I am woman, hear me out.

Disclaimer: I don't want to take over the world. I don't want to burn my bras. I don't think men are evil, and I don't think women are superior. I think we're different, and that's ok. In fact, I think it's very good and God-ordained.

What I do want to do, here, is to respectfully hash out some of my questions and get some thoughts. Thanks to some extra time on my hands and one inciting incident, I've really been thinking about the role of women, what culture communicates to us, and how to respond. I just want to think through the way we think, talk, and teach (whether intentionally or unintentionally) gender roles.

The inciting incident for me was an interaction I had with an older family member over Christmas break. While I was helping my brother butcher a deer, this relative came and complimented the precision and ease with which I was butchering. Then, he warned me not to let whoever I would want to marry know I'm so good at it. He said I should let guys think they're better than me or they'll be too intimidated to stick around.

Hmm...

To be honest, I see where he's coming from, but is it right? It does seem like a reality, but should it be?

No, I don't want to brag about my accomplishments, but should I seek mediocracy in order to inflate others' pride? Can't I just be myself, help others succeed, and teach them what I've learned regardless of their (or my) gender?

I'd like to think that I can achieve things without fear of intimidating men. Personally, I want to marry a man who will rise to the challenge and not be afraid. I want to marry a man who will encourage me to do things well.

I just want to be helpful and productive without stepping on anyone's toes. I want to know I've done the best I could to improve myself and the world around me while I'm here. I want to feel free to strive towards big goals and unapologetically accomplish without concern of being "overbearing"

Is that wrong? Is that a result of the fallen world?


I will not settle to be a hollow-headed and unskilled piece of pretty meat. This is the disorder objectifying 50% of those who bear the image of God.

Neither will I rise up, angrily seeking to be in control. This is the disorder seeking to degrade the other 50% of those bearing the image of God.



I'm not mad, but I am curious: what does submission look like? What does it mean for women to be helpers? Scripturally, what is our role as females, single or otherwise?

What does it mean to balance Jesus' example in Philippians 2 (who, though equal with the Father, emptied himself in submission) and Colossians 3?
There, we have verse 17:

"And whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him." 

verses 18-19:

"Wives, submit to your husbands, as is fitting in the Lord. 

Husbands, love your wives, and do not be harsh with them."

and verses 23-24:

"Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men, knowing that from the Lord you will receive the inheritance as your reward. You are serving the Lord Christ."

So, what do we do?





So, what does it mean to follow Christ's example of humility and submission? How do I empty myself? How do I die to self in this matter?

Honestly, half of my agitation likely is my pride. I want to be good at things, and I want people to know it. There is, however, a justified measure to it.

Either way, I now I can rest in this: God is good, and He is just. There is no wrong he won’t right and no matter of twisted desires or realities that he won't correct in time. So, today, I'll just do what I can and be who I am, praying for the Spirit to stop me when I'm striving for pride's sake.

Ask an African: What's your most prized possession?

Dearest readers. I'm glad you wander to my page from time to time, and I apologize for not having finished this segment yet. With a summer of non-stop camp life, a week of packing, and a semester of grad school, I didn't have much time for deep breathing nonetheless consistent blogging. To be fair, I have warned you it may take a while.

So now, here it is, the long-awaited second and final question of the “Ask an African” series.

“What is your most prized possession?”

When I received this question, I couldn't wait to get started. The idea of possessions, in general, is a completely different concept in Burkina Faso than what I have known. While the Western world approaches things as either belonging to someone or not, most communal societies have a more loose definition of possession.

If a neighbor and friend has a bike and I need to get across town, I may just “borrow” it even without asking. If I have a pomegranate tree and my househelper's daughter would like a snack, she will pick one for herself and the rest that are on the tree . . . even if I didn't think they were ripe yet. If you say you like my necklace, I should give it to you as any good African would. That's the Burkinabè way.

So, when I polled my English students about their favorite possession after class, I was intrigued by their answers. First of all, it took a while to understand the term “possession.” I realized I had never learned the term in the local language, and I now doubt that a single term exists. Language tends to reveal what is important to a culture.

“What is your favorite . . . eh . . . thing-that-is-yours?”

The first student looked around the room, sat, and thought for a while. He couldn't come up with anything, so we skipped him for another student who had an answer.

“I know!” the next student said. “My pen!”

--- (me) “Ok. . . Hmm. So, why is that?”

“...because I can write with it! It helps me do school work. It's a very nice pen.” (stands to show off pen)

Needless to say, I thought that maybe they had misunderstood. After all, this is a grown man. Surly he has some item he cherished more than his pen. I explained the question again in French. He still stuck with the pen. So, now, back to the first student again.

“My favorite possession is my bike. It helps me get around so I can work and see my friends.”

This was a little more satisfactory to me. After all, it probably was the most expensive thing that he owned and a very useful thing at that. I moved on to the next student.

Sahellian tea and cell phones

“My favorite possession is my cell phone. Without it, I cannot contact my family all over and friends in the village!”

A concurring chorus of clicks resounded. That's the Burkinabè way of “amen”ing what was just said. Everyone following him agreed that their phone was their most prized possession.

The student who had chosen his pen, however, stuck to his guns.

It was a nice pen, after all.

Burkinabè and their possessions:

The common bowl

Our kids club and the wiffleball

Family and stuffed animals

A boy and his mom's weave

A man, his Quran, and his sewing machine

Boys and their dad's tea sets

Ask an African: Food Stuffs

Dearest readers, I realize I left some of you hanging with my last post. Permit me to mention something else about myself. I'm the kind of person you can count on for good and sometimes grandiose ideas. However, I'm not the one you want to call on for the best follow-though. I realize this and truly do try to be a person of my word.

My last weeks in country, transition back into the US, and time with my family and friends proved to have consumed my time and efforts in the best sort of ways. I strongly doubt that any of you were too concerned, but some of you did ask questions. I haven't forgotten you or the questions you asked, and I did ask my friends while I was still in Africa. I just didn't immediately write them for you.

So, as promised, here is the first installment of Ask an African:

Question: What is your favorite food?

The most popular answer was rice and peanut sauce. Yes, peanuts in a hot, oily, and flavorful sauce. They think we're the weird ones for spreading plain peanut paste on bread and calling it a sandwich. This answer actually made me pretty happy, because it's simple. It may not have been what you had imagined, but most Burkinabè food is pretty basic: starch, veggies, leaves, lots of oil, and lots of maggi (bouillon cubes).

If you wanted some “weirder” options, there were a few other contenders:

Tô: [pronounced like english “toe”] One of the main staples of many parts of Africa, tô/nsima/pap is very popular. It's a … gelatinous blob … [for lack of a better term] made from fine corn or millet flour. For those of you from the South, think what happens to grits when they get sit on the stove too long. Now, I am slightly biased, because it wasn't my favorite. However, many of my American friends loved tô.

Now, the piéce de résistance: 

Caterpillars: Yes. Caterpillars. True, it's really just one people group [the Bobo] in my area that love these little grubs, but they are a significant portion of the population. In fact, my city hosts the annual caterpillar festival. Yes, I have tried them. Yes, I've had enough to last a lifetime. Those who do like them, love them, though. Some have even tried to smuggle thousands of them in luggage when traveling to Europe… Hey, at least he shrink wrapped them…

Ask an African

Fun fact: I really enjoy writing.

For an introspective extrovert, it's the most therapeutic kind of hobby imaginable. I get to mull things over in my head AND share them with whatever community that chooses to read my blog. It's an electronic way to weasel myself into your world and include you in mine. It's sharing, and I am so fond of sharing.

That being said, I'd like to propose a theme for us: a running dialogue among you, me, and the amazing people with whom I interact daily. You have to participate, though.

Here is the challenge: pose a question, of any kind. I'll ask it to friends, neighbors, and random Africans I meet. Then, I'll write a blog with the responses. Sound fun? Well, it does to me. Let's see what becomes of this thing.

Just ask a question, any question, and I'll incorporate it in my everyday conversations. Write it in the comments below, email me here, send a carrier pigeon, or do whatever you must to get it to me. I'll ask my people, and we'll make the world a little smaller, one blog at a time.

Ok, Ready....GO.

The Terminal

Recently, I took vacation to Belgium 1. to enjoy the beauty of cold weather and the Western world and 2. to spend some time with a teammate and one of my favorite people before she went back to America. The visit was a much-needed break from the everyday of life in Sub-Saharan Africa. Especially this time of year (Harmattan), it was a real treat not to have to swaddle my face so as to avoid inhaling the Sahara.

Just think of Harmattan as the wicked step-brother of El Niño.

Anyways, to Brussels and Bruges we went. My teammate and I enjoyed a few days of walking around in the cold, seeing beautifully old buildings, perusing antique shops, and having our fair share of adventures. After we finished our escapades and parted ways, I still had one 24+hr layover in Istanbul before returning to my African home. I had always wanted to visit Turkey, and now, thanks to a lack of flights in/out of West Africa, I could!

It was all planned: I would arrive at night, benefit from one of Turkish Air's complimentary hotels so I'd be well-rested, explore as much of the city as possible, and return the next day. It would be perfect... or so I thought.

When I landed, I quickly proceeded to the hotel voucher desk, made it through the line, greeted the clerk with a wide smile, and asked about my hotel arrangements. It's amazing how quickly smiles can fade. Turkish Air had no place for me to stay, and due to a technicality, would not find one for me.

Tired, frustrated with the debate, and extremely disappointed, I squinted across the counter through bleary eyes. The only compassion I could muster from the clerk was a puzzled look and a cup of cold water.

That made me even more frustrated. Surely, I could make them care. I would make them feel sorry for stranding me in a Turkish airport with nowhere to go. Certainly, they wouldn't treat someone they actually cared about this way. I just needed to make them care.

So, I pulled chairs together, barricaded myself by the office door, and hoped to rally some support. Here, the workers and all my fellow travelers would have to face me as they exited. Maybe, the solidarity of our travels together would inspire someone else to take up my case. Maybe, the workers would regret having stranded me for the night with so little thought. Either way, someone would know I was a human being and would care.

No such luck. Most probably didn't know why I was there, the rest didn't care. After an hour of being ignored, one clerk asked if I would be joining a group. Thinking this was my chance to repeal my case, I explained the situation. However, when I finished my story again with dramatic frustration welling up in my eyes, the clerk just shrugged and walked away.

I was not his problem today.

In my ten or so hours to kill before dawn, I got to thinking. I remembered my homeless friends in Athens and their stories, how they acclimated to being ignored. I remembered Burkinabé friends and families, how they learn to shrug off crises because they should say "there is peace." I remembered the difference it makes in my own soul when I really care about the situation of another human being. I thought of how good it is to be affected by another's story.

In light of this tiny inconvenience, my pity party was short-lived: How often do I do much worse to fellow human beings, the bearers of the image of God? Do I ignore their stories when I know something is wrong? Do I care how they arrived in whatever troubles they face? Do I care to hear their triumphs and joys? Or do they not concern me because they don't directly concern me? Lord, forbid that to be my attitude! 

No, I can't reasonably hear every person's story, but I can try. I can ask. Moreover, I can actually listen if I do get the chance to hear.

In the end, my problem was really no big deal, and it was good to face that. Sure, I didn't sleep, but it was well worth it. Remembering to actually look around and see my fellow man is totally worth a sleepless and introspective night spent alone in a terminal.  

Out of My League

Can I be honest with you for a sec? Ok, well naturally, I am quite the cynic. Seriously. The fact that the I can trust basic spiritual truths at all just screams of God's grace in my life. Otherwise, I'm severely skeptical of most everything. I mean, I was the kid who set traps for Santa so I could prove he wasn't real. Childlike faith wasn't really my forté even when I was one. So, when faith faces hardship, I'm definitely a little way out of my league. God is so gracious to me, though. He gently admonishes me and moves me towards a richer, deeper understanding of trust.

A few weeks ago, our close friends went to the BK's capital for vacation and to investigate one family member's on-going stomach issues. It was certainly no vacation, but they did find out a bit about the illness. We had heard some, but we didn't know the extent of the problem until we picked up our friends at the bus station and lightly asked about the trip. Their response dimmed the conversation with amazing speed: “softball-sized mass on the colon... packing up and going to the US as soon as possible... say our goodbyes...”

My heart grieved for my friends: for a family of seven uprooting with no warning, for the struggle of transitioning back to the US, starting school mid-year, and dealing with serious illness, for our teammate who had lost her best friend and would be even more alone when two-thirds of Team BK goes home in January.

So, we did the only thing we knew to do: we consistently prayed, I'll admit with uncertainty and doubt on my end. I know that God is powerful over even the most intense illnesses, but I have a hard time trusting that He will heal people. I don't like to assume and least of all on God. Yes, I wanted a miracle, but I'm not sure I have even a mustard seed of hope for it.

Fast forward to this family's appointment with doctors in the US. Remember that softball-sized mass they saw on my friend's colon on the last CT scan? That massive lump that caused severe pain and sent a family of seven packing right away? Yeah, it was gone. For real. GONE. Upon arriving to the US, all the tests show absolutely nothing. Grand freaking slam.

When I heard the news, I was brought to my knees. Should I really be so shocked? Isn't my life conviction based on the premise that God will miraculously change hearts? How hypocritical is it of me to doubt His power to change other organs? Very. My should my prayers be so small, so general? Doesn't a good Father want His children to ask Him for help instead of grappling to fix problems that are way out of their league? Yep.

So here I am today, yet again in awe of God's kindness and love. In spite of my weakest attempts and half-hearted prayers, He still chooses to make His extravagant love obvious. Sometimes, that love means letting us face suffering to make us strong. Sometimes, it means miraculously pulling us out of the pit. I can't say which way He will choose to act in any given situation, but I know that I can trust His goodness.

And He has said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness,” Most gladly, therefore, I will rather boast about my weakness, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me.

Ask More Questions

This phrase has recently become Team BK's unofficial motto. It's even a lovely Jula proverb: [Mᴐgᴐ min ninigali ke, o ti fili. or The one who asks, never errs.] This reminder has already helped us manage many a culturally unclear situation to date, and I'm sure it will help in the rest of our interactions, as well. In the beginning of life here, I was afraid to be my naturally curious self and ask too many questions. I was afraid of being too intrusive. As a result, I found myself walking away from situations only to find out later that I had missed some crucially important details. (Exs: Oh, that was your husband. I should have done XYZ with the official papers I had before sending them. The lady visiting is describing her demonic possession, not just insomnia. etc)

Instead of asking, I answered my questions with what I knew of the world, my worldview, my culture. I filled in the blanks with assumption. However, the way I fill blanks is often completely different than the reality of life in Africa. In time, I've had to learn to ask more questions. If not, I only assume upon people's thoughts, words, and intentions. I assume I already understand it all, and in so doing, I isolate myself from true understanding.

The problem is, we often don't know the right questions to ask. Especially in cross-cultural settings, we have no schema for the information we need:

What do you mean when you say this is "medicine"?

Do I need to get this paper stamped a fourth time?

Should I expect this to break in two days?

Is this really a "fine" or a "bribe"?

Correspondingly, I may also assume I'm hearing the whole truth from my friends without having to ask questions. I think people will disclose completely, though that's rarely the case. Lately, I've found certain questions particularly enlightening about people I thought I knew well. Sometimes, when posed, the immediate reply is a quizzical face. Especially for women here, most seem as if they themselves have never considered the answer, nonetheless had to respond to such a question:

How do you feel about this situation?

What things do you aspire to do?

What are some solutions?

What do you think?

In time, I began to understand my friends better with each gradual question posed. I began to comprehend the inevitable and unending guilt-trip we'd face if we didn't visit a certain friend often enough. I began to understand other friends' coldness. I began to understand beggars or the aggressive merchants. As I saw loneliness, desperation, and other issues more clearly, my frustration was replaced with informed compassion. As strong and unaffected as most African women may seem, they are human. They are women. Sure, they can walk miles carrying tons on their heads and babies on their backs, but they can hurt deeply, even if they won't bring it up. They feel. They cry. Trust me; I've seen it.

As humbling as it may be to admit my complete ignorance, it's good for me to ask more questions. True, it can be despairing to know that there's little I can do to fix my neighbors' griefs, but I don't have to be overwhelmed. I'm comforted that God is in control even in this crazy, evil-laced world in which we live. He knows the questions to ask and the questions we don't ask. He knows the answer to these questions and the solutions to our issues, as well. Across every culture, humanity groans with questions, and our loving God Himself is the answer to them all.