You know the song by Sting: An Englishman in New York? The chorus goes something like this: “I’m an alien, I’m a legal alien, I’m an Englishman in New York.”
I am improvising that song for me to go like this: “I’m an alien, I’m a legal alien, I’m an….” Actually, there’s a problem now for I don’t quite know whether to add “Nigerian in Ghana” to that or “British Nigerian in Ghana” or “London Nigerian in Ghana”. Confused? Well, that makes two of us.
So, with Sting's melody ringing in my head, I began to think of all my legal alien experiences.
Heard the one about the gardener?
At 6am he calls on the phone. “Madam, I am coming this morning.” “Please it’s too early to be calling me. Call me back after 7.30.” The gardener never showed again – apparently offended that his madam had told him that a 6am phone call to say that he would be reporting to work was too early.
Heard the one about the roundabout?
Here I was, approaching a roundabout and I stop, as there is another vehicle actually on the roundabout and I am waiting for him to move on so I can move in. Guess what? On the round about, he slows down for me and stops and gestures to me to move in. Bewildered, I shook my head and said at him: ‘’You have right of way. Move. This is how accidents start.” The guy angrily uttered words I care not to repeat. I am sure that he thought I was off my rocker.
And the one about the renowned private hospitals?
A friend and her colleague go to donate blood. The nurse’s gloves are stained with the blood. My friend remarks that she would like the nurse to change his gloves before taking her blood. His response? “What’s your problem? Isn’t it your colleague’s blood?”
Another friend’s son goes for his yellow fever vaccinations. The nurse is only able to inject in half of the vaccine – the injection just won’t push down any further. My friend realized that they are using the wrong type of injections for the vaccines.
And the one about the driver?
He gets a premium salary, for the comfort of working longer hours. Perhaps twice maybe three times the salary of the average driver. You give him a tip at least twice a week but unfailingly every month there’s at least one urgent family incident that necessitates him asking for an advance, or a loan, or both.
And the one about the African time?
Meetings do not generally start on time – period. Thirty minutes late, at least. The Africa Business Leaders Forum was held here last week – note, Africa Business Leaders, so a whole load of people from Africa had been invited and paid to attend the forum. Opening day. 8.30 start, to be opened by the President. 8.30 come and goes. Not even the organizers had arrived at 7.45am. The start was delayed by at least an hour and a half. At the morning breakout session I attended on the first day, three of the panel speakers did not turn up – and we start two hours late.
And the one about the ladies at the till in supermarkets?
I soon realized that there’s no point in losing your temper. They serve you, but they serve you at the most leisurely of paces – and they serve you whilst they chat with the adjacent cashier. Forget the fact that all you want to do is pay for your groceries and get out of the supermarket.
And the one about the carpenter who makes you a table that wobbles?
“Madam, I don’t know why you are annoyed. This table is okay. Look at it. It is standing. You can put things on it”
And the one about ….
Imagine how our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ must have felt for all those 33 years on earth?
Friday 26 October 2007
Friday 19 October 2007
Rejoice
And joy is creeping back in.
It started to creep in from Wednesday evening, after a one-to-one counselling session with the Clinical Psychologist.
Kojo’s funeral was on Saturday and I had determined that I was not going to view his body in the coffin at the church service. Thirty minutes to the time to close the coffin, I had an urge to view. I asked if a colleague would go to the front with me.
And file pass Kojo’s body I did.
Honestly Incomprehensible
I returned to my seat and from thereon until that session with the Psychologist, all I have been thinking about is the body that I saw and all I have been asking is “What is Kojo’s body doing in a coffin?’’ It all was very incomprehensible to me. Honestly.
So the questions raged in my head. How and why could and would Kojo pass. I battled with issues of hope, faith and dreams. I thought of his mother and his widow and I thought of how death had cruelly dashed many of their hopes, dreams and, without doubt, doused their faith. I can honestly say that Saturday was the most terrible day for our firm and I pray that such affliction will not rise against us a second time.
Anomabo Beach Resort
To get away from it all the next day I drove to Anomabo Beach Resort with a friend and her son. Monday was a public holiday here so we decided to make good use of the opportunity. I love Anomabo Beach Resort – the rustic little resort that it is. I have always been able to unwind and refresh there. But even in Anomabo the emotional roller coaster continued. Worse still, I felt immense guilt for asking so many questions, for I felt I was questioning my Creator. Crisis.
So I asked to see the Psychologist on Tuesday. On Wednesday he made time to see me. Even a few minutes to the session I know I needed mega comforting – I has bought six portions of those sickly sweet but nevertheless delicious Lebanese sweets/pastries – and gobbled them down as I sat in my car in the car park of the doctor’s surgery.
But the session was immensely helpful
"It takes time to heal"
"You need not feel guilty for asking your Creator why this happened"
"Your emotions are raw right now so allow yourself to feel them"
"Don’t be too quick to seek closure"
It was all so very comforting.
Over the next twenty four hours as I absorbed the session with the Psychologist, I wondered why everyone else who knew I was bereaved had rather not comforted me but spoke at me about the situation.
"It was God’s will. God allowed it"
"Be thankful that he has been spared the toils of this world"
"Were you close to him?"
"It is well"
"Did he know The Lord?"
Crisis. True as some of those words maybe, they did not heal my pain. All that these words did was to make me feel that I should not be on the emotional roller coaster that I was on. Guilt. Fault. Shame.
The Crooked Manager
This morning I read one of my favourite stories in the Bible – Luke 16 – when Jesus tells the story of the Crooked Manager. In The Message translation, of course. I particularly love verses 8 and 9:
"Now here's a surprise: The master praised the crooked manager! And why? Because he knew how to look after himself. Streetwise people are smarter in this regard than law-abiding citizens. They are on constant alert, looking for angles, surviving by their wits. I want you to be smart in the same way—but for what is right—using every adversity to stimulate you to creative survival, to concentrate your attention on the bare essentials, so you'll live, really live, and not complacently just get by on good behaviour."
Use every adversity to stimulate you to creative survival. I love that line.
Knowing that many of us would be in shock following Kojo’s sudden passing, our firm had organised for us to have access to a qualified counsellor in a Clinical Psychologist – and why not make use of that. Use every adversity to stimulate you to creative survival.
On needing counselling but at the same time being sane
I have boldly and confidently let those close to me know that I am seeing a Clinical Psychologist, despite what they might think. On another note I noticed that there is not one single sign at the entrance of the Psychologist’s surgery that describes his practice, open hours etc, as you would see at any other professional premise. I now understand that it is intentional – because of the taboo with psychology and psychiatry here, many clients would not want it to be known that they are actually seeing a psychologist less people think they are mad.
Africa. People. The world.
The merits of being practical
There is something about being practical yet sometimes we hide behind religion, instead of being practical. Even at Anomabo I had the opportunity to think again on the merits of being practical.
There we were on the beach. My friend’s son and I in the sea and we see a whole bunch of white people huddled together and the life guards running towards them (why the resort was full of white people less us, I will never understand. Why don’t our people take such breaks? At $38 per night/per room for a double, air-conditioned room on a beautiful resort overlooking the ocean, can you go wrong? Anyway, maybe the average black person just unwinds in a different way).
Back to the story
So it turns out that some white guy whilst swimming had suddenly dislocated his shoulder. His pain was tangible. Two hours passed and his wife, son and lifeguards administered first aid and massaged his shoulder with ice-packs whilst he laid still - like broccoli.
Then, one of the waiters at the open restaurant comes to me and asks if I could move my car. “The ambulance coming for this gentleman will need access to the beach through the gate where your car is now parked.” “Opari,’’ I thought. My Yoruba brothers and sisters, you know what I mean..
So I thought. Medical insurance. That’s practicality for you. The medical team drove two hours and a half from Accra to Anomabo to administer para-medical assistance and drive the patient back to Accra to a hospital.
Jabs versus Bars
I then also remembered a decade or so ago when I was travelling to Accra from London and a friend had asked if I had bought my malaria tablets and taken my jabs. At about 150 odd pounds for a series of jabs I really was not going to take any jabs. “God is my healer, ‘’ I told her. “He is,”” she responded,” but prevention is better than cure.” All I could think about was how much fun I could have with 150 pounds in my pocket in Accra.
When Kojo passed, apparently our partners had thought that the counselling should either be conducted through a qualified counsellor or a pastor. I am not sure how and why they decided on the qualified counsellor but I am glad that they did, for not all pastors are counsellors.
In Luke 16 I believe our Saviour Jesus Christ charges us to be practical: “I want you to be smart in the same way—but for what is right—using every adversity to stimulate you to creative survival, to concentrate your attention on the bare essentials, so you'll live, really live, and not complacently just get by on good behavior."
Not complacently just get by on good behaviour. I liken this statement to a charge on the practice of being practical. So I am rejoicing because the Lord Himself is using a Clinical Psychologist to help me through my bereavement. And, no, I am not mad.
And by the way, why is rejoice not spelt rejoyce? Who cares? I feel Joy.
It started to creep in from Wednesday evening, after a one-to-one counselling session with the Clinical Psychologist.
Kojo’s funeral was on Saturday and I had determined that I was not going to view his body in the coffin at the church service. Thirty minutes to the time to close the coffin, I had an urge to view. I asked if a colleague would go to the front with me.
And file pass Kojo’s body I did.
Honestly Incomprehensible
I returned to my seat and from thereon until that session with the Psychologist, all I have been thinking about is the body that I saw and all I have been asking is “What is Kojo’s body doing in a coffin?’’ It all was very incomprehensible to me. Honestly.
So the questions raged in my head. How and why could and would Kojo pass. I battled with issues of hope, faith and dreams. I thought of his mother and his widow and I thought of how death had cruelly dashed many of their hopes, dreams and, without doubt, doused their faith. I can honestly say that Saturday was the most terrible day for our firm and I pray that such affliction will not rise against us a second time.
Anomabo Beach Resort
To get away from it all the next day I drove to Anomabo Beach Resort with a friend and her son. Monday was a public holiday here so we decided to make good use of the opportunity. I love Anomabo Beach Resort – the rustic little resort that it is. I have always been able to unwind and refresh there. But even in Anomabo the emotional roller coaster continued. Worse still, I felt immense guilt for asking so many questions, for I felt I was questioning my Creator. Crisis.
So I asked to see the Psychologist on Tuesday. On Wednesday he made time to see me. Even a few minutes to the session I know I needed mega comforting – I has bought six portions of those sickly sweet but nevertheless delicious Lebanese sweets/pastries – and gobbled them down as I sat in my car in the car park of the doctor’s surgery.
But the session was immensely helpful
"It takes time to heal"
"You need not feel guilty for asking your Creator why this happened"
"Your emotions are raw right now so allow yourself to feel them"
"Don’t be too quick to seek closure"
It was all so very comforting.
Over the next twenty four hours as I absorbed the session with the Psychologist, I wondered why everyone else who knew I was bereaved had rather not comforted me but spoke at me about the situation.
"It was God’s will. God allowed it"
"Be thankful that he has been spared the toils of this world"
"Were you close to him?"
"It is well"
"Did he know The Lord?"
Crisis. True as some of those words maybe, they did not heal my pain. All that these words did was to make me feel that I should not be on the emotional roller coaster that I was on. Guilt. Fault. Shame.
The Crooked Manager
This morning I read one of my favourite stories in the Bible – Luke 16 – when Jesus tells the story of the Crooked Manager. In The Message translation, of course. I particularly love verses 8 and 9:
"Now here's a surprise: The master praised the crooked manager! And why? Because he knew how to look after himself. Streetwise people are smarter in this regard than law-abiding citizens. They are on constant alert, looking for angles, surviving by their wits. I want you to be smart in the same way—but for what is right—using every adversity to stimulate you to creative survival, to concentrate your attention on the bare essentials, so you'll live, really live, and not complacently just get by on good behaviour."
Use every adversity to stimulate you to creative survival. I love that line.
Knowing that many of us would be in shock following Kojo’s sudden passing, our firm had organised for us to have access to a qualified counsellor in a Clinical Psychologist – and why not make use of that. Use every adversity to stimulate you to creative survival.
On needing counselling but at the same time being sane
I have boldly and confidently let those close to me know that I am seeing a Clinical Psychologist, despite what they might think. On another note I noticed that there is not one single sign at the entrance of the Psychologist’s surgery that describes his practice, open hours etc, as you would see at any other professional premise. I now understand that it is intentional – because of the taboo with psychology and psychiatry here, many clients would not want it to be known that they are actually seeing a psychologist less people think they are mad.
Africa. People. The world.
The merits of being practical
There is something about being practical yet sometimes we hide behind religion, instead of being practical. Even at Anomabo I had the opportunity to think again on the merits of being practical.
There we were on the beach. My friend’s son and I in the sea and we see a whole bunch of white people huddled together and the life guards running towards them (why the resort was full of white people less us, I will never understand. Why don’t our people take such breaks? At $38 per night/per room for a double, air-conditioned room on a beautiful resort overlooking the ocean, can you go wrong? Anyway, maybe the average black person just unwinds in a different way).
Back to the story
So it turns out that some white guy whilst swimming had suddenly dislocated his shoulder. His pain was tangible. Two hours passed and his wife, son and lifeguards administered first aid and massaged his shoulder with ice-packs whilst he laid still - like broccoli.
Then, one of the waiters at the open restaurant comes to me and asks if I could move my car. “The ambulance coming for this gentleman will need access to the beach through the gate where your car is now parked.” “Opari,’’ I thought. My Yoruba brothers and sisters, you know what I mean..
So I thought. Medical insurance. That’s practicality for you. The medical team drove two hours and a half from Accra to Anomabo to administer para-medical assistance and drive the patient back to Accra to a hospital.
Jabs versus Bars
I then also remembered a decade or so ago when I was travelling to Accra from London and a friend had asked if I had bought my malaria tablets and taken my jabs. At about 150 odd pounds for a series of jabs I really was not going to take any jabs. “God is my healer, ‘’ I told her. “He is,”” she responded,” but prevention is better than cure.” All I could think about was how much fun I could have with 150 pounds in my pocket in Accra.
When Kojo passed, apparently our partners had thought that the counselling should either be conducted through a qualified counsellor or a pastor. I am not sure how and why they decided on the qualified counsellor but I am glad that they did, for not all pastors are counsellors.
In Luke 16 I believe our Saviour Jesus Christ charges us to be practical: “I want you to be smart in the same way—but for what is right—using every adversity to stimulate you to creative survival, to concentrate your attention on the bare essentials, so you'll live, really live, and not complacently just get by on good behavior."
Not complacently just get by on good behaviour. I liken this statement to a charge on the practice of being practical. So I am rejoicing because the Lord Himself is using a Clinical Psychologist to help me through my bereavement. And, no, I am not mad.
And by the way, why is rejoice not spelt rejoyce? Who cares? I feel Joy.
Thursday 11 October 2007
The Coming Spring
Understanding Seasons
My favourite one in the UK is Spring, and in Ghana, the cool season – which is around the British summer time period. But I’ve had to go back to my posting of July 16 to find words for the season I'm in.
The season has seen me asking many, many questions. I’ve raised questions to myself, my mentors and of course to God. With one of my mentors, those question time sessions, to be very honest, have actually been LOADS of fun - girly dinners and lunches with, well, plenty South African vin to wash the delicious food down.
But in the midst of these times, I voiced and raised queries on life’s issues to my mentor that I previously would not even have dared to think about let alone voice. But guess what? She had, at some point or the other in her own seasons, asked very similar questions. The guilt eroded.
People just like us
This morning I thought of the woman with the issue of blood. I thought of the Shunammite woman, and I thought of the Syrophoenician woman, and even Mary and Martha when their brother Lazarus passed momentarily. Sorry, very gender-biased today.
Only God knows the mental and emotional turmoil that passed through their grey matter. And I think the point of the record of their life stories is that they are people just like us.
With the woman with the issue of blood (Mark 5, Matthew 8), the Bible records that she had spent every penny she had on doctors but none had been able to help her. I can’t even begin to imagine her grief.
All that money spent on sanitary pads – or whatever they used in those days. And then I am thinking, was she married? If so, that probably means that it would have been somewhat difficult to have sexual relations with her husband, which would have placed an incredible strain on the marriage. Even if she wasn’t, any chance of that would have quickly eroded given the ever present hemorrhage, anaemia, tampons and sanitary pads. God help us.
But God help us He does and did for each of those women came into contact with God’s grace at some point during their low seasons and, voila, breakthrough.
And now for Mireille Guiliano and the July 16 posting. Go ahead and read/re-read. More like spiritual gastronomy, I think.
My favourite one in the UK is Spring, and in Ghana, the cool season – which is around the British summer time period. But I’ve had to go back to my posting of July 16 to find words for the season I'm in.
The season has seen me asking many, many questions. I’ve raised questions to myself, my mentors and of course to God. With one of my mentors, those question time sessions, to be very honest, have actually been LOADS of fun - girly dinners and lunches with, well, plenty South African vin to wash the delicious food down.
But in the midst of these times, I voiced and raised queries on life’s issues to my mentor that I previously would not even have dared to think about let alone voice. But guess what? She had, at some point or the other in her own seasons, asked very similar questions. The guilt eroded.
People just like us
This morning I thought of the woman with the issue of blood. I thought of the Shunammite woman, and I thought of the Syrophoenician woman, and even Mary and Martha when their brother Lazarus passed momentarily. Sorry, very gender-biased today.
Only God knows the mental and emotional turmoil that passed through their grey matter. And I think the point of the record of their life stories is that they are people just like us.
With the woman with the issue of blood (Mark 5, Matthew 8), the Bible records that she had spent every penny she had on doctors but none had been able to help her. I can’t even begin to imagine her grief.
All that money spent on sanitary pads – or whatever they used in those days. And then I am thinking, was she married? If so, that probably means that it would have been somewhat difficult to have sexual relations with her husband, which would have placed an incredible strain on the marriage. Even if she wasn’t, any chance of that would have quickly eroded given the ever present hemorrhage, anaemia, tampons and sanitary pads. God help us.
But God help us He does and did for each of those women came into contact with God’s grace at some point during their low seasons and, voila, breakthrough.
And now for Mireille Guiliano and the July 16 posting. Go ahead and read/re-read. More like spiritual gastronomy, I think.
Thursday 4 October 2007
Transition to The Other Side
One of my colleagues passed a few weeks ago. Kojo Atiase.
Kojo had been ill briefly. On that Monday afternoon I had a 3pm meeting with a colleague. Half an hour to the time he came to me to ask if we could meet at 7pm instead – Kojo’s wife had just called to say that he had been admitted to the Teaching Hospital and was in a bad way.
7pm. My colleague was still not back in the office. I called him. “I’m on my way home – I didn’t like the way I saw Kojo. He’s in a bad way.” Now I became alarmed. This colleague was very pensive. Apparently Kojo had suddenly become paralysed on Sunday and they’d brought him to the hospital. Kojo could barely speak.
The fateful Tuesday morning.
Another colleague who is very close to Kojo went very early to the hospital the following morning. He came back weeping like a baby. Wailing, in fact. On the floor. I became scared.
Kojo was so ill that he could not talk, could not open his eyes, as well as being paralysed. Help me out here, for Kojo is 28. A lively, charming, intelligent and yet very respectful young man. Liked by everyone
We informed the partners of our firm. A few calls were made to the hospital. Whatever it takes, at whatever cost, please do it was their message to the consultants who were taking care of Kojo.
A few hours later I made a call to their department. Any more news? I enquired. “It’s bad,” my colleague said. I put the phone down and walked over to their department.
At this stage all I thought was that, at the very worst, Kojo’s condition had deteriorated even further. I went to their department to enquire on what actually the news was. I had not even noticed that everyone was unusually standing, pensive, in the open plan area. “Any news?’ “He’s gone,’’ was the response I got. “Gone where?’’ I asked. “He’s gone,” was all that was repeated to me. "Gone where?'' I asked again.
Bereavement
So Kojo passed. Shock. Distress. Alarm. So striking was the impact that Kojo had made on each and everyone of us that the firm had to organize for a Clinical Psychologist to counsel us all. The sessions are still ongoing, from group counseling to one-to-one sessions.
I attended one of the group sessions. And I came to realize that, in not being able to comprehend why and how someone like Kojo could pass as such a young age, I was actually upset with God.
Yes, I know. Who am I to be upset with God and what right to I have to question Him? Well, I’ll probably be the first to admit that I don’t have any right. But what else could I think? God is The Creator of the Universe, and I just could not help wandering why He had let this happen?
The Clinical Psychologist made me realize though that the emotion that I am feeling is ‘normal’, so to speak. He said that many of us who knew and loved Kojo would be in denial; others in shock; others angry (at God, at Kojo, at themselves) and others yet still very sad. “Well, I am not alone then”, I thought.
The Obituary
Kojo’s obituary is in today’s newspaper, with the lovely picture from his wedding day, not even a year ago. Beloved Kojo. His funeral is on Saturday 13th. What a distressing event that would be.
All that resounds in my head is the words of my pastor to me in this regard: You will not always understand Him but You cannot afford to be separated from Him.
Kojo had been ill briefly. On that Monday afternoon I had a 3pm meeting with a colleague. Half an hour to the time he came to me to ask if we could meet at 7pm instead – Kojo’s wife had just called to say that he had been admitted to the Teaching Hospital and was in a bad way.
7pm. My colleague was still not back in the office. I called him. “I’m on my way home – I didn’t like the way I saw Kojo. He’s in a bad way.” Now I became alarmed. This colleague was very pensive. Apparently Kojo had suddenly become paralysed on Sunday and they’d brought him to the hospital. Kojo could barely speak.
The fateful Tuesday morning.
Another colleague who is very close to Kojo went very early to the hospital the following morning. He came back weeping like a baby. Wailing, in fact. On the floor. I became scared.
Kojo was so ill that he could not talk, could not open his eyes, as well as being paralysed. Help me out here, for Kojo is 28. A lively, charming, intelligent and yet very respectful young man. Liked by everyone
We informed the partners of our firm. A few calls were made to the hospital. Whatever it takes, at whatever cost, please do it was their message to the consultants who were taking care of Kojo.
A few hours later I made a call to their department. Any more news? I enquired. “It’s bad,” my colleague said. I put the phone down and walked over to their department.
At this stage all I thought was that, at the very worst, Kojo’s condition had deteriorated even further. I went to their department to enquire on what actually the news was. I had not even noticed that everyone was unusually standing, pensive, in the open plan area. “Any news?’ “He’s gone,’’ was the response I got. “Gone where?’’ I asked. “He’s gone,” was all that was repeated to me. "Gone where?'' I asked again.
Bereavement
So Kojo passed. Shock. Distress. Alarm. So striking was the impact that Kojo had made on each and everyone of us that the firm had to organize for a Clinical Psychologist to counsel us all. The sessions are still ongoing, from group counseling to one-to-one sessions.
I attended one of the group sessions. And I came to realize that, in not being able to comprehend why and how someone like Kojo could pass as such a young age, I was actually upset with God.
Yes, I know. Who am I to be upset with God and what right to I have to question Him? Well, I’ll probably be the first to admit that I don’t have any right. But what else could I think? God is The Creator of the Universe, and I just could not help wandering why He had let this happen?
The Clinical Psychologist made me realize though that the emotion that I am feeling is ‘normal’, so to speak. He said that many of us who knew and loved Kojo would be in denial; others in shock; others angry (at God, at Kojo, at themselves) and others yet still very sad. “Well, I am not alone then”, I thought.
The Obituary
Kojo’s obituary is in today’s newspaper, with the lovely picture from his wedding day, not even a year ago. Beloved Kojo. His funeral is on Saturday 13th. What a distressing event that would be.
All that resounds in my head is the words of my pastor to me in this regard: You will not always understand Him but You cannot afford to be separated from Him.
Monday 1 October 2007
Sunday Service at the Beach
Went to the beach yesterday, with a friend and her family. A lovely little private beach they had discovered years back in Kokrobite, a few kilometers to the west of Accra. It’s not their private beach, but they had found the small quiet and private spot a few years back and kept going back there every so often.
I was with my friend on Friday night for a girly evening, and she mentioned that she and her family were going on Sunday morning and would I like to go with them. As usual, I declined her kind offer – “I’ve got to go to church on Sunday.”
My kind and usually soft spoken friend got unusually annoyed: “Ruka, going to church is not a register. You don’t go there every Sunday to tick the box that you’ve been. You can miss church once in a while, for heaven’s sake.”
Struck by her curious irritation, I paused. Then I said, “You know what? You are right, I am going with you.”
And what fun we had. Family, fellowship and fun – in a different form. Got on the surf board, got my hair wet, got sand in my hair, played with her children, discussed matter of the world with her and her husband, enjoyed the beauty of creation, watched some local residents perform a traditional dance.
It was all so very, very lovely and very, very uplifting.
I was with my friend on Friday night for a girly evening, and she mentioned that she and her family were going on Sunday morning and would I like to go with them. As usual, I declined her kind offer – “I’ve got to go to church on Sunday.”
My kind and usually soft spoken friend got unusually annoyed: “Ruka, going to church is not a register. You don’t go there every Sunday to tick the box that you’ve been. You can miss church once in a while, for heaven’s sake.”
Struck by her curious irritation, I paused. Then I said, “You know what? You are right, I am going with you.”
And what fun we had. Family, fellowship and fun – in a different form. Got on the surf board, got my hair wet, got sand in my hair, played with her children, discussed matter of the world with her and her husband, enjoyed the beauty of creation, watched some local residents perform a traditional dance.
It was all so very, very lovely and very, very uplifting.
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