Stepping out of the room early in the morning was like that first bite of a crisp, tart apple.  The perfection is in the simplicity.  The rich golden colors of the early morning and the coolness carried forward from the evening make dawn the most glorious part of the day. My jet lag is waning, and I wish I had the time to fall asleep at 9:00pm each night so I could rise at 4:00 and take in the simplicity of the African mornings.

The night before, we had commissioned Cyrus, the newest motorcycle missionary to join the team.  He replaces Joshua, who is coming off the field for a new post.  There are six riders now, each with the tools to minister to even the most remote villages.  The newer motobikes are “jungle” models, designed with greater wheel clearance and ruggedness.  Our friend Afrifa, who has been on the field about 5 years, is now the leader of the riders.  We gave him the new Lumo gospel films for Komba, Wali, Dagbani, Mampruli, Anufo, and Fulfulde and from his office in the summer hut, he copied them to each of the rider’s waterproof 128GB “pen drives”. Afrifa is gentle and quiet, with the broadest of possible smiles. We hear he has also become a good preacher.  Beth and I wish we had more time to spend talking to each of the riders.  Their work is arduous and quite dangerous.  One of the newer riders was explaining a recent tribal war that just ended. One of the tribes had hired mercenaries from another country, and the local police were overwhelmed, requiring the military to enter the villages to enforce a curfew.  There has been peace in that region now, after two chiefs agreed on a settlement, but tension is high, and the famously friendly Ghanaians can be cautious when someone who does not know their mother tongue approaches on remote a motorcycle.  

The team gathered for breakfast before we hugged, laughed, prayed, and rode off in different directions.

Malaria and Typhoid really hit Ray hard this year, and he was quite ill for weeks.  He is still catching up and trying to mend.  He asked me to drive the 6 hours from Tamale to Wa. The diesel Nissan Hardbody is the perfect vehicle for this terrain, and I don’t mind doing the driving so Ray can rest.  Those first few minutes sharing the road with an excited hornet swarm of buzzing, honking and swerving motorcycles was like waking up with a triple espresso and frosted cinnamon bun.  I weaved through the middle of Tamale and headed out of town. As the traffic slowed, I looked over to see Ray asleep.  Either he really trusts my driving, or his attestations to being almost 100% healthy are more hope than reality.

Under normal circumstances, a drive through the remote countryside of Ghana is something I cherish. It is the end of rainy season, and the verdant backcountry and the rich tawny soil make the Ghanaian bush feel so alive. However, Beth and I have been a bit worried about the continued healing of her eye.  She has not detected any issues at all, and we thank everyone for their prayers, but we remember that roads in Ghana can be quite rough.  Technically, she is to avoid bumps and jars.  Memories of hitting potholes hidden by a shadow at 60mph cause me to be on edge.  I drive by continually scanning the road, trying to read the colors and textures for clues to guiding us as we zigzag across both lanes at 60mph in search of the smooth path.  The truck is heavily loaded with 5 people and luggage, and at some point while coming out of small dip we hear a strange rubbing sound.  As it grows, we realize that we have a flat tire.  Ugh.  

This is not our first flat in Ghana, but the weight of the vehicle and position of the road call for some improvisation. Nevertheless, David and Joshua show their roadside skills and within minutes the spare tire is ready and we continue on toward Wa.

In Wa, we spill the contents of the truck onto the ground and take the gear into each of our rooms.  Beth and I have four suitcases and three backpacks of gear, from laptops and recording equipment to cameras and tools. It feels like everyone should eat a hearty dinner of jollof rice and relax in their rooms, but we have an appointment to record a choir.  Our first recording is always a bit more complex, as we plug together equipment, find cables, and adjust microphone gain.  

While adjusting the tripod holding the microphone, we lift it up to tweak one of the legs. The ugly sound of a metallic crash rang out.  We had raised the microphone up, directly into the ceiling fan that was only about 2 feet above my head.  The microphone looks like you might expect it to when you toss a microphone into a spinning metal fan.  It was our best microphone, and it appears pretty destroyed.  My heart sinks, and for a moment I think about what would have happened if I had raised my hand up above my head instead.  I felt defeated.  Sweat was dripping down onto my hands and laptop as I paused to take it all in.  

Fortunately, we have learned that critical components always need a backup, and even a double backup.  I pulled a spare microphone from one of the other backpacks and after several minutes, was watching the audio amplitude display on my laptop throb.  My salty, sweaty, discouraged, and exhausted frame was revived as the choir leader stepped forward and pierced the night with a bold song.  Within moments the choir joined in and begins to clap.  Is there a more beautiful sound?  

The choir decided to sing all of their pieces together, into one long song.  The choir leader seamlessly transitioned from one piece to the next.  For fifteen or twenty minutes we enjoyed the concert.  I watched Beth just grin and occasionally close her eyes.  I know this is the part she loves the most.  She grew up in a musically talented family, and appreciates the simple rich sounds of an a cappella choir singing praises to God.

We topped the spectacular evening by handing out one of our dum-dum lollipops to all the choir members. Yes, a small thank you, but everyone likes a treat.

Back in the hotel room I go work attempting to fix the microphone. I learned a lot from my dad about how to disassemble and repair electronics, and at first, I was a bit giddy with confidence that I could fix it.  It looked like the metal screen had taken the impact.  But once disassembled, I found that the central portion of the actual microphone element was bent.  Spares are good.

Tonight’s blog post was written using my second pair of reading glasses.  I put my spare pair into service after hefting luggage crushed the pair in my pocket.  We are only a few days into the trip and have managed to need three spares.  Oof.  I’ll try and slow down.  But then again, it’s 1am and the beautiful colors of dawn are just hours away.  What will Sunday bring? Thanks for your continued prayers for the team.

A long day of celebration and difficulty. Today’s story will be in pictures.

We started the day with a joyful noise! We prayed and celebrated at a small local church. The services here are energetic. The drums and whole body dancing and singing is in such contrast to my Western church upbringing. When Dietrich Bonhoeffer came from Germany and attended Abyssinian Baptist Church in Harlem in the early 1930s, he came to understand the difference between the study of theology and the fullness of life in following Jesus. Every trip to Africa reminds me of the difference between good and important study, and the living out of justice, joy, love, peace, and hope.

After the morning service, we headed out to record a small village choir. Travel is Ghana is difficult. Between flat tires, bad cell phone service — used to get directions and set appointments, and traffic accidents, life is just unpredictable. From our cultural background, such setbacks make careful planning nearly impossible. The small village choir had been waiting nearly four hours for us to arrive as we approached. I asked Ray, “will they be angry?”. He laughed, no, they will not. They will not be mad. Yet we knew they had traveled from all over to arrive at the church and then sit without food or water for four hours.

The church was surrounded by maize (corn), and had no electrical power. Fortunately, we had charged up all of our gear and we quickly set up our mobile studio on the packed mud floor. When we arrived, the choir was seated. They were quiet, shy, and looking at us with both curiosity and caution. They were tired, but wanted to be recorded and bring their voices to others who speak Wali and Dagaare.

The choir stood. They were colorful, nervous, and only a few smiles snuck out. But when the director burst force with a strong voice, and the drums joined in with complex, driving rhythms, the room exploded with joy. Please enjoy all the videos below. You might even see a surprise dancer. They are worth it. Simple, beautiful praise. We are privileged to be here, recording them, so the motorcycle missionaries can bring their music to even more remote villages in the bush.

I loved how the little girl glanced up at the other dancers to learn their moves.

You may have noticed in one of the videos above that not all tribes are equally skilled in dancing. Even the dancer with crutches from Walaland was better than the visitor from Naperland.

We made it through 6 or 7 of their songs, and they had twice that many prepared. Beth carefully marked the information about each song and just smiled and made friends — collecting the Nana stories of their lives. My job was simple, start the recording and dance.

Sadly, we had to stop recording early… It was golden hour, and driving in the dark is dangerous, and the drive back was more than an hour. We ran outside for a few pictures as the sun sank over the corn field. The rest of the team was packing up gear, so I had nobody to help me get the entire choir to smile. As many readers know, Ghanians prefer the stoic, composed look for photos, and it takes a lot of goofy antics to pull out the beautiful smiles that Ghanians are known for.

I drove the team back, as the darkness and road dust settled slowed my driving. While driving, I pulled out my phone to snap this photo, showing the dangers of overloaded trucks that are so common here in Ghana. As we pass overloaded trucks driving on the highway, I feel like I need to hold my breath and be prepared for anything. The huge beasts must navigate the same speed bumps and potholes, but with tons of goods.

The man on the left is sporting a gun, to prevent looting. Night will soon fall, and the truck will be vulnerable. Afrifa and the other motorcycle missionaries have a difficult job. Please continue to pray for them. Supporters in the USA and Ghana have purchased good bikes, heavy duty motorcycle jackets, gloves, and boots. In this world, they are not fashion statements, but essential protection.

It was an exhausting day, and back in the hotel room, after a shower we both felt beat. Beth made us a bowl of noodle soup with our electric kettle. Watching some of the videos above revived us. We slept well.

Good evening.  We are still catching up with the Blog.  Sorry for the delay.  

Breakfast at the guest house is simple –toasted bread and a fried egg, neat.  No butter, jam, or other condiments complicate this simple formula, repeated each morning.  Bread on one side of the plate, and the beaten egg, fried thin and folded on the other. Beth produced two secret treats from her hip pack of wonders.  She covered her toast with a packet of peanut butter we brought from Naperville, while I spread on a packet of Nutella.  Oh, how one little packet of processed food sweetened with corn syrup can help launch the day.  Across Ghana, hot breakfast beverages are dominated by Nestlé. We have our choice of Nestlé Nescafe instant coffee with Nestlé Carnation evaporated milk, or a Nestlé Milo packet — a kind of hot chocolate.

After eating, we sat around the table and mapped out the day. To cover all the work, we split the team.  Enoch and Joshua went to the hospital, where the amazing Doctor Priscilla had arranged for community health recordings, including malaria, covid, and typhoid, three common ailments now.  Ray, Beth, David and I went shopping for a spare tire.  Tomorrow we will drive deep into the bush, where there is no mobile phone service or electricity.  It would be foolish to make such a journey without a spare, so today is the day.

Tires and installation are sold separately.  A wall of tires is the only advertisement needed.  Beth watched our gear in the car while Ray bartered.  

Smiles, head bobs, and thoughtful gazes into the sky were followed by a request for a “special discount.” Ray managed to get the price to about $100.  The transaction was completed via Mobile Money, or MoMo.  Long before Venmo became popular, the African mobile phone networks allowed money transfers via text message.  With a couple of taps on the phone Ray had transferred the funds to the shop owner and Ray tucked our new Chinese tire under his arm and we headed out.

Ray dropped us off at the church and then drove the truck to a mechanic to work on the spare. It would be a few hours before the beautiful choir from the previous evening could get a bus into town to finish their songs, so we took some time to learn about traditional weaving. Next to the church, a powerful, broad and tall tree shaded the dry red dirt. A small weaving school had arranged their looms into a row just a few feet from the church. A couple of young sheep occasionally zigzagged through the classroom vacuuming up fresh leaves that had fallen from the tree.

The young women of the weaving school wore smart looking uniforms and nervously smiled and looked down as I approached and began a conversation with the instructor. Some of the ladies wore a muslim head scarf; I’ve learned to be slow to photograph in such circumstances. My broad and goofy grin, sweat drenched shirt, and polite questions, combined with Beth’s reassuring and gentle smiles seemed to break the ice. We began learning about their trade.

Each student must work three years before she graduates and takes home a loom, to start her business. They were confused when I asked how many hours they work each day. Bewildered, they timidly reply, “all day?” Yes, silly question.

A old plastic oil jug, filled with rocks, provides an anchor that can be wound closer as the work progresses.

As we learn more, we realize that one of the women is particularly fast. Her movie (shown below) is wonderful.

The weaving school students enjoyed showing Beth and I how the loom is operated. They then worked to embarrass me, by asking me to try. Or maybe it was the other way around…

My expertise in multithreading and high performance thread libraries provided no help as I struggled to determine which foot pedal to operate and where to toss the shuttle through the threads. The instructor laughed at me and repeated “now beat it, no, now beat it, you must now beat it.” Yes, sometimes things must be repeated three times for me to understand. I eventually sorted out the procedure and pulled the comb beater against the threads a few times. No traditional weaves were harmed, but they quickly realized if I were in the school, I might be part of the 5 year plan.

Choir! A bright yellow microbus pulled up and the church singers (and dancers) practically tumbled out of the jam packed vehicle. They were once again dressed in pure African style. Pastor Isaac was thrilled we were there waiting, with the microphone mounted on the tripod and the laptop in position.

It took only a few moments for the choir to line up and start their praise music. All reservations and timidity were gone, they were excited and smiling. Song after song filled the church. The cement floor and closed windows reflected the sound; the microphone was throbbing with the beat. Wow. These little mini concerts are always the highlight of the trip. The community health, prayers, Bible stories, and testimonies are all important, but without knowing their language, we are just recording sound waves. But with the choirs, we can experience the joy of their worship without knowing a syllable. We can even dance along to the beats.

The exuberant session ended and everyone cooled off outside, under the large tree. Beth had a chance to explain the BiblePlus+ unit to some pastors who had dropped by, and I had a chance to take some photos of some of the choir members listening to the Komba solar unit. Our hope is that one day, they will have a Wali version.

At the end of the day, the weaving school had ended, and cleaned up. We snapped a few final photos and went back to the guest house to make more recordings. However, with Joshua, David, and Enoch so skilled in recording audio, they took the evening shift, while “Mama Beth” or “Auntie Beth” (as she prefers) and “the Professor” went back to prepare for tomorrow…. our trip to Chakali-land.

Oh, if you are curious where we are in Ghana, this is the Wala city.

In Ghana, when travelers come from a distance and greet the village Elders or Chief, they begin with polite introductions and then add “we have no bad news,” followed by “all is well.”  The rest of the conversation can be relaxed.   So today, the news is not bad — it has been difficult, but not bad. We have a lot to be thankful for.

It was our big day to visit the Chakali. They are a small, isolated tribe and number only about 9,800 members. Their language has no written form, so the BiblePlus+ audio is ideal. “Evangelist Zach,” a local Wali speaker from Wa described the Chakali language to us as “completely different from all other nearby Ghanaian languages — like English to Chinese.”

Ray has not been feeling well, and so we left Ray at the guest house to relax and get some work done. David went back to the hospital to record more community health information. Zach, who has been to the Chakali villages and will be recognized by the tribal Elders, came along with Cyrus (the newest motorcycle missionary), Enoch, and Joshua.

As we moved from blacktop to gravel to deeply rutted single-track dirt road, I tried to focus on smooth driving. Cyrus was sitting in the back of the pickup truck, enjoying a red dust bath. I quickly glanced in the rear view mirror during one sharp turn. Cyrus leaned out of view and disappeared. For a moment, the world froze. I blurted out “Do we still have Cyrus?” — an utterly useless exclamation at that point. I looked back into the mirror and saw him. Whew. I redoubled my efforts. The conversation in the car washed away and I plotted vectors across ruts, puddles, and small rivers.

The village of Ducie is deep in Chakali-land. There are no stores, no electricity, and no mobile phone network — just beautiful African bush country. The Chakali are subsistence farmers. Green hills sprawl out into the distance. Tall grasses hem us in. None of us is too interested in walking into the bush for a bio break. A troop of baboons, maybe 30 in total, dash across the road. Baby baboons grip their mothers tightly, hanging under the moms, just inches above the ground.

After stopping under a tree for lunch, we explain to Joshua, Enoch, and Cyrus how a tailgate party works in the USA.

Even though we are a kilometer or two from the village, some of the children have started to find us. They are initially very timid, but slowly approach. Strong women balancing large pans on their head emerged from a dense path hidden in the grass. After seeing us on the road, they refuse to approach. As the boys start answering our classic English questions: “What is your age?” “What is your name?” “What is your grade?” and begin to giggle, the women take a few steps closer, but they remained 30m up the road, watching and talking among themselves. How fascinating it would be to hear their descriptions of the whites eating food out of the back of their truck. We continued our simple conversations with the young boys who had learned some English in school. Curiously, the young men posed no questions. They didn’t ask why we were there, what our names were, or who we were going to see. Are such questions considered impolite in Chakali? After enough laughing and pranking with the boys, the women waiting on the road proceed toward us in unison, nervously looking at each other, confirming that all four of them will go together toward the truck. The hard working women made eye contact and beamed from ear to ear as they gracefully passed.

In the center of town, a few old women were seated, selling local veggies and occasionally comforting a toddler in their charge. I parked the car and we began a vital next step… progressing through the chain of Elders to the Chief, to get permission to record.

Our first stop is with one of the Elders of the village that Zach has met before. His “receiving room” consists of a few rough-cut boards arranged under a tree. We wait. After the Elder is seated, Zach begins the very detailed social dance of showing respect, providing introductions, showing respect, providing thanks, showing more respect, and finally explaining why we have arrived. The Elder’s posture and expression make it clear he is thoughtfully considering the discussion.

After a handful of minutes we thank him, and rise to leave. It is only then we realize we only have secured permission to meet with the Elders and the Chief. Our stroll through town, weaving past the small homes brings out the curious.

In a small shelter, the Elders and Chief have arranged themselves according to rank. The lowest ranking Elder is sitting on the left, with only his feet visible in the photo below. Going clockwise around the hut the Elders are arranged. In the sloped seat in the middle, with the white and blue shirt is the Chief, who keeps his back toward us, and never turns around during the entire exchange. Zach expertly presented our case.

Some tension was clearly evident in the body language and discussions between the Elders, and I nervously looked at my watch as the time drifted by. Zach explained later that there was some history with previous visitors who tried to stay in the village to learn the language, but were turned away. Eventually, Zach requested 10 Ghanaian Dollars from us (less than $2), and he passed it to the lowest ranking Elder, who then passed it up the chain, with each Elder required to touch and examine the gift before it was given to the Chief. Later that day, we learned that for hundreds of years, because of an agreement between the Wali and Chakali, the Chief of every Chakali village is Wala. The Chakali have little social status.

With the Chief’s blessing, who never looked at us, we packed up and sped to the church to begin recording the choirs and testimonies. Without electricity, we carefully set up our tasks and arranged the choir and speakers.

The choir was magnificent, but reserved. The singer’s shifted their weight from side to side, straining with the desire to dance. But we had rushed in after receiving the Chief’s blessing and had not spent any time meeting the singers, laughing with them, explaining why we were there, praying with them. Their voices rang out, but their feet did not even shuffle. We were too foreign. If we had spent an hour talking, with translation, I’m sure they would have joyfully shared their local worship style. A lesson learned. Even so, the voices were clear and powerful.

By 4:30, golden hour had arrived. Normally, it would be the most ideal time for photos, but we were frantically packing. It took 2.5 hrs to get to Chakali-land, and we really needed to be back on the gravel road before dark. I could feel Beth’s anxiety as she prompted everyone to pack and load. At one point, she was left alone in the church watching the gear when the entire group of children in the photo above surrounded her asking for food and water. Life out here is challenging. A drink of cool water is a treat. From outside the church we heard Beth call out in a sharp voice, “JOSHUA!”. He ran inside and helped manage the well-meaning but growing chaos of children surrounding Beth.

We passed the choir director 2 or 3 cold water bags. He tore open a corner and gave a small squirt into each child’s mouth. Cold, clean water. A treat we take for granted.

As darkness fell, we were off the dirt road and finally got mobile phone service — inside the truck a chorus of bongs, dings, and twinkles rang out as the new messages poured in. David, who had stayed back at the guest house with Ray, had sent the following WhatsApp to me:

Please be praying for pastor Ray, he is developing fever and cough.

Immediately, we all stopped and prayed. Naturally, the thought it could be Covid came to mind. Our friend Doctor Priscilla would also head over to check on Ray. With Cyrus still sitting in the rear of the truck, we dared not speed up. Driving at night is already quite difficult.

Back at the guest house, I went to check on Ray. His temperature was 101.5 and his pulse 130. His O2 saturation was 96%. He was coughing and felt horrible. Ray works non-stop, and both Typhoid and Malaria really overwhelmed Ray this year. His strength and immune system need some recovery time. Doctor Priscilla arrived and also checked on Ray. She did not believe he had Covid. Beth and I had in our luggage some Covid quick tests (antigen), which correctly detect negative for Covid 99.2% of the time, and will correctly show a positive 82% of the time.

Ray sat outside in a chair, with his head back and eyes closed as Priscilla reviewed the instructions and I gently rotated a cotton swab in Ray’s nose. When I was done swabbing, I told Ray I had snapped a few photos. We all laughed. Doc P and I assembled the test and waited 10 minutes. We prayed, told jokes, and silently wondered what we would do if Ray was positive.

The blue control strip indicated the test was functioning properly. The missing pink strip indicated Ray did NOT have Covid. Whoohooo! I showed Ray the strip and let him know he was not pregnant. Of course, Ray did still feel horrible. We made him some Gatorade and Doc P gave him some over-the-counter cold remedies.

So, we bring good news. Ray is doing better, we made it to the Chakali village, and we have started a partnership with them that we hope will blossom. God is full of mercy. Thank you for your prayers. Please continue to pray for Ray and the whole team. Their work is challenging.

Amen!

Dasiba!

(Good Morning in Dagbani, the language of the Dagomba people living here in Tamale). Your response would be “Naaaaaa”

Wow! Where do I start? So much has happened. This will be a long, media-rich post — lots of photos and drone movies to enjoy. There is both sad news and joyful news to report. So please grab some fresh coffee — because we are still drinking instant coffee, and I just want to imagine you cradling a fresh steaming cup of rich coffee. With so many pictures and videos to share, it may take several minutes to load this page, so practice being African. Relax and wait.

Friday morning, we met with local pastors and missionaries who have been using the BiblePlus+ material developed over the years. The meeting was so encouraging! Abigail, who narrated a short video several years ago told how she is working with Dagomba youth who have so many important questions about life — questions that are forbidden in their culture. Hearing news of joy, love, and peace has changed lives. Joshua translated for Pastor John as he told several stories of people listening to BiblePlus+ solar units in a crowded marketplace, and how people responded to the encouraging news.

Even in the small team, seven different tribes and languages were represented: English, Dagbani, Bulsa, Twi, Mampruli, Hausa, and Igbo. Working as a team, ideas for several future projects began to form. Youth learning English in school would benefit from new material recorded in Ghanaian English, or “Twinglish” (Twi is the popular trade language from the South). In areas where Bible material and praise songs are forbidden, the microSD smartphone version is well suited for listening with earphones. Beth used her superpowers and kept a detailed list of followup items and ideas, which will help guide future plans and strategies.

Beth and Joshua working in their office at the guest house.

Saturday morning we packed up early to visit a small Dagomba village without clear water. In addition to BiblePlus, there is a clean water ministry that distributes water filters. The filters are made here in Ghana, and last 3-5 years. Simplicity wins here in this challenging land. No chemicals or electricity are required to give a whole family water free from parasites. Typhoid and other diseases are common. It takes about $35 to provide clean water to a remote village family. A truck from Tamale will deliver 150 water filters.

Once again, I was behind the wheel, giving Ray a break. Beth, Enoch, Joshua, and David squeezed into the back seat, squished hip to hip as we dodged motos, yellow yellows, and gargantuan overloaded trucks teetering over speed bumps. Packed so tightly together encourages close conversation.

As we approached the village we pause at the local watering hole. Dozens of excited, energetic young boys were jumping and flipping into the muddy water from the bridge. Smiles were everywhere as we approached. Adolescent ladies continued their hard work washing clothes in the red pool. Their colorful cloths turned the red-brown dirt into a vibrant mosaic.

Water is life. It is the end of rainy season, and the brown water will slowly disappear, requiring village women to travel miles to fetch water. Animals and kids and laundry all share the same watering hole. Our quick stop brought our planned visit to the small village into clear focus.

Please enjoy the drone video of the watering hole (there is no sound). The kids are just having so much fun. The Wisconsin Dells has waterparks like “Kalahari.” Ghana has beautiful, natural, free bush parks.

The next image is a Video. Click Play!

A handful of massive trees provided shade in the center of the traditional village, where mud huts and thatched roofs were arranged into circles with a gate to allow in invited guests and family members. Some of the huts have electricity, but of course no other services.

The women of the village were already beginning to gather, awaiting the arrival of the truck with the water filters. They sat shyly, in the shade with their children. Food and water can be scare here, and the Dagomba ladies conserved their energy and sat quietly. Smiles and sideways glances followed me as I tried to gather a few photos. The Dagomba tribe is Muslim, and almost all of the women wore colorful head coverings. The men sat in a different area, interested in the activity, but distant. Here, water is a precious commodity, and women are the providers. They fetch it, carry it expertly on their heads, and provide it for drinking to their children and husbands.

We could hear the rumbles of the approaching truck; the ladies calmness turned into growing excitement. The women in the shade began slowly sharing smiles with a soggy American photographer. My best approach was to photograph the smallest babies, and show the picture of their adorable child to their mother. Soon, it was clear I was not intending harm. There are a variety of methods by which images of people can be used by local “fetish priests” (the West would call them. witchdoctors) to create curses in exchange for a fee. Some kids cried as the ghastly white sweating man approached. For the smallest of the villagers, Beth and I were probably their first white visitor. Slow, I was winning some mothers over.

As the truck driver and a few of his helpers began to unload the 140 water filters, the Dagomba women approached timidly. Beth and the OneWay team began assembling the four main parts of the filter: the stand, the bucket, the ceramic filter, and the spigot. Surprisingly, the local women decided to volunteer and help. In the past, at previous distributions, it seems the village waited for instructions, and nobody had put them to work. The strong women quickly formed their own teams and began assembling the kits.

Watching the ladies work together and assemble the filters was so beautiful! It also became clear how strong they were.

After 140 filters were assembled into neat rows, it was time to present one to the chief. He would get the first.

The team stooped low and entered the Chief’s hut. It was dark and unkempt. Animal skins and magical charms hung on the walls. To my shock, an old fashioned tube color television played crazy modern dance videos in the background. I was probably quite dehydrated, and my head was swimming at the juxtaposition of the Hollywood style African dance routines spilling into the traditional hut, with strange glows from the TV on the mud walls and preserved hides. Ray presented the filter to an Elder, as the chief sat on the floor in front of his throne, a chair adorned with gold colored metal and raised up on a platform.

The sun blinded our eyes as we stepped out of the dimly lit hut. We saw one of the men from the water filter team explaining how to care for the filter. They are simple gravity filters. Occasionally, a scrubbing pad can be used to remove a layer of clogged filter from the inside of the ceramic, restoring the filter to normal operation.

As the lecture progressed, the buzz increased. The women politely queued and awaited the distribution, one to a household. The local pastor prayed for the entire assembly, and distribution began.

The women were full of joy as each family received one of the filters. Photos became easy. Everyone with a filter was beaming. How beautiful is clean water! Here is short video (with sound) of the first few filters being distributed.

The next image is a Video. Click Play!

Yes, lots of photos below… just so many happy faces! But the story continues, so keep reading….

Drone time! Before the excitement ended, Joshua and I walked behind one of the huts and put the drone airborne (so the kids would not see it launch). Soon Joshua and I were causing a mini commotion as we took in the breathtaking view of the water filters and the women of the village in grand perspective. The drone video below is without sound, but so captivating. The huts, drying vegetables, and farm fields show some of the most beautiful parts of Northern Ghana.

The next image is a Video. Click Play!

Joshua and Enoch recorded video, so they could later make some short clips. We watched the women help each other position and balance the water filter on their head. They elegantly turned and strolled out of the village, grinning.

Sad and Joyful News

It was a truly beautiful day. Clean water. Smiling kids. Shy laughter. I was dehydrated and finishing off another water bottle as I thought about Jesus interaction with a woman drawing water from a well. As they discussed the water and the well, Jesus explained “Anyone who drinks this water will soon become thirsty again. But those who drink the water I give will never be thirsty again. It becomes a fresh, bubbling spring within them, giving them eternal life.” He described it as Living Water.

A beautiful day, but a difficult day too. It was the first day of my entire life that my Dad was not praying for me. He died with my mother, sister, and niece at his side, singing to him, the day prior. Just about two and a half days before his death he fell unexpectedly ill. He was 91 years old. We are so thankful that my sister was visiting when they went to the hospital. My mom and dad gave Beth and I specific instructions in a text message as they went to the hospital: “WE DO NOT WANT YOU TO CUT YOUR MISSION SHORT. Dad wants you two to continue the work God has assigned you.”

Mom and Dad have been life-long supporters of mission work. A few years ago I brought back a wonderful African shirt for my dad. It did not take much encouragement to break free from the dark blues and grays of his Lutheran heritage and embrace African-style celebration.

I’m so blessed and thankful for the encouragement and model my father provided. A spectacular day. A hard day. We continue to pray for my mom, and look forward to taking the first flight to Florida after landing in the USA. Clean water is necessary, and our compassion for all peoples demands it. But it is not sufficient.

“Anyone who drinks this water will soon become thirsty again. But those who drink the water I give will never be thirsty again. It becomes a fresh, bubbling spring within them, giving them eternal life.”