This is real love

I've discovered the best, fool proof way to love a Senoufo widow.  Go work in her rice fields. She already has the land and the seeds. Money won’t give her workers. So we organized the 20 somethings from our church to wake up bright and early on Saturday and help Zahatia plant and weed her fields. If that isn’t love, I’m not sure what is.

At 5:30, I woke up to get ready and put the bags of water, which we had attached the night before, in the coolers. We met the other youth at the church at 7 and were off to the fields by 8. We walked in a line, carrying coolers, pots, bowls, plates, and spoons. When we reached the fields, we left our shoes behind and walked along the small, raised paths of land, not more than a foot wide, that ran between the sections of rice. Leaving our supplies under the mango tree, we stepped into the murky, half-calf deep mud and water. Starting at one side, we placed small sprouts of rice into the ground, working like a machine, a line of pagne wearing young women. The only differences between us were the colors of our pagnes, and of course, my skin. But even that changed, as I was soon covered in mud and continued on along-side of them, despite the sweat, frogs, beetles, crabs, and leeches. 

My friends would look up at me every now and then and say “Tenedja, ç a peut aller?” (can you keep going?) or “Steph! C’est comment?” (How is it?). Most of the chatter was in Senoufo, but I didn’t mind. I just kept thinking, “this is why I’m here!” Zahatia, the widow we were helping, only speaks Senoufo. We don’t even speak the same languages, but I had the opportunity to encourage and love her without words. Real, active love, done in solidarity. Aiding widows and orphans. This is it, this is life. I’m burnt - so what! I’m tired - whatever. I planted rice with my Ivorian brothers and sisters, to help our mama, who takes care of 6 kids on her own because her husband passed away a few years ago. This is how I want to live. 

As we sat on the ground, underneath the mango tree, eating rice and sauce with fish, a dish I’ve grown to love over the months, I looked around at my brothers and sisters. I found myself surrounded by people I love, and who love me in return. I wish I could better explain what a joy it is to have them in my life, and what an exhilaration it is to serve alongside of them. I don’t notice our color difference until I see the pictures - and then I ask, “who is that strangely colored person?” It’s me, but none of these people rarely notice it anymore. A good friend recently told me that I’ve done lots of things here that he never thought I was capable of. Things like eating rice and sauce, sleeping under a mosquito net, traveling to Ghana, and working in the rice fields. On Saturday, my friends called me courageous. But I felt more than that - I felt alive. 

After about 7 hours of work, 7 fields planted and another 8 or so weeded, we packed up our coolers, bowls, pots, and spoons, and left the fields around 3 pm, all 30 of us, invigorated and exhausted from a long, hard day’s work. Zahatia waved at us, with a huge smile on her face, saying “anie-che! Anie-che!” (thank you!) as we packed up the car. The work we did that day may have taken her weeks on her own. Not one person wasn’t touched by providing for Zahatia’s needs. I pray that this is only the beginning of much more than is to come. I would give anything to see our church mobilized to care for it’s widows, and I think that this is finally starting to happen.

Check out these photos from the day.

 

Generosity

After our youth meeting on Saturday, I found out that Angelika, Madame Traole, and Lea were going to visit a few widows from our church. Lea had a lot of rice left over that she’d been given at her wedding, and she wanted to give it away before it went bad. Mai and I joined them. 

Zahatia had just come back from the fields when we arrived, around 5 pm. Her 3 littlest ones were running about, shirtless, eating mangoes in the yard. She walked up the path to greet us, and we all walked over to her small, cement block house. Sitting down outside on small stools and chairs, we waited for the news to be asked. Lea explained her gift of rice, which Zahatia graciously accepted. And then she did something that none of us expected. She walked over to her basin, full of the day’s harvest, and placed it down in front of us. Inside were mangoes, eggplants, and peanuts. Then she came out of the house with another large bowl full of sweet potatoes, the ones with bright violet skin. We passed around a few peanuts, picking them off the dirt covered roots. Zahatia, a widow with 6 kids, was giving us all of this produce. 

As we packed them into bags, I wanted to say, “no, you need it more than I do!” but that would mean not accepting her gift, which would bring her shame. I was touched by her generosity. She has so little, and yet she gave us so much. It reminds me of the story that Jesus recounts in scripture, of the woman who gave a few copper coins - all she had. And then a rich man gave a few silver coins, but he had so much more. Which one am I? Surely, I’m the one giving the silver coins, and Zahatia is the one with the small copper pennies.

If that’s not generosity, I don’t know what is. Zahatia has taught me to give freely, to give all that I have. Now, I have no other choice! The truth is, when we put ourselves into such a place where we must step out in faith, we give God the chance to provide as He promised. God will take care of Zahatia. She knows that He is the one who gave her that produce, and He can bring her 10 times more. The money and the objects that I have are not my own - they were a gift. I have no choice but to share them, as Zahatia shared her harvest with me.

Last night, I sat talking to Lea about Saturday. She recounted testimony upon testimony, of times when she gave away pagnes or money and God gave back to her all the much more. Like yesterday when she used her last 1,000 francs to get her mom in town, and her dad gave her 2,000 more when he came to pick her up. We encouraged one another with the ways God had provided for us, bubbling with excitement for the ways that we could share His provision. Next Saturday, we are going to visit Zahatia with the other young women from our church, to work in her field and make lunch for her family. 
Lea is one way that God has provided for me. Who would have known that I would find such a good friend, with such similar visions, in a 24 year old Senoufo woman from Cote d’Ivoire. Only God could have planned such a friendship.

“Whoever sows sparingly will also reap sparingly, and whoever sows generously will also reap generously," (2 Corinthians 9:6)
Above: Lea and I

Some pictures from the past few weeks:

Mangoes!

The Korhogo market

Pekaly, Florence and I.  Pekal is in his last year of pastoral training!

Baby on my back!  Katie Frazee - her parents are missionaries in Mali.

Jess and Tricia.  Crazy kids.

Steve, Jess's hubby.

Two Worlds Collide

Family. I have two of them. Why? Because I moved to Cote d’Ivoire, and an Ivorian family took me in as their daughter. It had been 16 months since I’d seen my American parents. Then, in February, my real momma came to visit me here in West Africa. My two worlds collided.

When my host dad first met my mom at church, he lit up. In the greeting line after church, he gave her 3 kisses on the cheek. I introduced her at church, and everyone applauded. It was, I imagine, a little like winning a Grammy. My friends called her “momma Stephanie!” saying that she is now their mom as well. My little brother, Emmanuel, ran across the school yard to greet her, and then embraced her with all his might.

She came with me to Centre Providence and helped lead art classes, to visit a few of the widows in our church, and to see many of my friends here in Cote d’Ivoire. She tried all the foods: alloko (fried plantains), ignames (a large potato), attieke (think couscous, but stickier), and even futu (pounded ignames). She got to see Bouake, Korhogo, and Ferke. It was a jam packed 2 weeks.

The best part, I have to say, was when she met my African family. My host mom prepared a feast of alloko and fried ignames. We sat around a table, eating off the platters. My host family had asked about my real family for months, never imagining they’d get to meet my mom. Bakary, my host dad, told me that now he knows he has a family, a home, in America too. Mom unpacked the backpack full of gifts: knives, a soccer ball, clothes, jewelry. A few days before we left, my host parents came to visit and presented traditional, woven, Senoufo outfits for both of my (real) parents.

I went back to the US with my mom and spent 5 weeks traveling, support raising, and visiting friends. Now, as I write this, I am back in Cote d’Ivoire. It was all a bit of a blur - though a well enjoyed and refreshing blur. I miss it A LOT, but somehow, I am sure that this is where I should be right now - wearing a pagne, sitting on a foam mattress on the floor after a bucket bath, anticipating the dinner of rice and sauce that’s waiting for me outside.

This past week, I moved in with some friends here in Bouake. I’m in the adjusting period, trying to figure out where I fit in the house. Today, I visited my Ivorian family. It felt like going home - somewhere familiar, comfortable, safe. Talking to Bakary and Kari, my host parents, felt a little like sitting in my parents house in the states. I felt so at ease, taken care of, without worry. It wasn’t always like that. I remember that moving in with them felt so uncomfortable at first. Today, it is the opposite. In a place where I sometimes long for home (in the US), having a family in Cote d’Ivoire is such a grace, such a gift.

Just like in the states, here in Cote d’Ivoire, I have a home that I can always run to. It’s somewhere that I know I will be taken care of, somewhere that I feel loved.

My mom and I with my host family

 My mom, my mom, and I

Ferke!  Visiting Linn and Glenn Boese

Visiting the Tuo family, a widow in our church

Pile-ing corn in a village near Ferke

My mom and I with Mai

With Tim and Lea

Her first moto-taxi ride!

I am His and He is mine.

Five weeks spent in the US have left me craving more, yet hopeful for what God has in store when I return to Cote d'Ivoire. I couldn't do any of this without His strength, His unfailing love, His power that overcame the grave. This morning, in church, we sang In Christ Alone. "As He stands in victory, sin's curse has lost its grip on me. For I am His and He is mine. Bought with the precious blood of Christ." I am His! Sweet relief. I don't belong to fear or sin - I belong to a victorious God. The song goes on to say, "No guilt in life, no fear in death, this is the power of Christ in me." As I get on that plane tomorrow, I go out in His life giving power. Praise Him for that.

Blessings. That is what these past 5 weeks have been full of. Here are a few of them - my family.

My brother, Hunter, and I.

Bear, the newest edition to our family.

My mom and I. This lady is my superstar. She came to Africa to visit me (next blog!)

I love my dad.

Pappy and Nanny.

Hunter's pretty cool for 13.

From life's first cry to final breath..

Jesus commands my destiny.

No power of hell, no scheme of man can ever pluck me from His hand.

'Til He returns or calls me home, here in the power of Christ I'll stand.

To be persnickety clay

Here’s what I’m learning: God knows what we need even when we don’t. He knows where we’re going even when we have no idea.

When I left for Cote d’Ivoire in October of 2010, I had decided to put aside a year of my life for God. A year. That’s a lot, right? At the time, I thought so. Well, a year has become 17 months…. Does that compute? Last I checked, there were 12 months in a year. No, I haven’t lost all mathematical ability. Yes, I’m aware of how much time has passed. Was it my choice? Not necessarily.

I know what you’re thinking. Stop. Let me explain.

When I left for Cote d’Ivoire (CI) a year and a half ago, I had my whole life planned out - or at least the next 3 to 4 years. Going to CI forced me to look at the bigger picture. First Corinthians 6:19 tells me that I am not my own because Jesus bought me and redeemed me with his life. Second Corinthians 4 says that anything that I hold is from Jesus, and I am only a clay jar.

Have you ever worked with clay? It is finicky, pernickety, persnickety, meticulous, and demanding! (Yes, I did just pull up my thesaurus. Did you know that pernickety is a word??) My professor used to say, “you have to babysit your clay.” Constantly checking the dry to moldable ratio, knowing when to cover it, when to build upon it, when to let it rest a few days. Then you put it in the kiln, and it comes out refined and un-moldable, yet very breakable. Any way you swing it, clay is useless if it’s not in the artist’s hands. If I simply put a block of clay on the table and walk away, in a week it would be stiff and unworkable.

Why am I rambling about clay? The more I reflect on the clay process, the more I feel like a clay jar. Which also means that I’m finicky, pernickety, persnickety, meticulous, and demanding. Thank goodness Jesus is willing to take my pernickety self and use me, no matter how much I refuse to be still and listen, ask to know the future, or resist uncomfortable molding and refining.

I came home to the US to see some family members and friends who have supported me, to encourage them with what God is doing in Cote d’Ivoire. Before I knew it, four more months of support were provided. At one church, two months worth of support were physically brought forward after I shared. The response that I received is not one that I can accredit to myself. I am NOT that good!

As I look forward to returning to Cote d’Ivoire, there are a lot of unknowns. Yet there is one thing that is sure – right now, God wants me in CI, not the USA. If this weren’t the case, I wouldn’t have the financial means to do so. God, the one who created me from clay, knows what He’s molding me for. I find strength in this truth.

Why was it not my choice? Quite frankly, I would rather choose the most comfortable and natural path. That would be living in quiet, suburban America. Instead, I'm going back to bustling, hot Africa. Yet something in me feels more natural there. I would have never said that 17 months ago. And now I'm ruined for quiet, suburban America. (Gee thanks, Jesus!)

It's about time that I give Jesus my whole life, like Romans 12 says, as I see Him already "transforming (me) into a new person by changing the way (I) think," (v. 2). This way I can continually "learn to know God's will for (me)."

So here I go. I put aside all worry, all uneasiness due to uncertainty. This uncertainty is my own human fear and my mistrust of Jesus’s leading, my own desire to perfectly organize my life. I repent of it, and walk forward in confidence, not of myself, but in Jesus. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,” I echo Psalm 23. With the knowledge that, “those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength,” Isaiah 40.

Father, bid my anxious fears goodbye.

I am still raising support! To see how to support me in Cote d’Ivoire, visit www.worldventure.com/sverenski

Am I hearing correctly?

As I sat in the marquis, people started standing up, pacing, throwing chairs down on the ground, cursing and yelling that it was finished. Their cheers and horns, once played with enthusiasm, were lost. Cote d’Ivoire lost to Zambia in a shoot off, player against goalie, standing 11 meters apart. This was after two 15 minute overtimes. The crowd walked away, somber and dejected.

I would have loved to see us win. Not for the sake of saying that CI won the Africa cup, but because this country is pulling itself out of 10 years of frustrating war, and any encouragement would help. Reconciliation isn’t an easy task. Sure, it was just a game - contrary to the public’s reactions. But why couldn’t they win? Maybe there’s larger lessons to learn here.

I’ve been asking God a lot of questions lately. I keep hoping for at least a small whisper, like Elijah. A burning bush or a dew covered fleece would certainly be welcome, but we don’t always get what we want. Sometimes He tells us to build an ark or travel to a distant land, and then you hear nothing until… well, until we finish the ark or until it’s time for more direction.

I’m not very good at waiting. When I was a kid, I wiped my spaghetti sauce covered hands all over my clothes because I didn’t want to wait for a napkin. I constantly had skinned knees because I couldn’t walk to my destination - I was in a hurry to get there.

Reconciliation is achieved when both sides can humble themselves enough to listen to one another. During the war in RCI, the divide was set between the north and the south. If you had a Senoufo name, such as Coulibaly or Soro, you were immediately associated with the North. This meant, you were denied certain rights of Ivorian citizenship if you lived in the South. Many Northerners had to flee to the north to avoid being persecuted. This country has to overcome their divides and rebuild together.

Hearing God also takes humility. A quieting of oneself, and submission to listening for that small whisper. I find myself saying, “Listen to me, God! Please, have mercy and answer me!” (Ps 27:7). I love the next verse of this psalm: “My heart says of you, “Seek His face!” Your face, Lord, I will seek.”

“Wait for the Lord. Be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.” Ps 27:14

“If it is the Lord’s will, we will live and do this or that.” James 4:1

Ivorians have been saying that this cup was just a practice run for next time, when we will win. A period of silence often means that we are in the shadow of God’s hand, and guidance is to come. Amidst fears and frustrations, I can only seek His face. Now that I’ve exhausted all of my own capabilities, that’s all I can do. Like Gideon, I am often afraid that God has abandoned me. But almost immediately, God answers, “Am I not sending you?” (Judges 6:14). The second I start asking Him why he has taken blessings away, he points to the ones He’s since given me. And they are numerous - just different than before.

Last week, I walked from church to the market center with Mai, talking the whole way, sharing fears and worries about the future. I met her around this time last year, and my French was not great. I could barely describe my hobbies, let alone fears and worries. But today, our friendship goes deeper than I ever thought possible between language and cultural barriers. She bought me a grilled plantain and water before we parted ways. Friendships like hers remind me of what I'm doing here. They give me courage in the midst of it all.

We visited Dorcas House, a business for women who have left the Muslim faith to become Christians. As I left, I called into the workshop, "Annibara!" (Good work! in their language, Dioula). They all replied, "N'se", and one woman said "E-bey soh moh goh foh". The reply slipped out of my mouth, naturally without any hesitation, "O-bey nah meh". She smiled. There's a purpose in it all.

“Remain in me, and I will remain in you,” is the small whisper I hear every day.

In 2 days, my mom comes to visit for 2 weeks! In March, I will get on a plane headed for the US for the first time in 16 months, and spend 5 weeks seeing friends and family. I will be able to share about how much God has blessed me in Cote d'Ivoire. Then, in April, I will come back to this country that has siezed my heart. For how long? That's yet to be determined. Amidst the craziness that I'm about to jump into, I am sure that He is guiding me. No matter if I go to school again or not, no matter what I study, whether I live in Philadelphia or Cote d'Ivoire, it's ultimately His plan that will come to pass. Pray with me as I seek His face for what's next. Pray for this country as they rebuild and seek reconciliation.

“If we will only obey, and do the task that He has placed closest to us, we will see Him.” (MUFHH Feb 7)

My sister, Kolo, started learning to tailor clothes.

Dorcas house

Abidjan Market

Nema got married! She was our cultural guide when I first arrived in RCI.

Our Benkadi team