grace.kindness.peace.disruption.pain.processing.rinse.repeat.have a nice day.

Let me paint you a picture of tragedy, blessing, and fruit. Micah and I, charged with acquiring the ingredients to concoct a fruit salad large enough to feed fifteen hungry individuals for a St. Patrick’s Day celebration, entered into an unfamiliar domain: the open market. The open market is to be feared by bachelors who know not its ways or prices. We did not pay the situation the respect it deserved, having only discussed said fruit salad at a high level – not near enough preparation for what was to come.

We entered the market and were at once swarmed with large African women who could smell our marital status and ignorance. We would not last long. Micah quickly purchased several apples, one of the more familiar items, for an acceptable price. Under pressure to purchase vegetables, I showed my cards in amateur fashion: “we’re making a fruit salad,” I said. Two more women approached. “Come buy my oranges.” “You need watermelon? You need watermelon!” We made several verbal commitments to view a wide range of fruit as Micah and I attempted to communicate above the commotion of five women competing for our attention. The fact that we were each a head taller than the women helped us … but not much.

We walked down to the mango lady, a short jaunt that took us by the lady selling the oranges. Unhappy that we passed without looking, focused as we were, she grabbed several oranges and mobilized her business, bringing it directly to us. In the meantime, the mango lady had already begun with her sales pitch. “Three for 10,000,” she said. “No, no. You no go less me?,” we responded with our standard response. The “white man price” is generally double what you should probably pay, we always push back for a better price. It’s the expected move in this dance. She easily relents and we end up with four mangos for 7,000 Leones, as she “threw in” an extra mango for free.

I looked at Micah – we were totally lost in the confusion of the moment. Everything was happening so fast. I brought my hands together in a “T” and called a time out, a concept that apparently doesn’t translate across cultures well. We tried to huddle and get control of the situation in vain. In short order we had two pineapples in our bag for 8,000 Leones, seemingly a good deal. Next we purchased the watermelon outright, the seller demanding payment on delivery. Apparently, she was not part of the same fruit cooperative as the other ladies that were allowing us to fill our bag before we paid.

The ladies fulfilled our request for papaya, again “throwing in” a charity fruit. Our bag was full and near ripping. The chief of the fruit co-op gave us the total, which we corrected after adding up the subtotals. Micah handed over 25,000 Leones to a visually ecstatic woman who hugged me. A hug. Something was up. We instantly knew that we had paid way too much. We walked away, thankful that the circus was over and we had fruit. It was fun to experience and was worth the extra couple bucks for the story. We were not too upset that we paid a couple extra bucks. Though we had been taken advantage of, we were able to bless the women. They still smile and wave enthusiastically as we walk past days after the experience. They have fond memories of us.

There is a new picture and movie in the photo gallery.

A Liberian pastor here in Sierra Leone asked me today if I'd heard of Samuel Morris. Without speaking I got up and shook the man's hand. He made my day. You see, I was privileged to live in a dorm at Taylor University named after Sammy … two, in fact. There have been three dorms named after Sammy Morris. I lived in the second and third renditions of the dorm. Taylor is currently on the third rendition, but I'm sure that the fourth is in the planning stages. You can never be too prepared, and a TU without a Samuel Morris dorm is no TU at all.

I don't think this qualifies as "Possible Larium Madness," but I did dream last night that I had returned home and was hugging my stacked washer and dryer. On a related note, I did my laundry by hand yesterday.

We hop off the podapoda and head for the bay. Kroo Bay, that is – the largest slum in Freetown, filled with beautiful people and trash. We head down the long concrete staircase into the bay that will put us near the door of a small, one room church. But you see the steps are perilous, for a slew of children await you about 2/3 of the way down. They will latch on to you, demanding hugs and attention. If you battle through the battalion you’ll be able to step inside the church for a few more moments of calm before the joyous storm of the Kroo Bay Good News Club.

Once inside, you will help set up the benches and a semi-circle of four chairs that will serve as a triage center in about an hour. A large pan of hardboiled eggs and a box of semisweet cookies await their impending doom near the chairs. Shortly before 4 in the p.m. on this fine Saturday, the leadership group gathers to brief for the coming task. The rag-tag mixture of Asians, Caucasians, Africans, and Americans (we’re missing red, but yellow, black, & white are still precious in His sight) are given the go ahead and the door opens. A steady stream of the poorest of the poor this world has to offer enters in order of ascending height with their fingers holding their lips shut. Ol-de-lip (hold the lip) is repeated in steady fashion. Such a large grouping of quiet youth is hard to find. The little ones are packed into the front benches, the slightly bigger ones just behind, and so on. As Matt am the standard for all things big today, there are no rows of big ones.

As the room seems to shrink with the 250-300 beautiful children packed like sardines, the cantor begins clapping and singing. The children come to life, except for the few who have fallen asleep, and join in the chorus. “Higher …. Higher …. Higher oh oh oh …. is the name of Jesus higher.” The sound bellows from the little church into the bay. Singing goes on for about fifteen minutes after which the children are corralled back into their seats.

It is at this time that Noah, the amazing individual who lives at the top of the hill before the steps comes up front to remind the kids of the rules. “If you cry, you’re going home. If you want to use the bathroom, you’re going home. If you sleep, you’re going home.” The commands are shouted in love, and are mostly empty threats. You’ve seen children get three or more chances to wake up. You’ve yet to see any kids sent home Matt is thankful that he hasn’t been sent home yet …

One of the teens from Lighthouse, the other ministry we’re involved with heavily, stands up and gives a message that you still can’t quite understand with your limited knowledge of the Krio language. The message finishes, perhaps with a song or clapping activity, and then Noah steps up front again to remind the kids that if they need medical care then they are to stay after. The hardboiled eggs are then distributed and eaten on site. You can’t risk a kid saving her egg to eat later when her hunger is greater, but the egg has spoiled. The exit criteria for the Good News Club is two hands raised high to show that there is no egg remaining. Once the kids pass this test, you help usher them out the back and the front.

About forty kids remain – half with medical needs requiring pills, half requiring ointments and bandages. They are separated into these groups and treated. You decide to help out with the ointment gang and begin to walk around the other individuals who have a clue to see what you can do to help out. You begin by handing out vitamins, but that job is quickly taken away from you by one of the Lighthouse girls. You’re left to help clean wounds and bandage cuts. The bag of latex gloves seems to present a good idea, so you grab a pair and put them on in such a way to remind everyone that you are an amateur of the first degree. The gloves never do go on all the way. You grab some water and gauze to begin cleaning a wound. Next comes the Bactine, a potion you feared as a child, but these children barely even squirm when its sting hits. Perhaps this physical pain is one of the easiest things they’ve felt today, you think to yourself. The plaster (band-aid) is applied and the kid sent on his way, just in time for another kid to take his place in the chair. This child’s wound has developed into a tropical ulcer … still out of your league. You wait for Cami, the WMF field director for Sierra Leone. She’s seen dozens, if not hundreds of these. She knows just what to do … and to say. These can hurt a lot. Dead skin needs to be cut off and the ooze cleaned out with cotton swabs. The child squirms and grips Micah’s hand to help forget about the pain. After twenty minutes of cleaning, the girl’s wound is bandaged up and she takes a seat. She’ll walk back up the hill with you when you leave to make sure she knows where Noah’s house is. She’ll need to come back there every other day for the next week to get the wound cleaned. If she doesn’t, the wound will not heal and will go deeper. You afraid to ask what deeper means and how long deeper can go on until something else happens. You choose not to think about that.

After about 45 minutes, the line of children seeking help from our own little E.R. diminishes. The room is put back in order, or at least the way it was before you got there. You gather again to debrief the day as you help finish off the hardboiled eggs. “What went well? What could have gone better?” The group prays and you head back up the hill. Kroo Bay is left behind the wall erected by the government to hide it from the rest of the city. A little bit of you is left behind and the rest of you will be back next Saturday.