My plans and dreams had been too small, too tame

I always imagined that when my grandchildren entered this world, I’d be a quaint little old grandmother—the kind that knits booties and bonnets for new grandbabies. The kind that sits in a rocking chair and sings infants to sleep.

But I was in for a surprise—and not a welcome one. Both God and my husband ganged up on me and hollered “Africa!”

I told you recently about a hippo that charged me: I escaped with five seconds to spare. How many other grandmas have been charged by a hippo?

And then I received an unpleasant introduction to pit latrines. How many other grandmas have ever had to use a pit latrine?

Originally, I had thought our rough wooden outhouses with black toilet seats were bad, but compared with pit latrines, those elevated, black toilet seats were, in my opinion, things of beauty.

I myself, however, was not a thing of beauty.

Without electricity, I couldn’t use a blow dryer or curling iron, and my hair was a disaster.

Nor could I use an iron, and my clothes stayed as wrinkled as when I wrung them out and pegged them on the line to dry. (They’re not clothespins in East Africa. They’re clothes pegs.)

Women wore skirts because, back then, Kenyans believe trousers revealed too much of a woman’s body.

I wore safari boots with my skirts and, oh, if my friends back home could have seen me! Everybody—my friends, my relatives, and even I—had always expected I’d live a genteel life in a little white house with a picket fence and a rose garden.

Instead, I was camping in Africa—with limp hair, wrinkled clothes, and no makeup.

Little by little, I was realizing God had not planned for me to be a genteel, quaint little lady.

Sometimes we need to let go of our dreams and plans

because God has bigger, better plans.

When that happens,

we need to figure out who we are

because we’re not who we thought we were—

I didn’t even look like what I thought I should.

I was transitioning into a different person

and a different dream.

I’d have to make other plans.

Letting go of old dreams and embracing new ones

is uncomfortable.  So uncertain.

But on the other hand,

since my plans and dreams had been too small, too tame,

what did God’s ongoing plans for me look like?

And would I embrace them with joy?

How many grandmas have run from a charging hippo?

“By tomorrow, Maggie, you’ll have lived on this earth for two months,” I wrote to my new and only grandchild, “and I’m scratching my head, trying to figure out how I can be your grandmother from way over here on the other side of the world.

“I always imagined I’d be a traditional, quaint grandma like my grandma, the kind that sits in a rocking chair and knits baby blankets.” (from Chapter 1, Grandma’s Letters from Africa)

Yes, I dreamed, and expected, I’d grandparent in the ways my beloved Grandma Mac had. You couldn’t ask for a gentler, kinder, more loving grandmother. She was soft-spoken and preferred to live quietly in her home, a home full of love that she and my grandpa had created. I loved them with all my heart and their home was always a safe, happy place.

Grandma was always doing things for others—sewing, knitting, or crocheting clothes for her grandkids.

And cooking delicious meals. Sundays after church, my parents, little brothers, and I used to pile into the family car and drive the hour to my grandparents’ home. Usually my aunts, uncles, and their families were there, too, and we enjoyed gathering around Grandma and Grandpa’s dining room table. They lived on a tight budget but Grandma always served delicious meals, often featuring vegetables and fruit from her own garden.

That was the kind of grandmother I planned to be, I longed to be—but, instead, I lived half a world away from my granddaughter, Maggie. And I just knew my son Matt, and his wife Jill, would some day have another baby. And that my daughter, Karen, would one day marry and have babies, too.

It broke my heart to live so far away.

And my grandmothering couldn’t have been more different from what I expected.

In Africa, I stumbled into adventures most grandmas could not imagine. I wrote this to Maggie:

“How many grandmas have drunk tea in a pot cleaned with cow’s urine, or run from a charging hippo? How many grandmas have cooked breakfast over a fire, only to have a baboon poop in it? How many grandmas have jumped out of the way when a Maasai elder spit at them?”

Here’s what was happening, the “why” and “how” I ended up in Africa:

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord.

(Jeremiah 29:11, NIV)

“For my thoughts are not your thoughts,

neither are your ways my ways,” declares the Lord.

“As the heavens are higher than the earth,

so are my ways higher than your ways

and my thoughts than your thoughts.”

(Isaiah 55:8, NIV)

We humans make plans, but the Lord has the final word. . . .

the Lord decides where we will go.

(Proverbs 16:1, 9 CEV)

That information helped me take a new look at what God was asking me to do—but I admit that, at the time, it seemed both God and my husband wanted me to willingly allow a tragedy—living half a world away from my kids and grandkids.

But, Samantha Conners writes:

“God doesn’t call us to do things

in order to make our lives terrible.”

And so, long story short, I moved to Africa.

Eventually, I would learn that God’s plans for me were good.

And, despite the pain of being separated from family,

our years in Africa turned out well.

Come on back next week and I'll tell you about it!

This homebody changed countries seventeen times in fourteen months

All I ever wanted was to live a quiet, secure life in a little white house with a picket fence and a rose garden but, as I told you a few days ago, my husband Dave and our adventuresome God had other plans. Just when our youngest finished college, both Dave and God hollered, “Africa!”

Not only had I wished to live a predictable, serene, uninterrupted, sheltered life—I also wanted a travel-free life. For years I had awakened every morning and realized I’d had yet another bad dream about travel.

Maybe I had been on a train speeding down the tracks, knowing I needed to get off someplace—but where? Or perhaps I was on a city bus and needed to get off and transfer to another route—but where? Or I had arrived at a dock to board an ocean-going vessel headed toward foreign shores when I discovered I’d forgotten to bring my passport. And on and on.

It was worse than not being a fan of travel—I had a lot of angst about travel. And I wanted to stay put!

Yet God seemed to stand there and say, “My best plans for you involve both Africa and travel.” Period.

I wanted to avoid facing my fear of travel. God wanted me to face it, stare it down. Overcome it.

To begin with, He sent me to Africa, and getting there required quite a journey—to the opposite side of the world.

But that was only the beginning. Once I got there, God gave me a job that required travel. A lot of travel.

I started my memoir, Grandma’s Letters from Africa, with an example of what my job required:

September 29, 1994 

Nairobi, Kenya 

Dear Maggie,

I awoke at four this morning, unable to sleep any longer. Ah, I thought, surprised, I’m still not over jet lag. I had arrived back in Nairobi twenty-eight hours earlier and thought I should’ve recovered from jet lag but, to my dismay, I had not.

I lay there in bed mentally drawing lines, tracing my journeys over the past fourteen months: the United States, England, Scotland, Kenya, Cameroon, Burkina Faso, Niger, back to Burkina Faso, Senegal, Ivory Coast, Togo, Ethiopia, Kenya, Canada, the United States, Holland, and back to Kenya. As of today, I have changed countries seventeen times in fourteen months. 

Imagine! This homebody had changed countries seventeen times in fourteen months! Not states, but countries—nations. On three continents.

Do you suppose God was being mean-spirited when He gave me a job that required travel? And not easy travel, either—often international journeys have unique challenges, especially when those countries are in a place like Africa.

I don’t think God was being mean. He knew my fear was something I needed to change. Perhaps He was acting like a good coach, saying, “You can do this. Work hard. Work harder. Persevere.” If I’d been paying close attention, I probably could have sensed him saying, “I’ll help you. Trust Me.”

I love Chuck Swindoll’s words:

“Don’t be afraid. Stand still. 

Watch [God] work. Keep quiet.

It’s then that He does His best work on our behalf. 

He . . . handles our predicament opposite the way we’d do it.” 

(from Great Days with the Great Lives)

Did you get that? Chuck says that sometimes 

God does just the opposite of what we want 

or would tend to do. 

I didn’t want to face my fear, 

but God seemed to say, “You need to get over this.”

And I must let you know this: Even before I arrived in Africa, I stopped having those bad dreams about travel. I still had worries about travel, but not the bad dreams.

I was on my way!

A special note to mid-lifers, empty-nesters, and baby boomers

A number of years ago my husband, Dave, said, “At church, they teach us to tithe—give 10 percent—of our money, so why not encourage people to also tithe their professional lives?” In other words, after people have worked, say, thirty years in their careers, how about working three years in a ministry? Great idea!

And, in fact, a number of mid-lifers, empty-nesters, and baby boomers—instead of retiring to a life of leisure—are transitioning into ministries, even overseas missions. Most people in this age group have good health, energy, and a wealth of experience and wisdom to share. Many organizations recognize this and actively recruit such people.

Maybe you, too, are ready to try something new, so I invite you to read Grandma's Letters from Africa, read over my granddaughter Maggie’s shoulder, and learn how a mid-life woman—I—moved to Africa and even lived to tell about it! And while you read, keep in mind that maybe you could do something like this, too.

First, though, consider this: Change is inevitable. In the years since Dave and I returned home from Africa, Wycliffe Bible Translators has changed, as have other mission agencies. If you were to work with Wycliffe today, you would work with a different Wycliffe than we did. Field training (orientation) courses, such as Kenya Safari, have changed. Financial policies have changed, and furlough schedules are more flexible than they used to be.

Nairobi has changed, too. Kenya has changed. All of Africa has changed. If you were to travel today to Nairobi, you would find the city, suburbs, and life there different from the Nairobi I knew. People now shop in supermarkets with wide aisles, bright lights, and enormous selections. And there’s a beltway (bypass) around parts of the city now.

Cell phones and video conferencing have dramatically changed communication with loved ones back home. I hear that the police don’t allow loiterers around City Market any more—that must make shopping there very different nowadays!—and that the city razed the blue stalls nearby. Friends tell me that even the potholes have changed for the better!

           

Some things in Africa have not changed, I’m sure of it: the flowers, animals, and birds; the vast open spaces, jungles, and deserts; and especially the African people—their laughter and their music, their spirit, soul, and faith.

           

Perhaps a second career in missions is just what you’ve been looking for—maybe for a few months, maybe for a few years. Working on the mission field is doable as long as people are willing, flexible, and strong in their faith. So, while you read over my granddaughter’s shoulder, I hope you’ll say to yourself, “If that gal could do it, so can I! Where do I sign up?”

           

In many parts the world, 

not just Africa, 

the needs are enormous. 

The rewards are, too.

Be sure to follow Grandma’s Letters from Africa on Facebook. I post a lot of additional fun stuff there.

You can order Grandma’s Letters from Africa from your favorite independent bookseller, or the following:

Barnes and Noble 

Amazon

Books AMillion 

Powells

I stumbled into adventures most grandmas couldn’t imagine

All I ever wanted was to live a quiet, secure life in a little white house with a picket fence and a rose garden, but my husband Dave—a free spirit who seldom limits himself to coloring within other people’s lines—and our adventuresome God (ditto) had other plans. Just when our youngest finished college, both Dave and God hollered, “Africa!”

Stunned, I asked myself, How can we leave our kids and parents and live on the other side of the planet?

For months, I waited for God to convince me that He really wanted us to move to Africa. I gave Him every opportunity to either show us green lights and send us to Africa or red lights and keep us home—and He gave us only green. So I sighed, and turned, and took a radical, outrageous, blind leap of faith.

A year after we moved to Africa with Wycliffe Bible Translators, our daughter-in-law Jill gave birth to our first grandchild and I discovered I was not the traditional, quaint little grandmother I always envisioned. No, I had stumbled into adventures most grandmas couldn’t imagine—a hippo charged me, a baboon pooped in my breakfast, a Maasai elder spit at me, and I drank tea from a pot cleaned with cow’s urine.

I decided to write those stories, and more, in letters to my granddaughter, Maggie. I knew she was too young to understand them then, but I also knew that someday she, and my future grandchildren, would grow up and enjoy my tales.

When the right time arrived, I gathered my old letters and emails and compiled them for the grandchildren—six of them now—and for Grandma’s Letters from Africa, a memoir about my first four years (of eight) in Africa working as a missionary journalist.

But Grandma’s Letters from Africa is not merely an account of adventure. And, unlike many missionary stories, this is not a record of saving lost heathens. This is my story about balancing God’s call with responsibilities toward my husband, children, grandchildren, and aging parents.

It’s my record of everyday life in a behind-the-scenes, yet important, role.

It recounts hilarious incidents and frightful ones, joys and heartaches, answered prayers and those God seemed to leave unanswered.

Grandma’s Letters from Africa is my story about falling in love with Africa, its people, and the work—both official and unofficial—God gave me.

Above all, it’s a chronicle of God’s heart, His delightful creativity, and His amazing power to help those in need.

You can buy Grandma’s Letters from Africa through your local independent bookseller, through Books-A-Million, Barnes and Noble, Amazon, and other booksellers. Powell’s Books in Portland currently has a special sale on the paperback (only $7.95).

Also be sure to click on and “like” the Facebook Page for Grandma’s Letters from Africa: AMemoir. You’ll find additional sharing going on there.