Guinea worms are insidious parasites.  Their larvae are taken into the body through dirty water and migrate to the muscles of the legs.  They grow into long thin ribbons and they take a long to eat their way completely out.  Pulling them out before they have completed their own escape results in infection and sometimes gangrene.  So the victims roll them up on sticks rather than let them hang making them look like tiny tourniquets.  Most of the children had several of them.

Before we started work on the broken pump we cleared away the scorpions. Then, several of the young men took spears and took up position between the crocodiles and us.  I doubt we were in any danger being so far away, but I was glad they were there.  As we worked, one of the villagers told me that his son was bitten by a cobra the day before and died.

Snakes, crocs and worms weren’t their only problems, though.  The young children who came out to watch us all suffered from Kwashiorkor.  Last week, I was told, a woman died when her uterus burst as she started her second trimester of pregnancy—there was not enough protein in her diet to keep herself healthy.  As I remember, the infant mortality rate for Ghana in 1984 was one in three.

There was one small boy there that seemed to epitomize it all.  He sat in the shade of a mango tree while files that buzzed around him like a storm made of black snowflakes.  His belly, swollen with fluid, protruded past his knees and about ten sticks with glistening white threads wrapped around them marred his legs.

When we finished I felt tired and depressed.  That village was the last stop of four I had made that day.  But, I had heard those stories and witnessed those scenes many times during my stay in Africa.  Even so, it was hard to get used to.   As I rode my 125 CC motorcycle, I kept thinking about that little boy.

I was there because of children like him.  One development worker among many I came to Ghana to help in whatever way I could.  But, after working for a few years, I realized that we really didn’t do much good.  Those pumps we brought in weren’t designed for an environment as intense as Africa and they were often broken.  The parts weren’t made in Africa so the project wasn’t sustainable after the development workers left; we were making them dependent on foreign aid.  During my stay I had learned that the only real help I could give was help that could sustain after I left; self help.  Many of the diseases could have been prevented if they boiled their water and, as for malnutrition, most of that could be taken care of by better management and usage of their livestock.

Anyway, I wasn’t paying attention and must have taken a wrong turn.

I found myself riding through a teak forest with the road rising steadily.  The tall straight trees blocked out the view of everything.   So when I got to the top of the hill and the forest ended the view I beheld shocked me.  Breaking hard, I locked my wheels and skidding sideways, ski style, and stopped.

My first impression was that I was looking at a three dimensional picture painted by God himself.  A plain of seemingly infinite size in three directions spread out before me. There were no cities or factories spewing plumes of steam or smoke, no cars throwing up noise or dust, no bridges, no factories nothing glinted– no steal or glass. The road narrowed into a thin brown thread and vanished about half way between the horizon and me.  I saw a few villages, the round, mud huts with their thatched roofs looked more like stylized mushrooms than houses.  No sign of farming did I see, no quilt effect that is so common in the U.S.

I saw no planes in the sky, nothing at all but small cotton ball shaped clouds stamping shadows on the earth here and there.  To the west a brush fire advanced, a thin line of red line of flame spewed a massive wall of black smoke that rose to the upper atmosphere where it feathered and streaked further west. In the east a thunderstorm marched towards it.   It’s massive clouds nearly touched the ground and in the tiny gap that remained, the rain looked like rubbed pencil lead.  They were two giant armies moving toward each ready for battle.

It was a masterpiece.

I truth, my description is woefully inadequate to describe the profound beauty of the scene – I simply lack the necessary skill.  All I can really say is that it was one of the most magnificent views I have ever beheld in my life; you will just have to take my word for it.  I was alone and I did not take a camera to Ghana so I sometimes doubt I even saw it.  But I do remember thinking one thing.  I was being shown a picture of the earth, the way it looked thousands of years ago.  I thought that this is what Abraham might have seen when he looked down on Canaan, his promise from God.

Since then I have often thought this question: How can such great beauty co-exist with such pain and suffering?  Africa is a beautiful place but it is filled with disease and dangers.  I was there, along with many other development workers to help as best we could.  We were somewhat successful in helping but we could never be so totally.  That’s because Africa ultimately had to take responsibility for its self.  Some countries like Ghana have.  Others, like Somalia, haven’t

The same principle applies to us, just on a smaller scale.  Each person will experience conflict, turmoil, times of sickness as well as moments of joy and beauty in their lives.  And we are masterpieces, fearfully and wonderfully made.  For profound beauty, nothing matches the human body and soul.

But, too often we neglect our bodies and our souls.  Maybe the because problems we face seem overwhelming we sometimes develop bad habits that turn into self-destructive behaviors or even mental illness.  So, where do we get the help we need?  Are there tiny development workers that can scurry around inside us fixing what’s wrong?  No.  Ultimately we are responsible for taking care of ourselves.

But we can’t do it alone.  We need God.

In those days refugees from Niger and Mali flooded Ouaga. They camped in the streets, along the main open sewer of the city. Open sewers were common (and smelly!) in West Africa. As my friend and I walked by them the sights and smells overpowered us. Some refugees were obviously starving, some looked dead and I prayed they were just sleeping. We passed several dead animals, mostly goats but at least one camel. Families sat or lay among them swatting flies that swarmed around their baby’s faces. Children approached us mostly. They came up to us with tears in their eyes, displaying scars or open wounds on their limbs, pointing at bellies bloated with kwashiorkor.

I gave out what pocket change I had but my friend only rolled his eyes, his eyes radiating impatience. As more approached us he shooed them away and when that stopped working he actually feigned an attack against them, pretending to charge. Eventually he turned his anger to me. “You’re disabling them. They’re professional beggars and their making a fool out of you.”

The little I gave might relieve their suffering for a short time, but it wouldn’t help them in a lasting way. So, I’m not claiming righteousness here. And, I certainly wasn’t making any real sacrifice to help them either, but his term ‘professional beggars’ made it sound like begging was some kind of well paying job. Did they really live in nice houses on the outskirts of the city, sleeping at night in air conditioned rooms and eating a big breakfast of pancakes and sausage before commuting out to the sewer, squatting among the dead animals and raw sewage every morning to work? “So what should I do? Just ignore them?”

“Yes!” he said as he rolled his eyes again. “Why not? They deserve it.”

“What?” I didn’t think he was capable of saying that. We went through eight weeks of training together and wrote letters to one another for three months. During that time I found him to be a compassionate and giving person. We shared the same views on many issues and I often counted on him for support when I faced others with contrary opinions. Plus, he was smarter and older than I so like a younger brother I wanted him to respect me.

“They’re lazy. If they want money, they should have to earn it.”

“That’s ridiculous.” I went on to explain that they had no formal education at all. I don’t know what the unemployment rate for West Africa in the 1980′s was but I’m pretty sure it was ridiculously high. And, being refugees, they didn’t even have he right to hold a job, even if opportunities did exist. “What happened to you? When did you become such a bigot?”

He said nothing. After scowling at me for a few seconds, he walked away and we didn’t speak to each other for the rest of the trip. It would be another three months before we would see each other again. We both missed a valuable opportunity to get some much needed support and fellowship.

Why was he angry? Why was I angry? Anger is a secondary emotion. It would be easy for either of us to blame the incident on the heat or the long trip. But even a minor quarrel like this one can have deeper roots.

First, we were both frustrated. We were idealists who joined the Peace Corps, wanting to make a difference in the world. But instead, we found entrenched poverty, corruption, crime and even a deep hatred of Americans. To be fair, we also encountered miracles and people, African and expatriates alike that behaved in angelic fashion. The most cruel thing we discovered is that two naive, collage grads weren’t really going to do much good. Shattered expectations is a primary cause of anger.

Second, I admired my friend. I wanted him to admire me. At first, I took his disapproval of my actions as a rejection of me. One of the most important causes of anger is feeling rejected by someone we respect. It affected my own self worth and I reacted in anger.

Lastly, I called my friend a bigot. He later told me that my insult made him angry because he considered himself a compassionate and caring man. But it also made him realize that he wasn’t being very compassionate towards the beggars. It embarrassed him and he reacted to it.

When a person gets angry, even a little bit, it’s never as simple as a noisy child, spilled milk or a forgotten birthday present. It’s usually something deeper.

-sfb

Boy. I don’t know, I’m just mad at my mother. I don’t know, she just, uh, she calls me up the other day. She wants to borrow ten dollars for some food! Can you believe that? I said, “Hey! I work for a living! So I loan her the money. Yesterday, she calls me up and says she can’t pay me back for a while. I said, “Hey! What is this?!” So I worked out a deal with her. I’m having her, uh, work on my transmission. And, uh, move my barbells up to the attic.” — Steve Martin

Anger is a secondary emotion. People get mad because other feelings or thoughts attack them. Giving money to a parent might put paying a bill in jeopardy, leading to the inconvenience and embarrassment of having the electricity shut off. Answering a friend’s call for help might make us late for work, setting up an uncomfortable confrontation with a boss. A child’s illness might mean missing time with friends and a chance to blow off steam.

Sometimes we will punish the person who makes us feel that way, like in the joke above.

I know that people should earn their keep. It’s a good principle that leads to happier life in the long run. It’s the principle of tough love. However, sometimes when it’s applied to those who inconvenience us, love is not the motive for our actions but anger is. Punishment is the wrong way to express anger. Whether it’s making a parent earn her food money or spanking a child for spilling milk, if anger drives the punishment, stop and think about what is really causing the anger. It’s something else, something rooted in us. It’s us that needs to change.

That time, I searched for four days and didn’t find any.  On the last day, with only a half-bucketful left I sat in my bungalow, worrying and feeling sorry for myself.  A quick look at the sky revealed no chance of rain.  I could go without food for a couple of weeks but without water I’d only make it a couple of days.  I knew I could make that last gallon last another day or two, but what if I couldn’t find any after that? What if it didn’t rain?  My Ghanaian neighbors were in the same situation.  They wouldn’t be able to help me.  The only alternative would be to quit and have a representative of the Peace Corps come and get me.  But how would I do that?  There were no working phones within 100 miles.  Thinking about it filled me with fear and made me worry even more.

So, to distract myself from the thoughts of dying of thirst and I turned to what I usually did during times of stress; eating sweets.  I knew I didn’t have any left over from my last shopping trip to Ouagadougou.  But that didn’t stop me.  There was always a chance I missed something last time I launched into a feeding frenzy.  So I began a frenetic search for something, anything sweet. I checked my duffle bag, the kitchen, the bedroom, everywhere, but I found nothing.  It was all gone, no crumbs, no melted or congealed chocolate bars.  I sat down again resigned to worry some more but then I remembered the donut holes.

Sweets were as scarce as hockey rinks in Ghana but occasionally, industrious women scavenged flour and sugar and through a magic process called deep-frying, they conjured up donut holes.  In fact a few days before, I heard that a woman who lived a short bike ride away was selling some.  To a sweet addicted American, donut holes seemed like little oases of pleasure. But they were expensive.

I received and income of 360 dollars a month. That’s about two years salary for most Ghanaians.  I was rich by their standards and still found if difficult to get by.  A pound of sugar cost twenty-five dollars, as did a pound of flour.  Donut holes cost about four or five dollars for a handful.  With my salary, if I could find a steady source, I could afford live on them, eating two handfuls a day, but barely.  Of course I wouldn’t have enough money to buy anything else.  And with water being scarce, if I did eventually find any, it would cost twenty Cedi, or seven dollars, to fill my jerry can.

So I checked my money.  I had twenty Cedi, enough to buy a hand full of donut holes and have five Cedi to spare.  But if I found anyone selling water, I wouldn’t have enough money to buy any.  So, in the end the choice was easy. I went off to buy donut holes.

At the prospect of eating those greasy, calorie packed morsels, my mood lifted. As I road, I daydreamed about the wonderful feeling I would have as I ate them. Taking a bite and tasting the oil mixed with sugar. Yum.  I anticipated each delicious bite.

But when I got there, however, the donut holes were sold out. I don’t think I ever felt as bad as I did in my whole life as I did then.  It was as if I had become addicted to the anticipation of the sweets and when there turned out to be no hope of realizing the dream I experienced withdrawal.  The thoughts of dying of thirst came back stronger than before.  All seemed hopeless.

I rode home immersed in a pit of self-pity and worry.  All I wanted were some sweets and water?  Was that too much to ask?  Before I shriveled into strip of dried flesh?  But then a tractor pulled up along side me. The two young men riding on it waved their arms and shouted, “Master!” (All teachers in Ghana, no matter their national origin, were addressed as Master). “Would you like some water?”

The tractor pulled a giant tank of sloshing, splashing and spilling water. They followed me to my bungalow and filled my barrel for twenty Cedi.  Relief like I had never known cradled me in soft, safe arms.

What does God have to do with that?  At the time, I didn’t think he had anything to do with it.  For most of my life, I looked to external things for relief, especially eating.  When I became stressed or upset I used sugar to help deaden the pain; Chocolate was medicine.

Even though I wasn’t a believer back then, God took care of me anyway and saved me from making a big mistake.  If I had spent my money on the sweets, I wouldn’t have been able to buy the water.  And water from rain or anywhere else wasn’t available for two more weeks. Now I thank God for that gift and the lesson it took me so long to learn.  — sfbjr

After the polite policeman gives him the ticket, his third one in as many months that will cause him to lose his license, he looks at his watch. He’s now one hour late for the 10th day in a row and he realizes there is no sense going on to work. His boss’s threat was clear. One more time and “He gone!”- yes his boss is a Sox fan.

There just isn’t enough time in the day, he thinks. No-sir-ree. Not enough. He’s so worried about his job, his family and his money so he drinks to deaden the stress. The drinking in turn leads to oversleeping.

Sid sits back against the torn vinyl of his car seat and the Stone’s song goes through his mind. As the words scroll through his conscientiousness they change, “Tiiiiiiiiiiiime is on my back. Get it off! Tiiiiiiiiiiime is on my back. Get it off!”

*****

Sid doesn’t understand time but he isn’t the only one. Many physicists don’t understand it either. To understand it scientifically, complex mathematical equations and some convoluted philosophy must be studied. I don’t think Sid is that kind of guy. Fortunately he doesn’t have to be. Time is understandable in a useful, practical way.

In everyday experience time moves you like a fast train and it doesn’t stop a any station. No matter how many times you push the emergency stop button it will not stop. In truth, you have no control over it. So, all that is left to you is to manage it. And, it can be managed.

By time management I do not mean to schedule everything you do. Schedules are an important tool but they are not the answer.

There are two things you can do that will help you manage time well. The first is never worry about the things, like time, that you have no control over. No matter how much you worry, no matter what you do to medicate the stress, the situation that’s worrying you remains. All worry does is waste energy and time. It wastes energy because thoughts require lots of it. Per unit weight, the brain uses the most energy than any organ in the body. And it’s the resulting stress that ultimately causes you to be late for work. Ever notice how exhausted you are after a day of worrying? It wastes time because while you’re worrying over whether or not it will snow tomorrow, you could be learning a new skill that will help find a better paying job.

What’s the best way to manage time? In everything you do, do it as well as you can. It doesn’t matter how many things you do during the day. If you do lots of things but do them poorly time will be an enemy. Concentrate on doing a good job at work, instead of worrying, might very will help you keep your job. Concentrate on being a good spouse and prevent marriage problems. Nothing kills a relationship like being absent in mind, worrying if your spouse loves you or not. Instead, love your spouse and he will probably return it. Concentrate on being a good steward of your money, live within your means and your financial problems will go away.

The thing about managing time effectively is to just stop worrying about it and be the best spouse, parent, worker you can be. Then time won’t be on your back, you won’t even notice it. — sfbjr

Goldilocks made choices about her bed, but every day we make choices about our self-esteem, about how we view ourselves. Browniwaves, a character I just made up, has a choice too.

Browniwaves is watching TV.  She is married, has three children and works part-time in a grocery store.  She has to work because her husband, while who is a hard working man, doesn’t make enough money to support the family, a family that is about to grow.  Browniwaves is six months pregnant.  With all that worry, she is content and happy.  One of her greatest strengths is a healthy self-esteem but that asset is about to be tested.

A commercial plays.  In it, beautiful, young women laugh and joke while they drink wine.  Several young men join them.  Of course, they are handsome; their clothes suggest they are wealthy, too.  They laugh as well as they join the conversation.  Watching this fantasy about American life, it doesn’t take long for Browniwaves to compare herself to those on the screen.  She looks down at her own body and sees she has put on a few pounds, maybe a few tens of pounds, since she was a teenager.  The robe she is wearing is clean but several holes have worn through near the pockets.  At this point, Browniwaves must choose her thoughts.

The first one that comes to her is that she herself is fat and ugly.  She is poor and will never amount to much like those women on the TV who seem to have such comfortable futures in front of them.  But, that thought only makes her feel sad; it is too negative.   Then she thinks she’s better than all those women. They don’t have any experience and, by the look of them, never had a child.  But, that thought only makes her feel proud; it is too positive.  Finally, she accepts that she is not glamorous or young but neither is she inexperienced.  She’s a good mother, wife and employee.   She does her best to help others when she can. That thought feels good; it is just right.

When Goldilocks made her choice, she decided on the one that was just right; not too hard and not too soft.  When Browniwaves made her choice she chose the one that was just right, not too negative or not too positive.  Browniwaves was realistic about herself and that a sign of a healthy self-esteem.

I could watch the Bears on one TV, the Bulls on another and the TVs don’t even have to be next to each other!  Even better, I could play Halo on the XBox with one eye and with the other read the news about all my friends on Facebook, on my laptop.  Double the fun, every day!  And if I ate potato chips at the same time?  Three things I love, all at once.  I could shop twice as fast, too.  Going down the DVD section in Best Buy, I’d search out movies on both sides of the isle at the same time.   One time through and I’d have every thing I want. 

But then, I’m only human.   I’m stuck doing only one thing at a time. In my opinion, life is too short for that.  When you think about it, chameleons get to do twice as much stuff as I do and they are just lizards.  Why do they get to have all the fun?   It’s unfair.  Those little lizards get to whatever they want and I, a college educated human, can’t.  That’s the way my life is.  It’s always been that way, too.  There’s always something ruining my fun.   My mother never got me what I wanted for Christmas.  Never.  Can you believe that?  Woe is me.  

So I prayed about it.  I asked God if he would give me chameleon eyes.  And he said, “Knucklehead. The chameleon saw the fly and the caterpillar but not the hawk coming straight at him.  He was dinner.”  

All kidding aside, I actually had a pet chameleon once.  He’d perch on my extended index finger and I’d point him like a gun.  Walking around the room I’d point my lizard friend at a fly and ZAP!  They are interesting creatures.  But no human, I hope, would want to trade places with an animal so far down the food chain.  Still, sometimes we covet things.  We get obsessed with some situation or some thing that we think will make our lives better.  And when we can’t have it, we start to feel self-pity.  And self-pity can put our thoughts into downward spiral that’s hard to escape from.  

Self pity is one of the many things that can lead to depression.  There are others.  Come to class on Saturday, find out more.