Ain't No Cure For The Summertime Blues

...sometimes I wonder what I'm gonna do
'cause there ain't no cure for the summertime blues

It’s now Wordsworth or Longfellow, it’s not Robert Frost or even Shel Silverstein. It’s Alan Jackson and he may not the best poet in the world; for that matter he may not be the best singer in the world, but his words do a better job than I can describing how I’ve been feeling over the last few weeks--until this last weekend.

In short, I’ve been stuck in a rut…and a rut is just a grave with the ends kicked out; but unbeknownst to Mr. Jackson, there really is a cure for the summertime blues…and I found it right here in Ghana. Really, I have found it before, but just had a memory lapse.

I found it again while visiting Abomosu this weekend. No, it wasn’t found at the genuine Fourth of July barbeque we went to—complete with juicy hamburgers, tangy chicken, genuine down- home potato salad, macaroni salad, and home-made apple pie. It wasn’t even the company that we kept, (although hanging out with Abomosu’s favorite missionaries is really, really cool).

Elder and Sister Dalton (our favorite Abomosu Missionaries)

Fourth of July Picnic

I found it in the life a young woman whom the missionaries took us to see. Her name is Hanna. She lives life in a crumple of a body. One that would be strong and healthy and beautiful like all those around her, but that has been withered and shriveled by the effects of a tumor that has robbed her of all that the rest of us take for granted. To look at her, you would never guess she has lived some 18 years; she is small like a child, but worn and weary.



Hanna

She started taking the missionary discussions not long ago, and they are worried that her health won’t allow her to be baptized. You may wonder yourself as you watch her walk—she struggles with the least bit of exertion, but I see her strength. It is an inward heart-of-a-lion sort of strength with a courage few of the rest of us will ever know. She walks to church every Sunday which is only a quarter mile away and it takes her about an hour and a half just to get there. She is choice. She attends primary because that is where the kids are that are her size. Last week, she stood and quoted verbatim several chapters (yes, chapters) of scripture from memory.

Her momma has taken her to the doctors and tribal healers, and is waiting for the medicine to help take the swelling down so she can go in for surgery—she takes an aspirin and paracetemol (Africa’s version of Tylenol) each night to help with the pain. What momma doesn’t really understand, it is quite clear that Hanna does…she knows better. She knows that things are not going to get better—only worse as time continues its inevitable erosion of her body. She knows her time is fast running out.

My take is that not only does she have a volleyball sized tumor in her stomach that should have been taken out years ago, but has now developed pretty advanced heart failure as a result—thus making a successful surgery here in Ghana very unlikely. She will not be here with us much longer. I tried my best to answer all of mommas questions, but with much lost in translation, I am not sure how much really sank in.

When we finished, I asked Hanna if I had made her sad. She just gave me a knowing smile that said ‘nothing can make me sad’. So she is going to press forward and be baptized here in a couple of weeks, continue memorizing scriptures, and courageously live her life the only way she knows how—happy, and strong, and healthy (at least on the inside).

Everything that we associate in this life with happiness—she lacks, but is happy anyway. She has no money. She lives in a little mud hut with sheets for doors and windows. There are no fancy cars and the food is simple. She has her family and friends that love her, and she has found the gospel of Christ that gives her faith and will comfort her in the rough times to come.

I have learned a lesson; we could all learn a lesson. Everything I need to be happy is close at hand. I don’t need to run around feeling sorry or miss’n my cabin or missin real clothes, or missin my baseball caps, because they really don’t mean anything anyway. Sure, not having the family here is hard, but they will always be there—one way or another. So what is the cure for the summertime blues? The cure is simple, it's realizing that happiness is not found in material things or even in our health. It is found in the relationships we have with our family, our friends, and our God.

So today, I count my blessings. My children are healthy and happy. All three are doing well. For now, we all have our health. We have food to eat and a roof over our head. Our family at home supports us. We are staying strong in the gospel of Chirst. What more is there?

...counting our blessings in Ghana
Elder and Sister Fife

Happiness in Kwabang

This kid in Abomosu can ride very well
--even with a bucket on his head!

This is a black scorpion on the road--we stopped for a picture,
then ran over it so it couldn't sting any of our missionaries
you can easily loose a leg to the venom--very painful!