Romance, then and now

Todd has always been a romantic. I used to think it was so embarrassing, though it was always sweet and tasteful. Trouble was he was playing to me, a serious unromantic. 

Sometimes his romance was showing up at my basketball games with roses. Other times it was bringing me Starburst candy at work. Still other times it was planning out a birthday scavenger hunt or picking up Olive Garden dinners and taking them to the park for a quiet picnic or drawing me cartoons or comic strips of us and leaving them in places for me to find :) 

Of course, this says nothing of our countless walks or trips to Sonic for slushes (he actually proposed on one of our many Sonic dates). Not every date can be original and extravagant. But he tried to do things that I would find special or fun, and he was good at it. 

I might have thought his romantic side was silly sometimes, but looking back, it was so incredibly sweet. I wouldn’t want it any other way. 

Fast forward oh, say, three years. He hasn’t surprised me with an Olive Garden picnic in ages. I haven’t had a single birthday scavenger hunt since I turned 17, and who knows when I found the last cartoon drawing. 

But despite what appears to be a serious decline, he’s still the most romantic thing! Let me just tell you…

Now instead of asking me out on fancy dates he says things like, “why don’t you just leave the dishes? I’ll do them for you tomorrow.” Now he doesn’t stop by work with candy; instead he buys me a mister system to hook up to the patio awning because y’all, it’s HOT in my air condition-less South African home and this sweaty prego is about to keel over! 

As my life has changed, so has my perspective on romance. I still enjoy going out to dinner or a movie, and we still do those things often. But who knew that I’d think him volunteering to do the chores was on par with buying me pearls? Who would have guessed that I’d consider his installing a glorified sprinkler system heroic and heart-throbby?  

I might get fewer roses these days, but that’s really a credit to him. He knows me well enough to know that I’ve changed. And he’s changed his style so I can keep thinking he’s super romantic. That alone is pretty sweet, right? 

Oh, in case you weren’t getting a visual in your mind of what a mister system is, here's a picture of the box. I would have taken one of our own gloriously cool and refreshing set-up, but it's really hard to get a good picture of mist. Ahhh...so nice :) 

And here's Mr. Romantic himself ❤︎

The very best

Today, I need to tell you about the best teacher I've ever had: Todd. Surprised? Don't be. I don't know that I'd given it much thought before this weekend, but he really is the best.

We did a couple DIY projects over the weekend that I could never have attempted without him, primarily because they included mathematical skills, precision, and knowledge of how to operate a sewing machine. Before a few days ago I possessed none of these things. I still don't have mathematical skills or precision, (let's not get unrealistic) but I do now know how to basically operate a sewing machine! I feel very accomplished, very wife-ish :)

Anyway, back to Todd being the best teacher I've ever had. I realized this weekend that he is able to teach me and that I'm able to learn from him for three main reasons:

1. He can do things I wish I could do.
2. He is willing to teach me things.
3. He doesn't get aggravated or annoyed if/when I don't catch on or when I make mistakes.

Not everyone gets to live with someone who can do things, and I get that. Maybe I should take that off the list because it is kind of an unfair advantage. But the other two are legit. He really is willing to teach me anything he knows that I want to know. He'd even sit down and teach me all about building websites or using Photoshop if I asked him. He's just...willing.

And, best of all, after he's taught me and explained and reexplained, he doesn't get frustrated when I mess up! Do you know how liberating that is? He just says something like, "it's ok, we can fix it," or "you're doing fine," or "that looks great!" Who couldn't work under those kind of conditions? :)

Todd has confidence in me. And this weekend it dawned on me just how valuable that is in any teacher.

But enough gushing...let's get to the results of all this excellent teaching! Our "big"project, our piéce de résistance, deserves its own blog post which I hope to have up later this week, but let me just say that it's something I've wanted to do and am so pleased with how it turned out!

After we mostly finished our main event, we spent a little time doing some smaller projects. First of all, we were given a Boppy pillow by some friends who were also given it second-hand. I guess they didn't want it or already had one or something, so they passed it along to us. I was prepared to use it as it was, but Todd said, "do you want me to re-cover it?"

Here's what it was covered in originally:

Gross, right?

Todd pulled the pieces off and we pinned them to our new fabric. We cut those out and then he figured out how to sew them back together, and even managed to put the zipper back in! It was the first zipper he'd ever done and it turned out great! He let me do most of the sewing on the machine (but not the zipper part..no thanks).

The finished product:

Soooo much classier :) I'm glad Todd suggested re-covering.

The last project of the weekend was made with the leftover fabric. Todd wanted to make some placemats and came up with these:

He made the first one and then taught me so we could both do the rest. It was really very easy and now I'm inspired to make more...maybe something Christmassy.

To sum up, I'm grateful for a friend, teacher and husband who is willing and patient. It makes all the difference :)

The Maiden Voyage

Sometimes, breakfast should be more of an adventure than a square start to your day; it's days like these you find yourself asking, "isn't there a more thrilling coffee mug?"

You're not alone. All across the planet people are pouring their hot drinks into vessels of mediocrity; they're sipping steaming beverages from beakers of sheer ordinary. It's just one of the many normal things we do, and keep doing, over and over again. Where does the cycle end? Does it end?

Don't believe for a minute that drinking from an average mug is your destiny; it doesn't have to be that way. Succumb to the lies and you'll soon find yourself spiraling downwards through a dark tunnel that ends...where? Acceptance of drinking coffee out of styrofoam cups at the office? Thoughtlessly using the same nothing mug, morning after morning?

Perhaps it would help for you to take a step back and look at your life objectively. Close your eyes; imagine yourself at the breakfast table, reading the newspaper or checking the stocks. In your hand is a mug. You can see the steam rising from the brim, but the mug itself is hazy. Focus, focus. What do you see? This is important...your mug will tell you who you are. Cream colored with your insurance company's logo printed on it? That says you're bored, too bored to explore the possibility of owning a mug with character. Or maybe you see a mug that's chipped a little and solid navy. It's your go-to mug, and that's where you're going wrong. Don't be a go-to mug person; it screams "comfortable," and "completely lacking in originality."

This is depressing, isn't it? I can see you're beginning to wonder if there's any hope, or if a future of being wrongly defined by your coffee mug is inevitable. But don't sip into despondency just yet; there IS hope.

It's time to embrace your need for early morning adventure, and your plain-Jane mug isn't going to cut it. You need something fresh, edgy, something that takes you places you never thought hot beverages could go. You need to be transported. A good mug can do that.

In an effort to inspire to you think outside the mug, take a look at this beauty. It took its maiden voyage just last week and proved a worthy vessel for my morning rooibos tea. I'll be booking the Dawn Treader again in the future when I need something more than breakfast as usual :)

This is another fine artistic piece by THE Todd Overbeek Jr. :) To read more about his process, check out last month's post here.

Dear Amanda: I can quilt!

Dear Amanda: I can quilt! I finished it :) My first-ever quilted potholder is done! And...

...stuffed in a drawer :/ 

The thing looks rough, Amanda, really rough. It's crooked. It's uneven. The stitches vary in length and look like I was failing a sobriety test when I sewed them. It doesn't lay flat but kind of stands up in the middle, probably the result of a lack of tension, or maybe too much tension? I don't know. And whatever you do, DON'T turn it over...the back is a horrific mess of knots, tangles, and "corrected" mistakes. It's enough to make even the most gracious seamstress wince like she was just jabbed with a #9 needle. Todd tried to make me feel better by telling me that it just had a “hand-made” look. That kind of talk goes over really well at craft shops. Hand-made items are supposed to be special because they’re one-of-a-kind, they can’t be replicated. Let’s just say: I hope so.

Yet, despite its...existence, I love this potholder :) Not as a thing to look at or even use for its intended purpose, but as a symbol of accomplishment. I really enjoyed sitting down to work on it. It was fun! I like the fact that I learned a lot of things (mostly what not to do) during this, my inaugural quilt-sewing experience. Here they are, in numeric outline:

1. I’ve taken up a hobby that requires math. Apparently, there are such things. I know that accuracy isn't good enough; you need precision. I thought I cut all the pieces just like they needed to be cut, but the end result tells me otherwise. Rather than individually measure ever single pice I need, I think next time I'll make a window template. That way I only have to measure the same-shaped pieces once, eliminating opportunities for discrepancy. And sheesh, it will speed that part of the process along considerably. Even with Todd's help that part of the process was by far my least favorite. 

2. Similarly, all the seam allowances need to be identical. If it's supposed to be 1/4 inch, make it exactly 1/4 inch. It will come back to haunt you if you think you got it almost right. Almost is not good enough when it comes to sewing. Why oh why was I not born a perfectionist?

3. I've learned to cut the backing and batting a little bit bigger than the quilt top...I learned that one the very hard way. 

4. It will probably work better if I sew the quilt sandwich from the middle and work my way out, rather than the other way around. In fact, it might fix my tension problems altogether. 

5. I need a seam ripper. And some shears. And a tape measure. While I'm at it, I need a sewing machine. That would work wonders for my sewing. 

So, while the finished product looks like a miserable, embarrassing failure, I know it's not, really. It broke me of my fear of sewing, it taught me I really can do this, and it set me on my way to accomplishing more useful and hopefully more aesthetically-pleasing projects. I was proud to look at my poor, warped potholder and know that I, the formerly sewing-challenged Meredith Overbeek did every single crooked stitch. With my bare hands. Which, being bare, fared as you might expect. 

Thanks for all your help and advice...and for not laughing at me when I told you I wanted to learn to quilt :) Now, on to bigger and better things, right? Well, not exactly, not yet. I think I’ll try to make this potholder again and see if I can’t improve on things a bit. That and the prospect of tackling anything larger without the aid of a machine scares me.

Here she is: I think I'll call her Wonky. And no, I'm not showing you the back so don't bother asking. 

Us vs. The Rest of the World

Currently, in my office where I sit typing this, I could at any moment hear an Australian, South African, British or German accent. This must be one of the most multi-cultural work environments in which a simple Tennessee girl could possibly find herself, I’m thinking. If I go to the office next to this one, I could talk to a Namibian. If I go downstairs, I could meet with an Irishman, a Korean or a Zambian. This place is a walking diversity ad :) 

Going international will open your eyes to more than just the ways and words of the cultures you meet; it’s actually liable to reintroduce you to your own culture. Since leaving America I’ve learned some things about Americans; some are things that are true, and others are the perceptions other cultures have about America. For instance...

Did you know that Americans are loud? I had no idea. Apparently it’s common knowledge to the rest of the world, but I’ve not often had people tell me I’m “loud.” I know some people are loud at football games or when stage acting, but just generally loud? It was news to me. 

Did you know that we are addicted to fast and junk food? You probably did. I knew these were common things in the States, but as it turns out we’ve earned a worldwide reputation for our ingestive habits. Check out this former post if you need more evidence. 

These are some of the American perceptions I’ve encountered. I don’t think they’re necessarily true, but true or not this is what other countries think of us. Now for a few things I’ve learned about myself (and most of my fellow compatriots, I dare say), just by being removed from America for an extended time...

We are absolutely addicted to really good customer service. I doubt you even think about it. If you go to a store, the attendants are to be extremely helpful, unrealistically knowledgeable, and paralyzed with fear of the power you as the customer hold over them for the few brief moments of your interaction. Here, in Africa, that’s just...not how it is. 

Turkey sandwiches aren’t nearly appreciated enough. 

American missionaries are hyper-blessed, just by being American. In Africa, the native missionaries struggle to raise support just to live, much less fund projects and ministries. 

We may be among the few who say “yogurt” instead of “yogg-urt.”

Almost all Americans are linguistically challenged. End of story. We aren’t forced to learn another language for anything outside of four high school semesters, and only some of us are required to do it again in college. Do you realize how silly this makes us look?

If you’ve never left America, you haven’t seen scary driving. 

You’re probably an American if you say “Where, where?!” when someone tells you to watch the robot. You’ve also just embarrassed yourself by not knowing the traffic light’s other name.

“Cheers” has several uses and should not be reserved only for New Year’s toasts.  

These are a few of the things I’ve found interesting over the past six months. Learning to relax and take things a little less seriously will go a long way in helping us uptight Americans make the most of our time abroad...says the preacher to herself  :) 

Now for a picture which has nothing to do with anything: 

Happy Friday :) 

The slightly beautiful beauty regimen: What a minimal make-up wearer puts on her face

I, like most women, have a make-up bag...this little Clinique bag that my mom gave me one spring when they do their special promotion thing. She usually keeps the make-up, but I’ve gotten a lot of little nice bags :) 

It’s not very big and it doesn’t have very much in it, and out of what is in it, there’s even less that I actually use. If I put mascara on, I’m sufficiently made up. I sometimes feel like being more painted, I guess, and for those moments when that fancy strikes I keep an eyeliner or two and some shadow on hand. But that fancy doesn’t strike often. 

However, I recently hit upon a few items that I enjoy using, and two of them are absolutely invisible! Which, I suppose, disqualifies them from being in the make-up category, but I put them on my face regularly anyhow. Here’s a rundown of what I now consider my essentials:

1. Olay Complete Care Day UV Cream, SPF 15

I have been far too lenient in my sunscreen application, I’m sorry to tell you. I love a good tan and have preferred to go out bare-faced rather than lathered up with SPF, but that’s all changing. I live in one of the sunniest places on earth, I think. The winters are sunny, the summers are sunny, and there’s a good chance that fall and spring will be sunny most of the time, too. I think my face has taken enough of a beating (or burning, in this case) over the years, and a few years in ZA may, if I’m not careful, earn me a new nickname: raisin cheeks. 

The most important thing in a day cream is, of course, the SPF (just read what the pros say about it). Regardless of where you live, if you’re waring a moisturizer that doesn’t have UV protection, you should think about chucking it. 

2. Neutrogena Ageless Intensives Deep Wrinkle Moisture, Night

If one calls what they wear during the sunlit hours a “day” cream, you can infer that they probably slather on something of a different formula at night. I used to just rub my excess hand lotion all over my face to take the dry, tight edge off, but now I’m using something that may be a bit more beneficial. Before anyone laughs at me I know I’m not wrinkly, not yet anyway. And no, I’m not obsessed with staying youthful forever. But, this cream contains a retinoid which is good for keeping things from getting too saggy, and it can help with the appearance of pores, which I find more interesting. You can’t, of course, make your pores disappear, but you can try to prevent them from getting elongated. I look at this as my elasticity booster...I use it in the hopes of keeping my face and pores from sagging down to my shoulders. 

The reason you look for a retinol in your night cream is because it’s not advisable to wear a product containing retinol in the sun. The cream can, actually, dry out your face so some recommend wearing it every other night. This particular product isn’t as strong as a prescription product would be, though, so it hasn’t aggravated my face too much. If I feel like I need a break, I just wear my day cream to bed.

3. Garnier Skin Naturals BB Cream Miracle Skin Perfector

It’s been a long time since my foundation-wearing days. I had some as a teenager that I wore until...I guess 18? I got out of the habit. I didn’t have horrible acne and I wasn’t good at blending. I think the contrast between my face and neck was a little strong  sometimes, and who honestly wants to rub something that feels like mud into your face? 

I read about BB creams just last week and decided to give them a try. They’re light on your face and work like a tinted moisturizer. This one also contains SPF (and hey, I’m all about SPF!). This is a product that started in Germany, gained popularity in Asia, and has only been marketed in the USA for the past couple of years. I highly recommend this one! BB stands for blemish balm, or beauty balm, and works like a silky charm. It’s good if you don’t want a deep cover up, like a traditional foundation would be. I put it on and just feel a little more even, just slightly more polished. I seriously only wear a tiny bit, I can’t even give you a good measurement. I just put a pearl-sized amount on my index finer, dot it around strategically (focusing on my pore areas), and blend it over my face. I ask Todd to tell me if my face looks orange or if there’s an obvious difference between my neck and face, to which he has always answered “no.” 

I think some people may apply a loose powder over their BB cream, but I’ve not found it to be too glossy without. And plus, having to apply a powder would just be too involved for me ;) 

4. Cover Girl LashBlast Mascara

This is my old standby, my absolute favorite mascara for many years now. Mascara has always been my favorite make-up, and is most often the only element I take the time to apply. 

Mascara commercials are ridiculous, in case you haven’t noticed, and they all promise the most stop-stare lashes you or Minnie Mouse could ever imagine. This one, though, does not make hollow promises, not in my experience. This mascara, which I wear in blackbrown, coats, elongates, and separates to perfection. I don’t plan to ever switch, provided they don’t change their formula...I used to be a Revlon Fabulash follower, but they changed to a formula that flaked and crumbled while on my lashes. They forced my hand something like six years ago and after finding this bright orange tube, I never looked back. 

Oh, just to warn you, I don't advise going waterproof with this one; good luck getting it off if you do. 

So, there you have it; my staples. I should also add chap stick to the list (I’m lost without my chap stick). As you can see, it's not a flashy or particularly interesting regimen. Maybe I've gotten too old and too married to care ;)

Life Escape

Our group pulled up to the house, a small, one-story, tin-roof affair in the middle of the city. It and the few other houses like it were dwarfed by the surrounding buildings. We walked through the front gate and towards the porch where four or five men were playing cards. They smiled and greeted us, shaking some of our hands as we entered the house they camped in front of like guards. 

They are the pimps. 

The front and back doors made a tunnel through the center of the house. We walked down the dim, creaking corridor with rooms on either side of us, making our way to the light at the other end. When we emerged we were in a back yard of dust and garbage where we met a circle of people sitting on tin cans and old speakers.

They are the prostitutes.

The house has a number of rooms and a number of prostitutes; the latter rent the former and work for the pimps we met on the front porch. We are welcome to visit them here at the house during the day. The pimps would probably not be as friendly were we to try to talk to the ladies when they were “working” the streets at night.

The women were talking and laughing together like any large family would do. One held a baby on her lap; another was attaching false eyelashes on her friend; one was obviously pregnant. They offered us their seats and our group was so defined. Those who weren’t interested in talking or listening moved to another corner of the yard. Those who wanted to be with us stayed, still talking and laughing, but when the message was given and scripture was read, many of them fell silent. 

It was a long message. The lady who offered it read scripture from her phone and made comments to the women in between. The verses covered topics from the Psalms like lifting our eyes to the hills from where our help comes, and from Acts where we are told to repent, that times of refreshing may come. 

The speaker didn’t hold back. She had spoken to these ladies before and she had no problem telling them like it is; their lifestyle is wrong and they need to get out. Another woman with the speaker asked the individuals if they wanted to leave this life. They answered yes. She asked them what they had done to get out. They admitted they had done nothing. 

She asked the women what they had wanted to be when they were little. One lady wanted to be a social worker, another a make-up artist; one wanted to speak to youth. They may have forgotten to pursue their dreams, but they hadn’t forgotten what they were.

One women asked what she could do. She wanted to leave this life, but how does she do it? She’s in ruins, ravaged by drugs and hard living. She wants better for herself and her children. She’s finished with this.

A life ruled by sin, indulgence and fear isn’t easy to leave. None of them want to be here, they’ve said so themselves, yet here they sit. They have families, some have children, but they just can’t walk away. The money is too good, the drugs are too addictive. The women who minister here tell them they can't do it in their own strength, that only God can help them turn their backs on this life. 

He is the Rescuer.

The lyrics to the song You Alone Can Rescue by Matt Redman are so perfect for these confused and deceived women. They can’t save themselves and their chains are too strong for them to break. Some may try to unbind them link by link, but what they need is Someone to come crashing through their bedroom door, yank the chain from the wall, pick them up, and carry them out. 

Who, oh Lord, could save themselves,

Their own soul could heal?

Our shame was deeper than the sea

Your grace is deeper still

You alone can rescue, You alone can save

You alone can lift us from the grave

You came down to find us, led us out of death

To You alone belongs the highest praise

You, oh Lord, have made a way

The great divide You heal

For when our hearts were far away

Your love went further still

Yes, your love goes further still

You alone can rescue, You alone can save

You alone can lift us from the grave

You came down to find us, led us out of death

To You alone belongs the highest praise

Do People Live Here?

“Do you know Jesus Loves Me?” *Manasiko asked me as I pushed her in the tire converted into a swing with a back and handles. 

“Yes, I know it.”

“Sing it.”

I sang through the song and she turned in the swing to watch me. It’s probably a song they sing often at the center in Mamelodi where children come for the after school program. 

“Now it’s your turn. You have to sing me a song,” I said.

“What song?”

“Any song you know. Sing me a song in Zulu,” I offered, hoping that an appeal to hear her mother tongue would result in a very African tune, complete with harmonies and clapping. 

She thought a moment before settling on a song. I listened attentively and she sang in a lovely voice I’ve found to be so common among Africans. I don’t know if I’ve met one that can’t sing, and most will oblige when asked. There’s not the same bashful refusal one usually meets in America. 

When she’d finished the cheerful little song I asked for the translation.

“It means ‘Every morning the men go to work, but my man is busy drinking alcohol. There’s no money for the children to buy food,” she said.

Not the answer I was expecting.

“That’s a very sad song!”

“Oh, you wanted a nice one?” Upon clarifying what I had in mind, she sang part of another song, one that I had heard before, which translated means hold on to Jesus. That was more like it. 

The after school program runs from Monday to Thursday and each day follows the same organized agenda. The children arrive at about 2:00pm and are fed a big lunch. There were only about 25 children present, and the leaders know nearly all of them by name. They’re regulars. They’re expected. After lunch, a crate full of toothbrushes with sanitary caps and drinking cups are brought out and each child finds the one with his or her name on it. The children appointed group leaders are responsible for wiping their tables down after lunch, a burdensome task considering that a game of soccer started up before all the children were done eating. It’s a pretty big temptation. 

At the table I joined, one of the girls took the hard boiled egg from a boy’s plate; he wasn’t sitting at the table at the moment. I eyed her with a sneaking grin, assuming she couldn’t really have been stealing it. Surely there was an agreement. 

“Does he not like eggs?” I asked innocently.

The girl shrugged as she began peeling the shell off. “He wants to go play soccer and we told him that if he eats an egg and plays soccer, he will fart.”

At this, we both laughed.  It must have been a convincing argument, as the boy didn’t seem sad to part with the egg, especially since it got him to the soccer field more quickly. 

After class time and devotions comes snack time which consisted of fruit, chocolate cake, and a “healthy” milkshake (made of nasty things like...like...vitamins! The kids at my table raced to see who could chug their nutrition fastest, getting it out of the way), and after snack it’s time to go home. Normally the kids are dropped off in groups in strategic locations, but on Thursdays each child is sent home with a big bag of food and dropped off individually. Most kids left in the center’s bus and 8 or 10 kids along with their bags of food climbed in the back of a truck and I sat with the driver in the front. 

I was in for a bumpy ride...and I mean that as literally as I can. You’ve probably never seen potholes like these.

I have never been anywhere quite like the neighborhoods of Mamelodi. We wound our way on trails through sprawling townships where row after row of little tin shacks served as homes for what must be thousands of people. There were people sitting around fires, talking along the side of the road, getting their hair done at one of the many tiny hair salons, or selling things like chips or vegetables in places that could hardly be considered shops. There were children singing and dancing, carrying smaller siblings, and pushing wheelbarrows loaded with what must have been close to 200 pounds of water. 

This isn’t the first time I’ve been around poverty, but it may well be the first time I’ve been around poverty to this extent and degree. There were so many shacks, so many people. It wasn’t the occasional run-down house; it was a never-ending, piled-up, dirty, crowded scene, and each shack represented a family who called it home. I was struck by the thought that the children we were dropping off, wearing their little school uniforms, lived here. This wasn’t where they came for a week or two to “do ministry,” or “experience” things. They lived here. I thought about one of the little girls we dropped off, *Aranti. I watched her mother come out of an incredibly small tin shack and the only thing I could think was how cold and miserable it must be to sleep there. 

Not all the children lived in tin shacks. Eventually we made it out of the townships and were in a place you could actually call a neighborhood again. It was still poor, but it looked more like places you could imagine someone (though not yourself) living in. We dropped Manasiko off at a house like this, and were told that her grandmother had passed away earlier that morning. She had custody of Manasiko and the man who told us the news (perhaps he was an uncle or family friend) wasn’t sure what would happen. 

They say that seeing real poverty will make you realize how rich you are, and it’s true; I am rich. How can my life be so different from the lives of the people I saw in Mamelodi, less than 30 minutes from my luxurious flat? I thought about my blessings as I walked upstairs to my fully-furnished bedroom—I used to call it spartan—where I knew I could sleep in comfort in a world far removed from the children I’d pushed on the swings...could it have only been a few hours ago?

*Indicates a change in name

On the Other Side

I don’t know when my senses have been so alert. 

We pulled out of the Link’s parking lot where our car has been stored for the past week, while we waited to get insurance on it. It’s not required to have insurance on your car in South Africa, oddly enough. Just the same, the way driving goes here, we waited the week before finally taking the car home. 

We swing into the right turn lane. No problem. Everything’s still going as planned...meaning we’re still alive and in a functioning vehicle. Just act natural, Meredith. It’s perfectly normal to be sitting on the left-hand side of the vehicle and not have a steering wheel in front of you. Look; everyone’s doing it. 

We approach our turn at the light and wait for the friendly little green arrow indicating that it’s our turn. But I have experience at this light. Todd and I have been passengers for a couple of weeks by this point, and this particular right turn is no joke. The reason being is that driving in Africa is more of an art than a science. 

When the coast appears to be clear and light still says we can go for it, Todd lurches out into the intersection and once again I’m swinging headlong into the left lane. We made it! Our first major turn together. We may live to tell this story yet. 

We are obviously not the only ones on the road in the city of Pretoria. We have plenty of company. The vehicles that strike the most fear in my heart are the taxis. I do not call them taxi cabs, because there is nothing cab-like about them. They are large, white vans with a yellow stripe down the middle on each side. They roam all over the roadways, seeking whom they may devour, and generally doing as they please. You can hear them honking for no particular reason, turning in a non-turning lane, and running red lights. Again, driving is not a science here. You see taxis everywhere, sometimes parked along the side of the road (or maybe not) as their victims board to be flown to their next destination. 

You also know you’re not alone by simply glancing down the sidewalks, or the side of the road, whatever’s handy. I know I’ve been appointed co-pilot when Todd says to me, “You’ll have to help me watch for pedestrians.” That may be the first time I’ve been asked to monitor for the presence of a person or persons in our path, but the place is buzzing with them. I’m worried one will jump out in front of us; it’s a good thing those brakes are sensitive. 

I catch myself sucking in air through my teeth and trying to brake by bracing myself against the dash; I think my mom experienced similar symptoms when I was learning to drive, actually...it’s probably not helping Todd’s confidence any, but I just haven’t learned to take it in silence yet. 

It’s always nice to be turning off the roads and into the driveway or parking lot. But its especially nice to return to the driveway or parking lot later and find the car still there waiting for us. Car theft is a major industry here, so It’s never a guarantee that it won’t be stolen.

But really, so far, so good. God’s kept us safe and helped Todd relearn to drive with very few difficulties. So what if the gear shift is on the other side now? At least the clutch hasn’t changed feet. 

Here it is...our 2006 Citroen. We were so blessed. God provided this car for us almost as soon as we started looking, and at a really great price! 

And no, it doesn't have a name. 

'Tis the Night Before Departure

‘Tis the night before departure, and all ‘round the room,

The things taking place are all hitting too soon. 

The fridge is near empty, the bedroom so bare;

The floors are too tidy (like we really do care). 

Copies of passports, Photo ID,

All tucked away as things we could need.

My old purple backpack (which has served me so long)

Well, suffice it to say, may the stitches be strong! 

It’s full near to bursting, but that’s nothing new;

Our giant black duffels, yikes...I don’t envy you. 

And speaking of bursting, while we’re on such a spiel, 

Our bellies have stretched to fit in our “last meals.” 

The laundry, I wish I could call it all clean,

But when packing like we are, not in my best dream.

My shirt will smell strongly of what I ate today,

And Todd’s dirty socks...we just threw those away. 

But all this will fade in a few hours time, 

As other thoughts start to fill up my mind. 

Like what life will be like in our new foreign town,

And how fast babies grow up when you aren’t around. 

Does driving on the left really mess with your head?

And will Christmas in summer be a joy or a dread?

Will money conversions come quickly or slow, 

And will saying “Goodbye” hurt more than I know?

I will say it, I will, though I’m still not sure how. 

I’m just trusting the Lord for that later, not now. 

He knows all our days, though I don’t have a clue,

He’s ordained them from old, they’re none of them new. 

And it is a comfort to have understood, 

That for those who love him, he does all for their good.

-Meredith Overbeek

Signs

Africa...doesn't that word cause a little flicker of excitement? Does it conjure images of giraffes and elephants  traversing a dusty, weedy sahara? Do you see little shacks and big snakes? How do you feel about traditional tribal garb?

Hmm. That's interesting. The first question is easy for me to answer...yes, thinking of Africa is terribly exciting, in a clueless, curious sort of way. I've never been and really don't know what to expect upon my arrival there next year, Lord willing. I do know that Todd and I will be living in a massive, modern (to an extent) city and are unlikely to witness much in the way of wildlife or native apparel.

I'm sure there will be plenty for me to write about after Todd and I find ourselves in our new home across the globe. Life will certainly be much different in many ways then, but it's actually much different in many ways now. I've discovered over the past 10 months that missionaries take on a "missionary" lifestyle to a degree before they ever depart for the field. Allow me to paint a verbal picture...

Last fall Todd's parents invited us to move into their (mostly finished) basement in an attempt to help us save the money we were paying in rent. We accepted. I will tell you, though, that even now when someone asks where we're living, it's kind of embarrassing to say "in my in-law's basement...but they invited us!" That last part...I make sure I point that out. It never occurred to us to ask to be moochers, but it would seem that we have no problem becoming moochers when the option is made available. :) In all seriousness, it has been an incredible blessing and we are so grateful for the generosity we've been and are being shown. This is hospitality at its finest.

So that would be the first indication that we are gearing up for the mission field...we don't have a home of our own. Within that distintive we find a subclass of others:

While we are not "living out of a suitcase," we are kind of living out of a microwave. Our lovely basement apartment did not come with a kitchen, but we do have our fridge plugged in and our microwave set up on a plastic table. When I need a stove or oven, I borrow the one upstairs. It makes for a lot of back and forth sometimes, but I just think of all the extra calories I burn going up and down the stairs to make soup. Same goes for the washer and dryer situation; we just borrow Todd's parents'.

That's the second and maybe most pervasive distinctive; we borrow. The following item in the description of missionary living might explain part of why borrowing is such an important characteristic.

Before Todd and I moved out of our rental house we went through it with a huge garbage can. We would find an object, evaluate it, and decide whether or not it was something we would take to Africa. Whatever didn't make the cut got chucked. It sounds easy and it was actually an incredibly...liberating, I suppose, experience. It felt good to be able to rid our rooms of the junk we'd been accumulating. As we conducted this purge, we would, at times, come across something that gave us pause, something we thought was valuable to us either practically or sentimentally. But when these moments of weakness arose, the one of us who could be objective (as it was not our object in question) would ask the other, "are you going to take that to Africa?"

Being faced with the knowledge that there isn't much we could take with us has helped us keep our "stuff" in perspetive. That's the third distinctive; missionaries can't hold on to stuff. Not all stuff, anyway. I expect another purge will be in order when we begin packing in a couple months. Each of us may take only two suitcases plus a carry-on, and our co-workers in Africa have suggested we bring primarily clothing. Oh, there are a few things we'll still take with us; I plan to tuck my cookbooks and a couple of treasured kitchen-ish things into my suitcase, and I will of course need my camera! These, among other small items will probably make the trek with us but for the most part, I will just have to learn to let go of stuff.

The last distinctive I'll offer is hard. The logical outcomes work their way into my conversation sometimes, but I don't know if it's really sunk in completely. It's just this: missionaries leave. And not only do they leave physically, they need to leave mentally, as well. This doesn't mean they don't regularly talk with family and friends or think of the place they grew up. But it does mean that they must make their new home home. Someone who is constantly pining for what they've left behind can't really be a part of where they are now.

It's so important that we plant ourselves in our new life, and try not to be overwhelmed with what we're missing...first steps, 4-year-old birthday parties, college graduations, engagements, births.Ok, so I've thought about it. I'm sure many exciting things will happen without me here to see them, so it will be important that I remember that obedience and faithfulness are what is required of me. I'll just have to celebrate from afar and not let the distance be a cause of depression. I know, I know...easier said than done, right? Well, I can trust that the Lord, who is my Lord, will supply all my needs, and will sustain me during the times when I get so homesick it's all I can do not to get on a plane.

I have a lot to learn. I pray He will prepare me for what He's called me to do.

Small Town Grandma

I was the kid who associated visiting Grandma with long, nauseating van rides and assorted cookie wafers, which my sisters and I affectionately called pink, yellow and browns. :) Grandma lives in the tiny no-consequence town of Jerseyville, Illinois which I know and love almost as well as my own not-as-tiny town, Kingsport. A couple of times each year we'd drag ourselves out of bed at whatever unseemly hour of the morning my mom had chosen (and gotten my dad to agree to), visit the bathroom, brush our teeth, and plop drowsily in the van. Ugh. But who am I kidding; the anticipation of seeing our Grandma made the early morning misery bearable.

We'd arrive anywhere between eleven and twelve hours later, depending on how many stops we'd had to make and how quickly we'd managed to rush dad through them. He didn't seem to foster the same sense of urgency we girls did, and why on earth did he insist on drinking coffee?! But we always got there, eventually, and then the good times began...

Jerseyville was where we all got our bike ridin' on! Our neck of Tennessee is far to hilly to afford the casual bike ride, but Jerseyville is as flat as...well, as one would expect the midwest to be, I suppose. We'd ride around the little neighborhoods, through one of the the cemeteries, past massive fields with row upon row of corn, and up and down State Street, the "main street" of that great metropolis. We could ride to the City Park, the library, and Dairy Queen in, oh, 15 minutes, and--get this--we could do it all by ourselves! Perks of a small town.

The week's menu was, and still is, a topic of great interest and importance. Not long after a trip date is established we call in our orders and Grandma Marcella, the once upon a time waitress, takes them all down mentally and doesn't miss a single detail. There is usually vegetable soup (pretty much the only thing she makes that I don't like, though it is famous among the family), ham and beans (my favorite), mashed potatoes, and more desserts than one tribe of aunts, uncles, and first and second cousins could reasonably consume in a month. We're all quite content, to say the least.

One of the special things we all looked forward too when we were little was getting to sleep in Grandma's bed. There are three of us girls and I think we usually stayed six nights, enough for each of us to get two turns. The schedule was strategic, with the last night being the most highly coveted. She'd tell us stories about life when she younger, and if I asked her, she'd tell me how she made certain recipes. Then to fall asleep before she did, as snoring would inevitably ensue. Should it get just too loud to endure, we were allowed to nudge her and tell her to roll on to her side. I still don't think I understand why that made any difference.

One thing Grandma and I share is our love of fried catfish. Mmm-mmm...let me just tell you, I don't advocate fried foods and truthfully, I eat them but rarely. Usually I end up picking the coating off fried chicken and shrimp, but fried catfish...just don't knock it til you try it! Sometimes we'd drive half an hour or so to Kampsville Inn, cross the ferry, and order platters of the stuff. Other times we'd go (still do, actually) to White Spot, a little diner there in Jerseyville, and order catfish sandwiches. They give you more tenders than you can eat, ensuring leftovers that Grandma reheats in the oven or in a skillet later. While I am sure fried catfish is not a delicacy unique to the southern Illinois region, it's something I eat almost exclusively there. A fish sandwich anywhere else just isn't the same, in my experience. I keep trying them to no avail. They just aren't as good.

The last morning of the trip was always sad. I'd fight back tears as I hugged Grandma goodbye, and watch her waive from the storm door as we drove away in the dark morning hours. It was always such a long time until we'd be back "home," as she calls it. It's funny how some people will refer to a place as your home when you've never even lived there. It does feel kind of like a home, of a sort.

I visited Jerseyville in July and it is still the same wonderful old place it's always been. Grandma still cooks like crazy even when there's no one to feed. We still get fried catfish and it still tastes wonderful. I'm happy to tell you that she no longer has to buy me pink yellow and browns; I've acquired a taste for actual desserts and want to share one with you here. I called Grandma last year and asked her for this recipe which she recited from memory. Forget anything hand-written. I've never known her to read a recipe in her life (well, what little I've known of it), and one day we will all probably wish she'd kept a very detailed collection. This is the dessert I almost don't have to request anymore; she knows it's just what I want when I finally get to her house.

Jell-O Cake

1 big packet strawberry-banana Jell-O

3/4 of a large angel food cake, more or less depending on preference

2-3 bananas (not overly ripe)

1 container Cool Whip

Pecans

Tear the angel food cake into small-ish pieces and fill a 9" x 13" glass baking dish. Make Jell-O according to instructions, and let chill for a little while in the fridge, maybe an hour. You don't want it to solidify at all. Slice the bananas into thin discs and sprinkle among the cake pieces. Pour the chilled Jell-O over the cake, and store in fridge until solid (several hours). Cover with Cool Whip and then sprinkle with pecans. Take one bite of this simple, refreshing goodness and think of Grandma.

Now that is a delicious summertime dessert! But why save it for summer? It's delicious all year long. 

This dear old lady will celebrate her 87th birthday in five days, Lord willing. She's a cancer survivor by the grace of God, chef extrordinaire, and Grandma of 12...not to mention great-Grandma to 15, and great-great-Grandma to 1! Though she'll probably never read this as I don't think she's ever used a computer, I send her my love and prayers. 

Happy birthday Grandma! 

The Year of the Wedding

It is a distinct possibility that 2012 will go down as the year of the most weddings ever officiated. It’s only the first day of June (historically a very popular month to say “I do,” I might add) and I can count several weddings I’ve attended. Before the summer ends, I will have been in two weddings and photographed a third. I have a dish on my end table in the living room that is filled with wedding-ish invites, ranging from the actual blessed event to showers and bridal luncheons. I access Facebook with anticipation, wondering whose status has changed today from “In a Relationship” to “Engaged”. 

My bank account has seen the effects of all this as well. I have a standard price range for wedding gifts and, if I’m being honest, I’d probably better go ahead and confess that I have a standard gift as well: Target giftcard. So I don’t like printing registries or finding the “18-piece Antebellum Sterling Silver Service Utensil Collection,” which is invariably impossible to locate. Judge me.

Beyond the actual wedding gift, there’s the “girly” shower git to buy as well, if you’re a friend of the bride, and trust me, the frills and the lace do not often run cheap. You’ll breath much easier when you darken the doors of the delicates provider of your choice if you can rope a pal into going in with you.  

Your financial trouble may end there...if you’re not in the wedding, that is. If you are, I’m sorry. I’m a bridesmaid twice this year, and I must say that the ladies getting married (congrats Jordan and Liv!) did an excellent job of finding their bridesmaids really affordable (I’m trying to keep it chic by avoiding the word “cheap”...but it would apply) dresses. I’m talking sticker price of  under $30. I have great friends. In addition to this, they both--unbeknownst to each other--settled on the same color shoe so I can kill two wedding-white love birds with one Vera Wang size 8 1/2 nude color stone. But you should probably not dwell too long on my good fortune...this isn’t really the norm. 

Money aside, there’s the actual day of the wedding to consider...and days before the wedding, in some cases. Our first wedding of the year was a big one. My husband's best friend from school got married, and Todd was the best man...and cake designer/decorator. He did this incredibly brilliant (like himself) bronze cake, with a huge cake ball decorated like the Dailey Planet and a motorized Superman actually flying around it! The thing was sharp, no doubt about it, but the creative juices required to assemble it had leaked out all over my living room floor. I'm not sure how the bride and groom's houses faired, but my place definitely looked like a ransacked wedding central.

I was just thinking this week how much of a person’s day they are willing--nay, obligated--to surrender to the social event that is the wedding. Especially if they are in the actual ceremony. For instance, I’ll arrive at the wedding I’m in next week at 10:00 am, and will probably leave, exhausted, at about 5:00 pm. That’s almost an entire work day for most of the country. Add on the three or so hours I’ll spend at the rehearsal the night before, and I’m making overtime. 

But when it’s all over, the screams and maniacal waving of the be-ringed left hand, the shower invitations and white wrapping paper (because who wraps a bridal shower gift in circus tent stripe-color paper because they didn't have anything else remotely appropriate...moving on...), the choice of music and cake flavor, the new dresses and incredible achy feet at the end of the day, everyone thinks back at how much fun the last few months have been. It’s been great to see so many people I know prepare to tie the knot with their beloved this year.

 I’ve heard this is just my time in life, that it won’t always be like this. I’m “at the age” of weddings. In a couple of years, I’ll be “at the age” of babies, and with the kind of action going down this year, that age will probably be the second Baby Boom. Regardless of the “age” I find myself in at any given point, though, I hope I can come out the other end of it saying what a good time it’s been... 

I do love a good wedding. :) 

This was taken at a wedding I photographed last month. Congrats Coupers! 

Things Marriage has Taught Me

In a few days I will celebrate my anniversary, the first of what I hope to be many. It has been a great year. I can remember the amazement I felt at the prospect of living with my best friend, all the time. I am pleased to report that we are still the very best (if not even better-best) friends. Before marriage, I would have told you that I thought we did pretty much everything together. Post-marriage, I would tell you I know we do.

Looking back over the past year (so it’s not that far back…) I have definitely learned some valuable lessons, lessons that require a marriage license and all weeks subsequent to the honeymoon.

While I do not presume to have attained sagely-wife status, I thought it might be entertaining for those of you who have to see just what I learned. I wish now I would have kept a detailed journal, as I am sure to leave out something important…

These insights are in no particular order. There is no chronological or level-of-importance scheme. Just my thoughts, such as they are.

Enjoy.

Things Marriage Has Taught Me

1. Don’t wash the towels with your 400-thread count sheets. You’ll probably never have any that nice again and they are at their nicest when they don’t have all the little fuzz-balls.

2. Chicken will not thaw in the freezer, and needs more than 4 hours to thaw in the fridge. Better set your meat out well in advance if you want to eat dinner.

3. Men are on one obsessive track at all times and nothing you say/suggest/manipulate will cause them to deviate from that track. Let them finish what they’re doing on their terms because they won’t do two things at once.

4. Peaceful cohabitation between humans and mice will never be achieved. Civil cohabitation is your only alternative, practiced as follows: If the mice don’t show themselves or their droppings in your cabinets, they may keep their lives.

5. A 39 degrees bathroom at 6 a.m. will not kill you, but it will tread dangerously close.

6. The directions might say that margarine is an acceptable substitute, but don’t buy it. It’s called “butter" cream icing for a reason.

7. Opening your third set of silverware is not the answer to having more silverware. You’ll find that washing the dirty silverware will replenish your supply quite well.

8. Paper plates make Friday night pizza taste better.

9. Produce is expensive. Better skip the veggies and save the money, I always say.

10. You will get used to sharing pretty much everything, but he will probably prefer to not have to use your cherry blossom scented shampoo or tropical fruit shaving cream. Use the money you saved not buying vegetables to get him some of his own toiletries.

11. Boys do not get as much of their hair on the bathroom floor, but they will get their whiskers into every single cranny on the bathroom sink.

12. Nobody is making you use your manners anymore, but your husband married a lady and he wants to keep her that way. Be polite.

13. There is a very real possibility that your pre-wedding enthusiasm for strenuous and regular exercise will wane considerably.

14. The best part of camping is the food!

15. Your husband likes the smell of your perfume and hairspray, but mind your aim when applying. He doesn’t want to actually wear it.

16. You will never want to go grocery shopping so better to just pick a night to do the thing and stick to it. However, some of us have found that very sweet husbands will occasionally offer to do that chore for you.

17. Some men might never learn that the best time to hug you is not while applying mascara.

18. Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot novels make for excellent bedtime reading.

19. You will not have this much fun with anyone else.

The Magical Land of Barberitos

Once upon a time,

There was a beautiful burrito. It was sleek and fat, like a heifer. It was chocked with all kinds of good things to eat such as olives and black beans and onions and chicken and parsley and green peppers and, of course, cheese. It was simply bursting with all that fresh tasty goodness. It was very proud to be such a fine, desirable burrito. And that was saying a lot, the part about it being a fine burrito. You see, he lived in a magical place called BARBERITO'S.

Barberitos is taken from the Greek word baritu meaning "man, that is a wicked sweet burrito!" This was the place where beautiful burritos were created. They were popping up all the time. Some were a light orange color, and a little spicy. These burritos tended to be out going, if not a little light in the lima beans, and talked with a cheap Hispanic accent. Then there were green burritos that always carried organic bottles of water, and talked about saving the whales and liked to sing flowery songs accompanied soft guitar music. Then there were the white burritos. These were the happy-go-lucky burritos that enjoyed playing practical jokes and saying things like "your wrap!"

And our fine fat burrito was such a burrito. It was perfectly heated in the steamer. It was ordered to perfection. It was filled with the greatest precision, and lastly, it was rolled superbly by the greatest burrito boy in all the magical land of Barberitos, Todgidus Overbeekus, cheese captain extraordinaire! All the subjects in Barberitos envied this highly favored one, the only one, in fact, to have earned the illustrious title of cheese captain. You see, Todgidus was an advanced burrito roller, but his talent extended far beyond the front counter. Todgidus was also a wonderful public relations guy. He was always so friendly to the many tourists who visited Barberitos, and made friends with them.

Todgidus was also very good with numbers. He would often close the gates of the magical place at night, and count the governors' treasury contents, which pleased the governors of the land very much. The governors gave Todgidus many big responsibilities in the magical land, placing him above some of the other villagers who also aspired to be cheese captain. To top it all off, Todgidus was amazing with a paintbrush. He was pretty much the complete package in the land of Barberitos.

But Todgidus knew that he could not stay in that magical place forever. He longed for a land where people would break out in spontaneous song and dance, like an old musical. He wanted to wield his paintbrushes and colored pencils all the time, not just when the governors of Barberitos decided they needed an artistic touch added to something. No, Todgidus could not stay forever.
Our fine burrito realized that it would soon be in the hands of another villager. It was sad to see the cheese captain extraordinaire venture out into the wide world to find his fortune. But the fat, sleek burrito decided that it would endeavor to be the very finest, the very fattest, and the absolute sleekest burrito in the land forever, in honor of its cheese captain, Todgidus Overbeekus.

All the burritos gathered together on the sad day they had all been preparing for. They set aside their differences and forgave the orange burritos their sad attempt at connecting with their inner Mexican. The burritos composed the following poem and presented it to the young former-captain before he set out into the wide world, putting the magical land of Barberitos behind him. It read:

You are the finest burrito boy in the entire land,
And we are sure to miss your care, your gentle rolling hand.
For you only stuff us with the very best of all the fillings,
The others only reach in blindly, and their forceful cram is killing!
But we know you are quite talented and will be needed outside this place,
The world will be glad to have your skill, your perfect burrito grace.
So if you find yourself discouraged, or perhaps the wide world queer,
Just serve it up with salsa, 'cause that's how we roll in here!

So Todgidus, wiping a stray tear from his face, took his leave of the fine, fat burritos, and the finest, fattest burrito in particular. As he set out into the wide world to seek his fortune in life he looked back on the magical land of Barberitos, the sun setting behind it, he saw the fine, fat, sleek burrito watching him walk into the distance. And Todgidus knew that he would never forget the fat burrito or his time in the magical land of Barberitos.

Cheap Salvation

I made of point of never forgetting something I observed two years ago, and I think I still have most of it; unfortunately even the most arresting mind ramblings fade over time like everything else. Let me take you back to August of 2007.

I’m sitting at a student World View conference about two weeks before I begin my official college career. I’m in a fevered frenzy of pen scratches and underlines, trying to capture everything the speaker says; it’s all gold and may one day be incredibly applicable, of course.

In a moment of rest for my clamped fist and brain, I notice the boy sitting next to me with Bible closed and balancing on his lap. This would be ordinary, only I’m not used to seeing Bibles with a proof of purchase and retail price plastered on the back. This particular copy of God’s inerrant, infallible word cost a mere $2.99, I believe, a real bargain of a buy.

$2.99. That was it. This wasn’t a Christian bookstore Bible; it wasn’t even a Gideon Bible. It was an honest to goodness cheap Bible, if such a thing can exist without being oxymoronic. I could just see it on the Dollar General shelf, haphazardly tossed in among Sudoku games and jumbo crossword puzzles, just south of the cotton candy romances and east of the condensed Disney stories. There, tucked away like any other thick and daunting book, you can find your very own paperback KJV.

At the time, I was shocked; God’s word, His Spirit-inspired, holy, living-and-active word is worth far more than three bucks! It’s worth my life!

Well yes. It is that. But I was missing the point when I put a price on it, or rather, felt like there should be a greater price on it. Had I dared to touch that Bible (I was suffering an acute attack of Bible racism at the time) and opened it to John 20:31, I would have found that it said, “These are written that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name.”

Odd. That’s what it said in my state of the art, Christian bookstore Bible.

The point is this: I could go buy a $60 study Bible with all the bells and whistles, but at its core it would be no different. The treasure whose value I was trying to quantify couldn’t be quantified. I was being an uppity snob about the Bible, of all things. I was looking at it as a thing, a gem, and wanting it to have the price tag of a gem attached to it.

The treasure found in the Bible is great, far greater than I remember most days, but it is also free to us, thanks to a sacrifice (also unquantifiable). The last thing Christians are entitled to do is make this treasure inaccessible to the “everyman” by stuffing it full of extras and binding it in every color of the religious rainbow. Christ came to penetrate hearts and transform lives, and while the affluent believers my fail to remember it, this includes the underprivileged. They ought to be handed this treasure, not forced to dig deep into their pockets because well-meaning Christians have marketed their Bible.

I am now convinced that Dollar General shelves are where the Bible is supposed to be, and that $2.99 is not too small a price. Leather bounds, map indexes, and gold lettering on our Bible covers have yet to make the words of Jesus more powerful. If the story of our salvation is going to be sold, let it be cheap.