Will I See Her In Heaven?

Hanaan* fanned the flame of her charcoal stove with one hand and with the other she skillfully lifted the clay pot just as the coffee began to boil up through the narrow spout. 

“You must let it boil over three times before you serve the coffee,” she explained. 

Hanaan was one of my closest friends in Eritrea.  She and I were as different as two women could be. I was in my early twenties and she didn’t even know her age. I was married and she was well past marrying age and would be single all her life. I was free to make choices, she lived under the rule of her older brother. I believed in Christ with all my heart and by my own choice, Hanaan was born into the religion of her family and was bound by intense family pressure.

Hanaan and her brothers and sisters were all unmarried and all lived together in a two room house. Their kitchen was a dilapidated shack in the dirt courtyard. They lived most of their lives as refugees in a neighboring country and told us fascinating stories of having to escape in the night and travel many days on camel. 

We shared several times about Christ with Hanaan and her family. Hanaan was usually quite busy cooking and working in the house, but on the night we shared God’s full plan of salvation, she brought her portable tin stove close to where we sat so she could hear while she worked. Several days later the family requested to watch a video about Jesus. We eagerly brought our television and VCR (yes, this was before DVDs!) to their house to show them the film.

One day Hanaan and I went to the vegetable market together. Walking along the street, away from the ears of her family, Hanaan began to talk about Jesus. “Jesus is a very good man,” she said. “Jesus loved the poor people very much, didn’t He?”  I agreed wholeheartedly and began to pray in my heart for Hanaan. We walked in silence for a while and then she said, “Jesus is the Son of God.”

That day is forever seared in my memory. This young woman had dared to believe that Jesus is indeed the Son of God.  I have asked God a thousand times, “Does that count, God? Does that make Hanaan a true believer?” 

About a year later Hanaan got a splinter in her hand. She tried to use a needle to remove it, but didn’t know how to keep the wound clean. Soon, infection set in and within a week Hanaan was dead. We had returned to the United States by then, and received this news by email.

Why hadn’t I shared with Hanaan more? Why hadn’t I continued that conversation we had on the street that day? Why hadn’t I been there to help her clean the wound on her hand? And my biggest question: when I arrive in heaven, will I see Hanaan there?

*Name changed

A Twelve-Year-Old Girl

There is a twelve-year-old girl in a desert country who is helping her family reach families with The Best Story. You know what it is that makes her brave enough to do this?

It's not that she's fluent in the local language.

It's not that she's got lots of experience sharing the Good News.

It's not that she's the super poster child for TCKs*.

What makes her brave is that she has a nativity set. A nativity set and willingness.

Willingness to sit in the heat.

Willingness to sit through a long visit (and a lot of coffee drinking by the adults).

Willingness to let her dad translate for her (have you ever tried to speak with a translator? It's tricky and requires patience).

Willingness to say yes.

So a twelve-year-old girl in a desert country takes out her nativity set and arranges it on a flat space. She tells the story: The Best Story. And families in a desert country hear the story. Maybe for the first time ever.

*TCK: Third Culture Kid

FGM = Love?

Female circumcision is radical and unimaginable to most of my friends in the West. To most of my friends in North Africa, it is a normal part of life. Today I read an interesting article (FGM - An Act of Love) that sheds light on the thinking of those who circumcise their daughters.

I've written about FGM/C (Female Genital Mutilation/Cutting) in my upcoming novel Side By Side. The experiences in the book come from the true stories of young women who have undergone this practice.

As women, we should know at least a little about what more than 125 million women and girls in our world today are going through. You can read more about what FGM/C is here (this is just a fact sheet, there are no graphics, although the facts are heart-wrenching all on their own.)

It would be easy to become overwhelmed by the traumatic stories of women who have undergone FGM/C. It would be easy to become angry at those who perpetuate the practice. But I propose that the more one learns about a culture, the more difficult it is to find a black and white answer.

As mentioned in the article, "Whether we like it or not, female genital cutting is an act of love." I'm not saying that I agree that this is a healthy train of thought, I'm just saying it's worth the time to stop. Stop. Take a breath. And remember that not everyone thinks like we do.

I sat in a room in North Africa, the only white woman in a sea of dark-skinned villagers. We were attending a government-sponsored program designed to put a stop to FGM/C and tribal scarring. Most of my friends had undergone both.

The women squeeled and hid their faces when the program leaders showed us a film of a three-year-old girl being circumcised and scarred. It was gruesome and heart-breaking. But I knew that my friends who were moms would still go home and schedule an appointment for their daughters to be circumcised.

As a Westerner, I'd say it's fairly easy to form a strong opinion about FGM/C. It's well-documented as a harmful practice. I'm grateful for organizations (both local and international) that work diligently to educate and inform regarding FGM/C. It is hard for me to understand why this practice continues.

But let's bring it closer to home...

What practices do we have in our own cultures that are unhealthy or harmful, but that we guard carefully because to change it would be to go against a deeply embedded cultural norm? Perhaps you can't think of anything as huge or problematic as FGM/C, but I believe we still have unhealthy cultural norms that we do just...because. Because "that's how it's always been done," and because, "that's how everyone does it."

Some women in communities that have practiced FGM/C for centuries are taking a stand. Are you brave enough to take a stand against the unhealthy norms in your own culture? Am I?

It's worth some thought.

10 Life Hacks for Third-World Livin' (from Back in the Day)

Life Hacks would have meant a serial killer holding a machete back when my husband and I first went overseas. Nowadays it means: cool tricks to make life easier.

I didn't have Google or Pinterest or blogs to read back then. I had a Lonely Planet book about our new country in one hand and a copy of Where There Is No Doctor in the other. The rest we just had to figure out along the way.

Because there was nowhere to share my tricks of the trade, most of them have faded into the "I Don't Need That Anymore" corners of my memory. So before I lose every one of them, I thought I'd write them down. And since nowadays I have a blog (we went overseas before internet y'all!) I can share my Life Hacks with you! Now, keep in mind these may be old school...but sometimes old school is cool, right?

1. If you don't have running water, drain your laundry water (from hand-washing or hand-filling your washing machine) into a container (tub, bucket, etc) and use it to flush your toilet. Saves on water and your toilet gets washed with laundry detergent!

2. If your electricity goes out all the time and you want cold water to drink during the day: Buy a large water thermos. Buy a bowl that is big, but small enough to fit into the thermos. Every evening fill the bowl with water and freeze (if you have electricity at night). In the morning, dump the ice into your thermos and fill it with water. Don't forget to refill your bowl and put it back in the freezer for tomorrow. All day long you'll have cold water to drink without opening your fridge and losing the precious cold. We did this for years in Africa.

3. Toothpaste works to ease itchy mosquito bites. Just dab it on every one of them. You can easily count them as you go so that you know how many there are for your next blog or Facebook status. You smell minty fresh, but lint also sticks to your skin. Up to you.

4. If you don't know what you are doing for dinner, but it's time and your hubby and kids are getting hungry, saute some onions. Makes the kitchen smell like you know what you are doing and buys you a little time. (I got this idea from my mom!)

5. If you live in a super hot and dry climate, do these things to keep relatively cool:

*Get your head and hair wet and don't dry off. I know people who just left their clothes on and got fully wet and then walked around the house like that. The water cooled them off and since we lived in the desert, it didn't actually take very long to dry!
*Get towels wet and lay them on your floor at night. If you don't have AC but you do have a ceiling fan, the wet towels will cool the room off a bit.
*Wear cotton undershirts or tank tops under your clothes. If you are living in a country where you have to dress conservatively, this seems counter-intuitive. But my friends and I discovered that tank tops collect your sweat and #1 keep your outer clothes from stinking and #2 used your sweat to cool you off.

6. Keep a container in your freezer and put the "final" leftovers in it, no matter how small. When the container is full you can make soup. Dump the frozen stuff into a pot and add whatever you feel might be missing (water, stock, a can of veggies (or fresh ones if you don't have cans), a taco mix, some spices, some pasta, rice, etc.) My family doesn't realize that's what I do and almost every time they say, "Wow, this soup is really good!" It's better if it cooks a long time in the crockpot. Honestly, my family usually likes it even better the second time around. I call it "Hearty Soup" like my mom does!

7. Here's a truly old-school tip. Back in the day our only communication back home was through letters. It did not cost any more in postage to add one Koolaide packet or one ziploc bag. Since both were hard (uh...impossible) to come by, we had our friends and family stick one or the other in every letter. It was like getting a double treat every time!

8. Learn how to breathe through your mouth and not your nose. If you live in a Third-World country, chances are you are gonna smell pee, poop, blood, sewer, fish, carcasses, spoiled garbage, and durian. It's nicer for those in whose country you are a guest if you don't wrinkle your nose and pass out or gag every time your nose is offended. I also try not to think about the fact that my mouth is still taking in all those smelly germs without the advantage of nose hair filters. So breathe through  your mouth and distract your mind and you'll be fine!

9. If you happen to stay at a nice hotel that supplies shower caps, save them. They are handy for covering food dishes, like plastic wrap...only free. I wash and reuse until they are kind of gross and then throw them away.

10. Weavels and unsavory critters like that will leave your flour, cereals, rice, and other grains if you spread it out in the sun (on a woven mat or large tray). Stale cereal and chips crisp back up in an oven set at low. Don't through away that stuff!









If you live in a third-world country, in the boonies, or if you live somewhere else, what tips have you learned for every day life?

Instead of the Thorn Bush

There weren't many trees in Eritrea. The government of the newly liberated country in East Africa had recently installed afforestation projects to plant new trees where previously there were none. But they were still saplings. Since most Eritreans cooked over wood fueled fires, trees were a precious commodity.

Come Christmas season, I had a problem. I wanted a Christmas tree, but there were none to be found. We finally decided to cut down the thorn bush in the front "yard" of our house. We wedged its stick-like trunk into a bucket of rocks and hung tiny ornaments sent by my sister-in-law. I was so proud of our Christmas tree!

We spent 2 1/2 challenging and wonderful years in Eritrea. I believe that we lived there during the best time in its history. We heard amazing stories from our friends who fought for independence. We saw joy and hope in the eyes of everyone who walked freely down the streets in the evenings when once they hid from MiGs flying overhead. Life was simple and happy for Eritreans. The nightmares of war faded and the dreams of a promising future grew more vivid.

Little did we know that only a few months of peace remained when we departed our little African home and returned to the USA. Before long we received news of fresh fighting. Within a few years we received news of our friends being imprisoned, tortured, killed. Churches went underground as persecution intensified. Unrest came both from within and from outside. Our hearts broke every time we heard a new report.

But God is sovereign and He is in control. This morning I read Isaiah 55 and I found a little phrase tucked away amid promises that God's ways are not our ways. Verse 13 says, "Instead of the thornbush will grow the pine tree".

How pleased I was with our thorn bush that Christmas we spent in Eritrea! But when I think of Eritrea nowadays, my heart is heavy. Figuratively speaking, even the thorn bushes are stripped away. But God is in control and one day (figuratively speaking) He will fill its landscape with pine trees!

I find hope in Hebrews 2:8,9a "In putting everything under him (Jesus), God left nothing that is not subject to him. Yet at present we do not see everything subject to him. But we see Jesus..."

Today I see the thornbush. I smell dirt. I feel the prick of the brier. It is ugly.

But when I look at God's people in Eritrea...I see green. I smell the scent of the fir. I see fresh. I see life. I see hope. I see pine trees.

One day, instead of the thorn bush will grow the pine tree.

One day...

Did You Tell Lana?

Lana was a young lady who had been visiting in our home each week.  One day after she left, my son asked me if she believed in Jesus. I told him no.

“You have to tell her about Jesus, Mom,” he said.

“If you will pray with me for Lana every day, then I will share with her next time she comes,” I replied.

That satisfied my son and he prayed each day. The next time that Lana came to our house, my son whispered to me, asking me if I had shared.

“What did your son say to you?” Lana asked.

“Well, he wants me to tell you all about Jesus,” I replied. And I did. That day my son prompted me to “get to the point” and share Jesus with my friend Lana.

As a family, we can be each other’s cheerleaders, prayer warriors and mission partners. Our kids are a vital part of our team. Kris and I have discovered that we grow closer as a family when we minister together. When we pray as a family for our nonbelieving friends, we get excited together when we have opportunities to share with them. When we open our home as a family we have a special bond: it is the bond of being on mission together.

Eid Mubarak!

It's quiet over here on my side of the island because most of my neighbors are Chinese and expats. But somewhere around here, and most definitely in places surrounding the island, folks are celebrating IdulAdha (Eid alAdha). I have some great memories of long hot days celebrating the holiday with our neighbors and friends.

Our first time to celebrate was in East Africa. Here we are, don't we look youuuuuuuuuuuung? By the way, that cute little lamb survived. It was not sacrificed that year, like so many other sheep were. Our friends were so proud of their new baby sheep that they wanted us to take a picture with it!

My first memory of Eid alAdha in North Africa was when our neighbors (who were Libyan), invited Aaron to come watch them sacrifice the sheep. When in Rome, right? So I sent my four-year-old next door to watch. Aaron came home to tell us how he got to feed the sheep and then the man cut the sheep "and jelly came out of his neck". Awesome. Mom-of-the-year.

I remember the year I relaxed in the courtyard of a friend and watch her prepare sheep intestines. She squished all the pellets out of the LONG tube and rinsed it out before looping it with her fingers like she was crocheting yarn. Then she boiled it. Your mouth is watering, right?

I remember eating raw liver while I was pregnant. I found out later (from my OBGyn) that in America that is a big No No. No raw liver when you are pregnant. OK, well, just to be safe, I'll NEVER EAT RAW LIVER AGAIN. Or esophagus. I will eat raw esophagus and liver only once in this lifetime ok?

I remember riding down the streets of our dusty desert town and seeing dead sheep hanging from door posts or trees outside the door, waiting to be skinned and prepared for lunch. Their heads sat on the ground beneath the bodies and next to a pool of blood.

I remember the yummy fried meat. Lots of it. Meat, meat, meat.

Eid alAdha: celebrating the provision of God when Abraham was going to sacrifice his son. God provided a substitute. I am so thankful that we no longer need to sacrifice. I am so thankful that God gave His Son, Jesus Christ, as a substitute for the punishment that I deserve.

Today I remember my Muslim friends and pray that they will meet God in a special way this year.

Crying Baby

My baby on the shore of the Nile River.

When our kids were small, I sometimes felt that my young ones took me away from ministry. That’s simply not true.  I remember one day my family was visiting in the home of an African family. One of our sons, who was a baby at the time, began to cry and I was forced to leave the room and stand outside. I began singing to comfort him. But in my heart I was so frustrated. If I didn’t have young children to take care of, I could be in the house sharing Jesus with that family. 

I continued to sing, I was singing the Lord’s Prayer in the local language. As I finished the song I noticed the mother had stepped outside and was listening to me. She asked me about the song I sang and I told her the story of when Jesus’ followers asked Him how they were to pray to God. It was such a sweet time. But you know, it never would have happened if I had not been outside comforting my crying baby. 

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The Box

I felt myself being squeezed back into a little box. It all happened in a matter of seconds and it started just by the look in his eyes.

It has been four years since I left a country that I poured myself into for thirteen years. Since the day I flew away, I have not seen a single person from there.

At first I didn’t miss it. Then I missed it terribly. As each day passed, I grew and changed. I tried new things, I found my voice, I learned that my opinions mattered and my gifts contributed to others. I gained confidence and slowly ventured out from the box that my former world had kept me in. I felt free!

But I still missed the people from my other world. Sometimes I wondered why I loved those ladies so much and why I couldn’t go back. If only I could go back now: now that confidence filled my veins, wisdom matured me and joy put a spring in my step.

One day last week, my husband and I enjoyed a delicious Arabic meal with friends. Ramadan (the month of fasting for Muslims) is in full swing, but the restaurant served us before the fast broke at sundown. We sat under colorful glass lanterns and watched young people playing on the beach as we dipped bread into creamy Arabic dips and talked about both the mundane and the deep.

As the sun creeped lower in the sky, more people wandered into the restaurant. Arabs and Asians from various countries sat at tables throughout the room. The non-Muslims ate their food eagerly while the Muslims waited patiently for the fast to break. My husband and I noticed a group walk into the restaurant and immediately knew they were from a land we formerly lived in. There were two men, a lady and two children. I admired their faces as they walked by. How I missed those faces!

After dinner, I wondered aloud if I should try to meet the lady. My dinner companion encouraged me to do so. The lady had gone to the restroom, so I followed her in and asked her where she was from. Our guess had been right! Her name was Wi’am. She and her daughter were very happy to hear a khawadja (white foreigner) speaking Arabic. She said that I spoke Arabic well. That was a very gracious complement, since I discovered only one in every three words that came out of my mouth were Arabic. The others were a mixture of Bahasa and English and I also had to resort to charades. What on earth happened to the Arabic file in my brain?

We chatted a little and then she excused herself and returned to her table. I rifled through my purse looking for a name card to give her, but I must have given them all away. My friend, who came with me to the restroom, handed me a piece of paper and pen so I could scribble my name and email address down. My hand was shaking out of sheer excitement. A woman from my former home! I loved those ladies!

I quickly left the restroom, but found that the family was already gone. Shoot! Then I looked out of the glass door of the restaurant and saw them meandering through the gift shops set up in the parking lot. At the risk of appearing “stalker-ish” in my excitement, I left my dinner party behind and walked briskly across the parking lot toward Wi’am. I gave her the piece of paper and talked to her a little bit more before the men walked up. Again, I was excited to speak Arabic and meet more people from our former home.

“This is my husband,” said Wi’am, as the men strolled up to us. I smiled brightly, eager to tell them that I used to live in their country.

Then it happened.

Any passerby would not have known that anything unusual had happened at all. The shop owners would have seen a group of North African tourists talking to an American lady for a few seconds and then would have seen them walk on their way. It happens all the time, every day. Why would anyone think it strange?

It started by the look in his eyes.

It wasn’t a bad look, or even a leering one. It was not so much what was in the look as it was what was NOT in it. It was a look that was void of respect. I was de-humanized in a split second. The words he said were cordial. But his look and his manner held me in disdain and crammed me into the tiny box “where you belong.” That man and every other man like him commanded me to shrink. Suddenly, my sleeves felt too short, my jeans too tight, my voice too loud, my manner too friendly, my walk too quick, and my stance too confident. What I would have given for a headscarf to cover my hair that moment. What on earth had I been thinking? His look shot emotions and reactions into my heart that I hadn’t felt in years. My mind saw every man who had leered at me and every man who had touched me or spoken to me inappropriately...I suddenly remembered every unspoken rule for a woman to survive in that man’s world. I found myself squished back into a tiny dark box.

There is no room for anything but me in that box- I am stripped. There is no room for self-expression or confidence. There is no room for talent or a voice of any kind. There is only me. I had been soundly put in my place and he didn’t even have to raise his hand. He never would have anyway. What man would shake hands with an infidel woman during Ramadan?

I turned and walked away. As I slunk back across the parking lot I realized I inadvertently gave Wi’am the wrong email address! In my excitement I’d confused two of my addresses and wrote down a mixture of the two!

Idiot! A thousand men just like him chuckled. See? You are a stupid woman!

A bell on the restaurant door jingled as I opened it and in a split second I had re-entered my own dimension. I sat at the dinner table and talked about strategy and vision. My ideas mattered. My voice contributed to the conversation. My confidence returned. I bloomed again and the tiny stifling box sat shattered in the parking lot.

It has taken me four years to get out of that box and let the Lord nurture and grow me. I don’t have to get back in that box. But what about Wi’am? She’s never known anything different. Now I realize: that’s why I love her and ladies like her so much. They are beautiful and only when I crawled into that dark place could I see them for who they really were. I could see the potential for what God had made them to be.

The box. It’s a place that only a woman can go. No man can truly understand it or feel the pain that comes with it. Although I have attempted to describe it, it’s indescribable really. It’s a place where women are living and dying without the hope of Christ. Wi’am is there...and all my friends from that country.

Will you pray for Wi’am and women like her? Will you pray for the men in their lives? There is just under two weeks left of Ramadan. As people like Wi’am and her family are more sensitive to spiritual things this month, will you pray that they will find Jesus? He really is the answer after all.

Jesus said, “The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to release the oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” Luke 4:18-19

Five Times a Day

I’m nothing unusual really, just a little cup in the hands of a young nomad woman. She has six other cups just like me. I don’t even have a handle and I am not very big at all. A finjaan is what I’m called, and I hold coffee for my owner five times a day.

The young nomad woman sets the other cups and me on a little metal tray.

Clink...clink...clink

She sets the tray on the dirt beside her little charcoal stove and begins to fan the coals with one hand while shaking a metal cup of coffee beans over the heat with the other.

Rattle...rattle...rattle

The beans begin to smoke and the aroma fills the round dome-shaped tent of the nomad woman. Laughter fills the room; deep chuckles and throaty voices of old men. They are reclining on blankets and mats in the tent as they wait for their coffee to be served.  The man with the big grin and missing teeth is the young nomad woman’s husband. He is old, but he is kind. She has borne him a child already, so he is very proud of her. Her tiny baby boy is sleeping in a bundle on her back. She has tied him there and he is quiet and peaceful.  The nomad lady puts the coffee beans in a thick wooden cylinder and pounds them with a heavy metal rod.

Thump...thump...thump

She pounds the beans, along with a large piece of ginger, then coaxes the grounds into the long thin spout of her gourd-shaped clay coffee pot. She pours water in and sets the pot on the coals.  The drops of water that escaped down the sides of the pot now sizzle on the fire.

Ssss...ssss...ssss

When the coffee bubbles, she knows it is almost ready. She removes the pot before the dark froth bubbles up the long spout and spills out onto the coals.  She sets the round clay pot on a ring made of reeds that keeps it sitting upright while the coffee grounds settle to the bottom.  She picks up something that looks like a wad of crumpled string. It is really a tangled ball of camel tail hairs. She has crafted them into a filter that is stuffed into the spout of the clay pot. The camel hair keeps the coffee grounds and ginger threads from pouring out with the coffee.

Not much coffee will be poured into me, however, because the young nomad woman has already filled me and the other cups more than half-way with sugar. She holds the clay pot of coffee high over the tray and begins to pour the dark liquid in a thin stream, like a black ribbon, into each of us until we are filled to the rim with the steamy beverage.

And now, it is time to serve the men in the tent. The young nomad woman lifts the tray with me and the other cups of coffee. She offers us to the men. Dark leathery fingers reach toward us as the old men lean forward and take us by our rims. The boiling liquid will not burn them. Many years of holding hot coffee have calloused their skin.

The conversation wanes and is replaced with the satisfied sounds of approval, as the men sip the coffee and feel the strong flavor of ginger burning their throats when they swallow.

Mmmm...mmmm...mmmm

“Te’uum buun!” They say to the young nomad woman. She smiles shyly and looks down at the ground.

This is her life. She knows nothing of the outside world. She is simple. She builds her tent, she milks her camel, and she makes coffee five times a day for her husband and his friends. She has her lot and she does it well. Her cup is full.

I am like her. I am nothing unusual really, just a little cup in the hands of a young nomad woman. She has six other cups just like me. I don’t even have a handle and I’m not very big at all. But five times a day I make my owner’s guests happy. Five times a day my cup is full.

New Kindle Book!

I wrote a book a few years ago for ladies working in North Africa and I wanted to be able to share it with a larger audience.  That is why I am happy to announce that Villa in the Hilla is now available for Kindle through Amazon! You can click here read more about it:  Villa in the Hilla

Round Two

I found more pictures from our adventures in Africa/Middle East. I couldn't resist posting another trip down memory lane...

Boat ride on the White Nile...Kris is the one with the picture on his T-shirt.

Making Jabana (or boon...Beja coffee...double yum!) Here he is pounding the coffee beans.

But before that he roasts the beans over the fire.

Piled in the car to go on a picnic. Can you tell which one is Aaron? :)

Seth is checking out the White Nile with a family friend.

One of Aaron's first friends in the desert: a little Libyan boy next door. They couldn't communicate with words, but they had no problem playing together anyway!

Meeting a nice couple from Saudi Arabia. That's newborn Joel in the blanket I am holding.

Downtown Khartoum.

Riding a bike in a jallabeeya. Talent at it's best!

Pushing a broken down truck off the road. Yes, that's a road!

Woah! Wait, this lady is walking in front of her husband! Women's Lib!

The Mogran. Where the Blue Nile meets the White Nile. See the two colors of water?

Common desert scene.

I love that there is a truck parked outside!

But why ride a truck when you can ride a donkey cart! Yee haw! You think maybe these 2 donkey carts are playing chicken? Wonder who won.

I bet you know what this says!

Airport Road "back in the day"

I'm on the left. Wow, can you say "slicked back hair"? That pony tail is tight!

Double yum (except for the green slosh on the right, I don't do slimy very well).

Hee hee! That's Seth when he was a little tyke! This is our weekly visit to some good friends across town in the desert.

Attempting to pose for the camera with our little friend "Apple"

Memory Lane

While doing a little research for a writing project, I found some OLD pictures and I just had to share! But I don't have the energy to figure out how to put these silly things in order without it taking all night, so they are gonna be on here just exactly the way that they appear when I upload them. Hold on tight b/c it's gonna be a bumpy ride...Come walk with me down Memory Lane...

Camping by the Nile. Doesn't get any better than that!

Except for maybe SWIMMING in the Nile! Here is Little Seth!

Joel and I are sunbathing on the beach :)

Henna! I miss this!

Joel, hanging out on his blanket from Lola.

November 10, 2002 Here is where Joel joined our family! The Arab Heart Center in Amman, Jordan. Yea, I know, I know, it's anyone's guess why he was born in a heart center.

But the Arab Heart Center had an awesome private room with a private guest seating area attached, so I wasn't complaining at all! The cake is a gift from the hospital and the candies were treats for our guests.

Going back about a year, here is Chubby Seth posing while Aaron shoots hoops in the background! This is our house in our desert home, back in 2001/2002

And then fast forward back to Joel's birth. This is probably my very favorite picture of Seth, doesn't he look innocent!? Is he plotting to whack Joel over the head while no one is looking?

Well, I had so much fun looking through all these old pictures that I might just make you look at more in a future post. But for now, thanks for taking a walk with me!