Four Bags of Sugar and Seven Bags of Flour: The Making of a Miracle and Other Events from the Bible

I’ve had two experiences in my life where I feel as if I was living out stories of the Bible. The first happened during the first few weeks after I got married.  My new husband and I were excitedly heading to our new home in Newfoundland where we were going to be brand spanking new primary school teachers.  The trip to our new home was our makeshift honeymoon.  However, unlike most folks it was highly unlikely we would ever be able to take a second honeymoon to the same spot.

Why you ask?  Well, thanks to a Canadian National Railroad strike our second to the last leg of the honeymoon trip from Oshawa, Ontario—the overnight ferry boat ride from North Sydney, Nova Scotia to Port aux Basques, Newfoundland –was on hold.  We arrived shortly after the strike began and like so many other folks waiting to make the voyage set up camp along the highway that led to the port where the massive ferries were empty waiting for the cars and passengers that would soon (hopefully) fill them up.

We were situated near the front of the line which pretty much ensured us a spot on one of the first ferries heading out across the straits unlike thousands of those unlucky folks behind us who were backed up for miles along the highway. For one thing, this meant we were near enough the docks we could use the public restrooms and haul water back to our campsite making life much easier. This offered a bit more comfortable situation for us unlike those unable to find lodgings in the overwhelmed hotels in the area. Expecting a prolonged delay we pitched our tent the first night despite our slim hope the strike would soon be settled.  But one night dragged into two and two into three. Foolishly each day we gathered a bit more from our car and trailer and carried it up into the tent.

My husband and I tried to amuse ourselves and pleasantly spent our time we were held hostage while the union fought it out with the management of the railway system. We visited the sites of North Sydney, read in the tent, played cards or threw around a Frisbee in the empty area where cars would normally line up awaiting their turn to board the ferry.

Rumors abounded among the stranded passengers.  Everyone knew someone who knew someone who knew someone who had an inside track to the negotiations taking place behind closed doors. People huddled together sharing their tidbits about what was happening, when the strike would end and the ferries would again be shuttling people back and forth between the mainland and the big island. We listened to as many of them as we could—and then contemplated all that was said and eventually came to our own conclusions about the veracity of the various rumors.

Despite the whispers the end of the strike was near—on the evening of third day we headed to our tent—pitched on the side of the hill of the last cloverleaf on the TransCanada highway that routes cars on the last stretch of highway that leads to the Atlantic Ocean and Newfoundland beyond.  We’d been hearing the same comments ever since we’d arrived and were quite convinced the end was not in sight.  We heard on the radio they were at a stalemate and surely the radio would be more accurate than all these folks waiting in a non-line to board the ferries.

It’s hard to describe what a “knock”sounds like on a canvass tent. It’s more of a slight kind of quiet flopping or flapping noise. But despite how quiet it is that’s exactly what awakened us several hours later when a Canadian Mountie knocking on the side of our tent woke us from our sound sleep.  We could hears cars whizzing by on the side of the highway and his words—“You need to move your car and trailer. It’s in the way. The strike has been settled for hours.”

We quickly gathered up what seemed to be mountains of junk that littered the tent, pulled the tent down, hauled our belongings down the hill and stuffed our belongings into the back of the car. We soberly watched the cars that had been backed up for miles behind us speed past us to secure their place in the lines that were quickly filling up.

Had we not been like the five foolish virgins in the Bible who failed to keep awake while waiting for the bridegroom to come we would surely have been on the first ferry to head to Newfoundland.  But we weren’t. Nor did we make the second ferry.  It was with a great deal of chagrin as we waited for our turn on the third ferry when on a walk down the empty highway that we discovered a few of our precious items precariously hanging on a sign on the side of the road where our makeshift campsite had been. The stuff had apparently fallen out from the tumbled mess in our arms as we hurriedly tossed our belongings into the car. As we gathered them up they were a somber reminder of our foolhardiness in hauling so many of our belongings into our temporary home on the side of the road.

What did we learn?

Lesson Number One:  Don’t ignore all rumors; sometimes they might be true.

Lesson Number Two:  When you’re in a makeshift campsite on the side of a major highway—stick to the essentials and don’t fill your tent up with anything but necessities.

Lesson Number Three:  Always be prepared for the unexpected.  You never know what may happen next.  Don’t be caught off guard.  For, if you are caught off guard—you might just miss your boat—and the next time it might be the ONLY boat that’s going where you need to go.

 

So, after that rather embarrassing experience I led a relatively circumspect life and didn’t need to be reminded by a Bible story on how to lead a well-meaning and judicious life.  Well, not until God called me to remind me about a promise I made him many years before.

 

I was in college when I met Bob. Besides being one of the smartest people I know he seemed like a genuinely nice guy.  And when we began spending more time together I increasingly realized he was the kind of person a girl would like to hitch her wagon to.  But you know–you gotta be sure about these kinds of things and in a moment of contemplation I talked to God about him.  In the course of our conversation I told Him that if it worked out that we (me and Bob)—well, I would make a commitment to God that I’d go anywhere He wanted me to go.

Now, when I made THAT promise I was really thinking of places like where I grew up.  You know—places that had running water and electricity and grocery stores and hospitals.  Nothing fancy–just the essentials—a typical run-of-the-mill kind of American town.

I meant my promise and in my view—my move to Newfoundland pretty much fulfilled that promise to God. Going there certainly had been a challenge for this middle class American girl.  I had to cook on a wood stove and during the winter running water was definitely a hit and miss commodity. The outhouse that welcomed me upon our arrival was more than daunting as were the toilet plunger that held the window in place in the only bedroom in the house that was ours and the horses. More than once we asked ourselves why there was a lonely commode in corner of the bedroom. It wasn’t connected to any septic system that we could tell.  And those were just a few of the oddities in the tiny little house that sat up on a hill overlooking the bay that we would be calling our new home.

The one and only grocery store in the nearest town 20 or so miles away carried most of what I wanted but their reconstituted milk took a good deal of getting used too, bananas were a new thing to that part of the island and were not always available and the nearby tiny clinic on the other side of the bay in Bloomfield seemed to be state-of the-art but ONLY if you didn’t have anything seriously wrong. Although I don’t recall the name of the doctor, I do remember he was young, short, dark and handsome and liked to play basketball with Bob and the other exercise-conscience young men in the area once a week in a nearby school gym. That commitment alone made him stand out from the typical Newfie. But the marauding horses—the BIG horses who openly grazed everywhere around the bay area where we lived were certainly enough to call into question more than just my Christian experience over the time we lived there. 

So, notwithstanding my promise with GOD I’d go ANYWHERE—I figured I had more than met my commitment with the already exhibited sacrifice I’d made to move to the wiles of Newfoundland far from my family and the kind of life I was familiar with.  God and I were even in my view.

But God saw it differently and I was soon to learn He had other plans for me.

Two and a half years after leaving Newfoundland things were really starting to come together. First, we had our beautiful baby girl, Heather, and 19 months later our bouncing energizer bunny Danny blessed our household too. About a year after Danny entered our lives we made the decision to take the REALLY big step and buy our first home. By this time we’d moved to Oshawa, Bob’s hometown, and we’d found the perfect place:  an almost new duplex in a neighborhood with several family friends living down the street. As a 3-bedroom split level one of the extra special features of the home was a partial basement below the main living area.  This area was a child-sized wonderland that offered more than enough storage space for their hoarder mom in addition to plenty of room for the kids to ride their tricycles during the cold winter months.  It also had a little nook we turned into a child-sized reading corner and play house much to the delight of both Heather and Danny.  Life became even better when we purchased a portable dishwasher for mom which we squeezed it into a space beside the refrigerator that definitely turned my tiny kitchen into my little side of heaven.

But, as I said, God had other plans. It was two months after we moved into our new home that Bob got a call from one of the Vice Presidents of the SDA church headquartered in, at that time, Takoma Park, Maryland. Almost a year earlier Bob had met with one of the church leaders visiting our home church. Bob eagerly expressed his earnest desire to go to Africa as a missionary. Fluent in French, and more to the point—a living, breathing being who WANTED to leave his hearth and home to head off to the unknowns on the other side of the world—this was just too much of a “Get Out of Jail Free Card”offer to the church brethren. They listened, they prayed and they decided.  They were going to ask the Bob Prouty family to go to a medium-sized mission post in one of the more remote areas of North Kivu, Zaire, literally in the heart of Africa not much more than five miles from the equator.

Now Zaire at that time was still under the rule of Mobutu. More to the point it was a hotbed of instability then (tragically even more so now). Life was not easy: communications with the outside world were non-existent; living conditions were challenging for someone used to 20^th century amenities and luxuries; and they spoke no English. So, when God in the form of that GC VP called—well, let’s just say it wasn’t met with a great deal of enthusiasm on my part.

My initial refusal to go caused me great consternation. I knew I’d made a promise to God and despite my perspective I’d already met my commitment I felt just like I was saying no to God and more importantly—no to any kind of long term relationship with Him and the hereafter with my refusal to take this call.  So, after a three-night struggle something like what I figure Jacob probably experienced when he wrestled with that angel  I said a reluctant “yes” and begrudgingly began preparations for the next and one of the most significant journeys of my life.

A few short months later we sold our new home and headed off for our two-month training at Andrews University in Michigan. Bob was finishing up his MA at the same university which conveniently left me to attend the training on my own.  You can imagine my delight upon discovering that the final decision about our employment and eventual deployment as missionaries would only come after intensive scrutiny of our (MY) performance during this training period.  I’m sure you can appreciate how I saw it—if I said YES to God but they said NO to me…well, that wouldn’t be MY fault or doing. Right?

So, I began constructing the most delightful plan ever: How to totally-miserably-completely- yet masterfully fail their evaluation of my suitability for mission service.  After all, since Mr. Bob who wanted to go and would naturally just be a hit with EVERYONE WAS NOT THERE —well, it left me up to my own devices which was just TOO MUCH to resist.  So, I began my masterful plan.

Culturally sensitive?  NOPE.  Check.

Willing to sacrifice and be a risk taker? NOPE. Check.

Ready to minister to the less fortunate?  NOPE. Check.

Upbeat? Caring? Optimistic? Trusting?  Nope. Nope. Nope. And NOPE. Check, check, check and check.

 

Well, you can imagine MY surprise when two months later OUR name was NOT on the list for those who were NOT going to their mission post.  Indeed, it was with a sinking heart that I noted next to the Prouty family name it said:  Lukanga, Zaire. 

WHAT?  After putting up with the pity if not disgust of all the other well-intended, wonderful, generous caring folks who sincerely wanted to do this who were TOTALLY put off by this obnoxious and completely unlikable person I WANTED AN EXPLANATION why we were still on the list to go to Lukanga as missionaries.  Certainly there had to be a mistake.

So, it was with some confusion and consternation that Bob accompanied me to the meeting I’d arranged with the organizers and evaluators of the training program. You can imagine MY dismay when confronted on “WHY ARE WE BEING SENT OUT? AREN”T I COMPLETELY UNSUITABLE FOR THIS KIND OF SITUATION? WASN’T I OBNOXIOUS, RUDE, INSENSITIVE, COMPLETELY UNLIKABLE? “and I was told in reply, “Well, we have to admit that when we got to your name we REALLY deliberated. But, after careful consideration and reflection of all you said and did we realized your opinion about what it would be like was SO NEGATIVE that in comparison you would find it JUST WONDERFUL. So we decided you’ll do a great job!”

OH NO!!!  GOD YOU CHEATED. YOU FOILED ME IN MY MASTERFUL PLAN.

So, like a reluctant Jonah I headed off to Zaire. Little did I know that God had some other lessons for me to learn before this would all be over.

Shortly before our arrival our fellow missionaries had managed to find a half bag of sugar, a full bag of flour, some salt, some oil, some powdered milk and a bit of oatmeal for the new missionary family. Those purchases represented about a 6 month’s portion of Bob’s salary.  More importantly, it represented the staples for a missionary family living like we were out in the bush.  Those were the core ingredients of all your bread and many other basic meals we had day after day. In my view—they were MY lifeline.

So, when four months after arriving at Lukanga my supplies were almost gone, it was with quite some panic I said to the other women that I needed to get more. They understood my need; they too needed the same supplies. But the problem was Idi Amin was still on the rampage in Uganda and all supplies coming from Kenya through Uganda were cut off.  And the other main supply route-by boat from Kinshasa to Gisangani and then overland to Butembo–wasn’t working either. Bad rains the year before had all but washed out the only road between the two towns and the hundreds of miles to travel between them took months to navigate.  In fact, at the moment when my bag of flour went completely empty the road was officially closed. Trucks were cut off and not coming through.

I was dismayed and beside myself worrying about what I’d do if I couldn’t get my sugar and flour. And short of begging God to work a miracle I contemplated how I’d managed if I couldn’t get what I wanted; what I needed. Hoping for the best Gerard, the business manager for our tiny compound, headed off to Butembo on his next trip to town with a lengthy list of goods to buy.  Not only did he have numerous supplies to get for the school but he also needed to buy items for the wives including 4 bags of sugar and 7 bags of flour.

Shopping in Butembo was an exciting experience.  It wasn’t exciting because of all the wonderful things there you could buy. Nope. What made it exciting was the possibility you MIGHT be able to get something you need that MAYBE there would be something available as you wandered from one tiny shop to the next. Indeed the NUMBER of stores was something Butembo had no shortage of. And there was LOTS of stuff to buy actually but they all seemed to sell the same sad assortment of items ranging from bottles of glycerin to nuts and bolts to engine oil and truck and car tires. It was just the STUFF you needed that just wasn’t there. There really wasn’t much beyond those few items.  And there certainly was no sugar or flour. 

In store after store, Gerard asked the same question:  Any sugar or flour?  And heard the same reply: Nope. None. Everyone wants sugar and flour. Haven’t had any for months. So, done with all his business and with only three things left on his list to purchase—sugar, flour and glass for the new church windows–Gerard began the long trip back to the compound. 

Just before you leave Butemo tucked off on the left hand side of the road is amazingly a two-item store that only carried window glass and tires.  True to his word that he’d do his best to get us our sugar and flour yet knowing the store would NOT have anything but glass and tires Gerard still asked the owner if he, by chance, had some.  Gerard was prepared when he heard the same old reply that there hadn’t been sugar or flour for sale in town for months.

Gerard began negotiating his purchase of the glass and the owner set about getting it cut and wrapping it for the bumpy journey over the horrible roads back to Lukanga.  About half way through the transaction the proprietor was called away to take care of some urgent business. A bit baffled he returned a few minutes later.  “Just how many bags of sugar and flour were you looking to buy Monsieur? he queried of Gerard.

 “Four bags of sugar and seven bags of flour. Why?”  Gerard responded. 

Shaking his head in disbelief the store owner incredulously blurted out ”Amazing. A truck just rolled in from Gisangani—it’s been on the road for four months.  He has exactly four bags of sugar and seven bags of flour on his truck.  You can have it if you want it.  I can’t believe you were here just when he arrived.” 

Four bags of sugar and seven bags of flour.  The driver later told Gerard the day he left Gisangani. Will wonders never cease—it was on the same day we arrived in Zaire. That might not seem like such a big deal to you but to me it was a definite, loud, overpowering message from GOD to Diane—“I am watching out for you. This is no coincidence.  This was in my master plan all along. Trust in me; count on me; no matter what happens you’ll be okay. I AM here.”

I’m not going to say that my faith like a little mustard seed blossomed and I never doubted or questioned or felt moments of despair ever again. No.  It didn’t.  But…always, in the back recesses of my memory is the crystal clear recollection of the day Gerard came home with four bags of sugar and seven bags of flour and the joy comes back.

Mahmoud’s Ride in the Big Truck On Unguja

Mahmoud lives with his mother and father in Bububu on the island of Unguja in Zanzibar..  Mahmoud has one older sister, Nayla, and one younger sister, Saada. Every day they walk together to  school, or play together near the mango trees near their house or swim together in the ocean just down the hill. Sometimes his older sister Nayla helps Mahmoud herd their family’s goats that graze in the fields near Mahmoud’s house.

But today was a big day for Mahmoud because his father, who drives a big truck, asked him a very important question after Mahmoud woke up.

“Mahmoud I need to take a barrel of mazout to a shop keeper in the next village.  How would you like to go with me and ride in the big truck since you don’t have school today?”

Mahmoud was so excited! He always liked to ride in his father’s big truck and see all the interesting things along the road and in the other villages.

So, after they loaded the ONE barrel of mazout on the big truck Mahmoud climbed into the front of the big truck and waved good-bye to their only security guard who closed the gate as the big truck drove away.

Mahmoud looked out the window as the big truck bounced along the road that ran past his house. He saw one of his neighbor’s cows grazing in the nearby field. As they drove past their house he saw the girl who lived next door pounding cassava for her family’s supper.

Soon they were at the shop keeper’s store. Mahmoud watched his father unload the barrel of mazout. When Mahmoud thought about the barrel of mazout he decided number one was a very good number indeed.

“One barrel of mazout” said Mahmoud’s father as he handed the bill to the shopkeeper.

“Yes,” replied the shop keeper. “But I was wondering if you could take TWO boxes of supplies to the old man who has a small duka down the road.”

“Hakuna matata” said Mahmoud’s father.

His father loaded up the two boxes of supplies and headed to the next stop.

Mahmoud looked out the window as the big truck bounced along the road on the way to the next village.  They passed two men peddling their bicycles. Each man carried stalks of bananas tied to the back of their bicycles. Mahmoud saw two little boys throwing stones into the water as the big truck bounced along the road that ran along the beach. When Mahmoud looked at all the people and objects outside his window he thought the number two was a very good number indeed.

Soon they were at the old man’s duka. Mahmoud watched his father load the two boxes of supplies.

“Two boxes of supplies” said Mahmoud’s father as he reached out his hand for the money the old man handed him. “Asante sana for bringing me my boxes.” said the old muzee.

THREE mamas carrying baskets of food on their heads ran over to Mahmoud’s father.

“We are going to the market in the next village. Could we ride in the back of your big truck?”

“Hakuna matata” said Mahmoud’s father.

So the three mamas climbed into the back of the big truck and Mahmoud’s father headed to the market.

Mahmoud looked out the window as the big truck bounced along the road as they headed to the market. In the distance he saw three mamas working in their gardens with three little babies tied to their backs. Three dogs chased after their trunk barking at the tires of his father’s big truck as it bounced along the road. When Mahmoud looked at all the people, animals and objects outside his window he thought number three was a very good number indeed.

Soon they were at the market and the big truck stopped to let the three mamas off. They waved at Mahmoud’s father, “Asante sana Bwana for letting us ride in your big truck” they shouted to him.

“Three women left at the market. This is a very good day,” said Mahmoud’s father as the mamas waved good-bye.

A man standing by the road ran up to Mahmoud’s father. “Are you going to the next village?” he asked.

“Indeed I am” said Mahmoud’s father.

“Can I go with you and take my FOUR goats to my village>”

“Hakuna matata” said Mahmoud’s father.

So Mahmoud’s father the man’s four goats on the big truck as the man climbed on board.

Mahmoud looked out the window as the big truck bounced along the road as they headed to the next village. He saw four boys walking to school carrying back packs full of books. Each boy dragged a stick in the dirt leaving four crooked lines behind them in the dirt. Mahmoud knew how much fun it was to playing with a stick in the dirt. He pointed to the boys as he told his father, “Baba look at those four boys with their sticks. I like to run along with a stick like this too.”

‘Indeed you do” agreed Mahmoud’s father as he smiled down at his son When Mahmoud looked at all the people, animals and objects outside his window he thought the number four was a very good number indeed.

Soon they were at the village and the big truck stopped to let the man and his four goats off.

“Four goats running crazy,” said Mahmoud’s father.

“Asante sana Bwana for letting us ride in your big truck” he shouted to Mahmoud’s father. The man chased after his goats quickly scampering down the road.

An old mama sitting by the side of the road waved to Mahmoud’s father. “I need to send FIVE baskets of food to the school just down the road. Can you take them for me?” she asked.

“Hakuna matata” said Mahmoud’s father.

As the big truck bounced down the road Mahmoud saw five goats tied to five sticks along the road. He counted five houses and five cars as they sped past his father’s big truck. Mahmoud smiled as they passed five boys playing with a ball in a field. When Mahmoud looked at all the people, animals and objects outside his window he thought five was a very good number.

Soon they saw the school in the distance. The big truck stopped as the school director ran to the side of the road and helped his father unload the baskets of food off the big truck. .

“Five baskets of food dropped off at the school”, said Mahmoud’s father.

“Asante sana Bwana for bringing us our food.” he said to Mahmoud’s father as he shook his hand.

“There are SIX students who would like to ride home on the back of your big truck. Can they ride with you?” asked the school director.

“Hakuna matata” said Mahmoud’s father.

The six students climbed on the big truck. Mahmoud’s father started the engine and drove away from the school.

Mahmoud looked out the window as the big truck bounced along the road to the next village. He counted six dhow boats bobbing in the water and six little girls playing a game alongside the road. There were six big rocks piled high along the shore where six men were fishing with six large nets. He could see six dugouts skimming along on the water. When Mahmoud looked at all the people, animals and objects outside his window he thought the number six was a very good number indeed.

Soon they were at the village where the six students lived. The big truck stopped and the students climbed off the big truck.

“Six students heading home,” said Mahmoud’s father.

“Asante sana Bwana for letting us ride on your big truck” the students shouted as they raced home for their suppers.

“Hakuna matata” said Mahmoud’s father.

One of the fathers stood along the side of the road waiting for his son. “I need help getting SEVEN big fish to the market” he said to Mahmoud’s father. “Can I ride on your big truck and take these to the market?”

“Hakuna matata” said Mahmoud’s father.

Mahmoud’s father and the boy loaded the fish on the back of the big truck as his father climbed in the back.

His father started the engine and bounced down the road as he drove to the market. Mahmoud saw seven boys swimming in the ocean. Seven girls washed clothes in the water. Seven goats grazed in the grass. Seven chickens pecked at bugs in the dirt. Seven large pieces of driftwood were piled up on the shore. Seven mamas were selling fruit along the roadside. And, seven soldiers walked together alongside the road. When Mahmoud looked at all the people, animals and objects outside his window he thought the number seven was a very good number indeed.

Soon they arrived at the market. Mahmoud’s father stopped the big truck and helped the father unload his big fish.

“Seven fresh big fish ready for the market,” said Mahmoud’s father.

“Asante san Bwana for getting my fish to the market” the fisherman said to Mahmoud’s father.

An old man leaning on a stick slowly walked over to Mahmoud’s father. “I have EIGHT chickens I bought in the market and want to take home. Can I ride in your big truck?” he asked.

“Hakuna matata” said Mahmoud’s father.

Mahmoud’s father loaded the baskets with the eight chickens unto the big truck and helped the old man climb aboard.  Then he climbed into his seat and started the engine.

Mahmoud saw were eight birds sitting in eight palm trees along the ocean. Eight cows grazing in the grass that grew along the beach. Eight boys were playing football and eight girls jumping, clapping and singing in a field near the road.  Mahmoud counted eight piki pikis parked at a store selling all kinds of car and bike parts piled in eight bins in front of the store. And eight chickens ran together across the road in front of the big truck.  When Mahmoud looked at all the people, animals and objects outside his window he thought the number eight was a very good number indeed.

Soon they arrived at the old man’s house. Mahmoud’s father stopped the big truck and unloaded the baskets of eight chickens.

“Eight baskets of chicken delivered,” said Mahmoud’s father.

“Asante sana Bwana for letting me ride in your big truck” said the old man.

Mahmoud’s father was climbing into his big truck when a young boy ran up to the side and said, “Bwana we have NINE baskets of vegetables to take to Bububu. Can we put them on your big truck?”

“Hakuna matata” said Mahmoud’s father.

They loaded the nine baskets of vegetables on the big truck. Mahmoud’s father started the engine and once again the big truck bounced down the road.  Mahmoud counted nine boys walking along the road. He also counted nine men riding on nine bicycles carrying goods to Bububu. And as they neared the town he counted nine mamas with nine babies on their back and nine baskets on their heads walking together on their way to the market. Nine goats grazed in the field, nine dugouts skimmed along in the water, nine men fished with nine nets on the shore. As Mahmoud looked at all the people, animals and objects outside his window he thought nine was a very good number indeed.

Soon they were back in Bububu. Mahmoud felt sad because his ride in Baba’s big truck was almost over. He wished he might be able to ride with his father some more and be able to count more things he saw along his trip.

They rounded the bend in the road near the football field that stretched along the beach near the beautiful blue ocean near his village. Mahmoud’s heart sang for joy when he saw all his friends waiting for him to play football—all TEN of them. As he saw them standing there Mahmoud smiled and he thought to himself indeed ten was the best number of all.

When Mahmoud finished helping his father unload the nine baskets of vegetables he turned to his father and said, “Baba, can I play football with my friends?”

“Hakuna matata” said Mahmoud’s father.

As Mahmoud run to play with his friends his father smiled and thought to himself one son was a very good number indeed!

The End.

About this book:

Unguja Island is the largest of two islands that make up the Zanzibar Archipelago.  Unguja and Pemba are the largest and most heavily populated islands in the archipelago. Zanzibar is an independent region as part of the country of Tanzania.  Bububu is one of the towns that lies along the Indian Ocean. Several hundred years ago Arab and Portuguese traders first visited the islands bringing outside influences including Islam and fragrant spices. The people of Zanzibar are very diverse although most trace their roots to African descent with a few others who are of Arab and Asian descent as well. There is little industry in Zanzibar and most people live by fishing or farming. Tanganyika and the Zanzibar Archipelago gained independence from Britain in December 1963. After a brief revolution in which hundreds of people died the archipelago joined Tanganyika and together they became the” portmanteau” or blend of the two countries to form  Tanzania and Zanzibar.

The language spoken in Zanzibar and much of Tanzania is Kiswahili. Although mostly composed of Bantu (African) words Kiswahili is a rich mix of Persian, Arabic, English, German, and Portuguese. To demonstrate the contribution of each culture and language into the Swahili language examples of the borrowing include:

The numbers one (moja), two (mbili), three (tatu), four (nne), five (tano), eight (nane) and ten (kumi) are all Bantu. Six (sita), seven (sita) and nine (tisa) are Arabic. Chai (tea) is from Persia. The Portuguese language brought words like meza (table), peza (money) and even bull-fighting practiced on the island of Pemba. Words borrowed from the British include “baiskeli (bicycle), basi (bus), penseli (pencil), mashine (machine), motogari (motorcar) and koti (coat). Shule (school) and hela (coin) were introduced by the Germans.

The following Kiswahili words are used in this book.

Asante Sana—Thank you very much

Baba–Father

Cassava–major food in the developing world that provides a carbohydrate high diet for over 500 million people. It is highly drought resistant which makes it a good crop in much of Sub-Saharan Africa.

Dhow—traditional sailboat with a triangular sail commonly used in the Indian Ocean

Duka—small roadside store

Hakuna matata—No problem

Mazout—diesel fuel

Muzee—wise elder

Piki piki—an anamanapia word for motorcycle; anamanapia is a word formed from the sound something makes when in action

References:

http://www.glcom.com/hassan/swahili_history.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zanzibar

http://sw.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unguja

French Onion Soup for the Soul

My father was born in Belgium and came to the US via Ellis Island when he was just a baby. He didn’t speak English until he began school at the age of 9 and left before he completed grade 8. He spent his early years working in the sugar beet fields of Southeast Michigan and did this every summer until he began school. After leaving school he began working in local factories and did that until he joined the army during World War II. From the stories he shared with us about his childhood it was clear his life was more like the poor lower classes in a Charles Dickens novel than that of the 1940s heroine Nancy Drew.

My father was the oldest of three boys. He was also the only one of them who spoke Flemish. I didn’t realize until I was much older the full implication of this simple fact and the impact it must have had on his family. Although his father spoke English fluently our grandmother did not. And whenever Flemish was used in the home Daddy would urge his family and especially his brothers to use English instead.  Whether it was the pressure to fit in to an English speaking environment or to force his mother to learn English–the overall impact was that his two younger brothers never learned to speak Flemish and were limited in their efforts to communicate with their own mother.

Although our mother was not from the tight knit Belgian (or Buffalo) community in our hometown, she was a savvy lady and if their orthodoxy made sense to her–she willingly embraced it. One thing she wholeheartedly bought into was the homeopathic practices and tonics our grandmother used. Chief among these was the viscous potion used for colds, respiratory infections and the flu. Whenever we got sick Mom or daddy would make a batch of the brew that consisted of stewed onions thickened with brown sugar. Sometimes–when our colds were deep in our chest and it called for really strong medicine–they’d make a poultice with the stuff and plaster it on our chests.

When my mom learned the real value came from the onions promoted for their medicinal value from cancer prevention to cardiovascular health–she dropped the brown sugar and made French Onion Soup instead when we got sick. I don’t think there was anything more horrid than that onion and brown sugar toxic brew so it was with a great deal of relief that we transitioned from the old country potion to the New World soup. When mom later learned that garlic shared many of the same medicinal values as onions she added that to her wonderful soup. So, eat French Onion Soup–it’s good for your soul and your health!

So, what’s they hype on onions?  http://www.vegetarian-nutrition.info/updates/onions.php

Early American settlers used wild onions to treat colds, coughs, and asthma, and to repel insects. In Chinese medicine, onions have been used to treat angina, coughs, bacterial infections, and breathing problems.

The World Health Organization (WHO) supports the use of onions for the treatment of poor appetite and to prevent atherosclerosis. In addition, onion extracts are recognized by WHO for providing relief in the treatment of coughs and colds, asthma and bronchitis. Onions are known to decrease bronchial spasms. An onion extract was found to decrease allergy-induced bronchial constriction in asthma patients.

Onions are a very rich source of fructo-oligosaccharides. These oligomers stimulate the growth of healthy bifidobacteria and suppress the growth of potentially harmful bacteria in the colon. In addition, they can reduce the risk of tumors developing in the colon.

Cardiovascular Help

Onions contain a number of sulfides similar to those found in garlic which may lower blood lipids and blood pressure. In India, communities that never consumed onions or garlic had blood cholesterol and triglyceride levels substantially higher, and blood clotting times shorter, than the communities that ate liberal amounts of garlic and onions. Onions are a rich source of flavonoids, substances known to provide protection against cardiovascular disease. Onions are also natural anticlotting agents since they possess substances with fibrinolytic activity and can suppress platelet-clumping. The anticlotting effect of onions closely correlates with their sulfur content.

Cancer Prevention      

Onion extracts, rich in a variety of sulfides, provide some protection against tumor growth. In central Georgia where Vidalia onions are grown, mortality rates from stomach cancer are about one-half the average level for the United States. Studies in Greece have shown a high consumption of onions, garlic and other allium herbs to be protective against stomach cancer.

Chinese with the highest intake of onions, garlic, and other Allium vegetables have a risk of stomach cancer 40 percent less than those with the lowest intake. Elderly Dutch men and women with the highest onion consumption (at least one-half onion/day) had one-half the level of stomach cancer compared with those consuming no onions at all.

Western Yellow, New York Bold, and Northern Red onions have the richest concentration of flavonoids and phenolics, providing them with the greatest antioxidant and anti-proliferative activity of 10 onions tested. The mild-tasting Western White and Vidalia onions had the lowest antioxidant content and lowest anti-proliferative activity. The consumer trend to increasingly purchase the less pungent, milder onion varieties may not be the best, since the onions with a stronger flavor and higher astringency appear to have superior health-promoting properties.

My Sister Is Dying

I learned on Friday that my younger sister is dying. In truth her poor health has been devouring her for years so it’s come as no surprise that her end is near. But it’s not until a doctor begins to talk to you about months or even weeks that the horrible reality of someone’s death hits hard. It takes your breath away; it grabs you in the gut and twists you up with a physical pain knowing that one more person who you love is going away.

My sister wasn’t an easy person to live with. She was very stubborn and she flaunted rules and regulations. Life for her was about fun. Yesterday I was talking to my oldest son and I told him  in my view his aunt was the penultimate Peter Pan. He totally agreed that was a great description for her–Peter Pan. And until rheumatoid arthritis robbed her of her future she embraced that childish view of life completely and life was totally about play, having fun and living on the edge.

In addition to the the RA that entered her life in her late twenties–one other thing happened that prompted her to take the biggest step to grow up and change her life style:  the birth of her only child Michael. Nothing before so moved her to embrace stability, try and follow the rules. From that point on everything was about Michael and she tried harder than she ever tried in her life to create a supportive loving home for him.

I’m going to Florida to see my sister in two weeks. It will very likely be the last time I will  talk to her in person. I’m thinking a lot right now what I want to say to her. My list is sure to grow but so far here’s a few things:

1. Even though you never smiled very well in your school pictures your mechanical grin was endearing and signaled a lot about the way you would face life when it got tough—tenacious, firm resolution, you just have to grin and bear what comes along.
2. You believed in right and wrong. Sometimes the way you would define what was right and wrong seemed convoluted but your sense of accountability and the checks and balances in life was a compass for you.
3. Your faith has grown strong as your body has grown weaker. You are seeing beyond the struggles of the “now” and holding firm to your belief in the “here after” and it brings me comfort to know that is holding you firm right now.
4. Long after daddy was unable to do much for us as a “father” as he aged–his visits to see you was something that made him feel like he was still taking care of his daughters. You were able to give daddy something that Barb and I couldn’t. Thank you for making him be so needed.
5. I have no idea how you’ve been able to see past the narrow confines of the room that has been your home for so many years–and to view the outside world through one window. I would never be able to accept that in my own life–it speaks to a strength of character and will much stronger than mine.

  You’re my sister and soon you will be gone.  What more is there to say….just…you’re my sister and I love you.

My visit to Varzol

Went on a field visit today. Went to a remote village in the area of Varzol to meet with grade nine students and parents. The road was pretty bad–got stuck 4 times and folks had to push. The final time we had to get out and walk in the snow on ice for about 600 meters to get to the entrance of the school yard and then another 200 or more feet into the school.  I kept having to grab the arm of several younger men accompanying me to prevent from failing. Getting too old for this inclement weather.

A rural village in Varzol of 300 homes.

It really was one of the better schools I’ve seen here. Very welcoming group. Even the old chair of the community committee (like a mayor) came to meet and talk with us. When we were done several hours later he offered his arm to me to keep me from falling. He was a frail little man and my thought the whole time–I mean how could I refuse? was…“Please God don’t let me fall and land on this poor little guy. If I hurt him—not very good for US relations with this tiny village!

Their were students waiting at the school long after it closed to get my “autograph”—geez these kids need something more entertaining to do after school!  I willingly obliged. They’d told me when we talked they’d NEVER met an American before and seemed very excited to capture the moment with photos and the autographs. I’m sure they’ll entertain their families for several days about the lady from the US who came to talk to them.

When the parents first came into the meeting–the fathers looked stern and unapproachable.  Two of them in particular made me feel very uneasy and I thought to myself…“I’m glad I’m with colleagues–these guys look like they don’t like ME.”  I determined to talk with them individually all the same and realized quickly into my conversation with them at the close of the focus group I could not have been more wrong.

All in all it was a good visit and hopefully hands reaching across the cultural and religious divide with a warm handshake.

The women and young girls here have beautiful long hair. Gorgeous. One of the grade nine girls.

A snowy road in the stunning mountains.

 

 

 

 

 

Good-Bye

Martha's high school graduation photo

My mother-in-law died on Saturday. She was 101.

The month before she was born the Mona Lisa was stolen from the Louvre.

Italy declared war on the Ottoman Empire the month Martha made her debut.

William Taft was president and Orville Wright set a world record that held for almost 10 years keeping a glider aloft in Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina for 9 minutes and 45 seconds.

Planes were beginning to gain ground (or should we say air?) as potential military weapons.

The Indianapolis 500 was run for the first time and construction began on Fenway Park in Boston.

The Ford Model T faced its first competition as beloved American family car with the production the very first Chevrolet.

Another big move forward—the Computing Tabulating Recording Corporation (CTR) is incorporated in New York—better known as IBM.

The US postal bank is created and a 9 hour work day is introduced.

A change in the dynamics of the American family is underway as the first home for the aged in the US is opened in Prescott, Arizona.

During her lifetime she lived through a lot of history. Two world wars, the women’s suffrage movement, the prohibition, the great depression, two atomic bomb blasts, desegregation and civil rights. During the roaring 20s, a fun-loving and dance loving Martha saw women’s dress lengths go from dragging on the ground to a scandalous just above the ankles to well above the knees. Equally shocking was when women began sporting men’s clothing and then burn their bras, get rid of their bras and finally flaunt their bras.

Feisty huh?!!

The second child and only daughter of privilege she unexpectedly lost her father when she was 16. Not many years later she also lost her adored older brother. Tragedy struck again when her husband accidently died when her only child was 5 years old. Well educated but not terribly well prepared for the workplace she was forced to take on two jobs when the life insurance policy her husband had taken out a few weeks before his death wasn’t processed correctly and she was left without the resources he’d planned for her and his son. Today she’d sue. Back then she just hunkered down and forged ahead.

Martha and her mother--Nan.

A tiny somewhat frail looking woman her stamina would catch you off guard. She was a survivor. She was tenacious. She was tough. She was a devoted daughter, sister, wife, loving mother and adoring grandmother.

She was loved.

She will be missed.

Closure: Who Needs It?

What’s so important about closure?  Over the years I’ve heard a lot of people talk about it–and I must admit they use phrases that I find somewhat perplexing—all the talk about ending or finishing things.  I’m beginning to wonder why we need or even want that.

I’ve been thinking about this thing of closure quite a bit the last few weeks–probably because in a few more–I’m headed to Cairo to get some “closure”. At least that’s how folks talk about it with me. But the truth of the matter is–I don’t want to close that chapter in my life. If anything, I’d like to expand upon it–or at least be able to  relive it in some meaningful way.

So, I’m coming to the conclusion that despite all the hype about the need to bring closure to things in our lives whether it’s a death of a loved one, an unexpected and unwanted move or change in our lives–I think we’re thinking about it all wrong.

Yesterday, my daughter Heather was telling me about a blog she stumbled on in which a lady wrote about cleaning up other people’s trash that had blown into her yard. http://aninchofgray.blogspot.com/2012/01/dont-throw-your-trash-in-my-backyard.html  It’s a very insightful post made all the more meaningful that even though it starts off talking about wrapping paper that drifted into her yard–it ends up talking about a tragedy her family experienced the past year–the accidental drowning of her 12 year old son. In her view–her need to reach out to the world beyond her personal loss and grief–she was inadvertently spreading  her family’s “trash” of their  tragedy all over other people’s lives.

As I read her post–her personal loss can’t help but touch the reader. Even though you don’t know her (I certainly don’t) you can’t help but feel like you’ve been invited in to the most intimate struggle whirling around–if not plaguing–her mind. And you feel–at least I did–it’s a bit uncomfortable sitting in the front row observing and vicariously taking part in her heartbreak. Indeed, one phrase in her blog popped out at me….”Maybe you are having sympathy fatigue and wishing you could read something here about spray paint or dumpster diving or the annoying way Tim chews”.  Then it struck me: this mother  isn’t seeking closure–she’s embracing what happened–indeed she’s opening up–not closing this chapter of her life.

I’ve never lost a child.  Came too damn close to losing several–but I was fortunate and my children’s lives were spared. But they will bear the scars of their accidents and the consequences of those accidents for the rest of their lives.  As I think about all the people who I’ve shared the story with of their accidents and the other significant things that have happened in my life (I guess the trash I carry with me)—–I can’t help but come to the conclusion this reaching out to other people has nothing to do with closure.  To be honest-I don’t want closure and even though these experiences were tough they are the most memorable despite being difficult things that have happened in my lfie. I want to open them up–I want to relive the memories, rejoice in the blessings and miracles, revisit the good times as well as the bad, embrace the meaningfulness of my life and the lives of those close to me.

I think we have it all wrong. Closure means saying good-bye; it means giving something up; it means ending something. That’s not what I want. I want to invite you in and say, “Look, see, this is what my life has been.  These are the people and experiences that make up the fibers and tapestry of my life.”  I’m opening the door and inviting you into the inner chamber of my life. I want to share with you who I am and what is important in my life.

When you think about it–when we do that with each other it’s such a gift of intimacy and trust. So, if that’s what closure is all about–bring it on!