My Last Week

     Today, I went back to the EMS school for the last time. School is out, and only the staff children are left, six in all. I had some good time with the children while the mamas were making me a special meal. We ate and I felt very blessed to have such good friends here. I am thankful that I was able to encourage them during my time as they are often a neglected ministry here in Jos. I am definitely sad as I wind up my time here(I am leaving Jos on Tuesday) since I feel that I am just now understanding more of the culture and the language. I know feel I understand more of how I could work well in this ministry, and I have a deep love for both my Nigerian and bature(white people) friends here. While I was playing with the children today we took turns telling stories, and I will attempt to retell one of them here. I was surprised slightly at this story, and now as I am writing and I am surprised that I am only ’slightly’ surprised.
     “There was a family that had one daughter, Julie, and one son. The father loved the daughter, and the mother loved the son. One day the mother sent the daughter out to get meat, but she came back with no meat so the mother said that Julie would be the meat now. The mother cut off her head and put it under the pillow in an unused room and cut her up and cooked her. Then there were birds that went to where the father worked. The birds sang, “Julie go and die. Julie go and die. Look under the pillow and see her head. Julie go and die.” When the father went home, he asked his wife, “Where is Julie?” The mother said, “She is out playing. Come and eat.” The father sat down at the table, but the birds came again and sang their song. Again, the father asked where Julie was, and his wife lied again. He then began to search all of the rooms in the house until he came to the last. He looked under the pillow and saw Julie’s head. He told his wife to go fetch a barrel and fill it with boiling water. Then he put his wife in the barrel. Then End.”
     This story, given light-heartedly, examplifies a key difference between my childhood and that of a Nigerian. We try to hide lifes unpleasantries and protect our children from harsh and wicked things. In Nigeria, everything is left in the open. For example, even at one’s funeral, both the good and the bad is spoken of even by the closest of family. In America, we would not dream of speaking ill of someone at their own funeral. This story may not be true, but it does show what is common to this culture. Poverty. Hunger. Abuse of children. Murder. Mysticism. Almost of the children that I have met here have experienced several of these. Please continue to pray for the ministry here for wisdom for vision and the boys who are in the ministry and are yet to be in the ministry. Many of these boys are suffering deeply from their past but do not allow any outward appearance to suggest their pain. Please pray that the ministry continue to grow in how to aid these children physically, spiritual, and emotionally.