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We teach what we know, but we reproduce what we are. —John Maxwell

The First Reality Show

The African kids (and sometimes the adults) had no problem nor felt any shame in sitting on our porch and watching us inside our house. It was the best television program ever—a reality show, for sure! Jeff was constantly, but gently running people off our porch. Because we were new, they liked to come and watch us unpack our boxes, mesmerized at the different items we had brought with us from America. Jeff was really good about explaining that his wife was American (as if he wasn’t) and was not used to the public display of curiosity.

To add to that, during our first few days in Tappi, we saw several young guys walk behind our house, and after some questioning, we found out that they had shot with a slingshot a chicken hawk who had been perched in one of our trees. Unfortunately, as the rock hit its mark, the hawk had spread its wings as it involuntarily descended and was caught in a branch. One of the African boys started climbing the tree, hoping to shake the hawk loose. Now, I always loved to climb tress when I was young, but that little boy had made a profession of it! He slid up that tree trunk in a way that I had never seen! The chicken hawk fell, but still was not completely dead. I felt sorry for it and could not watch as they finished it off. However, my very inquisitive two year old Michelle was fascinated by the whole process, even after one of the young fellows had slung the limp, bloody bird over his shoulders and headed down the path dreaming of a meaty supper.

I knew that I needed to get used to people working in our yard as well as in our house. It was nothing like America where people had distinct boundaries and sacred personal space which others usually did not invade. That incident with the chicken hawk helped me to understand that sometimes, especially for the young African boys, the only food they might eat in a day’s time was what they killed themselves. Even if we caught them early in the morning, during our afternoon rest hour, or late in the evening climbing and shaking our mango or avocado trees, I tried to remember that I had plenty to eat, but they probably did not. On the other side of that was the desire to teach them to at least ask permission since the trees were in our yard. That is where the line of intersecting culture and biblical beliefs must always be carefully considered in a sensitive manner. We lived off the cuff with those kinds of situations, attempting to pad authority with love and humor as much as possible.

Perpetual Balancing Acts

In January of 1986, I wrote in my journal:

Yesterday a little boy came to our house wanting a Bible. Jeff talked to him for quite a while about his salvation. He even brought money to pay for the Bible, but Jeff gave it to him for free. Today another boy came and asked for a Bible. I talked to him and found out that he did not bring any money, but was also expecting us to give him one for free. I did finally give it to him–how can you refuse to give anyone a Bible? However, it started something. Later that day fifteen boys came and asked for Bibles. I had to send them away because we did not have that many Bibles. It was a sad time for me.

Little did I know that the constant asking for things, money, food and more would become the norm for so much of our African ministry. During our many years in West Africa, hundreds of people came to our door wanting something. Unfortunately, the majority of the time it was not for a Bible or even spiritual help; it was for monetary substance.

We never became accustomed to dealing with the constant begging for money though we learned to always weigh each request individually. There were times when we also knew that we were not hearing the entire truth from the person asking. In our later years while in West Africa, there were days and sometimes weeks that we just refused to go to our gate because we had grown so weary of the begging. We were too overwhelmed and tired to constantly discern whether a person truly deserved help or not. As an alternative to shutting down from the daunting needs of those around us, I prepared sacks of food essentials for anyone that came to us begging. We had long since stopped giving out money except on those rare occasions when we felt distinctly that we were to do so. Measuring out rice, onion, canned meat, oil, and bouillon cubes and putting it all in a bag, I would give it to the person who said they were in need. Often they would be extremely grateful, but too many times, I had the bag of food refused or thrown on the ground. That did help me to divide the sheep from the goat, so to speak. If a woman with a little child in her arms could throw down my gift of food along with my promise to give more the next day, then I knew the woman was not speaking truthfully about her need to feed her child.

Different Points of View

Even in the middle of the myriad of cultural collisions, there protruded into my unrealistic fantasy the hope that all missionaries were created equal: meaning that we would always think the same way, feel the same way, minister the same way, and live the same way. In case you don’t already know the fallacy of that thinking, learn it now. Missionaries are all different. We think differently, minister differently, and run our homes differently.

I am sure that it may have seemed extreme to some that I packed so many “niceties” in our first container from America. More than anything, it was simply a matter of preference and priority. In my journal I wrote this:

Yesterday one of the missionary wives was talking about how she could just walk away from her house tomorrow and not worry about leaving a lot of things behind. My philosophy is that the Lord called us here to live and minister. If I do not try to make this “home” and live totally in this place, I feel I am only halfway serving God. Sure, if we were forced to leave tomorrow, I would probably cry to have to leave some things, but I refuse to live in that attitude. I will trust God with those matters and put my whole self into these people and the work–and at the same time–I will strive to have the best home for my family right here, not saving all that for a one-year furlough time in America.

In the following fifteen years of ministry in West Africa, my philosophy concerning my homes in Africa changed very little. Though after our first evacuation and the loss of our household goods, I did become a little more selective on the things that I brought from the States; it was still in my heart to make my home as comfortable and colorful for my family. As I stated earlier, I learned that a missionary should not only be willing to adapt to another country, culture, and people, but also be willing to embrace the challenge to learn and accept the philosophical differences of each missionary with whom we had the privilege to minister.

Missionaries come from different parts of the United States, so there were those obvious “subcultural” variations. Accepting the unique characteristics found in Minnesota, Iowa, Michigan, New York, and other states far from the southern state of North Carolina, was necessary for both ministry harmony and establishing solid friendships. Over time, we learned to understand and embrace many of the others’ peculiarities.

My convictions of how I managed my household stayed with me, but that never hindered me from finding common ground with the other women on the compound. It was, more than anything, a difference in philosophy. It held no great hindrance in our relationships that I recall, and deep inside me, I wanted to learn what the “veteran” missionaries could teach me without losing the unique spark that made me who I was. That is not to say that it is wrong if a woman preparing to be a missionary feels that she should only carry a backpack and a sleeping bag to the place God has called her to minister. Of course not! As I said before; it is a matter of priorities. God gave me (eventually) three daughters to whom I desired to instill the color and creativity that can be placed in a home no matter where that home was. Live out your personality and dreams no matter where God puts you!

African Pioneers

During the first January in Tappi, we had the privilege of meeting the pioneer missionary wife and her daughter when they came out for a visit. Mrs. Mellish and her husband were the ones that started the mission station in Tappi almost fifty years before we arrived. In 1939, the only way for them to reach the interior parts of Liberia was to walk. Mrs. Mellish told us of how she and her husband would set out from Monrovia and walk the 180 miles to the small town of Tappeta! Taking them several weeks to accomplish that incredible feat, her stories made me vow right then to never complain about the one-hour plane ride to Monrovia.

As we missionaries of the 1980s sat around and enjoyed the stories told by Mrs. Mellish, it was clear that we had much for which to be thankful. Baptist Mid-Missions had sent the Mellishes out to Liberia because of a hunger in their hearts to see the Liberians reached with the Gospel of Christ. The mission station where we lived was a result of their desire to see missions remain a vital part of that country—even when their active ministry was completed. To this day, I am so thankful that Jeff and I could begin our missionary career in Liberia by meeting one of our missionary foremothers. She was an inspiration to me and helped put many things in perspective!

Faraway Food

Getting used to some of the foods that were available to us and having to do without some of the ones that were not available was certainly a challenge those first few years. Sometimes just finding the most basic food was a chore. There were countless days when we did without eggs, fresh vegetables, and such.

My journal of January 3, 1986, says:

This has been a rather good day–I seemed to enjoy it. We didn’t have much to eat for breakfast except cereal. We were out of bread and eggs. Jeff bought bread later, but still looking for eggs. The bread is really good, but you wouldn’t believe it seeing where it is baked. Jeff took me down there to see it the other day. It’s an outdoor kitchen with big black pots and a “baking hole” under a shed but they do keep it clean. The bread was soft, round, and very tasty, much like a round Italian loaf found in a bakery. Only the crust was soft like the inside of the bread. We called it Ghanaian bread because it was baked by a pair of sisters from the country of Ghana who had married men from Liberia.

When I first rode with Jeff on his motorcycle to buy bread, I could not help but hone in on the seemingly unsanitary conditions where the bread was made. The crude oven and pans that the bread was baked in were always suspicious in my book. Looking back, I laugh to think how afraid I was to eat the bread though I wanted it so badly. I recall that I would take a cloth and wipe the loaf off before cutting it. What did I think that would do, I wonder?

As time went by, we started missing foods from the states. In my journal dated January 7, 1986, I reflected: The two things that I miss the most right now is my mama’s sweet iced tea and some real, homogenized milk! This powdered milk is for the birds. Jeff says he misses ice cream, candy bars, chocolate milkshakes, and his mom’s chocolate cake with white icing. I never got used to the powdered milk that we had to buy in West Africa, especially in those early years. It was much like Carnation powdered milk, only the brands imported into Africa were whole milk powder and had a much stronger taste. All three of our daughters grew to love it; so much that they would just eat the powdered milk out of the can with a spoon. I substituted my lack of milk by really chowing down on the amazing European cheeses that were available in the grocery stores in Monrovia. We would buy an entire ball of cheese which was probably the equivalent of 15-20 pounds, grate it, bag it, and freeze it to keep it for as long as possible.

Someone gave me a copy of a West African inspired cookbook written by and for missionary wives. It was an indispensable guide for any American food preparer trying to find her way in a kitchen surrounded by strange foods and ingredients. In that cookbook were several recipes for making milkshakes using a blender, powdered milk, ice cubes, sugar, vanilla, and cocoa powder. Within six months, we had refined one of the recipes to our liking and it became an almost nightly treat. Minutes before the electricity was set to turn off, I would run the blender and we would all enjoy a cool, refreshing milkshake in the middle of the steamy jungle. Now that’s adapting!

Espresso and the Gospel

While ministering in Tappi, I would at times fight the sensation of being claustrophobic. The first few months were the worst until I became more aware of the freedom and beauty of the jungle around me. Jeff stayed so busy at the airplane hangar or riding into town or flying with one of the other pilots that I do not think he understood when I would tell him how I felt. There were just times that I found myself missing the opportunity to travel somewhere. Though Jeff might not have understood, he still was sensitive to my restlessness and would take me into the little town of Tappi once a week for a little outing. One of the highlights was visiting the Lebanese women in the small downtown mercantile area of Tappi. We’re talking four or five stores on a dirt road–almost like a town in the wild, wild west—without the horses and hitching posts, of course.

My journal of December 31, 1985, reads:

Yesterday Jeff took me to visit one of the Lebanese stores. The wife was there and she asked me to have some coffee with her. She fixed a cup for Jeff, but he knew what kind it was and graciously refused it. It was the real thick espresso coffee that is almost the texture of mud or syrup. That’s definitely not Jeff’s kind of coffee. But, of course, being the gourmet that I am, I loved it! Michelle said she wanted to try it, but I had finished most of it and there was only the real thick stuff in the bottom of the cup. She took a swallow and oh, you ought to have seen that face! She opened her mouth with a grimace and it looked like she had been dipping snuff!

One cup of that strong espresso, as it is now called, was always enough to get the heart rate up and spike the body’s energy level to a peak. One time, a few months later, I was enjoying the coffee so much that I accepted a second cup. By the time I arrived home, I was wired to the max and our house got an electric cleaning like I hadn’t done since we had been in Africa! Anytime, after that, when I was particularly sluggish, Jeff would joke about getting me a cup of that electric magic.

I became very fond of my two Lebanese friends. At first, admittedly, visiting them in town was mainly a diversion from my house and the compound, but after a few weeks, we became friends; sharing, laughing, learning from each other, and celebrating the differences. Early in our emerging friendship, God gave me a distinct burden for them spiritually. Later, I was asked by one of those Lebanese friends to prove my belief in Christ and my faith in His salvation in a very unusual and unexpected way!