This post originally appeared on my personal blog on January 30, 2008, but over the weekend I realized I needed to relearn some of the lessons I learned in Africa.  Aren’t you glad you get to revisit Ghana with me?

OK – so last week I promised that I would write about my trip to Ghana. I’m going to do my best to be concise, but it was a 17-day trip, so I’m not sure how concise I can be.

I went with a group from school. Beeson requires us to complete three internships. One of them has to be have a cross-cultural component. You can either complete an entire semester-long internship, OR you can go on a two week trip to a foreign country and get your credit that way. Which one would you choose? I, obviously, went for the two-week trip.

Instead of giving you a blow-by-blow account of the trip, I think I’ll start by including part of a paper I wrote before we left:

Inevitably, when I tell people I’m going to Ghana, their reaction is one of anxious enthusiasm. They know that this is an amazing opportunity for me, but they also fear for my safety. The news is filled with riots and demonstrations in Kenya, and if Kenya is in turmoil, the rest of Africa must be as well. “You know, Africa isn’t known for its political stability,” they say. Even if I explain to them that Ghana is one of the more stable countries in the continent, I can tell they don’t believe me. “Don’t drink the water…or eat the food,” they caution me. I tell them that I have to eat something, and no matter how many granola bars or water bottles I stuff into my luggage, it won’t be sufficient. My mother, knowing that mosquitoes eat me up like crazy, points out that my chances of contracting malaria are higher than others. Thanks for the reminder, mom. These are just a handful of the concerns I hear. They range from the downright silly to the deadly serious. If I’m honest with myself, I will admit that these fears are not just the fears of my friends and family. They are my fears as well.

When I woke up this morning and turned on the news, images of burning churches in Kenya filled the screen. It’s not that far away from Ghana, just a hop, skip, and jump across the continent. Uneasiness filled the pit of my stomach as I packed the rest of my belongings. Surely, everything will be fine, at least I think it will. This is the biggest judgment of the country I will have to lay aside. The notion that it is dangerous for me to be there pervades my mind. Even if I take every precaution necessary, I am still afraid that someone will snatch my money in the market, rioters will burn down a church I am working in, or I’ll catch a disease from a loose chicken on an overstuffed tro-tro. I constantly have to remind myself that their way of life is not wrong, it’s just different. They are not uncivilized: their civilization simply looks different than mine. Aspects of Ghana that make me raise my eyebrows, like overcrowded cities and animals wandering around, are just part of their way of life. There is nothing wrong with it. Political riots break out in the United States, and there’s no guarantee of my safety here either. These are the things I try to remember.

So I went, and lo, and behold, I survived to tell about it. We spent the first half of the first week hearing lectures from various African theologians, church leaders and missionaries. Then we started the trek around the country. Hang on, let me get a map for you:

We started in Accra, down at the bottom of the map. Then we traveled to Ho, in the east. From there, we drove to Kumasi, in the middle of the country. We left Kumasi and went to Mole National Park, in the far north. After visiting the park, we drove to the small village of Carpenter, not on the map, but between Mole and Kumasi. Then, we traveled south to Cape Coast before heading back to Accra and flying out. How’s that for travel?

The country was beautiful, but impoverished. Most of the people there live on less than $1 a day. Don’t get the impression that all of Africa is mud huts and loin cloths. Accra is a city of 4 million people, and Kumasi has over 1 million people. There are definitely urban areas, but when we started driving around and visiting the rural areas, things started changing.

There is so much to say, and right now, I am just too tired to say it all. So let’s do this. In the coming weeks, I will write about my trip to Ghana in sections. Your next installment will come Friday.

Until then, grace and peace.

It’s late.  There are a few things I should be doing.  But I’m not doing any of them.  Instead, I’ve been reading posts from a Compassion blogger who’s in Kenya right now.  And it made my heart ache for Africa.  And for my own Compassion child.  So I got out a pen and paper and wrote him a letter.

Two years ago, I spent 17 days in Ghana.  It changed my life.  At least, it changed it for a little while.  And then life got busy, and I became semi-obsessed with unimportant things, like how many people visit (or don’t visit) this site every day, reading blogs, and otherwise wasting time.  I have allowed myself to be consumed by the mundane, and I have forgotten about the extraordinary grace that I have received.

It’s so easy to take things for granted.

But one look at Ryan’s pictures reminded me that because I have been given much, much is expected of me.  I should write Emmanuel, my Compassion child, more often.  I should encourage others to sponsor a child, and I should revisit the journal I kept while I was in Africa.  Some lessons have to be learned more than once, you know.

When I returned from Ghana, I wrote a series of posts about the trip on my personal blog.  I’d like to share some of those with you over the next few days.  For some of you, these will be reruns, but maybe I’m not the only one who needs to be reminded of lessons that God has taught me in the past.

And someday, I hope to go to Ghana, and meet Emmanuel, and blog about it just like Ryan’s doing.  That would change my life all over again.

by Leslie Ann Jones
What a crazy time it’s been. Such is our life, I suppose. We’ve spent the past week with family, and it has been wonderful, but let’s admit it, everyone likes to get back into the routine of everyday normal life. Am I the only one who needs a vacation from vacation when we return home? Anyway, my parents left a few hours ago, and life is back to normal here in Iuka. Micah’s napping, and I’m poking around on the internet for a little while. I should take a shower. Or figure out what’s for supper. Or take more pictures of my notecards to post on my etsy site. But I’m not. Maybe later.

Last night I was flipping through a copy of Southern Living. I’m not sure what month. Maybe it’s January’s issue? Anyway, the magazine had a “Best of the South” section, and in it, it listed Rowan Oak, home of William Faulkner, as the best literary stop in Mississippi. I haven’t read Faulkner since my freshman year in college, and I admittedly didn’t have much of an appreciation for his style. Maybe it’d be different now. Perhaps I’ll revisit some of his stories. But I digress. I was intrigued by Faulkner’s hesitancy to leave home. Only at home was he able to write. In fact, the article said that when President Kennedy invited him to dinner at the White House, Faulkner actually turned down the invitation because he thought DC was an awfully long way to go just to eat supper. Crazy. But I understand. As a writer (who writes less often than she should these days), not only can I not write unless I’m in my own space, but I also cannot write unless my space is ordered. Right now there are magazines, notebooks, an empty ramekin, and a package of batteries on my desk. There are bills in the inbox. Baby food coupons tucked in front of an insurance statement. No writing will get done until those things are taken care of. Not that I have any assignments at the moment. But that’s beside the point.

I feel like I’m finally getting to a place in this new life of mine where I can return to being me. In an article I wrote for myMISSIONfulfilled about the first weeks of motherhood, I said that I never wanted to lose my identity after having children. So many women I know forget who they are. They leave behind their entire life to become known as their child’s mother. I was so afraid that I would become “Micah’s Mommy” and quit being myself. Don’t kid yourself. The danger is real. I never wanted to quit being me just because I had also become a mother. The past four and a half months have been a struggle because it’s a fight to maintain my sense of self when I spend all day every day taking care of my infant. It would be so easy for my life to be all about her. But it’s not. Being Micah’s Mommy is just one part of my life. It’s just one facet of who I am. And it’s just one task that God has called me to complete. He has also called me to write. And to speak. And to teach. And I’m finally in a place where I am able to do those things again. Thank goodness.

Another famous Mississippi writer, Eudora Welty, said that living, not reading, made her want to write. I have been living for the past several months. Now it’s time to write again. I’m itching to stretch my literary muscles. It’s time to blow the dust off my portfolio and start sending it out. Don’t choke on the cloud of dust!

by Leslie Ann Jones

Three months ago, I took a writing hiatus and disappeared for a little while to prepare for the birth of my daughter and give myself time to adjust to our new life together.  Yesterday, we celebrated her two-month birthday, and today she reached a milestone.  Her first round of shots.

This morning we woke up early and packed the diaper bag.  I strapped my daughter into her carseat and loaded her in the car.  When we arrived at the office, I signed her in and sat in the waiting room with her as she cooed and grinned at me.  My heart was heavy.  I knew that my happy child would be upset and crying by the time we left the office, but I also knew that the shots were in her best interest.

The nurse weighed her, and the doctor checked her out.  The time for the shots arrived before I was ready for them.  My daughter gripped my index finger in one hand and my husband’s in the other.  She laid on the examination table in complete submission and trust as the nurse held down her legs and gave her the first shot.

For a second, I thought she wouldn’t cry.  Then her face contorted in shock and agony and she shrieked in pain.  I’ve never heard that sound come out of her mouth before.  The crying got louder with each shot, and my heart ached for my baby girl.  She had just experienced pain for the first time in her life, and I had voluntarily subjected her to it.

On the ride home, it occurred to me that sometimes God signs us up for pain that he knows is necessary for our own well-being.  In those moments, all we can do is cling to his finger for dear life and keep trusting that he knows what is best for us.  No life worth living is painless, and however much we may wish that we could spare ourselves the discomfort, sometimes the pain is necessary to get us where we need to be.

My daughter, by the way, is fine.  As I type this, she’s laid across my lap smiling and cooing at me again.  She survived the temporary pain.  All is well.

by Leslie Ann Jones

Life has been busy lately.  So busy, in fact, that I haven’t taken the time to sit down and write here as often as I would like.  With a baby set to arrive in just three weeks, baskets of pink onesies and fluffy blankets have swallowed me.  I’ve been getting her room in order and and hosting family and having a baby shower, and life has been insane.  In the midst of my normal, everyday life, I’ve been consumed by writing projects.  I’ve got articles coming out in ec and myMISSIONfulfilled in September, and another article coming out in the December issue of ec.  I’ve also signed a contract to write Sunday school curriculum for Clarity Publishers, and I’ve completed one of six lessons.  I’m trying to crank out a couple more lessons before it’s baby time.  All of that explains my recent absence.  If you don’t hear from me again for a while, it probably means that the baby is here and I’m getting used to life as a new parent.

But regardless of all that is going on in my life, consuming my time and occupying my thoughts, I am still called to be about the business of God.  Last week I wrote a Sunday school lesson to teach other people, but this week, the truths of the lesson keep popping up in my life.  It seems that I need to teach myself the things that I wanted to teach others.  It’s far too easy for me to lose sight of God in the middle of my busy-ness, and I was on the verge of turning down a wonderful opportunity to serve him because the timing is inconvenient.

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by Leslie Ann Jones

I’ve been writing for myMISSIONfulfilled, a Woman’s Missionary Union Web site geared toward young women, for the past couple of months, and I wanted to point you in the direction of some of the articles in lieu of posting a real entry.  Happy reading!

Ancient History: How Archaeology Enhances Our Study of Scripture.  Archaeology has made the news a lot lately as talk about the ossuary of James and the discovery of the Gospel of Judas has brought it to the forefront of our attention. But archaeology is more than bone boxes and controversial ancient documents. . . . It can actually enhance our study of Scripture.

Parthenon, Shmarthenon: Paul’s Speech in Athens.  Thoughts of ancient Greece bring to mind gods, goddesses, philosophy, the Olympics, and the Parthenon. Paul’s words about idolatry weren’t spoken in a vacuum. He was looking right at the Parthenon when he talked about temples built with human hands, and still he proclaimed the superiority of God.

Losing My Voice: How the Psalms Helped Me Find It.  When I was so frustrated with God that I didn’t know what to say, Psalms gave me the words I desperately needed and taught me how to pray again.

by Leslie Ann Jones

As I turned on the news this morning, images of President Obama touring Cape Coast Castle in Ghana and speaking to the Ghanaian people greeted me.  Just a year and a half ago, I walked through the same slave fortress and saw the same sights, and viewing them on TV brought the memories to the forefront of my mind.  In honor of Obama’s Ghanaian visit, I thought I would post a journal entry I wrote shortly after returning home about my experience at Cape Coast.  It was a sobering and powerful time, and I will never forget it.

For some background information, Cape Coast is just one of several slave fortresses along the African coast. It was a holding tank for Africans while their handlers waited for boats from the Americas to arrive and carry them out.

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by Leslie Ann Jones

Nearly eight years ago, I took Intro. to Philosophy at Mississippi State with Dr. Michael Clifford.  He scared me.  I had heard that he could be rough on Christians, and when I saw the first assignment on our syllabus, I knew I was in trouble.  In one paragraph, answer the question “What is the meaning of life?”.  I swallowed hard and dreaded the assignment, but that night, I sat down at my computer (the same one I’m typing on now, if you can believe it) and wrote the following words.

To understand the meaning of my life, you have to understand my God.  I serve a holy and mighty God, and the sole purpose of my life is to glorify my Lord and Master; I live for nothing else. My life revolves around developing a deep and personal relationship with the One that I call Savior.  Life on this earth is just the beginning of our existence; I will spend eternity in heaven with my Father. Maybe this sounds strange to you.  Maybe it sounds familiar.  Can I prove this to you?  Well, no, I can’t, but I also can’t believe anything else is true… It would be a sad world if we had no reason for living.  If everything ends at death, then what is the point of life at all?  I have found truth in the teachings of the Holy Bible, and it is the standard I follow.  I live my life by faith, trusting that a God higher than anything we can ever imagine has my life in his hands, and he knows what’s best for me.  So, if you ask me the meaning of life, I can only give you one answer, and that is to serve my God.

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by Leslie Ann Jones

I spent the first five months of my marriage cooped up in a 750 square foot apartment watching the Food Network and HGTV all day long.  I couldn’t find a job anywhere doing anything. I couldn’t remember who I was or what I was doing.  Prior to the wedding, I had commenced work on a Master of Divinity degree in Texas, but when my fiancé, who lived in Mississippi, struggled to find a job anywhere near me, I took a deep breath, finished up the semester, packed my bags and moved home.  It was a voluntary decision, but when I became the woman who followed her man instead of the woman who followed her dreams, I lost my identity.

I transferred schools and resumed classes just one school year after I left Texas, and soon got caught up in the busy-ness of school life.  I was back on track with my calling and dreams in sight.  When people asked me about myself, I had an answer: “I’m working on my Master of Divinity.”  My identity as a student was restored, and I had a nametag for people to read: “Leslie Ann Jones, seminary student.”

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by Leslie Ann Jones

I’m sad to say that when I read an article or catch a newsflash about a politician cheating on his wife, I’m not all that surprised.  Yesterday, when South Carolina governor Mark Sanford admitted that he spent the weekend in Argentina with another woman, calls for his resignation sprang up immediately.  Whether or not Sanford survives this scandal is yet to be seen, but when it comes to politicians, how they behave behind closed doors is directly related to their fitness for the job.

When things like this happen, disappointment and disillusionment  reign.  It’s difficult to read reports of deception and see the wife standing by her husband’s side (although in this case, the Sanfords have been separated for two weeks).  I’m all for practicing grace and issuing forgiveness, but when it comes to politics, integrity is a major issue.  If the governor (or president or senator or mayor) cannot be faithful to her spouse, then her word loses value and becomes almost meaningless, which even Governor Sanford recognizes.

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