Sinn got a rather nasty electrical shock. Sometimes I forget that I'm in a third-world country. Listening to her, I know that God will put upon my heart whatever he wants me to say. To make a long and difficult story short, in the nick of time, Stina's uncle have her money and she and Enoch were able to get married, at least in the `traditional way.’ It's hard to explain, but I think that this was Augustina's very own miracle, not merely her testimony. She comes from a very poor family, and there wasn't a way to pay for the marriage that she and her fiancé Enoch desired, almost a dowry situation. Just talk about what God has done for you.” She proceeded to tell me her personal testimony. I confided this to Augustina, and she stopped working, took my hands, looked me straight in the eyes, and said, "Don't be afraid. Every person on the mission team is supposed to lead devotion at either the church or the hospital for the most part, people give their testimonies. She is one of the most entirely lovely people I've ever met. Have I mentioned Augustina yet? No? Perhaps it's because trying to pen what she's like is like trying to describe the color yellow to a blind man. Yellowish, orange-ish, reddish-brown stains garishly stared up at me, especially from where the head, stomach, and chest should be. ![]() At first I wondered why there were two sheets on the body, and upon doing a double take, I discovered that the sheet underneath was horribly bloodstained. As they were struggling to shove the corpse in, the white sheet slipped off, revealing another white sheet underneath. At one point, they had a taxi there, but the body couldn't fit in the backseat. I mean we're talking " toes-sticking-out-white-sheet-covered-on-a-metal-gurney-dead"! They let the woman's body sit outside on the stretcher for two hours while the family looked for a van, truck, or taxi, so that the body could be taken to the mortuary. I mean yeah, everyone has seen them at funerals, but somehow this felt different. ![]() The beautiful people in Accra speak quickly and with fervor, switching from English to Twi to Ga, weaving their rich voices into a hum as their white teeth flash in their rich, smooth ebony skin. From akwaaba: “Welcome to Ghana,” I found myself falling in love with my new adventure in listening to the Ghanaians speak back and forth amongst each other, I am overwhelmed. He put it in my hair, so here I sit now with my fake flower, its synthetic petals seductively peeking from behind my ear, as if I'm an heiress in an old movie, stranded in a tropical paradise, in another world. This morning when the team was sorting donations, Casey found a white silk flower in one of the boxes. Being here, in the Mission House, is that surreal. Being in Ghana, and all that it's been so far, especially now as I muse, I feel like I'm in a dream sequence. As I sit in a wicker hanging hammock in the shade of a lim tree, its waxy leaves sashay lustrously in the cool breeze that blows over the ports in Accra, with its modest fishing boats and its sleepy complacency. So exotic, so breathtaking, yet its beauty comes at a bittersweet price.
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