so that incident was the point used to break me. Me, who has one of the biggest sense of humors that I know, did not laugh. Could not laugh. Not that day. Putting on hold my intention to make biscuits for supper, I went ahead with preparing a slightly altered meal for the family—sans the biscuits.
The next morning I remember trying so hard to make light of the layered containers of mixed flour and sugars when Paul came to work. I apologized for not being clearer in my instructions, and together we separated–as best we could–the flour and sugars. Weeks later, as I opened one of the containers to bake a cake, I started laughing out loud, alone in the kitchen as I pinched pieces of brown sugar from the flour I had poured into a bowl. Little by little, I was either going mad—or perhaps learning to let go of my American expectations. Either way, I conceded I would be happier.
Pillsbury Dough Boy
Those first few weeks of living in Tappi found me without a working oven. The gas stove (inherited from the last missionary that lived in our house) worked fine—the top elements anyway. The oven had some issues that could not be resolved easily, so I did without. Probably after hearing me whine enough about it and considering that I surely tempted him with chocolate cakes if I had an oven that worked, Jeff came up with a brilliant idea! He says that the inspiration came from his family camping days in the Carolina Hemlocks. His father, Hal, and his Uncle Warren, used a large metal flour container and constructed it into a makeshift “oven” that set right on the coals of the campfire. Though the concept was primitive, it did seem like a wonderful plan.
Somewhere out in our storage building, he found a very large, antiquated Pillsbury Flour can. Ingeniously, he welded, melded, and shaped a small portable, metal oven that I could set on top of the fire which was usually burning outside our back door on a brick grate. I was so excited about using that unique “oven” to bake cakes and cookies, that I failed to initially take into account that there was no way to regulate the temperature. The first several attempts, especially with the cookies, were a bust. With practice, though, I finally was able to bake a decent cake and some casseroles in that camp style oven.
Even when another missionary helped us temporarily repair our oven, using it for baking was still a rarity because we were not used to the cost of a tank of stove gas. As much as I can remember, a tank of stove gas would cost us nearly $50, and it was our desire to get at least six weeks out of one tank. A few months later, after Stefanie was born, my parents came to visit, and while there, my dad was able to properly fix the stove and oven so that it worked so much more efficiently. Way to go, daddy!
Fire and Ice
This is probably a good place to explain how we were able to have a refrigerator and freezer that worked twenty-four hours a day, even when we only had electricity for three hours in the evening and four additional hours on Saturday morning. Our fridge and freezer were both powered by kerosene. Honestly, I didn’t even know there was such a thing before we lived in Liberia, but appreciated them in spite of the atrocious smell that constantly permeated my house.
The process worked by initiating fire in the bottom of the appliance with kerosene, and then eventually, ice would form in the top compartment. By the heat going into an exchanger and cooling down rapidly, we were able to have a cool refrigerator. Never did I even somewhat understand the principle of that system but was just thankful that it worked. The five-gallon kerosene tank and burner sat on a shelf at the very bottom of the refrigerator. The room temperature and how often someone opened its door determined the efficiency of the cooling process. To secure the door, Jeff installed a hook which made it a little harder for certain small people to open and close the door all day long.
It was an amazing thing that we were in the middle of the West African jungle with limited electricity, popping ice cubes into tea glasses or pulling out frozen chicken to thaw. Though my kitchen perpetually smelled of kerosene, I complained very little. Funny, the things I would have not tolerated for very long in America, I embraced and was thankful for in Liberia. It was Jeff’s job to keep the flame burning constantly by adding kerosene as necessary. We looked at it as his contribution to the food process. Never really having learned to cook, he knew he was at my mercy for meal preparations. In those early days, it was a heady feeling to know that my ministry of taking care of my husband, who was busy learning so much about the Liberian ministry, was very important. As I am a front line kind of gal, I did struggle with being in the shadows at times, but with the privilege of feeding and caring for that incredible new missionary, I perceived that his crowns were my crowns.
Inflatable Christmas Tree
After nearly two weeks in Tappi, my journal of December 20, 1985, reads:
Liberia is feeling more like home, even though at times I pine away for America. I’m sure this is normal. The house is coming along fine. It thrills me to know that it’s mine! I can’t wait to get settled. No one will ever know what I felt those last few weeks in America before we left. No real place to call my own. A woman has got to have her nest, right?
Christmas is in five days! I would love to be able to decorate more, but it’s just not feasible. I found a ceramic nativity scene in a barrel (left by a missionary who lived here previously), so I put it up and hung a red bow by the door. And thank you, MawMaw (my mother) for the inflatable Christmas tree because that’s what we are using! But just wait until next year! I’ll go all out.
I desire to start a ministry, but I know I must get settled first. I am so excited about serving the Lord here. Jeff really enjoys working on the helicopter and airplane, and being able to fly again. Many of the Liberian men come to visit and talk to him. He’s going to be a continued blessing to these men, I just know it. God has given us a great peace and joy about being here.
Sometimes I am amazed how my mother anticipated my needs as a woman heading to West Africa before I even did. Now that I am a mother of grown daughters, I understand it more. I am so thankful for the support and beyond that, the practical ways my mother and mother-in-law found to touch my life, even when they were certainly struggling with the separation from their children and grandchild. The inflatable Christmas tree was a perfect example of that. It was exactly right for that first, quickly put together Christmas in our African home. The pictures of Michelle sitting beside that tree are some of my favorites! In retrospect, and now, because I have lived a little life, I know that Christmas is not in the size of the tree nor in how many decorations in your house. If the spirit of Christmas is not lived out in our lives 365 days of the year, none of the rest of it really matters.
Little Things That Get You
Taken from my December 21, 1985, journal:
Perhaps the most aggravating thing today is that I don’t have a stopper for my kitchen sink and I have to put a cloth under another smaller drain stopper to keep the water in. Sometimes I pull it out by mistake and lose all the hot water that has been heated on our wood stove outside. It’s very frustrating!
There was no hot water available in our house, so I would have to step outside my back door and pour water from a container into a metal bucket already setting on top of the wood fire. After the water was heated, I lugged the steamy container into my kitchen. Bringing in hot water in a slopping metal bucket was a dangerous thing, and I had many burns on my arms and legs to prove it.
It took me a little while, but I discovered by carrying only a half bucket at a time, that this proved to be safer and easier. It was quite an ordeal just to get the hot water in the house without losing it down the drain before I was finished washing the dishes. That was a BIG deal! Sometimes it would take me almost an hour to wash a few dishes from lunch and breakfast because of that problem. Granted, our Bible school students who worked for us did it all the time, but it was something they had always known to do. For me, it was foreign, frustrating, and tedious. Occasionally, I would find myself looking around for a hidden dishwasher, but it never
