, too. That Jesus ensured that no matter how far I travel, no matter what I do, no matter how hard things seem, I can always walk into God's presence.
Thanksgiving may be an American holiday, but all of God's children have cause for an Action of Thanks.
The impact of those words hit home for me this week, as I'm celebrating it outside of the U.S. for the first time. I'll be dining tonight with my American roommate, a Canadian neighbor, several other American friends, and several Cameroonian friends and colleagues. It's exciting to be able to share this holiday with people here, just as I'm sure it was exciting for my Asian university friends to tell us about their holidays. But it's so different.
To give you a taste of the differences, let me share the last 24 hours with you.
School yesterday was normal. No tropical rains, a pleasant temperature in the afternoon. I went to a meeting about middle school final exams until about 4:15, and then Heidi, a missionary friend, gave me an informal haircut. As she chatted, I sat on a folding chair under a tree, watching brown tufts lift in the breeze and drift onto the green grass. A Cameroonian friend walked by with a grin, possibly thinking that we were starting to fit right in. Here, it's normal for friends to braid each others' hair, often sitting on their porches for hours, depending on the intricacy of the design. Soon after she finished and I checked the finished product, we headed home. Dinner was reheated avocado pasta (recipe coming soon), eaten comfortably in a comfy green disc chair while watching Seinfield episodes with my roommate.
After dinner, Thanksgiving preparations started. Well, really, they started several weeks ago, when I asked my househelp to get a squash that I baked and pureed to use in pie. Last night I thawed a 15-oz bag of it that I'd been keeping in my freezer. Also from the freezer came a pie crust that I had leftover from a dry run a few weeks ago. No matter how many times I've made something before, making it here is like making it for the first time, using new equipment and sometimes different ingredients. A practice pie had banished any worry that my star dessert wouldn't come out. I pressed the crust into the pan, as my test pie had revealed the difficulty of rolling out a crust made with our margarine here. At the same time, I mixed up a chocolate cake. Cameroonians don't usually eat pumpkin pie. Really, nobody but Americans and maybe Canadians eats pumpkin pie, to my knowledge. It's kind of a strange idea, making squash into dessert, so I decided to add a chocolate cake to the menu. Friends that have been here longer have assured me that my Cameroonian friends will enjoy it. So the cake and the pie were finished last night, my only contributions to our potluck meal today.
My alarm went off in the dark this morning. Waited for my shower to heat, knowing without testing by the buttery clay smell dissolved in the warm liquid that it was. I washed, paying special attention to my feet as they're always dirty from being bare, or at most covered in sandals. Dressed in short sleeves and a skirt, washed my hair and put on a favorite pair of elephant earrings, so African that nobody wears them here. Realized that I didn't have bread for breakfast, so I mashed half an avocado with lime and trotted over to the corner store, where the owner, Silas, sold me a baguette for 150 cfa (less than 50 cents). I met the other teachers at our van and chewed my bread with guacamole as we drove to school. A hectic morning ensued. I had two classes to teach, an independent Spanish student to meet with, and needed to finish preparing materials for a professional development session about English language learners that I'll be helping with tomorrow.
But one moment morning stands out. In my Spanish class, in lieu of writing the date as usual, I wrote "El Día de Acción de Gracias.¨ I paused to consider the phrase. Spanish-speakers don't say "Thanksgiving." They call our holiday "The Day of Action of Thanks." And fittingly, "Acciones de Gracias" are commonplace in Latin America. Many churches ask for them every Sunday. ¿Alquien tiene una acción de gracias?¨ And people walk up front, sharing what God has done in their lives. Safe trips. Healing from disease. Beautiful families.
So this is my action of thanks. I thank God for those of you that are reading this. For my family, who may have a harder time than me, celebrating while I am millions of miles away. For my churches, the brothers and sisters there who sent me here, who are praying for me, who encouraged me and keep my spirits high. For all the missionaries who have gone before, the people who invented airplanes, the doctors that developed antibiotics for when I got skin infections and antimalarials to keep the chills away. For my ex-pat friends here, the other teachers, my Yaounde brothers. For my Cameroonian friends, those that put up with my poor French, my constant questions about how to act, that have braved my cooking. And most of all, I thank God for himself. That he lives here, too. That Jesus ensured that no matter how far I travel, no matter what I do, no matter how hard things seem, I can always walk into God's presence.
Thanksgiving may be an American holiday, but all of God's children have cause for an Action of Thanks.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
How to cook manioc
I had started a cooking blog, then realized that my ISP is blocking it, then also realized that I've been remiss in posting on my regular blog, so I decided to combine the two a bit. I'll try to share a bit of my daily life through the food that I've been cooking and the people that I share it with. Enjoy!
I've been experimenting with various starches here, trying to learn to cook with ingredients from the market. After cooking with plantain, I fell in love and began mashing, frying, and boiling them in everything I could think of. This week I finally decided it was time to move on, so I asked my house help, Camilla, to get some manioc from the market. I've seen and cooked with manioc before; it comes from the Andes and is also called yucca. Here, the root is also known as cassava, and as a Cameroonian told me, it is all starch.
I asked for $1 worth of manioc from the market, and wasn't quite expecting what I found when I came home from school. Camilla had returned with what must have been at least five pounds of large brown roots. My roommate asked me if I knew how to prepare the manioc properly, mentioning that it had cyanide on it. ¡Whoa! I didn't realize that could be a problem. Previously, I had cooked with waxed manioc, so perhaps it had already been processed somehow. Concerned, I left a note for Camilla asking if she could explain how to cook this delicious root. What follows is her response:
How to cook manioc: you first take off the skin, then you grate the backs of the manioc a little with a knife before you boil it. (She left me an example in a bowl). You don't have to leave manioc for many days because they can go bad. When you buy it, cook the very day or the next day. Well Megan, I hope when you read this you will understand.
I did understand and followed her instructions, and my bicep is a bit sore from cutting off the tough outer peel--Cameroonian women must be very strong! After peeling, I cut it into big chunks, washed them in a bowl of water, and then boiled them in a large pot. Once they were falling apart, I drained them and let them cool. I tried to pull out the tough fibers in the center (although I missed a couple and had to pick them out as I ate). The next day (for no particular reason other than that was when I had time) I added a cup of water to the pot, brought it to a simmer and used a potato masher to turn it into a piecy paste. When it was stirrable, I threw it 1/2 cup milk powder, dissolved in two minced cloves of garlic and 1/2 of water (those of you in the States might want to try a combination of butter and cream--really, any fattening dairy product should work). I let it simmer until the milk seemed to be absorbed and served it warm. Although the dish isn't typical of Cameroon, my Cameroonian friends seemed to enjoy eating this Ecuadorian side dish, and I'm excited to have lots of leftovers! This is a great dish for anytime when you want to make sure that no one will leave hungry--it's cheap, but very heavy.
In shorter recipe form:
Mashed Manioc/Yucca/Cassava
2-3 manioc roots
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 cup whole milk
Peel the manioc, getting rid of all of the purplish exterior pieces, then cut it in chunks. Wash the chunks in water. Add them to a pot and bring to a boil. Let simmer until the manioc is tender and falling apart. Drain and let cool. (One traditional Cameroonian dish would stop at this step and serve the root still warm.)
When cold enough to handle, pull the chunks apart into large pieces, removing any tough fibers that you find. Return to the pot and place over low heat. If the chunks are still fairly warm and soft, add the garlic and milk directly. Mash until it forms a soft paste. Serve warm.
I've been experimenting with various starches here, trying to learn to cook with ingredients from the market. After cooking with plantain, I fell in love and began mashing, frying, and boiling them in everything I could think of. This week I finally decided it was time to move on, so I asked my house help, Camilla, to get some manioc from the market. I've seen and cooked with manioc before; it comes from the Andes and is also called yucca. Here, the root is also known as cassava, and as a Cameroonian told me, it is all starch.
I asked for $1 worth of manioc from the market, and wasn't quite expecting what I found when I came home from school. Camilla had returned with what must have been at least five pounds of large brown roots. My roommate asked me if I knew how to prepare the manioc properly, mentioning that it had cyanide on it. ¡Whoa! I didn't realize that could be a problem. Previously, I had cooked with waxed manioc, so perhaps it had already been processed somehow. Concerned, I left a note for Camilla asking if she could explain how to cook this delicious root. What follows is her response:
How to cook manioc: you first take off the skin, then you grate the backs of the manioc a little with a knife before you boil it. (She left me an example in a bowl). You don't have to leave manioc for many days because they can go bad. When you buy it, cook the very day or the next day. Well Megan, I hope when you read this you will understand.
I did understand and followed her instructions, and my bicep is a bit sore from cutting off the tough outer peel--Cameroonian women must be very strong! After peeling, I cut it into big chunks, washed them in a bowl of water, and then boiled them in a large pot. Once they were falling apart, I drained them and let them cool. I tried to pull out the tough fibers in the center (although I missed a couple and had to pick them out as I ate). The next day (for no particular reason other than that was when I had time) I added a cup of water to the pot, brought it to a simmer and used a potato masher to turn it into a piecy paste. When it was stirrable, I threw it 1/2 cup milk powder, dissolved in two minced cloves of garlic and 1/2 of water (those of you in the States might want to try a combination of butter and cream--really, any fattening dairy product should work). I let it simmer until the milk seemed to be absorbed and served it warm. Although the dish isn't typical of Cameroon, my Cameroonian friends seemed to enjoy eating this Ecuadorian side dish, and I'm excited to have lots of leftovers! This is a great dish for anytime when you want to make sure that no one will leave hungry--it's cheap, but very heavy.
In shorter recipe form:
Mashed Manioc/Yucca/Cassava
2-3 manioc roots
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 cup whole milk
Peel the manioc, getting rid of all of the purplish exterior pieces, then cut it in chunks. Wash the chunks in water. Add them to a pot and bring to a boil. Let simmer until the manioc is tender and falling apart. Drain and let cool. (One traditional Cameroonian dish would stop at this step and serve the root still warm.)
When cold enough to handle, pull the chunks apart into large pieces, removing any tough fibers that you find. Return to the pot and place over low heat. If the chunks are still fairly warm and soft, add the garlic and milk directly. Mash until it forms a soft paste. Serve warm.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Eating with unwashed hands
On my 22nd day in Cameroon, I happened to open a file with “Most helpful health tips for newcomers to Cameroon.” I had heard most of them before—the branch doesn’t wait three weeks before giving us this information, for obvious reasons, but the pdf concluded with a short poem that I thought would help my readers understand one element of living in Africa.
Wash your hands well
Filter your drinking water
Wash your raw veggies with Javel,
Wash your dishes with hot water
But
If you’re invited, or out somewhere
and
The raw veggies aren’t Javeled
The water isn’t filtered
You forgot your Purell
And the dishes are merely rinsed in cold water
Pray and thank God for your food (as you always do)
Eat or drink with appetite and thanksgiving
And trust God with your health
For there are worse things than the filth that may go into your stomach and pass out of your body
And an attitude of rejection which comes from the heart
Can do more harm to your relationships than the food to your body
Relationships are paramount in Africa and Latin America, in a way that they are not in my middle-class U.S. background. I spent a couple weeks in Mexico last summer, and very happily ate everything that was offered to me, as I was usually hungry and almost all of it was delicious. A thousand thanks go to my parents, who trained me from a young age to eat everything that was set before me! One evening, a Mexican colleague turned to me and said in Spanish “I like Megan. She is a very open person.” Pleased, but a little puzzled, since she had known me for less than a week, I asked her why she thought so. She replied that I ate everything that was given to me.
I have had a similar experience here. After a couple weeks of eating Cameroonian lunches at the school (we have the option to get Cameroonian food, cafeteria food, or bring food from home), a Cameroonian colleague commented “I can tell you are just loving our Cameroonian food!” Another colleague commented later that he was confident that I would eventually try carrying things on my head, a skill many Cameroonians learn from the time they are small. When I asked why he thought so, he said something about how I seemed open to the culture and trying new things. As the only examples of that are my poor attempts at using French in greetings and eating the food, I think it may be the simple act of eating that shows a willingness to experience and join the culture here.
Even in college, I had started to realize the importance of food in relationships. Food is community, and in a sense, food is love. People usually eat with their closest social network, and offering a cookie or some fruit can be a way to solidify a friendship. When we share our food with others, we show love and hospitality to them. By accepting others’ food, we show that we accept their love. In this way, what we eat reflects our obedience to the second greatest commandment “Love your neighbor as yourself.”
I have not yet been offered food of questionable cleanliness, or had occasion to eat with unwashed hands. I pray that when I do, I remember that whatever enters the mouth goes into the stomach and then out of the body, but the things that come out of the mouth come from the heart, and these make a man ‘unclean.’ Please pray with me that our eating and drinking may be acceptable to God and our brothers and sisters around the world.
Wash your hands well
Filter your drinking water
Wash your raw veggies with Javel,
Wash your dishes with hot water
But
If you’re invited, or out somewhere
and
The raw veggies aren’t Javeled
The water isn’t filtered
You forgot your Purell
And the dishes are merely rinsed in cold water
Pray and thank God for your food (as you always do)
Eat or drink with appetite and thanksgiving
And trust God with your health
For there are worse things than the filth that may go into your stomach and pass out of your body
And an attitude of rejection which comes from the heart
Can do more harm to your relationships than the food to your body
Relationships are paramount in Africa and Latin America, in a way that they are not in my middle-class U.S. background. I spent a couple weeks in Mexico last summer, and very happily ate everything that was offered to me, as I was usually hungry and almost all of it was delicious. A thousand thanks go to my parents, who trained me from a young age to eat everything that was set before me! One evening, a Mexican colleague turned to me and said in Spanish “I like Megan. She is a very open person.” Pleased, but a little puzzled, since she had known me for less than a week, I asked her why she thought so. She replied that I ate everything that was given to me.
I have had a similar experience here. After a couple weeks of eating Cameroonian lunches at the school (we have the option to get Cameroonian food, cafeteria food, or bring food from home), a Cameroonian colleague commented “I can tell you are just loving our Cameroonian food!” Another colleague commented later that he was confident that I would eventually try carrying things on my head, a skill many Cameroonians learn from the time they are small. When I asked why he thought so, he said something about how I seemed open to the culture and trying new things. As the only examples of that are my poor attempts at using French in greetings and eating the food, I think it may be the simple act of eating that shows a willingness to experience and join the culture here.
Even in college, I had started to realize the importance of food in relationships. Food is community, and in a sense, food is love. People usually eat with their closest social network, and offering a cookie or some fruit can be a way to solidify a friendship. When we share our food with others, we show love and hospitality to them. By accepting others’ food, we show that we accept their love. In this way, what we eat reflects our obedience to the second greatest commandment “Love your neighbor as yourself.”
I have not yet been offered food of questionable cleanliness, or had occasion to eat with unwashed hands. I pray that when I do, I remember that whatever enters the mouth goes into the stomach and then out of the body, but the things that come out of the mouth come from the heart, and these make a man ‘unclean.’ Please pray with me that our eating and drinking may be acceptable to God and our brothers and sisters around the world.
Monday, August 23, 2010
¡Esto es África!
The world cup song “Esto es África” keeps running through my head, as if to remind me that I’m actually here!My head is so full of new experiences and sights that I found myself wanting to delay writing—as though that would help! I don’t know what exactly to tell you about, so please bear with me if this post is long and meandering.
I left Michigan on Thursday afternoon, flying to Chicago, then Brussels. Everything went as planned, although there were a few sleep-deprived moments in the Brussels airport when I had to remind myself that God had worked out everything so far, so he would be watching to see that I made my connecting flight. I managed to get a little sleep on the six-hour flight from Belgium, so I was feeling more refreshed by the time we started our descent to Yaoundé. Red clay roads and emerald vegetation rose to meet us. Upon touchdown, the Africans on the flight applauded our safe arrival. As I left the plane and showed my passport and immunization card, I did my best to blend in by using my minimal French (physically blending in isn’t really possible for me anymore) and made it through to the baggage claim. I had been warned that my luggage might not make it right away, so I had everything I needed in my carry-on, and was almost hoping that my checked luggage wouldn’t arrive so that I didn’t have to unpack it right away. After checking a multitude of bags that were not mine, I had almost concluded that God had granted my secret wish when I noticed my bags on the belt. I wrangled them through customs and found a group of people from the school waiting to take me to the SIL complex.
We drove past houses, small and large, stores, restaurants, and saw people of every age, talking, eating, walking. I’m not sure exactly what I expected. Perhaps working in Detroit led me to expect something a little more urban while seeing so many beautifully dark-skinned people, or perhaps I was expecting the mountains and historic atmosphere of Quito, but my impression was of color, motion, and vibrancy that was both the same and different from the picture in my head. So far I don’t have many pictures, and it may be a while before I have a lot. As my packet on Cameroonian culture says, people are not machinery, nor are they scenery. People are people, and snapping random photos of them in the market or on the street doesn’t help to establish the types of relationships I hope to have. As I get to know individuals, I hope to introduce them to you as I also share my family with them.
I was shocked when I arrived at my apartment. It’s huge! I had prayed for at least one window, and I have eight in various places. Secretly, I also hoped for my own room, however tiny, just to be able to retreat somewhere when I’m particularly tired or culture-shocked. Not only do I have my own room, it’s fairly large, and I have my own bathroom! The kitchen is adequate, and I’m working on getting comfortable with the gas stove. I’ll be drinking filtered water and “javeling” (bleaching) all my fresh fruits and vegetables to prevent sickness.
On my second day in Cameroon, I got a kitchen lesson and explanation of some key Cameroonian foods. They eat a lot of greens, nuts, seeds, and beans here, and they love spicy food. I did snag a couple habanero peppers after the demonstration and I’m planning to de-seed one and use it in soup sometime later this week. Making dinner at home has been good experience for being here—I’m already used to cooking from scratch with a lot of fresh ingredients (those of you that know my family know what I mean). The produce here looks gorgeous and very flavorful, and I think I’m going to have a lot of fun learning to prepare it.
My adventure this morning was going to a bilingual French/English church. Out of about 100 people there, only about a dozen were other missionaries, so if I stay there it will be a great way to make Cameroonian friends. The people there were very friendly and the message was good (although the regular pastor is out of town), but it's still going to take a lot of getting used to. As most of you know, I don't speak French, and there was no powerpoint or hymnal, so I couldn't follow some of the singing. At a couple points while they were praying in French, I just had to say "God, I don't know what he's saying, but I believe you do, so I'll just be still and know it's okay." I keep reminding myself that this is a period for “acostumbrándome,” as they say in Spanish, or “getting accustomed.” Getting used to my new life is going to take a while, but I think I’m going to like it here.
I left Michigan on Thursday afternoon, flying to Chicago, then Brussels. Everything went as planned, although there were a few sleep-deprived moments in the Brussels airport when I had to remind myself that God had worked out everything so far, so he would be watching to see that I made my connecting flight. I managed to get a little sleep on the six-hour flight from Belgium, so I was feeling more refreshed by the time we started our descent to Yaoundé. Red clay roads and emerald vegetation rose to meet us. Upon touchdown, the Africans on the flight applauded our safe arrival. As I left the plane and showed my passport and immunization card, I did my best to blend in by using my minimal French (physically blending in isn’t really possible for me anymore) and made it through to the baggage claim. I had been warned that my luggage might not make it right away, so I had everything I needed in my carry-on, and was almost hoping that my checked luggage wouldn’t arrive so that I didn’t have to unpack it right away. After checking a multitude of bags that were not mine, I had almost concluded that God had granted my secret wish when I noticed my bags on the belt. I wrangled them through customs and found a group of people from the school waiting to take me to the SIL complex.
We drove past houses, small and large, stores, restaurants, and saw people of every age, talking, eating, walking. I’m not sure exactly what I expected. Perhaps working in Detroit led me to expect something a little more urban while seeing so many beautifully dark-skinned people, or perhaps I was expecting the mountains and historic atmosphere of Quito, but my impression was of color, motion, and vibrancy that was both the same and different from the picture in my head. So far I don’t have many pictures, and it may be a while before I have a lot. As my packet on Cameroonian culture says, people are not machinery, nor are they scenery. People are people, and snapping random photos of them in the market or on the street doesn’t help to establish the types of relationships I hope to have. As I get to know individuals, I hope to introduce them to you as I also share my family with them.
I was shocked when I arrived at my apartment. It’s huge! I had prayed for at least one window, and I have eight in various places. Secretly, I also hoped for my own room, however tiny, just to be able to retreat somewhere when I’m particularly tired or culture-shocked. Not only do I have my own room, it’s fairly large, and I have my own bathroom! The kitchen is adequate, and I’m working on getting comfortable with the gas stove. I’ll be drinking filtered water and “javeling” (bleaching) all my fresh fruits and vegetables to prevent sickness.
On my second day in Cameroon, I got a kitchen lesson and explanation of some key Cameroonian foods. They eat a lot of greens, nuts, seeds, and beans here, and they love spicy food. I did snag a couple habanero peppers after the demonstration and I’m planning to de-seed one and use it in soup sometime later this week. Making dinner at home has been good experience for being here—I’m already used to cooking from scratch with a lot of fresh ingredients (those of you that know my family know what I mean). The produce here looks gorgeous and very flavorful, and I think I’m going to have a lot of fun learning to prepare it.
My adventure this morning was going to a bilingual French/English church. Out of about 100 people there, only about a dozen were other missionaries, so if I stay there it will be a great way to make Cameroonian friends. The people there were very friendly and the message was good (although the regular pastor is out of town), but it's still going to take a lot of getting used to. As most of you know, I don't speak French, and there was no powerpoint or hymnal, so I couldn't follow some of the singing. At a couple points while they were praying in French, I just had to say "God, I don't know what he's saying, but I believe you do, so I'll just be still and know it's okay." I keep reminding myself that this is a period for “acostumbrándome,” as they say in Spanish, or “getting accustomed.” Getting used to my new life is going to take a while, but I think I’m going to like it here.
Monday, August 9, 2010
A Gideon Story
When I originally began my application to the Wycliffe Bible Translators, finding enough prayer and financial partners seemed like a long shot, but not impossible. By the time my acceptance to the organization came, it was May 10th, and I knew I didn’t have a lot of time. I was eager to get started on my online training, but due to the newness of my program, had to wait a couple weeks to begin. It was around that time that I started to think about the story of Gideon. During the time of the judges, God called a man named Gideon to rescue the Israelites from their Midianite oppressors, and so Gideon (after confirming his call via a wet sponge) gathered his men at the spring of Harod. When they got there, God had a shocking conversation with his chosen leader.
First he tells Gideon, "You have too many men for me to deliver Midian into their hands. In order that Israel may not boast against me that her own strength has saved her, announce now to the people, 'Anyone who trembles with fear may turn back and leave Mount Gilead.' So twenty-two thousand men left, while ten thousand remained.”
But that is still too many men for God, so he orders Gideon to take the men down to the water, where he would sort them out, so Gideon took his men down to the water. The Lord told him, "Separate those who lap the water with their tongues like a dog from those who kneel down to drink." Only 300 men lapped, and God informed Gideon that "With the three hundred men that lapped I will save you and give the Midianites into your hands. Let all the other men go, each to his own place."
The Lord used those 300 men with some trumpets, torches, and empty jars to defeat an army whose “camels could no more be counted than the sand on the seashore.”
Back to my story, I watched my time dwindle like Gideon's forces. With only 18 days before I hoped to leave for Cameroon, I still lacked nearly one-third of my support. On August 1st, I told my sending church about my financial situation. The following day, I remember feeling drained; I had continued trying to make connections, but finally stopped. I grabbed my dog’s leash and headed for the woods near my house. While walking among the thick Michigan underbrush, I told God “I’m tired, and I know there’s no way I can do this on my own. Maybe I thought that I could before. I know there's no reason I deserve anything, but if it’s your will, please send what I need.”
Over the next few days, I received several phone calls and e-mails from people who wanted to be part of Bible translation by supporting me monthly. On Thursday morning, the last call came. I pulled up my financial worksheet to document my new partnership and realized that God had provided in a way that only he could—through his people. I praise God for what he has done, and I know that there’s even more in store!
First he tells Gideon, "You have too many men for me to deliver Midian into their hands. In order that Israel may not boast against me that her own strength has saved her, announce now to the people, 'Anyone who trembles with fear may turn back and leave Mount Gilead.' So twenty-two thousand men left, while ten thousand remained.”
But that is still too many men for God, so he orders Gideon to take the men down to the water, where he would sort them out, so Gideon took his men down to the water. The Lord told him, "Separate those who lap the water with their tongues like a dog from those who kneel down to drink." Only 300 men lapped, and God informed Gideon that "With the three hundred men that lapped I will save you and give the Midianites into your hands. Let all the other men go, each to his own place."
The Lord used those 300 men with some trumpets, torches, and empty jars to defeat an army whose “camels could no more be counted than the sand on the seashore.”
Back to my story, I watched my time dwindle like Gideon's forces. With only 18 days before I hoped to leave for Cameroon, I still lacked nearly one-third of my support. On August 1st, I told my sending church about my financial situation. The following day, I remember feeling drained; I had continued trying to make connections, but finally stopped. I grabbed my dog’s leash and headed for the woods near my house. While walking among the thick Michigan underbrush, I told God “I’m tired, and I know there’s no way I can do this on my own. Maybe I thought that I could before. I know there's no reason I deserve anything, but if it’s your will, please send what I need.”
Over the next few days, I received several phone calls and e-mails from people who wanted to be part of Bible translation by supporting me monthly. On Thursday morning, the last call came. I pulled up my financial worksheet to document my new partnership and realized that God had provided in a way that only he could—through his people. I praise God for what he has done, and I know that there’s even more in store!
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
This lily is back home
I never thought I would be glad to see an overcast Michigan sky, but I guess home is the sweetest place on earth, even when it’s not beautiful. In the last few days I have been blessed with the rolling hills and rugged mountains of California, but I’m so ready to be back in the forests and fields of my own state. I arrived early this morning, simultaneously encouraged by other people’s reactions to the Lord’s work and discouraged about my own.
As I mentioned in my last post, I was visiting Crossroads Community Church in Yuba City, California. On Saturday, I had a wonderful time meeting a few people from a Spanish-speaking church and sharing how God is raising up missionaries from Latin America. I then spoke at three services at Crossroads, sharing what God is doing through Bible translation. It is always a blessing to talk about the power of God’s word and tell people how they can get involved in providing it for every person in the world! And I was further encouraged with an opportunity to talk with the junior high and high school group at Crossroads. I shared about the importance of prayer and asked that they would pray for me, and then was surprised when the youth pastor took up a collection for me. The young people contributed as they were able, giving $9 in change alone. Although that may not sound like a lot, I have heard that dinner at a restaurant in Cameroon may cost as little as $1 U.S., so these young people gave enough to feed me for a week!
Despite seeing God’s provision, I have found myself struggling with worry. Not so much worry about prayer support; so many people have said that they will pray for me. And I have been incredibly grateful for the contributions that have already been given. But my hoped-for departure date of August 19th is rapidly approaching, and I cannot leave until the remaining 35% of my support arrives. I know that God has a plan for everything, and that it will all happen in his time. So, my friends, please pray for me. Pray that I will remember that God feeds the ravens and dresses the lilies, and that he cares more for me than for them. As I seek his kingdom, I know he will supply my needs in his time.
Luke 12: 22-34
22Then Jesus said to his disciples: "Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat; or about your body, what you will wear. 23Life is more than food, and the body more than clothes. 24Consider the ravens: They do not sow or reap, they have no storeroom or barn; yet God feeds them. And how much more valuable you are than birds! 25Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life[b]? 26Since you cannot do this very little thing, why do you worry about the rest?
27"Consider how the lilies grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you, not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. 28If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today, and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, how much more will he clothe you, O you of little faith! 29And do not set your heart on what you will eat or drink; do not worry about it. 30For the pagan world runs after all such things, and your Father knows that you need them. 31But seek his kingdom, and these things will be given to you as well.
32"Do not be afraid, little flock, for your Father has been pleased to give you the kingdom. 33Sell your possessions and give to the poor. Provide purses for yourselves that will not wear out, a treasure in heaven that will not be exhausted, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. 34For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
The road feels right
This morning I'm writing from my aunt and uncle's beautiful backyard in sunny California. I arrived in Sacramento last night with just a laptop bag and a small suitcase, one that I knew would fit in the carry-on compartment of my plane.
As I packed for this trip, I did my best to accommodate the ever-tightening airline regulations. For this particular flight, I would have been charged to check any luggage, so I traveled light. That meant leaving certain luxuries at home. A book I had been reading didn't fit in my laptop bag. A blow dryer was out of the question because of its size, and all of my shampoo, hair gel, and other liquids had to fit into a small zip-lock bag.
Why am I sharing this? Certainly not because I am suffering hardship! One suitcase is plenty for a week. But packing for my short journey made me reflect on Hebrews 11, where the Bible describes a multitude of faithful people that God commended. God describes Noah, who had to fit his whole family, animals, and food on an ark for several months. Abram "when called to go to a place he would later receive as his inheritance, obeyed and went, even though he did not know where he was going. By faith he made his home in the promised land like a stranger in a foreign country; he lived in tents . . . " By faith, Moses left Egypt, the land where he was born and educated. By faith David spent years fleeing from Saul. On two occasions, he could have ended his sojourn by killing Saul, but he respected the Lord's anointing on Saul and spared his life.
These stories give me hope and courage. As I travel, I am in very good company! I know my circumstances are not as difficult as these heroes of the faith, as I have the luxury of airplanes and e-mail. I also have another advantage over the ancients. Hebrews 11:13 says that "All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance." Later, the writer states
So, what was it that God had planned for them and for us? Hebrews 12: 2 states "Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God." 1 Peter 2:24a-25 says "[Christ] himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness . . . For you were like sheep going astray, but now you have returned to the Shepherd and Overseer of your souls."
So the ultimate example of a hard journey was the one that Jesus took to the cross. He died for the joy of seeing us live in righteousness. Through the grace of God, I can join the ancient believers in saying that together, God has made us his flock. We travel, but we do not travel aimlessly. The good Shepherd guides our every step.
And so, I leave you with a song that has been running through my head a lot lately:
"What it feels like" by FFH
So this is what if feels like to walk the wilderness.
This is what if feels like to come undone.
This is what if feels like to lose my confidence
unsure of anything or anyone.
So this is what if feels like to walk the desert sand.
This is what if feels like to hear my name.
To be scared to death 'cause I'm all alone
but feel love and peace just the same.
And this may not be the road I would choose for me
but it still feels right somehow.
'Cause I have never felt you as close to me as I do right now.
So this is what if feels like to be led .
As I packed for this trip, I did my best to accommodate the ever-tightening airline regulations. For this particular flight, I would have been charged to check any luggage, so I traveled light. That meant leaving certain luxuries at home. A book I had been reading didn't fit in my laptop bag. A blow dryer was out of the question because of its size, and all of my shampoo, hair gel, and other liquids had to fit into a small zip-lock bag.
Why am I sharing this? Certainly not because I am suffering hardship! One suitcase is plenty for a week. But packing for my short journey made me reflect on Hebrews 11, where the Bible describes a multitude of faithful people that God commended. God describes Noah, who had to fit his whole family, animals, and food on an ark for several months. Abram "when called to go to a place he would later receive as his inheritance, obeyed and went, even though he did not know where he was going. By faith he made his home in the promised land like a stranger in a foreign country; he lived in tents . . . " By faith, Moses left Egypt, the land where he was born and educated. By faith David spent years fleeing from Saul. On two occasions, he could have ended his sojourn by killing Saul, but he respected the Lord's anointing on Saul and spared his life.
These stories give me hope and courage. As I travel, I am in very good company! I know my circumstances are not as difficult as these heroes of the faith, as I have the luxury of airplanes and e-mail. I also have another advantage over the ancients. Hebrews 11:13 says that "All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance." Later, the writer states
"And what more shall I say? I do not have time to tell about Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephthah, David, Samuel, and the prophets, who through faith conquered kingdoms, administered justice, and gained what was promised. . . whose weakness was turned to strength; . . . They went about in sheepskins and goatskins, destitute, persecuted and mistreated . . . They wandered in deserts and mountains, and in caves and holes in the ground. These were all commended for their faith, yet none of them received what had been promised. God had planned something better for us so that only together with us would they be made perfect."
So, what was it that God had planned for them and for us? Hebrews 12: 2 states "Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God." 1 Peter 2:24a-25 says "[Christ] himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness . . . For you were like sheep going astray, but now you have returned to the Shepherd and Overseer of your souls."
So the ultimate example of a hard journey was the one that Jesus took to the cross. He died for the joy of seeing us live in righteousness. Through the grace of God, I can join the ancient believers in saying that together, God has made us his flock. We travel, but we do not travel aimlessly. The good Shepherd guides our every step.
And so, I leave you with a song that has been running through my head a lot lately:
"What it feels like" by FFH
So this is what if feels like to walk the wilderness.
This is what if feels like to come undone.
This is what if feels like to lose my confidence
unsure of anything or anyone.
So this is what if feels like to walk the desert sand.
This is what if feels like to hear my name.
To be scared to death 'cause I'm all alone
but feel love and peace just the same.
And this may not be the road I would choose for me
but it still feels right somehow.
'Cause I have never felt you as close to me as I do right now.
So this is what if feels like to be led .
Monday, July 12, 2010
Fun facts about Cameroon
Cameroon is in the "armpit" of Africa, near Nigeria and Chad, and is slightly larger than California.
The official languages are French and English.
There are 278 living languages in Cameroon, with Bible translation projects in at least 106 of them.
Forty percent of the population is Christian, forty percent has indigenous beliefs, and twenty percent is Muslim.
Seventy percent of the population works in agriculture. Products include coffee, cocoa, cotton, rubber, bananas, oilseed, grains, root starches, livestock, and timber.
Its neighbor Equatorial Guinea is the only Spanish-speaking country in Africa.
The official languages are French and English.
There are 278 living languages in Cameroon, with Bible translation projects in at least 106 of them.
Forty percent of the population is Christian, forty percent has indigenous beliefs, and twenty percent is Muslim.
Seventy percent of the population works in agriculture. Products include coffee, cocoa, cotton, rubber, bananas, oilseed, grains, root starches, livestock, and timber.
Its neighbor Equatorial Guinea is the only Spanish-speaking country in Africa.
How a Spanish teacher heard the call to Cameroon
I think the initial echoes of my call to Africa came from the urban U.S. After my freshman year of college, I spent a month on an inner-city mission project in Bakersfield, CA. One of my favorite activities was working with kids there. One group of them came from rough backgrounds--sometimes their parents argued late at night, others only had one parent, and many struggled to trust people because they had been let down so many times. Still, on my birthday, they ganged up to give me a hug so enthusiastic that it knocked me out of my chair! Seeing how the love of Christ had given them joy made me consider how I could spread that love around the world.
The fall after I returned from California I decided that I wanted to serve worldwide through teaching and began learning more Spanish. During spring semester, my college church offered a shortened version of Perspectives, a class about missions. As I studied the materials and heard stories from other missionaries, God's love and plan for all people became even clearer. One group that stood out was the Wycliffe Bible Translators, started by Cameron Townsend. When Townsend was a young man, he sold Spanish Bibles in Guatemala for a while. He noticed that many people there didn't speak Spanish, and Cakchiquel people repeatedly asked him "If your God is so smart, why doesn't he speak our language?" Townsend answered their question by learning their language and translating the Bible into Cakchiquel so that they could know that God spoke their language and loved them. As I heard about Wycliffe, I wanted to be part of sharing God's word with people in the language of their heart, so I got in touch with recruiters to discuss possibilities. I still had three years of school, but my heart was already being pulled abroad.
God kept confirming my call throughout the rest of my time at Michigan State. During my senior year, he kept pressing Revelation 5:9 on my heart. It says:
And they sang a new song: "You are worthy to take the scroll and to open its seals, because you were slain, and with your blood you purchased men for God from every tribe and language and people and nation."
Finally, during my student teaching, I was able to investigate possible ministry positions with Wycliffe. Originally I wanted to step right into translation or literacy work, but God showed me the importance of children's education. I began looking at ways to use teaching, just as I originally planned. God laid two conditions on my heart for the position that I would take.
- Excellence: Colossians 3:23 says "Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men." God told me that I would be able to provide quality instruction in the field he had prepared for me.
- Unreached peoples: God impressed upon me that the position would support the work of sharing the Gospel with people who couldn't hear otherwise. While there is still plenty of work to do in reached countries like Poland and Sweden, my passion is for sharing in new places, where the good news of Jesus' love is being shared for the first time.
As I looked through Wycliffe's job postings, I found a position in Cameroon that fits both of these conditions. Rain Forest International School in Cameroon had a need for a Spanish and math instructor. RFIS is an international Christian school that educates the children of language and support workers from Wycliffe and other mission groups, as well as Cameroonians. My strongest area of certification is in Spanish, and I have a fair amount of experience in math instruction. I trust that with God's help, I will be an excellent teacher there.
During my time in Cameroon, I pray that I will be an excellent teacher and model for my students. I also pray that God will reveal the next step in his plan for my life. I love languages and hope to work among Bibleless peoples until all have heard. As I mentioned earlier, I am interested in translation or literacy work. I pray that God will use my experiences to explore missions and find out if he perhaps he wants me to serve in some other role.
If you also have a passion for reaching the uttermost ends of the earth with the glory of God, I invite you to partner with me. You can pray for me and for the groups that have yet to hear. You can also help by encouraging me or by giving financially. If you'd like to sign up as a regular prayer or financial partner, please visit http://www.wycliffe.org/Partnership.aspx?mid=29E36F. I am excited about what God is going to do, and even more excited to share it with you!
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Encouragement
This week, I've been back home, mulling over the cultural and educational training that I participated in for the past couple weeks. While we had plenty of time listening to lectures about the structure of Wycliffe and the importance of children's education to the task of Bible translation, we also played plenty of games.
A typical Wycliffe game goes something like this: break people into groups. Give each set of people a game with simple rules. Let them get comfortable with those rules. Then mix the groups, and ¡SURPRISE--nobody has the same rules! Now what? What results is usually a complex mental and emotional process of trying to determine the new rules, figure out how to win, who is "right," and how to avoid offending too many people while playing. Other variations of Wycliffe games include using simplified languages and peeling mangoes without knives. While we played, I noticed that I enjoyed figuring out the new rules, but by the end I was tired and ready to stop. Except in the case of the mango--I thoroughly enjoyed eating it, even if my hands were covered in juice before I finished!
Some of you can already see what these games illustrate. We all grow up in a culture and learn its rules. We learn languages and ways of doing things (like peeling mangoes with knives--which was surprisingly ineffective compared to peeling it with my hands!) Many of us play the whole game in our own culture, using the comfortable rules that we've known all along. In cases of cross cultural ministry, the worker leaves his or her first group and has to learn the new rules. Sometimes, these new rules are more Biblical than our own. Sometimes, they violate the Bible's principles, and other times, they are simply different. But in almost every case, the accumulation of little differences can be very stressful--food, shopping, greeting, language, climate, and underlying conceptions of the world may all change after a short plane trip across the ocean.
As I reflected on my impending transition to the culture of Cameroon and the specific culture of a new school, I confess that I started focusing too much on the stress and not enough on the blessings. I almost stopped looking forward to going there. I started praying "God, please make me want to go to Cameroon. Make me happy to be going."
A woman from Bethany Baptist Church called me tonight to tell me how excited she was for me and how much she had enjoyed her six months in Niger, working at a missionary clinic. She spoke of the beautiful, friendly people there, the way that the clinic improved their lives, and how God had prepared her ahead of time for what she did. She reminded me that God is preparing the people that I will work with and those I will minister to, and that I will be meeting a need at the school. As I spoke with her, I felt my spirits lifting. I know that the transition will be tiring, and I may end up with juice all over my hands, but it will also be a sweet, delicious journey.
A typical Wycliffe game goes something like this: break people into groups. Give each set of people a game with simple rules. Let them get comfortable with those rules. Then mix the groups, and ¡SURPRISE--nobody has the same rules! Now what? What results is usually a complex mental and emotional process of trying to determine the new rules, figure out how to win, who is "right," and how to avoid offending too many people while playing. Other variations of Wycliffe games include using simplified languages and peeling mangoes without knives. While we played, I noticed that I enjoyed figuring out the new rules, but by the end I was tired and ready to stop. Except in the case of the mango--I thoroughly enjoyed eating it, even if my hands were covered in juice before I finished!
Some of you can already see what these games illustrate. We all grow up in a culture and learn its rules. We learn languages and ways of doing things (like peeling mangoes with knives--which was surprisingly ineffective compared to peeling it with my hands!) Many of us play the whole game in our own culture, using the comfortable rules that we've known all along. In cases of cross cultural ministry, the worker leaves his or her first group and has to learn the new rules. Sometimes, these new rules are more Biblical than our own. Sometimes, they violate the Bible's principles, and other times, they are simply different. But in almost every case, the accumulation of little differences can be very stressful--food, shopping, greeting, language, climate, and underlying conceptions of the world may all change after a short plane trip across the ocean.
As I reflected on my impending transition to the culture of Cameroon and the specific culture of a new school, I confess that I started focusing too much on the stress and not enough on the blessings. I almost stopped looking forward to going there. I started praying "God, please make me want to go to Cameroon. Make me happy to be going."
A woman from Bethany Baptist Church called me tonight to tell me how excited she was for me and how much she had enjoyed her six months in Niger, working at a missionary clinic. She spoke of the beautiful, friendly people there, the way that the clinic improved their lives, and how God had prepared her ahead of time for what she did. She reminded me that God is preparing the people that I will work with and those I will minister to, and that I will be meeting a need at the school. As I spoke with her, I felt my spirits lifting. I know that the transition will be tiring, and I may end up with juice all over my hands, but it will also be a sweet, delicious journey.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
If everything Jesus did were written down. . .
For a long time now, I've been tossing around the idea of writing a book, but I could never decide what to write about. I knew that I wanted it to be a new story and somehow relate to the story of God's love for humanity, but that's a very broad field. Encountering John 21:25 didn't help me narrow my focus:
"Jesus did many other things as well. If every one of them were written down, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written."
That quote brings me both despair and hope. I despair of ever finishing a book, because I know that Jesus is still doing many things today. If I tried to create a plot out of them, there would always be another story to add in a tangled web of characters, "coincidences," miracles, loss, and joy. I would never finish writing! But in that I find hope, because it means that the story is not over yet. His story, our story, is still being told, and we have many opportunities to see it, through the forgiveness of old wrongs, healing of broken families, justice in a cruel world, and joy in the midst of suffering.
And so, my goal through this blog is for all of us to share the stories about what Jesus is still doing. For right now, that may often consist of what God is doing in my life as I prepare to teach Spanish and mathematics in Yaoundé, Cameroon. I am currently in the process of finding ministry partners that will join the work of Bible translation through prayer, finances, and encouragement as I serve.
Later on, I am excited to share the flavors, sights, and sounds of an African city with you, but even more, I look forward to describing how God is moving among the people there, both in the city and the countryside. There are 278 living languages in Cameroon, and 106 Bible translation and literacy projects, so I hope to have many, many tales to tell.
My request of anyone who happens to be reading this is that you also share with me. Please share your stories, your life, your passions. I want to hear from you.
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