When

When an Ivorian who has become my brother comes to me for advice on an important decision.  “I am afraid to disappoint you,” he says.  “Don’t worry about that.  The only one you should worry about disappointing is God,” I tell him.

When I hear my name yelled from across the field of the women’s conference – it’s Korotoum, the Ivorian host mom of one of our volunteers.  I ask about her family and her trip to Abidjan.  Then a woman runs up to her, and says, “Korotoum!  Finally!  We have all of your CDs at the house!  Two of them are even broken we’ve watched them so much.  Is that your new one?  How much??”  Korotoum is also a well-known Christian, Senoufo singer.  I suddenly realize this would be like if Kari Jobe or Rebecca St. James yelled my name across the floor of a women’s conference in the US. 

When, as I sit in church, listening to the announcements, the girl next to me reties the strings on my sleeve.  A few minutes later, as I try to push my bra strap under the sleeve of my African pagne outfit, a woman behind me takes the liberty to help me out.  I smile, realizing that I really am part of a church family. 

When my good friends Lea and Marie Louise walk me home after our regular evening visits.  We laugh and carry on, walking as slow as snails, secretly hoping the night won’t end.  And then it happens.  Not even 5 meters from the door, I feel something bite my foot, then my left calf, then my right thigh.  “Ils sont monté!” (they’ve climbed up!) I yell, quickly shake their hands while jumping up and down like a crazy person, say goodnight, and run for the door.  I can hear my friends’ laughs continue until they reach their homes.  The driver ants had decided to attack me again.  We sort of have an unsaid rule: it’s ok to laugh because you already know it’ll happen to you another day.

When Ephraim, my pastor’s 3-year-old son runs up to me after church, wraps his arms around my legs, and puts all his strength into trying to pick me up.  “Mon petit mari, tu fais quoi??” (my little husband, what are you doing?)  “Je veux te soulever!” (I want to pick you up) he says, trying again.  “Tu ne peux pas!” (you can’t!).  “Je peux!”  He says as he tries a third time. 

When I sit in the kitchen at the women’s conference with my sister Mai.  We sit and chat, working alongside each other.  I cut ignames with a small, dull machete, hacking right through the center without fear of cutting myself.  I forget that there was once a time that my French couldn’t keep up with the small talk and I had no idea what to do with an igname. 

When I hold an adorable 1-year-old little boy, and after his mother sees that he smiles and laughs when I make him dance, we decide that he’ll marry my first daughter.  From then on out, I call him “mon beau” (short for my son in law).  Joking about arranged marriage no longer takes me by surprise.

When I lay in bed next to my sister, talking about how hard it will be to say goodbye.  She tells me she has “chicken flesh.. no, goose flesh”.  I laugh so hard, and ask, “do you mean goose bumps?”  She’s learning English.

When these moments happen, I’m reminded of how much I love this country and these people.  I praise God for what He’s blessed me with here.   I’m full of joy overflowing.  I know that I’m part of something.  It’s something bigger than myself, something that I couldn’t dream up on my own.  It’s just that good.

Check out these photos from the women's conference last week!

Florence and I - I mentioned her a few blogs ago.

Dancing to the balafone.  This looks pretty akward in still form.

And again

Jess and I

Madame Clana (Silvie) and Madame Philippe (Mimi)

Getting ready for the march around town Saturday morning

This is what 1,100 women looks like, marching across Bouake

The five person marching band that kept us dancing the whole way

Lea and I

With Ephraim, "mon petit mari".