Tamale and Mr. Doku

Recently I traveled north twelve hours to the dry, dusty city of Tamale to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the Northern Presbytery of the Presbyterian Church of Ghana. It was a typical Ghanaian religious celebration: we sat outside, under tents, in a large square with the congregation on three sides while pastors and invited guests sat at the front; there were about two thousand people and at least ninety percent wore clothes made of matching pale yellow fabric printed specifically for the Northern Presbytery; the service was long, almost five hours, complete with many messages, hymns, dancing, music from the brass band and choir, and three offerings.

As I listened to the messages it was quickly evident why this celebration is important. As the moderator spoke, he shared the history of the church and the sacrifice of the early missionaries who originally arrived less than one hundred years ago. He said this celebration was a special tribute to them -- these missionaries came into a country where they faced death and struggled for years to share the truth of Christ.

Today, Tamale is a city of almost eighty percent Muslim, and a city where dissention exists between Christians and Muslims. This is true for much of Nothern Ghana, as it is true in other ways for all of Ghana and around the world. In my travels around this country I have experienced the unique diversity among the many tribes, including the eighty-five languages, as well as the diversity among religions and even denominations. Diversity in Ghana cannot be avoided, and as I read the blogs of fellow YAVs in Belfast I am reminded that the reality of this diversity is a universal truth. We are indeed a world of diversity, we are a world confronted by differences and struggling to understand them and respond to them. But we cannot let them overcome us, we must learn to embrace them and each other.

The moderator encouraged the people to not relent the efforts of the missionaries, and rather to "bring peace to the North, be united as one people, and unite under the banner of Christ." I imagine the defeat the early missionaries felt, I imagine their cries to God as they suffered to share His truth to a people who were different from what that had ever known, but fifty years later, as I shared in celebration I was a witness to the fruit of their labor.

This week I invited the other volunteers to my house to celebrate Thanksgiving. After a failed attempt to find a turkey in the capital of Accra, Ashley and I were taken to a turkey farm in Ho. There we picked out a turkey, promptly named him Mr. Doku (the Ewe word for turkey), and then took him to a nearby hotel to be slaughtered and defeathered. To say the least, it was a unique and wonderful Thanksgiving, the girls and I prepared our dinner together, full of gratitude for familiar food and each others friendship on this journey.

In school we are taught the importance of history: through awareness of the past we will be better prepared for the future. This year I reflected on the history of Thanksgiving, the Pilgrims coming together and experiencing success, and I was reminded that unity equals success. I witnessed a church celebrating fifty years in a country full of diversity and striving to unite despite difference, all the while filled with constant gratitude for the distance they have come thus far. If only we could remember the past, and God's constant provision, then perhaps one day we will be able to embrace diversity.

An Ordinary Day

At four a.m. a church bell rings down the street from my house. I lay in bed as the sun starts to rise, and the birds, chickens, and goats, wake up and make their presence known. Listen to the roosters crow. At five my neighbors have devotions that begin with singing and clapping hands. I fall in and out of sleep as I listen to the animals, singing, and clapping. Hear neighbors sweeping with brooms made of sticks. The sun has risen by six and shortly after I am out of bed to shower, dress, and have breakfast.

A little before eight I leave home to attend devotions with staff of the EPC Headquarters. Pass students in brightly colored school uniforms. Look down the hill into town and notice dust from the Harmattan that is easily mistaken for fog. In devotions we sing hymns, read scripture, pray, and listen to a message; all of which is in Ewe, except when I am told the scripture reference and a couple sentences of the message. Devotions are over after about thirty minutes.

Feel the weight of heat and clothes damp from sweat. Then I walk into town to Maxvin Publishing and Press Shop. Hear taxis honk warning people and animals to move out of the way. Watch goats cross the road. There I help with editing and other various tasks that take place at a primitive publishing house in Ghana: individually sorting pages and hand sowing bindings of books. The work is simple, but important, because I am building relationships with my colleagues as we share the same tasks and talk about our lives, families, and values.

I have a lunch break around noon, when I walk back home. Smell the sweetness of roasting plantains. Greet the woman selling eggs and bread. Once home, I eat and rest, and then return to Maxvin for the afternoon or go to the local EPC Bookshop. There I meet with Gloria, a middle-aged woman who runs the shop -- I help her with work and she teaches me Ewe (which is proving to be quite difficult). The bookshop is entertaining, people coming and going, and I am challenged by Gloria to speak in Ewe. Sit in the bookshop and watch women with babies on their backs retrieving water from a well. Notice a woman carry a tray of oranges on her head. On other afternoons I go to an afternoon program for kids, ages ranging from four to eighteen. There, Becci, Anna, and I, read a Bible story, sing songs, and play games. One night a week I go to a Bible study in town with a young women I work with. Not only is this time for me to study the Word, it has also been a great way for me to try to understand the ways that God is worshiped and understood in this culture.

Once evening has arrived, I walk through town on my way home, stopping by the small market or shop to pick up some food. I am stopped on the street, asked my name and home, where I am going and where I am coming from, where I work and where I live -- the people of Ghana want to know me, they welcome me to their country, into their homes and lives. I give them my time and do not pull away when they take my hand, I am accepted and welcomed as I tell them who I am and fumble through their language. Once home, in effort to cool down, I almost immediately shower. Feel the cold water turn hot when it hits your body. Then the girls and I fix dinner together, often experimenting and trying new things with our limited ingredients, and finally we eat. I read for a bit, and go to bed around nine or ten.