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A few days ago James and I picked up turkeys at the grocery store. I put one of them in the fridge to thaw so I could cook it for our family. It sat there for a couple days. I knew it had to be thawed, but I put off getting it out and “cleaning it up” so I could cook it. Another day or two went by. Finally, I knew I’d better just buck up and do it.

I got the turkey out of the fridge, unwrapped it, rinsed it and voila! It was ready to go. Five minutes tops. All trussed up for me, with a little pin in the top to let me know it was done. Easy Peasy. Why had I put off doing it for an extra day or two? It turned out not to be that hard at all! Nearly sterile, in fact.

“What’s the big deal?” you might ask. “Why would you be so put off by doing a turkey?”

Let me tell you a little about Thanksgivings in Africa.

First of all, this is how we get our turkey. It’s up walking around and we can actually pick which bird we want. 

They smell funny and are kind of gross and that smell lingers. And lingers. You can still smell it, even after they are processed and you are ready to cook them.

Once you have your turkey, you have to find a way to process it. I consider myself pretty pioneer woman, but even I draw the line at prepping my own poultry. Maybe I’m squeamish. It’s just worth it to me to have someone else do it for me – I’m not sure I’d be able to eat it if I did it myself.

The next step in the process is, well, this. Since a picture is worth a thousand words, I’ll let this one speak for itself.

(We took this picture a few years ago – the one and only time we photographed the process. After that we just remembered what it was like and didn’t record it for posterity. I wasn’t present at the taking of these photos. I was in the house trying not to think about what that smell was.)

I usually let the turkey sit in the fridge for a day. There are always feathers still stuck in the skin so I have to skin the thing. I also have to tie up the legs and get it to fit in my roaster. Have I mentioned that it smells funny? Refrigerating it helps it not smell quite so badly and I don’t gag nearly as much.

The other food is a lot more fun to cook! We usually have everything potluck style and everyone who comes shares in the preparation. Carla Bassett makes the best dressing and gravy and Cheryl Tracht’s dinner rolls and baked beans are to die for.

Everything has to be made from scratch. Want whipped topping? You have to get cream and whip it until it’s just right.

You have to plan ahead for pumpkin pie because pumpkins aren’t in season in Uganda in November. We’ve had a couple Thanksgivings without any!

You also have to plan ahead for pecan pie. We can’t get pecans in Uganda, so have to bring them with us from the states. Gotta love delicious Georgia pecans! We usual stock up when we drive through on furlough.

Green bean casserole is a challenge because you can’t get canned cream soup so you have to either make another kind of green beans or make your own cream soup (I’ve done both).

Thanksgiving in Uganda is fun and challenging and delicious. We always have friends over, both American and Ugandan. We sit around and eat way too much food and play games and talk and laugh and have a great time. Sometimes we have to plan our gathering around other events that are taking place (because it’s not a public holiday in Uganda). When we are finished, we call our family back home or message with them just as they are beginning their celebration. 

So, Happy Thanksgiving from our house (in which we’re serving store bought pie this year) to yours! May you remember the blessings of God and have a day filled with all your favorite things!

A few weeks ago I posted a blog entry about 9/11. I told how we’d visited the site for the Freedom Tower back in 2006.

A few days ago, we got to return to New York City and see the now complete Tower in person. It did not disappoint!

We took our children to the 9/11 Museum. It was crowded, yet there was a feeling of awe, horror, and respect in the place as people remembered or learned for the first time about the events of that fateful day. My children were moved by what they saw. James and I were, too.

We remembered.

We went outside and spent time around the Memorial – one of the most beautiful, well designed, and peaceful memorials I’ve ever seen. The sound of the flowing water – a symbol of eternal life – as a backdrop to the thousands of names of people who died that day.

Here and there around the memorial, people had placed fresh flowers in the names of those who died, probably a loved one or a family member who has no other place to show such respect.

They remembered.

One man caught my attention. He looked like he’d just gotten off his shift from work – disheveled and tired. He went along the memorial, touched specific names, then gently kissed them. He remembered.

For me, the most moving part of the visit was this wall:

The remains of people who had been found but could not be identified were entombed there. In one day, one event, these people were gone. But they were not erased. They had made their mark on the world. They had given their lives, some sacrificially, some without choice, some without hope. But they were not erased from time. They are why…

We must always remember.

I love the beach. Any beach. Just give me sun, sand, sea breezes, and the ocean spread before me with its rolling waves. Beaches figure in at least two of the books I’ve written so far.

Last furlough, a pastor we knew from deputation contacted us. He’d changed churches, was pastoring in Florida, and wanted James to share our ministry in his new church. However, at the time we didn’t have any openings for meetings left. He and James arranged that James would contact him for our next furlough. When furlough planning time came, James did just that and they set up a meeting time for the beginning of October.

In the meantime, my sister, her husband, and their two girls moved to Florida. October seemed like the perfect time to visit them, too. We made our plans and got everything set to head down there.

Then Hurricane Matthew developed. It didn’t even occur to us that it might be a problem until we were headed to Florida. We drove in strong wind and heavy rain for part of our trip – though it was only a tropical storm where we were.

We arrived safely, without incident. Thankfully, that was the worst we got.

We were able to visit the beach with my sister and her family two times while we were there. Both times the weather was perfect! The kids played in the sand and waves. My landlocked children learned to body surf. We finished up our last day at the beach with ice cream.

We had a great time with my sister and her family. They were so hospitable and opened their home to our gang. We spent hours talking, hashing over politics and computer apps, playing tennis, eating, and jogging together. It was hard to leave when the time came.

Our church meeting went well, too. We had a wonderful time reconnecting with the pastor and his family.

Maybe life really isn’t a beach, but when you have a little beach in your life (and fantastic family!), it sure makes it more fun!

September 11, 2001

James was working second shift. As usual, he hadn’t gotten home from work until around 11:30PM on September 10. 

Our oldest sons, James and John, were 6 months old. September 11, I got up early with them to feed them, then put them down for a nap and went back to bed. It was around 7AM our time.

A little later, we woke to the sound of the phone ringing. My dad called to tell us an airplane had flown into the side of one of the twin towers. We both thought he meant a small, twin engine plane and went back to sleep.

A few minutes after that, my father-in-law, Jim, called to tell us another plane had flown into the other tower. 

This time, we understood it was serious. These were airliners full of people and fuel. 

Our TV was ancient. We kept it in the basement and used it for playing videos and DVDs. We didn’t even have it hooked up to an antenna, even though we had the antenna wires available. James hurried downstairs while he was on the phone with his dad. He hooked the TV up to the antenna and turned it on. He yelled for me to come see what was happening.

What we saw looked like a terrible nightmare. Both towers were burning. We saw people hurl themselves out of the building to the ground, lives doomed one way or the other. (We later learned they may have been forced out by the heat of the fire burning inside the buildings.) 

Moments after we turned on the TV the first tower collapsed.

We stayed glued to the television all day, along with the rest of the United States. Our emotions vacillated between horror, grief, anger, and disbelief as we watched the drama unfold. These things didn’t happen inside the US. Murder, on that scale, had seemed impossible on American soil. Yet there it was, the nightmare of those terrorist attacks, unfolding before our very eyes.

The skies were silent as all the planes were grounded, the silence eery, a constant reminder of the tragedy we’d witnessed. Little by little we learned what had happened that day. By those same, gradual discoveries, we realized our children, these innocent babies, would grow up in a world that was After and resembled nothing of the world Before.

In 2006 we took our children to Ground Zero and saw the beginnings of what would become the Freedom Tower.

You could still see damage on the surrounding buildings, even 5 years later.

When the children were older, we told them about Before. Then we showed them documentaries, news clips, and told them stories of 9/11. They cried, just like we did on that day, 15 years ago. They shared our horror, our loss.

Today, we remember those who died. We remember those to gave their lives to try to save others. We remember the sacrifice, the bravery, the pain, the loss, the grief.

We remember, because we do not want to forget.