The small room in the annex of our courtyard wasn’t anything special. A bare light bulb hung from the ceiling, and the paint on the walls was beginning to show its age. Still, everything was clean. And there was a tray with water, cups, and cookies. It seemed as though the environment was a total understatement. It didn’t come close to conveying the magnitude … the eternal significance … of the meeting that followed.

The girls and I walked over in the rain to introduce ourselves. We met some of the Christians in our town before, but not everyone. After a few minutes, I took the girls home and careened my neck out the window every few minutes to try to catch a glimpse of the deliberations. After about two hours, we heard familiar Fulbe praise and worship being sung to the Only True God.

It was amazing. In a tiny room in the middle of a random neighborhood, in a Muslim city, thousands of miles into the interior of Africa were a group of indigenous Christians singing to Jesus Christ, the Savior of the world.

Most beginnings are humble. We pray God will meet with our small group of believers and use them to plant a church that will reach the Fulbe of Guinea, West Africa with the Good News of Jesus Christ.

“Hello, Mr. B. Are you there? How are you? How is your wife?” I ask into the dark.

“I am fine. My wife is fine. How are you?” Mr. B responds from his chair on the porch where he gets better radio reception.

“I am fine.”  I reply through the screen.

“How are your girls?” He asks. “Are they sleeping?”

“They are fine.  Yes, they are sleeping.” I say. “Would you like some tea or coffee?”

“Oh yes, I would love some tea. Thank you.”

“And is your daughter there? Does she want hot chocolate?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Yes, she is here. She wants hot chocolate.”

“Ok, wait a minute.” I say as I make my way to the stove. The conversation is the same every night. The truth is I’ve already started the water to boil and his coffee cup is half full with a teabag, one scoop of milk powder, and one scoop of sugar. He loves hot chocolate much more than tea, but I generally save that for his daughters. And coffee keeps him awake until late in the night, so that is usually reserved for especially cold afternoons.

I deliver two steaming coffee cups that warm their hearts; or at least warm their bellies, and make my way back into the house leaving the solar light on so they can see. I rarely talk to Mr. B in the evenings, as that is prime radio listening time. There are four stations that can be heard in Labe: RFI, BBC, and two local stations. We haven’t heard BBC broadcast in quite some time, and the other stations come and go with the electricity but can generally be heard between dinner and bedtime.

Sometimes, when the girls are playing outside, or have gone down for a late afternoon nap, and when Mr. B is sitting on his blue plastic chair on the porch, I am able to talk to him. We talk about a lot of things, but mostly we talk about the things of God. He can recite more Bible stories than most American adults, I think. It’s fascinating for me to hear the stories from a Guinean point of view. He knows the stories so well; I think I’ve only corrected him once. During many of our conversations, Mr. B will get out a children’s picture Bible that was given to him and recount page after page of Biblical history. He points out all the characters illustrated and tells me everything he knows about each one. I often ask him how the stories relate to his life, or how they impact us today.

More often sooner than later, Jesus is the person of interest and we begin talking about how to get to paradise (heaven). By this time, I feel quite comfortable speaking the sometimes difficult truths of scripture because I have earned the right by daily sowing into his life. Little things like giving a cup of coffee, sharing cookies with his girls, praying for him and his family, and meeting felt needs open doors for explaining the Good News. If it only costs a scoop of milk, sugar, and cocoa powder to share the Gospel with someone, that’s a price I’m willing to pay.

Mr. B is about 72 years old. He isn’t exactly sure of the year he was born, but he knows he was born when the French governed Guinea. Mr. B is married to one wife and has seven children; the oldest an 18 year old boy and six girls. His youngest girls are a set of twins just two months older than ours.

Life is difficult in Guinea. If a Guinean lives past childhood, he or she may very well live to be elderly. Poor healthcare and inadequate education cause a 6.1% infant mortality rate in Guinea. Mr. B is privileged to have worked for expatriates who provided good medical care for him and his family for more than 20 years.

In early 2008, the Lord impressed upon my heart the need to be very proactive in sharing the Gospel and took every opportunity I could to share Bible truths with him. I wasn’t sure if I was saying goodbye to Mr. B for the last time when we left Guinea in 2009 for home assignment.

Thankfully, God enabled Mr. B to faithfully watch our house and tend our garden while we were in the States. But we can see the years starting to show on his wrinkled face. He moves more slowly, he often falls asleep in his chair on the porch in the hot afternoon shade, he is often ill, has carpal tunnel syndrome, and cataracts have taken most of his sight.

Tomorrow morning, David plans to take Mr. B to Sightsavers; “an international charity which works with partners to eliminate avoidable blindness and promote equality of opportunity for disabled people in the developing world.” Their initial appointment was more than a month ago. Mr. B was given eye drops to prepare his eyes for surgery, and told to return after Ramadan.

Will you pray for peace through the process, a successful surgery, and for salvation for Mr. B? We know that God is able to give him sight in more ways than one.

For your consideration:

Kesso: An Autobiography of a Peul Princess by Kesso Barry gives a glimpse into life in Guinea during a time of tumultuous transition from colonization to independence from France in 1958. Email me if you are interested in adding this to your winter reading list.

The past few weeks have been a flurry of activity.  One praise is that we were able to get a fantastic price on our plane tickets.  Another, is that we were able to ship more items to Guinea.  We will be especially thankful for a solar fridge and freezer that we were able to ship over.  Here are some other things we took for shipment recently.

Another big praise is that we will not be traveling alone.  Billie’s great friend and college roommate, Lisa, will be accompanying us.  Here presence will be a great help as we attempt to navigate airports and endure long hours in the airplane with two little ones.  She will also have the opportunity to get an idea of what we do in Guinea as we settle back into life there.  She will be with us about two weeks.  Please keep her in prayer as well.  Here is a picture of her.

Guinea’s Alpha Conde to be sworn in on Tuesday

Saturday was full of drama around our house.  David woke up and unlocked the doors to find our guard, Mr. B so sick he couldn’t walk. David took him to a colleague who used to be a nurse. She recommended he be taken to a local clinic for further examination. After trips to two clinics, David was able to find a doctor who knew what he was talking about. He then returned home to have lunch.

After lunch, David went to several pharmacies to fill Mr. B’s prescriptions. When he returned, I went out to open the gate for him and heard our two year old neighbor screaming. His grandma said he put his hand in a pot of boiling sauce. She wanted to know if I could help them. I had no clue about treating burns, so I ran inside and called our colleague. She came over right away and showed me how to treat a burn.

Now the toddler comes to our house every day at 4 o’clock for treatment. I am getting better at cleaning and dressing his wounds, but my hands still shake when I have to pull dead skin off his little hand. He should be totally healed within a week or two, and Mr. B will be well in a few weeks if he takes all his medicine, too.

I’m grateful for opportunities like these to reach out to those around us. It’s fulfilling to share the love of Christ in a tangible way. It also gives me hope that they’ll be more open to the Gospel when my language skills are sufficient to share it with them.

Last Tuesday at the invitation of ‘John’, our home owner, we visited Gar, a village we had never before been to. Gar sits just outside our city and is only a few minutes away by car.

When we entered John’s family compound, we were welcomed by all and immediately given a platter of freshly roasted goat and sheep. I always pray that God will do two things when I find myself in situations like that: 1. That God will help me to swallow the food I eat, and not throw it back up and 2. That I won’t get Montezuma’s revenge from eating raw and undercooked foods.

After a short visit with John’s family, we were escorted to a large compound beside the mosque where all the men sat ready to share a meal. I asked where the women were, to which John replied, “This gathering is only for the men of the village.” A boy brought us two of the four available chairs on which to sit. I felt very uncomfortable and, taking the seat given to me, I pulled it back away from the men to indicate that I wanted to honor them by not joining their group. John told me I must sit and eat with them, and after trying to refuse several times, I accepted. I didn’t want to offend our host by refusing his hospitality.

Maffe tiga, a traditional dish of rice and peanut sauce was served. John, another man, David, and I sat on the ground around a common bowl and ate with our hands. John asked if we needed spoons since he knew we usually don’t eat with our hands. “We brought spoons with us,” we said as we held up our right hands, cupped like a spoon. Everyone laughed and settled down to dig in.

When we finished eating, the same boy who brought us chairs brought us soap and water to wash our hands. I sat back to watch the men. It seemed like a holiday gathering in the States. Everyone talked, laughed, reflected on who built a new home, who moved away, and who died. Some younger men snuck around to the side of the house to smoke cigarettes. We sat just in front of a large, new hut and John said we would stay there the next time we come to visit the village overnight. We agreed.

We waited for the men to cut up and parcel out the goat that was sacrificed that morning. I watched ladies carry water from the well on their heads, chickens ran here and there, a rooster crowed, and children gawked at the two white visitors. At one point an elderly lady tied up a bundle of food left over from what the men had eaten, put it on her head and walked out of the compound. She probably took it to ladies gathered in another home. I was sad that the elderly woman looked so tired and that the other ladies would only get the men’s leftovers.

After our meal, we returned to John’s family compound to eat a second serving of maffe tiga and fresh oranges. The rest of the afternoon was spent visiting John’s family, with a special trip to his mom’s house. We gifted her with what we call “the deluxe tea set;” a box of tea, a bag of sugar, and a can of milk.

We never had the chance to give out our New Testaments to the mosque leader or John’s family, although we were able to give John two copies, one for himself and one for his father.

Each home we visited gifted us with food, which I was able to share with our neighbors when we returned home. Our neighbors were friendly and accepted my gifts of food, although since my Pular is still lacking, one neighbor thought I worked for the electric company and couldn’t figure out what I was doing giving her food, and what she should do with it. The other thought I was asking her to make me dinner. I was able to get a third neighbor to understand and she went to the others and explained!

Pray that we’ll get back to the village and be able to share more. Praise God for helping us to get all the food down!

In August I ordered 100 small, wooden, hand carved spoons from Amadou; a basket, spoon, and shoe vendor in the market.  I gave him a prototype and told him he could choose a design to burn on the handles.  I intend to glue a magnet to the back of each spoon and give them to friends to hang on their fridges as a reminder to pray for us.

When we returned from our travels in late October, I went to the market to pick up the spoons.  Since David had never met Amadou, he came with me.  When we arrived at his booth, Amadou greeted us warmly, sliding over on his small bench so we could sit down.  He was very happy to meet David and pulled out two tiny spoons he had carved with our initials on them; ‘B’ for Bella and ‘D’ for Daawuuda, our Fulbe names.  They were really nice gifts that he took a lot of time making.  As is culturally appropriate, we thanked him profusely and began counting out our 100 wooden spoons from a bag he retrieved from far under his dark booth.

As I began to count, Amadou gave David another gift; a hand woven, grass trivet that read “Daouda love Bela.”  Again we exclaimed how kind it was of him to make such a wonderful gift for us.  It really was touching.  I continued counting.

Before David had time to hand me the trivet, Amadou pulled out the nicest pair of goat skin and tire- tread- soled shoes I have ever seen.  Amadou said the shoes were a gift for me.  David exclaimed, “Wow!  You’re giving us a lot of gifts today!”  Amadou explained that the last time he saw me; he looked at my feet and wanted to make me a pair of shoes.  I tried them on.  Of course, they were a perfect fit.

I was so very blessed by his no-strings-attached generosity.  Amadou generously gave out of his talents to show his appreciation of our friendship.  I wondered what we had to offer him.  I didn’t buy any gifts in either France or Ghana to share with friends like Amadou.  What could we give that would match his extravagance?  When I returned home, I wrapped a Pular New Testament.  I’ll give it to him the next time I go the market.  I’m sure Amadou’s gifts to us cost far more than our gift to him, but ours has an eternal value to which no pair of shoes can compare.

Historians tell us that the Christians with whom Muhammad had contact prayed 6 times a day.  It is believed that this practice so profoundly impacted the Prophet Muhammad that he prescribed daily prayer as essential for all followers of Allah.  Pray that our lives might once again be ‘prayer-shaped’ enough to change the destiny of Muslims around the world!