tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14363491200842189322024-02-20T17:56:36.734-08:00love is a verbDonna Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12838345035678125512noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436349120084218932.post-72329571016377835432013-12-01T00:03:00.001-08:002013-12-01T00:03:15.958-08:00On the Way HomeHe's a good man and hard-working. He's got good work ethic, which is common among the Burkinabe. He has a nice face - easily trusted. How happy he must have been to hear that the baby was on the way! Like most West Africans, he would have chosen someone well-respected and well-loved to be the one who named the new little one. A boy's name and a girl's name would be carefully chosen and told to the parents a few weeks before the expected birth. How nervous he would be those last few weeks! A new baby in the house - he must save every extra Franc for the new little life. He must have spent hours on his job as a guard wondering about the little tyke. What kind of personality could he expect? If it were a girl, would she look like her mother? How much hair would she have? They should probably get a new dog for the house - no, scratch that; feeding dogs added extra cost. <br />
<br />
Finally the evening of the birth comes. Just off work, he rushes with his sweet wife to the closest birthing clinic and signs all the necessary paperwork while they find her a bed. <br />
<br />
He waits - there's really nothing else for him to do. He tries to be a good coach, but finds that his nerves make him terrible at this task, so he paces and waits to his wife's side. He paces and waits, paces and waits. And waits. <br />
<br />
Too long. This is taking too long. Too many nurses have checked on her, and they're chattering among themselves now. One approaches him. It's not going well, sir. The baby isn't coming. Your wife is bleeding heavily and is ready to give birth, but the baby isn't coming. We have some medicine that we can give her to make her dilate properly so the baby will come, but you'll have to pay for it right now. <br />
<br />
Suddenly all that he knew about the local clinics came to mind - blood loss, lost babies, dull instruments, high maternal death rates. <br />
<br />
"But I don't have any money! We can only pay for the birth, that is all!"<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry, sir, but that is our policy. No money, no medicine."<br />
<br />
He knows this was the way it is. That's the way it always is in these hospitals. No money, no surgery. No money, no medicine. No money, no help. <br />What could he do? He had to find the money. His boss! His boss could surely loan him the money and save his wife's life. He could work it off later, or have it taken out of his salary. Anything. His wife will die without it. <br />
<br />
So he sets out on his bicycle, calling his boss's number. The night is still young; his boss won't be asleep. He doesn't answer the call. Again. No answer. Again. Again. Again. No answer. Panic begins to set it. If his boss doesn't answer, where will he get the money? His wife will bleed out. She will die soon. The baby will die with her. He HAS to get the money! His boss continues not to answer the phone. He has to find <em>someone</em> to give him the money, or he will be a widower within the hour. <br />
<br />
He sees a white man driving down the dirt road near him and in desperation the man waves the car to a stop. The white man rolls down the window and they exchange greetings, and the man makes his desperate plea. Please, sir, 7,000 CFA is what I need. My wife is having a baby and will die without this medicine. It's already been too long and they won't help her. I can't get a hold of my boss. Please help me. I'll do anything - I'll give you my ID card, anything. <br />
<br />
<br />
So Ken turns from the driver's seat and asks me, "Do you have 10,000 CFA with you?" I look at the African man at his window, desperation in his eyes and a bicycle leaning on his thigh, speaking in French too rapid for me to catch. I don't have any money with me. I don't even have my purse. Ken turns back to the man and tells him to stay right there, that he isn't carrying any cash because he was just taking me home, but he is going to run back to the house and get the money that the man needs. Our guard, Kiinda, re-explains in Moree from the passenger seat so the panicked man will know that we aren't just driving off. So back to the house we head, where Ken runs inside, grabs his wallet, runs back outside, and we drive quickly back to the intersection where, sure enough, the man is waiting with wide, scared eyes for us to return to him. <br />
<br />
We pull up beside him and hand the money out the window, along with a tract on baptism. The man takes the gift and his whole face changes. If Burkinabe were emotional people, I think he would have cried on the spot. He thanks Ken over and over, again offering his ID card, but Ken waves off the offer, saying that he doesn't need to be paid back; he is able to give because of the grace of God. You're welcome, you're very welcome. God bless you, too. <br />
<br />
We drive off as the man pedals toward the hospital, and I am silent. Partly because of the lesson in generosity and witnessing that I just learned from this missionary, and partly because we have just witnessed a level of poverty that we will never be able to fully explain. That man - that good, hard-working, very nice man - was so desperate for money that he stopped a complete stranger on the road in the middle of the night to ask for help. And if he had not, both his wife and his unborn child would have died before daybreak. No extra money for the possibility of such disaster, no savings account. Just desperation. How much is 7,000? Fourteen dollars. <br />
<br />
This is the norm for those living here, the everyday life of these people and the constant surroundings of these missionaries. Unexplainable poverty. Desperation to which no one back in the States can relate and which can never be accurately described. The knowledge that less than $20 just saved two lives. The fact that this reality can co-exist in a world that put a man on the moon is mind-boggling sometimes. In one week I will fly back to the richest country in the world - just in time for American holiday season, complete with its 'Black Friday' and a completely different reality. Blessed Savior, wherever I go, wherever you take me, let me never forget that this reality pervades my world, as well. Donna Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12838345035678125512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436349120084218932.post-41723829132772542832013-11-09T14:02:00.003-08:002013-11-09T14:02:34.802-08:00That's What Happens When You Fall in Love<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Sometimes it's hard. Like when you have dengue fever. And amoebas. At the same time. And all you want to do is get outta here. I'm ashamed to admit it, but sometimes it is that hard. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">That was last week for me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> L</span>ast week I was so sick that the missionaries, who were sick themselves, checked me into the hospital. I was completely alone in an
African hospital room, away from my family and my home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was so sick that French didn't work and I
was deliriously trying to talk to the nurses in Spanish and they couldn't
understand me and I couldn't understand them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was burning with fever and throwing up ice water and I knew that if
they came and tried to shave my head to lower my fever then I would let
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And my joints hurt from the
virus and my back hurt from the hard bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
My head hurt so badly that my vision was clouding. </span>And then the next night when I realized they weren't releasing me and I
was so nauseated and so lonely and my IV was filling with my own blood because the
doctors wouldn't come change it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
were mosquitoes everywhere and I thought, 'If I didn't have malaria before I
came here, I will when I leave.'<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I
had thrown up in the bedpan they gave me, but no one ever cleaned it up, and I had no idea how
to ask anyone to take care of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
stared at the white walls and at the plate of food that I was too sick to eat,
and all I wanted to do was to get out of here, to be in Arkansas, in my own
comfy bed, with medicine I recognized and people I knew. I told myself that if I had the energy to walk, I would walk out of the hospital, hail a cab, catch an airplane home, and be done with it. That was last week. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">But then I think back a little further. <span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">And I think about that evening last spring when I
jerked awake because I was dreaming about Africa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my dream, I was biking down the dirt road
on the other side of the city, where I used to live, and I was completely
happy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw the other bicycles
straddled by African women (all waving and smiling, of course), and the
pedestrians and the donkeys and the bright, dusty colors of African life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was biking along in the heat, wearing the
bike helmet that the missionaries insisted that I purchase.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then I realized that I wasn't, in fact,
there anymore, and I stopped my bike in disappointment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then I realized that I was dreaming and
wasn't in Africa. And with that realization, a physical pain hit my chest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then suddenly I was awake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was awake and I was crying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My chest hurt like someone had punched me and
I knew it was because I was lonely for my home, for my Africa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew I had to get back. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I think of what it's like NOT to be here but to
wish that I were.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think of that horrible,
lonely feeling of 'I would give anything to be in Africa <strong>right now'</strong> that
consumes my thoughts, my concentration, my <em>being</em>, when I am in the States.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That's much, much worse than the occasional
moments when I'm in Africa and I wish I were back in the States.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Because you see, t</span>hat's what happens to you when Jesus gets a hold of your heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That's what happens to you when you say,
'Okay, God!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here I am!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm all yours!'<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and then the Lord takes you up on that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That's what happens when you fall in love -
you lose it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You lose your heart, your
mind, your rationality, your ability to make sense to anybody else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You lose your desire for American life, for a
husband, for a family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That's what
happens when Jesus takes over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> You can't escape him. </span>You see
the glint of his eyes in the sunshine reflecting off the water of the Niger
River.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You hear his heartbeat in the
drums of a tribal worship song.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see
his smile lines in the grin of an African child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You hear his whisper in the wind blowing
through the mango trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You wake up
miserable and cold and sick in an African hospital room and you say, "I'm
still yours, Jesus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'll still give my
life to this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'll still spend the rest
of my life here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'll go back to the
village and teach Sunday school to those babies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'll sell my car, I'll leave my family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'll follow you here."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That's what happens when you fall in
love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> You love what he loves. If he says, "There are people in Africa who don't know my Name," then you cry and say, "Send me." </span>You look at Calvary and you
realize that your life is such a small thing to offer in comparison.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You look at that example of crazy,
irrational, unexplainable Love, and you look around you at a world who does not
know that Story, and your heart breaks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You look at Jesus and ask, "Where do you want me to go and tell
your story?"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I love Africa. Oh, how I love Africa. But I don't come here because I love Africa. I come because I love Jesus. I come because one day, long ago, Jesus died for me. He offers me a Love that is beyond my understanding, and I can have no other response. He fell in love with me. And then I fell in love with him. And then he brought me here and grew me and stretched me and taught me how to love him all over again. And today he sat me under the stars of an African night and placed a baby in my arms with eyes so dark I could see my own reflection in their light. And he did it again...he melted my heart. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">So when people ask me, as they always do, why I go to Africa, this is my response: That's what happens when you fall in love. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: small;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span>Donna Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12838345035678125512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436349120084218932.post-20228951495059997462013-11-04T12:57:00.000-08:002013-11-04T12:57:05.614-08:00Village SchoolHow easily do we take things for granted? What do we take for granted? <br />
<br />
I don't think I realized just how much I take for granted until I started traveling. Now the realization of it overwhelms me. The list keeps growing. Shoes. Health. A soft bed. Ice cubes. Shampoo. Water. Just the fact that I can turn on a water faucet anywhere in the United States and safely drink the water that it gives is now a strange thought. <br />
<br />
What about a good education? Even if I hadn't gone to college, I would have been equipped with the tools to educate myself in the ways of the world, just because my educational foundation was good and strong. But we were walking from one village to another last weekend and stumbled upon a village school strikingly different from the schools that educated me. The students were outside working. Some of them were tilling in a garden, some were pumping water from a water pump a few hundred yards from the small school house. There were nearly 90 students and just one teacher, who rotated between classrooms. We had some candy with us, so we lined the kids up and passed out suckers. They were quiet and giggly, and stood politely in line while we handed out their treat.<br />
<br />
Most of them were barefoot. Many of them were wearing only a pair of shorts, no shirt. Some had walked as far as twenty-five kilometers to get to school that day. They spoke little French. I speak little Moree. A lot of them, especially the older ones, had tribal scaring on their faces. The Peace Corps has had little impact here. <br />
<br />
Likewise the church.<br />
<br />
Somewhere, surely, Jesus has a pastor for this village. A pastor who speaks Moree and has a heart for children. Please, Jesus - raise up that pastor. Please. Educate these children in the Name that is above every name. <br />
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Donna Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12838345035678125512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436349120084218932.post-33356951931652147462013-10-24T10:29:00.000-07:002013-10-24T10:29:05.112-07:00For God so loved the worldToday I feel incredibly privileged to be a follower of this amazing God. This God who created the universe without lifting a finger, who tilted the earth on her axis, who holds the stars in the palm of his hand, is the same God who provided a way of salvation for all humanity. This great God fills all time and space...<br />
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and yet his love is so great that he knows the favorite color of every child in Africa. This God so loved the world that he gave his only Son....Donna Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12838345035678125512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436349120084218932.post-29313727751358402352013-10-17T14:17:00.000-07:002013-10-17T14:19:23.369-07:00If any man thirst, let him come unto me and drink Because of the generosity of my coworkers at U-Pack, I was able to bring 29 Waves for Water water filters with me to Burkina Faso. We have begun passing them out to the families who the missionaries know, the families with the greatest need for clean water. Twenty-nine water filters equals twenty nine million gallons of clean, purified water to replace the disease-infested, death-bringing water that the majority of the population here drinks. I am overjoyed to be able to meet practical needs in such a way, to be able to be the hands and feet of Jesus and follow the commandment that is so obvious in the verse, "I was thirsty and ye gave me drink" (Matthew 25:35). <br />
<br />
And yet I have to swallow a lump of sadness every time we give out a water filter, because I know that for every family we help, there are hundreds, thousands, who have yet to receive clean water. Countless children who still ingest dangerous parasites every day in the water that they must drink to sustain their lives. What sad irony. <br />
<br />
But Jesus reminds me that worse yet is the fact that there are millions here who do not know the Living Water. They have never been introduced to the Sustainer God who holds creation in his hand. He is the life-force, the River of Living Water who spoke humanity into existence and calls all nations to repentance. <br />
<br />
And He is the eternally clean water that they so desperately need. <br />
<br />
Yesterday we bumped along a winding dirt road an hour outside the city to deliver a water filter to a family who drinks from a lake that is home to about 200 crocodiles. It is also the watering hole and swimming pool for all the local animals. We looked into the lake and saw the filth that these sweet babies drink every day, and then we showed them how the water filter works. When the water came out of the filter, cool and refreshing and perfectly clear, the kids crowded underneath the get a drink. <br />
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When they led us back to their house, the courtyard was littered with remnants of recent witchcraft offerings. But we ignored these and gathered with the family under the warm African sunshine and we prayed for them. We prayed to the God who longs for them to know how much he loves them, longs to wrap them in his arms and pour into them the knowledge of eternal salvation. We pray to the God who whispers into their ears, "If any man thirst, let him come unto me and drink" (John 7:37). <br />
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Oh, Jesus, bring salvation to these people that I love so much...that you love so much more. Nourish them with your Spirit. Send someone to build a church here, with a baptistery full of water and the message of the purifying blood of Jesus Christ. <br />
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<br />Donna Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12838345035678125512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436349120084218932.post-71680590127190221892013-10-15T04:54:00.000-07:002013-10-15T04:59:45.745-07:00Five Days in Niger<span lang="">Niamey, Niger. Hands down the hottest place I have ever been in my life. The heat was absolutely swealtering, as if the sunshine is actually quite a bit closer to the earth here. But the people respond with their own warmth - all smiles and hugs, welcoming us with open arms. <br />
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<span lang="">We have one church in Niger, because the country is a little over 99% Muslim and so evangelism is strained. We drove past three mosques to get to the building that serves both as the church and the pastor's home. I have an overwhelming respect for these believers, who must feel completely isolated in their faith, tucked away in this crowded city of Islamic stronghold. <br />
<br />
<span lang="">We were as delighted to see the church members as they were to see us. They knew that we were coming to fellowship with them, to worship and teach and read Scripture. But what they did not know is that we came bearing 200,000 CFA - $400. Ken had told me that the church needed a new piano badly - not only because theirs was extremely old, but also because they were planning to finally, finally build a second church and would need two pianos. So I decided that would be my project: a new keyboard for these people who had won my heart in an instant. <br />
<br />
<span lang="">We had evening services on Friday and Saturday evening. Sunday morning dawned especially hot and promising to get worse. We were sweating by the time we got to the church building, after our white-knuckled ride across the city. But church was beautiful! Worship to praise to worship, dance, music, and at some point the power cut out, nixing the fans and the sound alike, but no one slowed down or even seemed to notice.<br />
<br />
<span lang=""><span lang="">Ken stood up and began to talk about the church in the book of Acts, who had neither drums nor piano nor sound system. This Niger church, he said, was doing a great job with whay they have, but their piano was <span class="hps"><em>fatigué</em></span> - tired - and they needed a new one. They he raised his hand and showed a wad of carfully folded West African bills, and said, <em><span class="hps">J'ai</span> <span class="hps">de l'argent pour</span> <span class="hps">un nouveau</span> <span class="hps">piano</span></em> - I have the money for a new piano. <br />
<span lang=""><br />
If anything was said after that, I didn't hear a word of it, for the church absolutely exploded into worship. I expected them to be happy, but I didn't expect the response to be of this magnitude. At first I thought it was cheers, but I looked around and realized that it was not. It was worship to the Provider-God. Because what I did not know was that this church had been praying for a new piano. They had saved as much money as they could - 60 CFA (a very impressive amount, in fact, for Niger is the poorest country in the world), but knew that a miracle of God was needed for the new piano. So they had been praying for quite a while. And God, in his great wisdom, had provided for them in allowing me to be the answer to their prayers. Wow. <br />
<span lang=""><br />
The worship got louder and louder and the smiles bigger until it turned into a dance of rejoicing. The women left their seats and streamed up to the front, dancing and clapping and circling the front of the church. If I thought I could stay outside of it I was mistaken, for a woman about my mother's age sporting a colorful headwrap pulled me in and squeezed me between two dancers. As she did, I glimpsed the piano player. He had been rather quiet and gentle all weekend, but now he was worshipping openly - bent at the waist, dancing in a circle, arms raised to heaven, and a smile so big I could see nothing but his teeth. <br />
<br />
<span lang="">The suddenly it was too much for me to keep in. Something inside of me erupted and I began to cry and laugh at the same time, following these women in a dance of rejoicing. I looked around at this room so full of worship and I realized, <em>I was made for this moment</em>. Nothing that I possess, no paycheck that I have ever received, was worth more than that ten minutes of rejoicing. <br />
<span lang=""><br />
When things calmed down, the pastor began to speak to the church in French, reminding them that God had heard their prayer, had answered their prayer. Then he turned and said they were going to pray for the missionaries in thanks for bringing this gift. But Ken and Gin shook their heads and pointed at me. The pastor's eyes got big with understanding and he said, "Eh!" and turned to explain to the church that the gift, in fact, was from the young missionary, <span class="hps alt-edited">Mademoiselle</span> Donna. They all turned to me, raised their hands to heaven, and began to pray that God would bless me, that he would keep his hand on me, that he would give back to me what I had given to them. I tried to pray with them, but all I could do was weep. That prayer was the best gift that I could have received. What they gave me was <em>much</em> greater than what I had given them. What is $400? Not much. What is a room full of Spirit-filled Africans praying a blessing over you? Priceless. </span><br />
</span> </span><br />
</span> </span> </span><br />
</span><br />
</span> </span><br />
</span>Donna Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12838345035678125512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436349120084218932.post-81218335091620801972013-09-29T08:34:00.002-07:002013-09-29T08:34:40.610-07:00To Market, To Market<span lang="">We went to the market today, Sarah and I! I <em>LOVE</em> going to the market, because it's like all of Africa packed into a tiny microcosm of happiness - all the people and the energy and the babies strapped on every back. And of course Africans are very social, so you can't be sad or lonely when you enter the market and leave it in the same condition. Even if you never spoke to anyone (which is impossible; you speak and hug and shake hands and never stop smiling and lauging), you have to love the pulse of it. The colors are more than any camera could capture properly. Donkeys, chickens, dogs, camels meander out of the way, and the world's greatest fashion weeks pale in comparison to the outfits and headdresses of the women. Beautiful. <br />
<br />
Today (despite the heat) we took our time at the market, literally dripping sweat and followed by a slender teenager in full Muslim headwrap who was content just to carry the vegetable bags for the white women. <br />
<br />
Sarah's French is amazing so I listened to her as closely as I could and decided that if she can do it then so can I! So I asked her how to ask for a price of a kilo of something in French. As she was explaining it to me, a man walked up and, grinning, said something that I couldn't discern for the life of me. <br />
"What did he just ask?" Sarah answered that he asked me how I was doing in Moree, which is one of the local languages here. <br />
"Oh. How do you say it?" The man leaned toward me, smile lines deepening and eyes shinning, and said slowly, "Zaa-ka-rumba." My repetition, complete with a rolled 'r' (thanks, Spanish professors!) earned a belly laugh of approval, and the reply, "Lafi." <br />
<br />
A few more meters brought us to the stall where Sarah always buys her vegetables. The owner came out to greet us, warm and friendly. The stalls are so crowded here that we were able to stand in complete shade (nice break from the heat!). After chatting with the woman for a moment, Sarah asked if I wanted to try out my Moree. <br />
<br />
So I turned to the lady. "Zaa-ka-rumba!" <br />
She smiled, "Lafi." <br />
<br />
I was so pleased that I had said it right that I pumped my fists in the air and yelled, "YEAH!" and was rewarded by the sound of the market bursting into cheers. I looked around in surprise, to find the women from the surrounding stalls laughing and clapping and chattering excitedly in Moree and French. Then they all started talking to me at once, gesturing and grinning. They were nodding their heads and pointing to us, shouting at other women to come near. I leaned close so Sarah could hear me over the noise. <br />
<br />
"What? What are they saying?" She chuckled and brushed sweat from her head. "You just won them over. They love you now." I look around at the crowd of women, laughing and rubbing my arms, with children squeezing in and out of the crowd and baskets of fruit bobbing above it all, balanced carefully on a dozen heads. And then it's my turn to join in the laughter - not because anything is funny, but because that's the natural response to being so completely happy. <br />
<br />
I got back to my room and turned on the air conditioner just in time for the power to go out - again. So the heat crept back in, advanced only by the dark. I have to feel my way to the bathroom and feel my way back to bed, only it's too hot to sleep. I'm sweating so much that it has made me aware of the fact that I'm covered in more mosquito bites than I ever thought possible. It's always hot here. I once thought it was unbearable. <br />
<br />
But now I lean my forehead against my open window and listen to the last hot, muggy storm of rainy season. <br />
<br />
I breathe in slowly. <br />
<br />
I close my eyes and get lost in the smell - the smell of the rain, of the dust, of a dozen outside dinners, of the mango trees, of the exhaust of a thousand motorcycle taxis, of a zillion animals, of the nearby Sahara. The smell of Africa. I fill my lungs as tight as they will fill and I think of my day at the market. I remember the giggling little kids that ran out to greet us all the way home. I remember the African couple who dropped by earlier, for no other reason than to check on and pray with Justin because he's not feeling well. I think of yesterday at the missionaries' house, when a woman came by to meet us and the missionaries were talking to her about baptism in six minutes flat, and made sure that she left with a French Bible and a time of prayer. I think of the Burkina pastors and their wives, patiently teaching me French and Moree and Djoula phrases, correcting me ever so gently and pretending to understand me even when I'm completely wrong. I picture the 200 pairs of hands raised in worship last week in Togo, and the children at the kids' crusade, standing in 110 degree weather, tears mixing with sweat as they cry out to the living God, who speaks all languages. <br />
<br />
I think of how amazing God is for bringing me here. And I cry. Not because anything is sad, but because that is the natural response to being so completely happy. </span>Donna Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12838345035678125512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436349120084218932.post-77853469928731908762013-09-22T16:37:00.001-07:002013-09-22T16:37:19.352-07:00Full-Circle God<span lang="">I had another blog post written and ready to be posted last weekend, but then I spent a week in Togo and something a bit cooler took precedent. <br />
<br />
__________________________<br />
<br />
When I was a little girl, there was a war in a far-off place. Thousands massacred, villages burned, solders made of orphans, refugees fleeing by the millions. But I knew none of this in my little town in Arkansas. All I knew of the war was that my church found an opportunity to rally together to send aid. This was my first memory of the great compassion that characterizes my home church. Donations poured in - clothes, shoes, food, toothbrushes, school supplies, blankets, linens. I remember sitting in the church basement with my mother, sorting through baby formula and boxes and crackers as she and the other women organized piles upon piles of donations to be shipped out to these war victims. It was going to the missionary, they said. He would hand it out to our churches and to anyone else who had survived the rebels. Anything we could give would help. I can still recall a blue plaid blanket that my mother put in. It was wool and I hated it because it was itchy, but my mother loved it because it was warmer than anything else in the house. She said that the place we were shipping to was hot, but in the mountains it can get bitterly cold at night. Hours we spent in the basement that evening. I vaguely remember some story surrounding the shipping of it all - we had to truck it down to Florida, where it would be put on an ocean container. The trucking was priced in the thousands. But when the trucking company found out that we were sending war relief, they immediately began lowering the cost. They cut the price as much as they could without losing money. <br />
<br />
That was all I knew of that evening in the church basement. <br />
<br />
This past week I flew from my home in Burkina Faso to Lome, Togo, for a West African Regional Leadership conference. Was an amazing time! I met pastors from sixteen different African nations and fell in love with this beautiful continent all over again. I was served fish for supper with the head still intact, learned how to sit on a non-padded church pew for several hours without complaining, and tried horse meat for the first time. I also got to hang out with over a dozen missionaries whose pictures have been hanging on our missionary wall back in Greenwood for years. They're my heroes. One man in particular had some amazing stories. His name is Brother Stuart and he's our missionary to Liberia. He's been there for 33 years. The church in Liberia is thousands upon thousands of people strong and is ready to be nationalized at the end of next year. Bro. Stuart patiently told me stories and didn't mind my persistent questions. The others told me that this man is a missionary legend, that he loves Africa and she loves him right back. The headquarters church in Liberia is so huge that the president herself attends that church and brings her political entourage with her. There was a great war in his country some years back. The embassy ordered all Americans to leave the country, but he refused. I'm staying, he told them. God has not told me to leave, so how can I leave? I'm staying with my pastors. I'm staying with my people. And so he stayed. The embassy tried to force him to fly out, but he stayed. The rebels marched through his city and he and his wife were trapped in their house for weeks. They survived on the water from their water bed. <br />
<br />
At the end of last week, we all met at the hotel lobby so we could say goobye before catching planes to our different West African countries. I sat down in the lobby near Brother Stuart and some missionaries to Camaroon. One of the Camaroon pastors asked me where I was from in the States. "I'm from Greenwood, Arkansas," I replied. He asked me my pastor's name. I said, "James Myers. They call him 'Coach.'" They simply nodded in agreement, but Brother Stuart turned slowly toward me. <br />
<br />
"Greenwood?" He asked. <br />
<br />
"Yes, sir. Greenwood, Arkansas."<br />
<br />
He nodded slowly. "I know Greenwood," He said. <br />
<br />
I thought back to what Jaydie, our missionary to Mali, had told me the day before - that they visit hundreds of churches in a year when they are on deputation. How could he possibly remember our church? <br />
<br />
"Back during our war," Bro. Stuart continued, "You guys sent us a bunch of supplies. Hundreds of things. You shipped it all out of Florida on an ocean container." <br />
<br />
My mind raced back to that night so long ago in the church basement. "That was you?" I almost yelled. My mouth dropped open and the air left my lungs. <br />
<br />
"Oh, yes," He replied. "We brought everything to our churches in Liberia and handed it all out. I don't remember very many churches, but I remember Greenwood." <br />
<br />
I don't think I'll ever be able to describe exactly how I felt at that moment. They say that in heaven we'll see how our giving affected the mission field and it will all be worth it, but I think that sometimes God allows us to see that affect here on earth, as well. God is amazing. He is so many things and he manifests himself to us in different ways throughout our lives. He's the Healer-God and the Savior-God and the Warrior-God. But today, what is he to me? He's the Full-Circle-God :). He's the God who allows a shy little girl to become a missionary in training, and then further proves how cool he is by standing her feet on African soil in front of the missionary whose story, more than 15 years ago, unwittingly introduced her to what missions is all about. It's about being the hands and feet of Jesus Christ. Greenwood church, on behalf of West Africa, I want to say thank you for being the hands and feet of Jesus. Years ago you sent an ocean container full of war relief supplies. You send money every month. Now you sent an AIMer. Your impact on Africa is greater than we will ever know. I love and miss you guys. <br />
<br />
And Jesus is amazing. </span><br />Donna Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12838345035678125512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436349120084218932.post-77591018482516297392012-04-14T16:45:00.000-07:002012-04-14T16:45:57.989-07:00Journal Entry from Easter Sunday<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">Easter Sunday, 2012.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was by far the hottest Easter that I have ever experienced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a matter of fact, Gin said to me when I woke up, “Donna, this will be the hottest day of your life.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it was definitely the greatest Easter I have ever had. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many things happened to make it wonderful, including the fact that we ended the day with a baptism! However, church was the highlight because it reminded me again why I’m here. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because I had forgotten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And God allowed me to remember. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Worship service lasted for two hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I danced with the women as I always have and then joined in with the children, laughter bubbling over from some place that God fills only with Africa-joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Laughter swelled into shouting – head back, grinning so hard my face hurt as my eyes tried to keep up with the swirl of colors and the drums of dance as I thanked God with all my heart, with all of my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">being</i> for bringing me to this place - just to this very place, with its dripping sweat and its 108 degrees outside that was easily 125+ inside, with its suffocating dust and its brown tap water and its heart-stopping traffic and with its wicked sunburns and its horrifying <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We just passed a man with leprosy</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And with its people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With its wonderful, beautiful, I-love-God-with-all-my-heart <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">people</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With its <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">people</i> who are beating those drums in the corner so hard and so fast until I’ve just realized the cadence has become my heartbeat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With its <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">people</i> who have so little but offer to share their food without hesitation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With its <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">people </i>who are so loving and generous and affectionate and whose faces crinkle so easily into that smile…that African smile that is faster than lightning and warmer than sunshine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With its children, who every Thursday run to greet me, giggling and chattering in French and Moree and wrapping 40 sets of arms around me, sticking flowers in my hair and inclining chubby cheeks for kisses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">God didn’t warn me about Africa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t warn me about the heat or the dust or the ever-present disease.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t warn me that there were times that I would get insanely lonely and frustrated with French.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t warn me that I would struggle under the weight of culture shock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He just said, “Go.” But you see, God also didn’t warn me that I would fall in love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t warn me that I would leave such a huge piece of my heart here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t warn me that my very soul would ache when I look in to a tiny coffee-bean colored face and know that I might not see it again. God didn’t warn me about Burkina Faso.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He just called me here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When God said, “Come to Africa,” I did not realize that he was saying, “Come and fall in love with Africa.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And so I have come to worship God here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here, as I join in the dizzy parade of dancers, swirling, ducking, spinning, swaying in an ever-widening circle that can’t decide which brilliant fabric should dominate the color scheme.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So it gives up and becomes a blur of violet and lemon, rose and indigo, scarlet and aqua, vibrant blue blending in to bright orange, elegant green, fuchsia, plum, until I have to sit down, exhausted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I can’t sit long, for a new song starts and we begin once more, sweating and breathing in dust and tripping over children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I love it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love it all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So if the threat of culture shock, constant sweat, broken air conditioning, loneliness and language barriers are the price that I have to pay, then so be it. I will pay the asking price.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I secretly think that Africa is God’s favorite place…or maybe it’s just his favorite place for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My parents used to tell people that I have a heart for Africa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I no longer believe that’s true. I prefer to believe that I just have a heart for Jesus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And Jesus has a heart for Africa. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Donna Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12838345035678125512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436349120084218932.post-82490770324361422732012-04-04T16:14:00.002-07:002012-04-04T16:14:29.364-07:00Rushed Update from a Dying ComputerLast few weeks...<br />
<br />
Woke up covered in sweat. That's become a daily thing now. Drank ice water form breakfast. Got a flat tire. Discovered I can't learn French in 115 degrees. Danced in a worship circle with six other women. Bought grain. Delivered grain to a widow in our church with a courtyard full of kids. Didn't know she had so many. Sang in French. Danced in a worship circle with two dozen other women. Ate something African. Got incredibly sick. Rode on a motorcycle behind an African woman. Held on for dear life. Told 30 children about the birth of Jesus. Led them in a play of the Nativity. The next week, taught the same 30 children about the beauty of the resurrection. Gave candy for memory verses. Upped my water intake to several liters a day. Bumped along through a jungle of huts to go and pray for a sick elderly woman. Taught my 30 kids the story of Esther, of Jesus feeding 5000, of Jesus healing lepers. Tried to explain the power of prayer. Made plans to buy more grain and go on grain distribution in the villages to the North. Sat huddled in front of a computer screen waiting for CNN to load updates on the uprising in neighboring Mali. Had an early morning prayer meeting with 15 Africans to plead with God for his protection of their family in Bamako. Discovered that what I thought was shiny, healthy skin was in fact just a continual sheen of sweat. Broke down and turned on my expensive air conditioner. <br />
<br />
Went to an orphanage in the bush. Cuddled babies. Held a three-pound three-week-old little boy. Silence on the way home. <br />
<br />
Abandoned a nap and ran outside at the sound of thunder. Stood outside laughing in delight at the first rain I've seen in months. Stood in the rain until it passed. Got sick when the storm dropped the temperature from over 100 degrees to below 70 degrees. Prayed over a map of Burkina Faso. Lost too much fluid in sweat and tears, stood up from praying, and nearly collapsed. Burkinabe woman had to hold me up. A little embarrassing. Found the washer broken. Wrung my clothes out by hand. Bought strawberries from a woman's head.<br />
<br />
Loved it all :).Donna Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12838345035678125512noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436349120084218932.post-74900646003419011832012-03-24T16:05:00.000-07:002012-03-24T16:05:13.247-07:00I love him just as much as I love you.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /> <style>
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</style> <![endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Wednesday night I lay awake, sweating and too hot to sleep, and wondered what in the world I was doing here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thursday morning I stood in a refugee camp looking in to a pair of Tuareg eyes, hungry for a Jesus they didn't know, and God reminded me, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This is why you are here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b>I love him just as much as I love you</b>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t let my children die without me.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as I sank to my knees in the African dirt and wrapped my arms around the nearest child, I remembered the night that I sank to my knees on a dorm room floor so far away and wept in the presence of God and cried, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">God, if it costs me my life, I will go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will go to Africa.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbds0mI130JyIcBke_RwQYNlJno4mpU1-p-n_ShJDwxJv8W0m2a8xCIxxH_lyCTjati50zhMmsDQWP4_B2jr1KAGzR-yKqgWRjgytJN1o84bi-H2CINajIIEuZoEDIrOaoZokg8vjuSHY/s1600/Tuareg+Refugee+Camp+%2841%29.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbds0mI130JyIcBke_RwQYNlJno4mpU1-p-n_ShJDwxJv8W0m2a8xCIxxH_lyCTjati50zhMmsDQWP4_B2jr1KAGzR-yKqgWRjgytJN1o84bi-H2CINajIIEuZoEDIrOaoZokg8vjuSHY/s320/Tuareg+Refugee+Camp+%2841%29.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span></span><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">So now I pray again –</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh, God, forgive me for my selfishness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Forgive me for thinking that I am entitled to air conditioning and pillow-top mattresses and cute shoes while your children are starving to death without you all over the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Forgive me for being so thankful that you died for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i> that I neglect to acknowledge the fact that you died for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">them</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Forgive me for choosing to love my neighbor only when he speaks my language and showers every day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t let me forget that you reached out to touch the leper, stinking and covered in open wounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That poverty and disease do not scare you, although they surely make you sad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That you died to save an entire world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t let me forget.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>Donna Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12838345035678125512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436349120084218932.post-76368106137706070352012-03-16T15:30:00.000-07:002012-03-16T15:30:58.275-07:00Snapshot UpdateSo Burkina Faso eats computers. And indeed, my computer is on its last leg. It won't hold a battery for anything, but I decided to do a few quick snapshots. Maybe I'll be able to post an actual snapshot next week. Who knows. Anyway, a few highlights from the past couple weeks:<br />
<br />
-Two weeks ago Sunday. Watched a packed church come forward once, twice, thrice to give to the work of the Lord not out of their abundance but out of their poverty. The money was to be split in to three groups - two groups to build two new churches and one group to go to foreign missions (yes, foreign missions!) to send pastors to surrounding unreached people groups. The money was counted on the spot and I joined in the celebration dance when we discovered that the total came to over $300 - an exorbitant amount for the third poorest country in the world. So humbled. <br />
<br />
- Not long ago. Drove by the dump. I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the hot car window to say a prayer for the two teeny girls that we just drove past...both barefoot and in tattered dresses, <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<br />
- Yesterday. Old man - could have been the peer of either of my grandfathers - tilted his turbaned head as he begged for money or food. I swallowed a sob as I handed him all the change I had, resisting the urge to throw my arms around him and give him a kiss as I would my grandfather. Wished I knew enough of the Malian languages to tell him about Jesus.<br />
<br />
- Yesterday. Thursday School. Screaming with laughter (along with 30 other voices) as my girls strut and primp in front of the little boy playing King Xerxes, each one trying to be chosen as Queen Esther. According to the statistics of the country, only 13% of them can read. But all of them know their memory verse. <br />
<br />
- This morning. Jumped in surprise as a man about my age appeared out of nowhere and glued himself to my side as I walked with Kate in the heart of the city. He spoke very good English and informed me that his name is Hakuna Matata - not kidding. He followed me for many blocks and across quite a few highways. He told me all about his music and his work and I told him about a man named Jesus. <br />
<br />
- This afternoon. Was was walking back from the market. Remember walking past a woman sleeping on two collapsed cardboard boxes. Later biking past a man in a Tuareg head wrap carefully picking food out of the trash can. Hating myself because these images make me whisper a prayer, but they no longer make me cry. <br />
<br />
- Today in a taxi. Kate asks, "Hey, what do those boxes say?" So I lift my sunglasses and squint to look at the one-person truckcar in front of us. "They say, USAID. From the American people." Then I lean forward excitedly. "Hey, that's the seal of the President on the bottom!" I search the box until I see the words, "President's Malaria Initiative" just above the symbol for the Center for Disease Control. I have no idea what the President's Malaria Initiative is, but in my imagination it has something to do with that new breakthrough malaria vaccine just released that is expected to cut infant mortality rate in Africa in half. The vaccine that made the researchers cry when they saw the statistics. <br />
<br />
- Every single day. Jesus is awesome. I am so humbled to be here. Donna Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12838345035678125512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436349120084218932.post-58203336855647805602012-03-01T14:36:00.001-08:002012-03-01T15:53:40.883-08:00A Day at the Market<div class="MsoNormal">I’m a little bit nervous. I decided not to go yesterday, put it off yet again. I don’t want to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> go. But I’m still nervous. Communication is going to be a huge hurdle. I could choose to stay home again.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I think of the words of St. Francis Assisi, “Preach the Gospel to the whole world. And if necessary, use words.” And I think of my nightly ritual whenever I go to see my niece and nephew. I kiss them both good night as I leave and Joshua immediately falls asleep grinning. I turn and look Paisley in the eyes and ask, “And what must we always choose?” She solemnly replies, “Always choose for love.” “Good girl. Always choose to love.” I take a deep breath. I can love without words. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And anyway, I need apples. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I head out. I wave goodbye to the guard at the gate as I stroll past him and on to the street teaming with pedestrians who immediately greet and wave, giving me courage to do this – to walk to the market by myself. It’s over 100 degrees outside and the Sahara sun seems to have singled me out as a tasty rotisserie. It’s taking a bit longer than I had anticipated to get to the market because you’ll never meet an African who won’t greet. The ‘road’ is very wide and completely dirt, except for the thin pavement of trash and broken glass. I dodge bicycles, motos, and donkeys and wander up and down tiny Grand Canyons and Mt. Everests disguised as potholes and dirt piles. I pass the most fascinating shops – there must be hundreds of them – all dilapidated shacks of tin, dirt, and concrete crammed together and hiding behind beaming shop owners who wave and shout hello to me. I pause to wait while an ancient car passes me, filled with grinning Africans who perch precariously on the broken seats of the vehicle that appears to have nothing more than good luck holding it together. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Finally I see the entrance to the market. I dodge more donkeys and follow a much narrower dirt path as it snakes between two shack shops held erect by termites and possibly some duct tape. Behind the shops the path widens to reveal a busy scene of color and life. I stop and look around with huge eyes, completely enchanted. Every kind of fruit, vegetable, herb, and spice you could imagine is piled, hung, and draped along vendor stands almost as far as I can see. Large colorful pieces of fabric, cheap jewelry, and traditional clothing are also laid out for purchase. Hundreds and hundreds of men, women, and sometimes-naked children weave in and out of the stands, all laughing and grinning, chattering away in what sounds like a zillion native languages. I walk slowly through the scene. A white woman in Western clothes and a pair of sunglasses is definitely out of place here, but no one seems to mind. Soon my arm is tired from waving back and my face hurts from returning grins and replying, “Ca va bien, como ca va?” My hands have got to be filthy from rubbing the soft heads of the kiddos who hurry to walk near me, often pushing a younger brother or sister towards me to shake hands first and make sure I’m not deadly. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It smells like the fair, only better. Every few steps a new aroma excites my senses. Something fried, something raw and ready to be fried, fresh fish, strange green spices that I must never have sampled, newly sliced <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fraises</i>, bright red mystery meat, yellow-orange fruit juice and deep blue berries. I walk on and on, entranced in the magic. Finally I turn a corner and, to my delight, see the exact same scene. I could get lost in here, but I don’t care. This new dirt path is much narrower and more crowded. Everyone is coming from every direction and trying to go every direction, but not a soul is unkind – no one pushes. In fact, one lady’s moto sputters to a stop and a dozen hands immediately reach out to help her lift it to a safer parking spot. Bumping in to someone means an opportunity to have a conversation and, of course, to laugh. I stop to watch and turn at a stroke on my arm. A smiling lady is selling a strange exotic fruit that can’t decide if it wants to be vibrant green or lucid orange or a beautiful mixture of both. A few sentences are all it takes to prove that I speak very little French, so all the surrounding ladies jump in to help, but none of them speak English, so it gets loud and confusing and strikes us all as hilarious, and we succumb to the kind of friendship that is born of laughter. My skin stings with slaps on the back and affectionate arm-rubbing from my new friends. I buy a bag of the fruit, tangelos they seem to be, thank the lady and wish her the blessings of God, which she wishes back. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I walk on, each turn bringing only a slight variation of the same beautiful scene. I’ve learned quite a few new French phrases by the time I decide that I need to get my translucent skin out of the sun. I find the edge of the market and emerge back on to the huge dirt/trash road carrying a bag full of tangelos and no apples. I turn towards home, flanked by two beautiful children who have taken it upon themselves to accompany me all the way back to my gate, giggling every time I make eye contact. But before I start walking, I turn and gaze back at the market. I smile and close my eyes. “If this isn’t the greatest place on Earth, then the greatest place on Earth does not exist.” But I’m not quite sure if I mean the market or Africa herself. Love can happen without words. Love can happen across language barriers and culture boundaries and country borders. In fact, it just did. </div>Donna Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12838345035678125512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436349120084218932.post-86145633794764575302012-02-25T11:53:00.000-08:002012-02-25T11:53:45.950-08:00Children's Crusade in Bobo-Diolasso<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibpYV_rKUtL2FBzt0H9SZp7Y06vO7AXdk2Wp0GWBFKITZ65f_jMbfXVeUPqHJfvABYkTJW6g8hw-aV0LTepg9zud_GCX8g9u6wSD0F0czC7A3FfECa2HGGSzV166XL_Kz3_1ZohC0JY0Y/s1600/Bobo+Children%27s+Crusade+-+Ken%27s+Camera+%2818%29.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibpYV_rKUtL2FBzt0H9SZp7Y06vO7AXdk2Wp0GWBFKITZ65f_jMbfXVeUPqHJfvABYkTJW6g8hw-aV0LTepg9zud_GCX8g9u6wSD0F0czC7A3FfECa2HGGSzV166XL_Kz3_1ZohC0JY0Y/s320/Bobo+Children%27s+Crusade+-+Ken%27s+Camera+%2818%29.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinSG5ABN0v_HrypT67mYtEHaJSD5Z9B_7mGl25RVp2p8DBCMJXCVAPca1MHpF4aIladYGh3j4Kpdd5Gi5gwbCbOG5_nCsL4JgypST3fB2ztecDW6gd1TCHSw11AAqs7dyNMSVrhfsLvMc/s1600/Bobo+Children%27s+Crusade+-+Ken%27s+Camera+%2840%29.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinSG5ABN0v_HrypT67mYtEHaJSD5Z9B_7mGl25RVp2p8DBCMJXCVAPca1MHpF4aIladYGh3j4Kpdd5Gi5gwbCbOG5_nCsL4JgypST3fB2ztecDW6gd1TCHSw11AAqs7dyNMSVrhfsLvMc/s320/Bobo+Children%27s+Crusade+-+Ken%27s+Camera+%2840%29.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>It was over 110 degrees...but I LOVED it! Jesus is awesome!Donna Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12838345035678125512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436349120084218932.post-35400692437005295292012-02-25T11:33:00.000-08:002012-02-25T11:33:16.769-08:00Daniel 7:14<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">So you know that book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Where the Sidewalk Ends</i>?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s where I live <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">:)</span></span>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pavement ends, then the road continues on in dirt for a few more meters, and there I am!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or there we are, rather; that’s the entrance to SIL.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The guards are all wonderful and by now have discovered that I don’t speak French, so they just greet me and ask where I’m going and what room is mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then inside the compound is beautiful because it’s green, which a nice escape from the desert.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Almost all of my neighbors work for Wycliff, working on some stage of translating the Bible in to local languages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One of my neighbors, a lady from Switzerland, said that she has lived and worked in Burkina Faso for 30 years (I’m so jealous!) and has been writing the Bible in one of the languages in Banfora.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The best part is that she said they just finished typesetting the New Testament, had it printed, and the first load of New Testaments are in trucks and on their way to Burkina Faso right now!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She said that the tribe will receive the shipment on April 14<sup>th</sup>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was soooooo excited!<span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"></span></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ever since I heard about Wycliff, I’ve thought it was a wonderful organization.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And now to see it in action…it really is amazing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Imagine – a goal of having the Bible printed in every one of the 6,912 languages in the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I keep thinking about how different my life would be if I had grown up without a Bible to read in my own language.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I look in to the eyes of these sweet children and desire with everything inside of me that they could have a Bible all their own to read, also. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I remember many many evenings when I was growing up, sitting around the fireplace on the living room floor with my sister and leaning against my dad as my mother read to us from the Bible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though I was sometimes bored and wanted to read a novel instead, I know now that those times shaped me in to who I am today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a matter of fact, everything that I am today is shaped by the Biblical influence that I grew up with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think about how blessed I am because of that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then I think about the 13% literacy rate of Burkina Faso.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eighty-seven percent of these precious children don’t get to have the Bible read to them at night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Did Daniel not say, "All people, nations, and languages will worship Him?" ( Daniel 7:13,14). That therefore must include every one of the 1000+ languages on the continent of Africa. Oh Jesus, send workers to the harvest field of West Africa. </span></div>Donna Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12838345035678125512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436349120084218932.post-2289993150324503822012-02-13T09:03:00.000-08:002012-02-13T09:03:34.035-08:00Lundi, le 13 févrierThis morning it was harder than it has been. I hadn’t been able to fall asleep until very late, and so I woke up very tired and overwhelmed with culture shock. I walked around getting ready, not trying very hard to fight off the feelings of, “What am I even doing here?” “I feel useless.” “This is pointless. I can’t even communicate.” The missionaries warned me that I would get to this point. I felt terrible, and I felt guilty <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">about</i> feeling terrible. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I hit my knees. “Oh God, help me. I’m sorry I’m giving in to these feelings. I’m being selfish. I know you brought me here and that this is your will in my life. I have no strength today. Be my strength. I can’t do this alone. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">need</i> you. Help me today to love you so much that it bubbles over and embraces those around me. Walk with me. Please. You’re all I have.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And then I got up and rode my bike to Bible college. And now, at the end of the day, it’s strange…because it’s not that I really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">feel</i> any different. I still feel inadequate. I’m still struggling with trying to make my heart <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> my mind reside in Africa, rather than my heart in Africa and my mind in Arkansas. I still <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">feel</i> like I’m walking on the edge of failure. But I smile at how amazing God is…because he taught me today. He taught me how to feel beyond it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I can still feel the overwhelming contentment of standing in the heat with Demanta and Rebekah (the two women at the Bible school) as they run my braid through their hands, patiently correcting my pronunciation. I feel the excitement of knowing I had a whole conversation with them in French/English/sign language as I struggle to communicate with them just a little more than yesterday. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I feel the laughter that the ladies and I shared when Pastor Jack stopped dead in his tracks at his first sight of my hair this morning. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I feel their hugs as they wish me goodbye and safe journey and please come and see them tomorrow. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I feel the wind cooling me down as I zip past the market, breathing in the scent of fresh fruit, and the sun scorching my neck as I stop at a stoplight with two dozen other bicyclers, all smiling at me and greeting, “Bonjour!” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I feel my bike start to wobble as I let go with one hand to high-five a group of school children who are running past me, shouting, “Nasalla, Nasalla! Sa va?” (‘white person, white person! How are you?) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I feel the calloused handshake of my ‘favorite’ person here at SIL as he grins that huge African grin and asks me to please turn around so he can ‘be mystified’ by my hair. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I feel the coolness of a Coca-Cola in my hand as I stand talking to the guard, speaking slowly in French and looking at him expectantly to fill in the gaps of my sentences with words I don’t know. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I feel the familiar creases of my Bible cover as I open it and read about Jacob, who left behind <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">his</i> home and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">his</i> family and the comforts of an established way of life to travel alone to a strange land and new people. He had no one but God. I read of Jacob and I think of that day so many years ago when I first knew the draw of Africa…and I feel at home. </div>Donna Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12838345035678125512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436349120084218932.post-46575061244288554852012-02-11T11:00:00.000-08:002012-02-11T11:00:56.284-08:00Universal LanguageThey say that music is the universal language. <br />
Well I've never understood language barriers like I have since I got to Burkina Faso. It frustrates me because I'm chatty and I want SO much to talk to all the people who surround me when I ride my bike across town. I want to ask them about themselves. I want to invite them to church. I want to explain why I'm on a bicycle trying to hard to be like them, to be a part of them. At first I thought we weren't communicating at all. But this week I began to see it differently. <br />
<br />
At church last week, the pastor began service by saying that he was thankful for the missionaries, Ken and Gin, and that he was thankful for the new young missionary lady that was visiting from the States. Because he was talking about me, Gin leaned over to translate. He said, "We are thankful for our new friend, whom we love already!" I turned a huge smile to the congregation as the all clapped and cheered in agreement, and he continued, "And we can tell that she loves us, too. And it is obvious that she loves our children. We have been observing her as she watches our children, and we can see that she loves our children very much." And then he asked me, via Ken as translator, to "come and speak to our children." I had nothing prepared, but as I walked to the group of children and looked into their beautiful faces, I decided to tell them the story of Samuel, how he was a great prophet who was called of God when he was just a little boy. I told them that God loves children and he speaks to children. I told them that God loves them, that I love them, and that I want them to love God with all their hearts. As I spoke, I couldn't help but reach out and run my hand over their heads and caress their sweet soft faces, smiling without even realizing it. <br />
<br />
When I sat down, one tiny little boy ran over and threw himself in my lap, saying not a word but looking up at me with laughing eyes that said, "Hi! I like you, white lady!" I laughed and kissed him and told him that I loved him. He toddled over and took his sister's hand and brought her to me, as well. On the drive home, the three little boys who ride with us took it upon themselves to give me a vocabulary lesson in French and in Moree. They made me repeat after them until I sounded just like them, and squealed in laughter when I pronounced something incorrectly, sometimes collapsing into giggles and patting my arms and hands. When they got tired of that, little Robert silently took my hand to hold in both of his and laid his head on my shoulder. I decided that there wasn't another place in the whole world that I would rather be. <br />
<br />
They say that the universal language is music. I disagree. I say it's love. Donna Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12838345035678125512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436349120084218932.post-56384488150147525652012-02-06T13:33:00.000-08:002012-02-06T13:33:55.449-08:00HarmattanI was shivering cold when I woke up this morning, which I thought was an odd, if welcome, surprise. I opened my apartment door and blinked in further surprise. I frowned and whispered to no one, "Is it <i>foggy</i>?" The air had that dense, hazy look that comes with the thickest of fog that sometimes rolls in off the Arkansas River. And furthermore....it was <i>cold</i>. And <i>dark</i>. The air was so thick that it seemed to have texture to it. In total confusion, I walked out in to the courtyard where other people were walking around. I looked closely - they were all wearing masks. "<i>Holy cow,</i>" I thought, "<i>it's <b>dust</b>!" </i>Sure enough, what had appeared to be fog was in fact sand from the Sahara so thick that it was actually blocking out the sun. It was obviously daylight outside, but the dust was so thick that it looked like a heavily overcast day. When I got in the missionaries' car, Gin greeted me with, "Welcome to Harmattan!" and laughed when I told her I had though it was fog. Everyone we passed was wearing some sort of cloth mask over their nose and mouth, and the dust continued to block the sun all day to the extent that I was actually <i>cold </i>during my French lesson. When I got back to my apartment, I decided to make a cup of coffee to warm up. I tied a bandana across my mouth and nose and walked next door to the kitchen, where I found some neighbors cooking lunch, each one also wearing a mask to block out the dust. I laughed when I saw myself in the mirror. <i> "I look like a bandit. And I'm here as a missionary." </i> Every time I took the bandana off, no matter if I was inside or outside, I noticed that everything smells like an old, dusty closet that has just been opened for the first time in years. Ive had to squint when I walk to protect my contacts. I thought of the stories mamma used to tell about blizzards in Alaska, and I think that Harmattan must look somewhat like those white-out conditions...African style :).Donna Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12838345035678125512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436349120084218932.post-32626591012960539042012-02-05T13:22:00.000-08:002012-02-05T13:23:30.058-08:00Fighting Language Barriers<div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">“I do NOT want to learn French today. I do <b>not</b>.” That was my first thought as I closed my Bible and put away my coffee cup on Thursday morning. I hadn’t been able to sleep the night before until after 4 am, and now as I waited for Ken and Gin to come and pick me up for Bible School and a two-hour French lesson, all I wanted to do was lay back down. French took too much brain power. One-on-one language study is VERY intense because you can’t hide behind the other students if you don’t understand. And Pastor Abel is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">determined</i> that I will learn. Too hard today. Nope. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We got to the Bible College, and some of the pastor’s children were there since schools are out on Thursdays here. Ken handed me a coin and said that on Thursdays he always bought the kids candy, so why didn’t I take them down to the little stand on the road and get them some candy. So I took hold of a little brown hand and we started out. We walked through potholes and over trash piles until we got to the end of the road, and then turned right and walked through more potholes and over more trash piles, bicycles and motorcycles whizzing by greeting us happily, until we started passing stands with odd collections of things to buy. Twice we passed a stand and I looked down at the adorable little girl beside me and asked, “Ici? Pour bon-bons?” and she shook a braided head with a soft, “No.” She led me to the correct stand and I squeezed past all the people standing talking and laughing outside until I found the owner. I held up the coin and said, “Cinq cent pour bon-bon pour les enfants,” and indicated the girl and her tiny little brother, chubby-faced and already covered in dirt as only little boys can become so early in the morning. The man nodded and handed me over four suckers, but then asked me a question in French. I blinked at him. A lady standing near saw that I didn’t understand and came over to explain that to the owner, talking rapidly in French. A few other people came over to help out (people here really are very friendly and helpful) and they were all touching my arm, occasionally throwing out an English word, and chattering away in French at 100 kilometers an hour. Then they <i>all </i>decided to help until it seemed that everyone who had just been outside was now inside, leaning in close and trying to tell me how to make change. Finally they got it all figured out and handed me back some small coins, and as they continued to chatter at me and at one another with encouraging smiles and handshakes and shoulder pats, my heart swelled with love for these strangers and I changed my mind. I DO want to learn French today. Oh, how I want to learn French today. I want to talk to these beautiful people, to join in the conversations must always be terribly funny because they are never not laughing. I want to speak with these delightful children, and be able to tell them in French instead of in English that Jesus loves them as I kiss their coffee-bean-colored foreheads. I don’t want to be an observer here. I want to be a part of this life, this pulse of Africa. I want to be a part of Burkina Faso. I want to learn French today. </div><div class="MsoNormal"></div>Donna Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12838345035678125512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436349120084218932.post-7474550907949341812012-01-26T04:01:00.001-08:002012-01-26T04:01:51.067-08:00Getting used to African nights.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">I heard him before I opened my eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Actually, it was he who awakened me from that pleasant state of just having fallen asleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He sounded like a helicopter in my room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I amazed myself with how quickly I reacted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without even opening my eyes, I came fully awake and yanked the covers over my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>DANG IT!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A mosquito.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was so certain that there weren’t any when I turned out my light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I laid there for a minute and then sighed and dragged myself out of bed, found a flashlight to guide me across the room, flipped on the light and stood looking around sleepily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sighed again and began the laborious process of untying my mosquito net from the ceiling and tucking it securely around my bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I then realized I was thirsty, so I unlocked my door and went around to my kitchen (next door) and found some water in the fridge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time I got back to my room, I was already dusty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Earlier in the evening, my sinuses decided that they just could not handle Harmattan anymore and rebelled against me, leaving me in a pile of tissues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I turned out the light and used my flashlight to get back to my bed. I ducked under the mosquito net and lay there in the heat thinking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of a sudden the humor of it all struck me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, I don’t even speak French!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here I am, in the middle of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Africa</i> all by myself, I don’t know the language, I couldn’t find my way around my neighborhood if my life depended on it, and I’m laying under a mosquito net because malaria medicine makes me dizzy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m hot and dusty, and…and I don’t even speak French!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What was I thinking? I’m crazy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I laughed aloud into the darkness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is so far from my life in a sea of cubicles, with Starbucks down the road and high heels on my feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes the contrast of it all strikes me as completely surreal – is this really my life?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Am I really this lucky that I get to do this?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To lay here, covered in dust from Sahara’s Harmattan, hiding from malaria, trying to sleep in the heat of a West African evening and knowing that tomorrow I get to wake up to the sound of African laughter and face a day of a dozen hugs and the constant clutching of little black hands?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did I really just buy a bicycle so that I can bike over to the market and across the neighborhood to Bible College?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How did I get to be so lucky?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again it makes me laugh, but with a heart bubbling over with thankfulness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thank you, God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you called me to Africa I never knew…I never knew I would love it as much as all this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>Donna Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12838345035678125512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436349120084218932.post-73569630578924967812012-01-25T14:42:00.000-08:002012-01-25T14:42:30.199-08:00Africa, Take Two: West Africa!<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">Burkina Faso is much different from Uganda, but it is still so much the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The people are super sweet and friendly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then language barrier is frustrating because I just want to sit and talk to all the sweet people that I’m meeting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not one person has been anything close to rude, not one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even when they realize that I can’t speak French, they just smile huge white smiles and nod encouragingly at me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love them already <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">:)</span></span>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We went to a wedding on Saturday!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My first African wedding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was excruciatingly long; we were only there for about six hours, but apparently it went on from ten in the morning until midnight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People kept getting up to sing to the new couple and speak to them, and then there was a very long sermon, and that whole part of it was terribly boring because I don’t speak French and because I was sitting in the front, so I had to look like I was paying attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the first part of the wedding – that was amazing!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hands down the best wedding I’ve ever been to in my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was dancing and singing and laughing and more dancing…not slow sad wedding dancing like in the U.S., but like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tribal</i> dancing!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it was beautiful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If ever I marry, I want the ceremony to be just like that: drums beating almost loud enough to drown out the chattering African languages, people dancing, dressed festively in bright colors, wearing head wraps that may or may not match their respective outfits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Enormous white smiles flashing against dark faces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dust kicked up and swirling in the air as thick as fog, sweat running off of every brow, and dozens and dozens of tiny brown faces crowding the doorways and windows, their black eyes shiny with jolly laughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>Donna Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12838345035678125512noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436349120084218932.post-14358818052052701802011-02-03T21:01:00.000-08:002011-02-03T21:01:23.463-08:00I've discovered that I have the ability to travel at the speed of sound. But not physically. I will see or hear something or catch a familiar scent and suddenly I'm 8,000 miles away. In a millisecond I'm listening to my students chat or watching Kampala traffic or breathing in the smell of an African rainstorm. We had communion at church and I took the cup of grape juice and was immediately in Adjumani, taking communion with the Ma'di, sharing homemade bread and flat, warm Coke that the women had carried in on platters on their heads. A customer calls my phone at work, speaking British English and before I can even reply to his question I am sitting at the faculty table in the dinning hall, laughing uncontrollably with the other teachers as I arm wrestle Teacher Samuel and everyone is pounding the table and shouting about how much stronger Africans are than Americans. A random warm day breaks the monotony of winter and I walk outside my home to find myself stretching awake to hear the sound of chatter in Ki-Swahili drifting through my open windows. I drive home facing the sunset and lose all thought of my current phone call as suddenly I am instead watching the sun rise over the equator, glinting off of Lake Victoria and shinning almost as brightly as the smiles on the friendly faces that walk past me. <br />
<br />
Haha today as I was breaking ice off of the front porch I remembered trying to explain to my students and co-workers how cold winter in America is. Living on the equator, they don sweaters when temperatures drop below 70 degrees Fahrenheit. I had been so excited one day when we went to the shopping center and I looked down to see a freezer holding frosty Coca-Colas. I called Bro. Tonney over and had him stick his hand inside the cooler right next to where the frigid air was blowing out and told him, "See? That is how cold the outside air is in the winter in America." Understanding and shock registered on his face and he informed me that he had changed his mind - he no longer wished to see snow. <br />
<br />
I miss it.Donna Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12838345035678125512noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436349120084218932.post-20965591173407890332010-12-18T08:51:00.000-08:002010-12-18T08:51:58.492-08:00Sunday, December 05, 2010, 1:20 A.M.<span lang="EN"> Sunday, December 05, 2010, 1:20 A.M.<br />
Memphis Airport<br />
I have had the worst flying experience ever. My flight out of Amsterdam was delayed by 3 or 4 hours because of weather and so of course I missed my connecting flight out of here and in to Little Rock. I wasn’t angry about that, because I’ve learned from working at ABF that you can’t control everything about transportation. I was disappointed to learn that all the connecting flights out of Memphis had already left and so we wouldn’t be able to get out of here until tomorrow. I called Delta to try to switch my flight to Ft. Smith and they said that the only way I could do that was to pay $200, which I did not want to do. So I called the number they gave me for a hotel and they said that a shuttle was on the way to come and get me. I went outside and waited for over an hour, but no shuttle. I called again and the same guy, Scott, said that they had sent three and I must not have seen them, so I went outside and stood in a different spot, under the “Hotel” sign and waited. I was SO cold. I had on my sweater and my katinge. That wasn’t enough, so I opened my baggage and got out the sweater that I bought Deby for her birthday when I was in Amsterdam. I put that on and then got out the purple scarf that I bought at the Nile source. I wrapped that around my ears and then around my neck, then wrapped the katinge around my entire body. Lucky I had bought those gloves in Amsterdam. But I was still cold. I was almost shaking I was so cold, and after 45 minutes there was still no shuttle. So I came back inside and called Delta back and said I still want to change my ticket. The lady transferred me to another lady and I explained the same to her. I was cold and tired and angry, but I tried very hard to be sweet and patient with the people on the phone, because goodness knows that I know what it’s like to deal with cranky, stressed out people. The second lady was so very sweet and had a slight Southern accent, and she kept exclaiming and saying that she felt sorry for me and she put me on hold for a long time and then had to transfer me yet again to get everything finalized, but she told me that they were doing my transfer for me for free of charge. She even kept apologizing. I was so happy that everything worked out. God worked that one out for me! <br />
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<br />
But the part that sticks out the most about the evening was that while I was standing outside I looked around and I didn’t see anyone. Not a soul. Every once in a while a couple airport workers would run by at a distance on their way to a parking shuttle through the cold. But other than that, the place was deserted. If this were Africa, there would be people <i>everywhere!</i> In the time I stood there, at least 6 people would have invited me to come and share their food and I would have been greeted and smiled at and touched dozens and dozens of times. I would have had the comfort of knowing that there were people near, that any time I looked up I would make eye contact with someone who would offer a smile that came from the heart, not the face. Yes, I would have had to watch my bag carefully, but I would have felt the pulse of the beating heart of Africa. Of humanity. But instead I was standing in America, cold as I could be and bitten by the bitter wind, with no one to smile at me or make me laugh or touch my arm. In my entire 24 years of life I have never felt so alone. And I wept. I wept for loneliness for my Africa, gone from me not yet 36 hours and already the reason for my longing, my utter despair of spending the next year in this place. In all my three months of being in Africa, I never once cried for missing anyone or anything in America. But I stood in the cold tonight and I cried great, shaking sobs for my homesickness for Africa. I had cried at student assembly on Friday as the students and teachers came to me with gifts, and when my female students saw it they reached up and wiped my tears away with soft dark fingers, crying themselves. But tonight I cried alone. I felt a loneliness so deep that I literally could not even stand correctly and hold my head up straight. I wrapped my arms around myself in an attempt to hug away the longing, the hurt of the greatest emptiness I have ever known. But nothing can take away the loneliness for Africa. And I feel I will always be alone until I can return to my Africa. </span>Donna Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12838345035678125512noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436349120084218932.post-24817228466401974712010-11-29T05:35:00.000-08:002010-11-29T05:35:09.602-08:00LiraA couple weeks ago Bro. and Sis. Groves flew in from Kenya to go with us to the district conference in Lira. They are from Jamaica and they are missionaries to Kenya and Sudan. They're really good people and a lot of fun to travel with, but sometimes no matter how hard I paid attention, I could not for the life of me understand their accents, haha. It was a long drive to Lira, but not as long as it was to Adjumani because a.) Lira is not as far as Adjumani, and b.) the entire road was paved. There is a lot of development in Lira because there is a huge UN presence there. Even the children speak very good English, which is unusual for the villages, and everywhere I kept seeing UN and WFP vehicles and tents. I was curious about this until Bro. Tolstad explained that the Lira/Gulu districts were like a stronghold for the LRA until only a couple years ago. I rememer reading in Time magazine some years ago that in Uganda there was a certain town where young boys would walk for protection under government troops. They had to walk for dozens of kilometers every night to get to this town to sleep in the streets or under tents or anywhere they could find a place, and then walk back to their villages every morning. They had to do this because if they stayed in their village then they would be abducted when the LRA raided their homes every night, and they would be commissioned into the Lord's Resistance Army as child soldiers. Bro. Tolstad said that that town where they walked to was Lira. I was amazed to be in this place that I had cried over when I read of it before. I have always loved going to the villages, but I felt more drawn to Lira than to any place else in Uganda because of what they have been through. During the services when we were praying for the people, I prayed with special fervency because I kept thinking, "What has this boy seen? What is going on inside this man's head that is making him cry so much? This woman has likely lost a son or nephew or cousin to the LRA and yet here she is worshipping God with all sincerity." I was completely humbled by the love for God that I could see in all the people that I met there. Bro. Tonney said that there are still places in the bush that are full of active land mines, reminders of the all too recent genocide. <br />
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When I first arrived in Uganda, Sis. Tolstad had me read a book called <em>Aboke Girls</em> about some school girls here in Uganda that were abducted from their bording school by the LRA. They were taken in to the bush and marched into Souther Sudan to become wives of the LRA commanders. Their headmistress was so upset by the action that she followed the soldiers in to the bush and retreived over 100 of the girls herself. The remaining 30 spent many months in the LRA while their headmistress petitioned leaders all over the world, including the pope himself, for their release. Some of the girls managed an escape and the book is their story. The things that they went through were beyond horrifying. The last girl was finally returned only about a year ago. When we were driving through Lira, Bro. Tolstad turned to me and asked, "Did you read the story about the Aboke girls?" "Yes, sir." "Their school is up here on the right." I was stunned that the place of such slaughter and horror was actually before my eyes. I didn't even know <em>how </em>or <em>what</em> to pray as I stood looking out my hotel window at the town that night. All I could do was weep like I have never wept in my life, and ask God to show his people here that he loves them, and to bless the work of the church, so that the name of Jesus Christ can be glorified in the midst of the pain that can still be read in people's eyes.Donna Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12838345035678125512noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1436349120084218932.post-78395516447797599382010-11-16T09:11:00.000-08:002010-11-16T09:11:09.542-08:00Human biology lessonA few weeks ago I was sitting with the other teachers during tea break and one of them, Mr. Kaka (he's a Massai, from Kenya), took my hand and turned it over to where my wrist was facing up. He and Teacher Samuel leaned in close and started running their fingers along my wrist and upper arm. I finally asked, "Um, what are you doing?" Samuel said, "Your blood. We can see your blood." At first I thought I was bleeding, and then I realized that they were saying that they could see the blood veins that run close to the surface of the skin. The underside of my arms are so pale that you can easily see the veins there. Kaka's tribe is not very dark, so I looked at his wrists but still the veins were not visible under his skin. So I layed my arm next to his and the contrast was so sharp that it struck all of us as funny. This drew the other teachers, who also leaned over and started running their fingers along the map of veins in my arm. Kaka finally raised his head and asked me, "Are you white or clear?"<br />
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Then, on Friday, the biology teacher left his classroom and approached me in the dinning hall. He took my arm, looked at my wrist for a moment, and then gently pulled me in to his classroom. He then took me to every desk of students in the class, stretching my arm out for them and showing them that the different veins in my arm showed how oxygenated blood is a different color from non oxygenated blood. The students were fascinated! They all leaned over my arm and started chattering at one another in Luganda, which I pretended not to hear since they are supposed to only speak English in class. Some of them tried to tap my arm to see if the veins would pop out (like when the doctor draws blood), but this earned them a smack on the head from Teacher Jacob. I didn't mind, though; I thought it was a lot of fun to be a human biology lesson. I also think I may have learned more that day than the students did, haha. Donna Parkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12838345035678125512noreply@blogger.com0