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I originally wrote this post on my personal blog on February 1, 2008, but last weekend I realized I needed to relearn some of the lessons I learned in Africa. Aren’t you glad you get to revisit Africa with me??

So. When I last wrote, I gave you a rundown of the trip and told you how I felt before we left.

Anxious. That one word wraps up all of the emotions I felt preparing to leave for Ghana. I was frustrated because I didn’t know much about what would happen there. I didn’t have an itinerary, much less the names of places we would be staying. I didn’t know where we were going or what we were doing. I wasn’t even sure who was going on the trip. I didn’t know what to tell people when they asked about it. They always wanted to know what we would be doing. When asked, I usually laughed nervously and responded, “That’s a good question.” The feelings of anxiety didn’t stop when we flew away from Birmingham. They remained for three or four days after we arrived in Ghana as I wondered what in the world I was doing there.

When we arrived in Accra, I wanted to get back on the airplane and go back home. I got separated from the rest of the group. They all went ahead of me, and as I passed through the last security check at the airport, a Ghanaian man walked up to me and insisted that I needed another stamp on my passport. This stamp would cost me $20. I was already confused, because I had seen the man talking to Parker. I thought that he could have been with the seminary, someone sent to greet us. But as he continued to insist that I give him $20 for another stamp, I knew that he was just trying to scam me out of money. I asserted that if I had to get another stamp, I would ask one of the people wearing a nametag from the airport. He backed off at that point, but he didn’t go away until after I got out the door of the airport and met up with the rest of the group. The encounter rattled me. I was all alone and unprepared for the situation, immediately set on the defensive. At that point, I looked suspiciously at every Ghanaian I saw. I didn’t care if “helping” Americans at the airport was a good way for them to make some extra money. All I cared about was protecting myself, my money, and my bags from the hands of people who just wanted to take advantage of me.

It’s unfortunate that my experiences in Ghana began with such a strong negative image of the Ghanaian people. It took several days for me to get over my run-in with the con artist; I couldn’t imagine that anything good would come of the trip. All I wanted to do was criticize and withdraw from the culture, but after I had a little distance from the situation, I approached the Ghanaian culture with more openness. A little observation helped me realize that no one else I had met in Ghana acted in the same way as the man at the airport. Quite the contrary, in fact. All of the people we met were extremely kind and hospitable, and they welcomed us to their country with open arms. They were more than willing to help us in any way we needed, whether that meant giving rides, supplying cell phones, providing meals, or making hotel arrangements. Once I understood this, I began to relax, and my expectations for the trip took on a positive tone.

We spent the first several days of the trip studying at Trinity Theological Seminary in Accra. We heard several lectures from prominent Ghanaian theologians and learned a great deal about the intersection of African Traditional Religion and Christianity. That will be the subject of your next installment, which will come Monday. Until then…

Grace and peace.

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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.

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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.

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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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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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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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Sometimes I wish I came from a more liturgical tradition.  The kind that allows the church calendar to dictate the rhythms of life and set the tone for worship.  Our church usually does a pretty good job of at least changing the fabric draped over the cross in the baptistry, but for some reason, Ash Wednesday came and went without a change in color.  Our cross still sports the bright red and gold colors of Christmas.  We’ll celebrate Easter on Sunday, and I know for a fact that the cross will be arrayed in shimmering white, but I have really missed the purple cloth of Lent this year.

I grew up in traditional Southern Baptist churches, and I never knew that there were entire seasons built around Christmas and Easter.  I didn’t know what Advent was until my grandmother died and we began celebrating Christmas at my aunt and uncle’s house.  They, being good Episcopalians, place an Advent wreath in the middle of their dining table and light the candles throughout the season.  The wreath fascinated me, and from that moment on, I was intrigued by this other world of rich traditions that I knew nothing about.  As a teenager, most of my friends were Catholic, and their observance (or lack thereof) of Lent always grabbed my attention.  We Baptists didn’t give up anything for Lent, and I really didn’t see how abstaining from chocolate or Coke would have any affect on God at all.

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Last night I spent a long time flipping through an old journal and remembering where I’ve been.  Reading the old memories and the old prayers helps me see how far I’ve come and how far I have yet to go.  The journal I read last night contains some of the most important moments of the past five years of my life.  It holds memories from the year I lived in Texas and the months preceding my wedding, my first year of marriage and the beginning of my work at Beeson.  I scribbled countless prayers, scripture verses and endless musings in those pages.  Sometimes I laughed.  Other times I cried.  But I always wrote to remember.

I’m ashamed to admit that I have a bad habit of losing my train of thought when I pray.  I start my silent prayers with good intentions but before I know it, I’m chasing rabbits down overgrown paths, and I forget not only what I was praying for but also that I was even praying to begin with.  Even worse, sometimes I forget the things that I pray about, and I have no way of knowing when God has answered my prayers.  I began writing my prayers down the summer after I graduated from high school.  I had kept a diary since the fifth grade, but that summer, something shifted in my relationship with God, and I began to write to him.  My diaries grew up with me, and they became journals, a written record of my spiritual life.

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Love has been in the air lately. And on TV, the radio, and billboards. Valentine’s Day came and went, but love has remained on my mind.

When Christians talk about love, we tend to gravitate toward 1 Corinthians 13. It is, after all, THE love chapter. But as I sat in church one morning, I started wondering what would happen if we quit trying to make the chapter fit our notions of romantic love and started applying it to our relationships inside the church. What if we actually loved one another the way that Jesus says we should? What if we allowed 1 Corinthians 13 to define the way we treat one another in the church? I bet things would be a lot different.

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The Word

Lately, I’ve been reading through Jeremiah, and the more I read, the more I’m stricken by what it means to speak the word of God.  When I began reading the book, I prayed that the Lord would grant me words to speak just as he promised Jeremiah, but the gravity of Jeremiah’s message is making me have second thoughts about that prayer.

God was faithful to his promise.  He “put out his hand” and touched Jeremiah’s mouth, granting him not only words but also an audience.  He never promised Jeremiah that the audience would like what he had to say.

Which is why a few short chapters later, Jeremiah wishes he had never been born.  The promised words were not pleasant words for the people, and when Jeremiah tried to keep his mouth shut and save his own neck, the words burned within him and demanded release.

“If I say, ‘I will not mention him, or speak any more in his name,’ there is in my heart as it were a burning fire shut up in my bones, and I am weary with holding it in, and I cannot.”  [Jeremiah 20:9]

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