Group of girls at church Sunday morning. Before we went, Becky warned us that when it was time for the offering, if the amount collected was not what was hoped for, they would do it again, and possibly even one more time. And, each person carries their offering to the altar. So after we got there, and it came time for the offering, instructions were given: if you were from Tribe A (I can’t remember the names), give to the bucket on the right. If you were from Tribe B, give to the bucket on the left. And if you fell into the “Other” category, lay your offering on the Bible in the center. So we all went forward & gave an offering. The music, loud & upbeat, was playing as we went. The thought did run through my mind, “This feels like a conga line.” Thankfully, the offering was substantial, and one go-round was enough that day.
A common sight.
We would pass by this sign every time we would go to & leave the mission house. The bullet holes were a visual reminder of what these people have survived (civil war, portrayed in the movie “Blood Diamond”).
This was a booth at the market…not quite sure what type of meat that might be.
It seemed out of place to see a Lincoln town car.
Water. In a bag.
Fresh pineapple, everyday.
This is how we got to wherever we were going: the poda poda.
Fishermen & women.
The well in the yard at Tom & Becky’s house.
I have never given so much thought to fresh water. For people who live in this part of the world, so much time is spent going to & from a well to get water. I think about that every time I brush my teeth now.
This morning, I found myself so frustrated. I was standing in front of the mirror, about to flat iron my hair for the first time in three weeks. I was so missing the freedom I felt while in West Africa, freedom to not be concerned so much with my appearance. I got so spoiled, wearing my baseball cap, or just pulling my hair back, and not caring how it looked. aaaggghhh. This is just one tiny little part of how I am struggling right now.