There is still so much more I want to share about our experience in Cape Coast but until my dear friend brings her boys home, I am not entirely comfortable baring it all just yet.

When those two little guys are in the U.S. and official papers are signed, THEN we will chat some more about this adoption journey.  And what a journey it is, friends.  Wow.

Less than 24 hours after arriving in Cape Coast, we hit the road back to Teshie on a very early Saturday morning which was the start to a day that would seem to never end.

We had a plane to catch back to the states that night after all and by this point in our journey, we were quite ready to see our families. And yet we had much to do before boarding that plane.

Like pack.

Oh, my.  Did we ever need to pack.

So we arrived back at The Fern House, tired yet a bit giddy at the thought of familiarity and husbands and the sound of a child calling us “mommy” mixed with the sadness of  leaving Comfort and Mary and all of the other precious women living at The Fern House.

Sadness of leaving a beautiful culture and simpler way.  Knowing that we quite desired a white chocolate mocha, yes, but that we also wanted to slow down a bit. That maybe though we wanted it, perhaps we could live without it.

Possessing the realization that maybe we don’t need all that we think we need but straddling the conundrum of how to do that in the culture that is ours.

Desperate to help even just one – like the starfish on the beach.

Hungry to devour what the Ghanaians have taught us for it’s most certainly not a one-way street.

And in complete and continued utter fascination about the lengths He will go to protect those who love Him.

I haven’t shared a lot about the dangerous situations we found ourselves in a few times during our trip because my mother reads this blog and if I ever hope to go to Ghana again, which I do, without giving her an utter and complete heart attack, I need to exercise a little restraint.

Here or there I’ll let a few things slip in the next upcoming posts so you can understand the vastness of His protection but for now, let me just share this one…

Dinner was prepared.  They were sending us off.  Our cabs were due to come at 5:30 to catch a plane to Amsterdam at 10:10 p.m.

Due to the ten bags (seven checked bags and three carry-ons) and three bodies, it was evident we were not going to be able to get to the airport without one cab for the bags and one for us.

Tanga, our ever-loyal driver who had taken care of us all week, was responsible for finding another driver.  He would take the bags, the other driver would take us.

But sweet Tanga simply forgot this small detail.

And we pushed back our departure time to 6 p.m. instead of 5:30 p.m.

And by 6:15 p.m. we were still standing on the front porch of The Fern House.

And we now possess a knowledge of Teshie to Accra traffic.

And it started to rain.  But not just a light, little summer African rain.  Oh, no.

It was an utter and complete torrential downpour.  The kind that if you step outside for even 10 seconds, you are soaking wet while even holding an umbrella.

And did I mention that the ground is a clay-like dirt that turns to red mud when it rains?  And that we had to drag all of those bags through it?

Somehow we manage good-byes, the rain being a blessing to hide the tears, and we settle in to our taxi with our bags crammed into the other.

Our driver takes us a back way so we “can avoid the traffic.”

We have never seen him and it’s suddenly pitch-black.  The sun goes down around 6:30 p.m. in Ghana.

He speaks little English.

We were in the middle of nowhere and saw nothing but darkness around us.  We had lost Tanga on the bumpy  and concave dirt streets becoming a thicker clay by the second.

I told Dana I didn’t like the feel of this.

She agreed.

We didn’t say a word to Rachel but we could tell she felt the same.

And though she didn’t have an international calling plan, we asked Rachel to have The Fern House number ready so we could simply hit “send” if we needed to do so.

I clung.  In the back seat of that humid, bumpy cab, I clung.

For about the hundred-and-tenth time that week.

The story could have so easily gone another way.  Three American missionaries.  White.  Not necessarily wealthy by American standards but certainly wealthy by Ghanaian standards.

Completely helpless.  Utterly incapable of knowing where we were or even how to get help if we needed it.

And yet I dwell in the shelter of the most High and I rest in His shadow.

A refuge and fortress indeed who proved His faithfulness yet again.

To be continued…

Lest we forget that today is Monday?  On this Multitude Monday, my fortress, I thank you for:

501.  Your unbelievable protection and deliverance

502.  Your fingerprints placed all around

503.  The white chocolate mocha in Detroit

504.  The giddy squeals of delight in response to a mama finally home

505.  The joyful tears shed by the mama upon seeing those four

506.  Time to get much-needed chores done around a long-neglected home

507.  Good long talks with my true north

508.  God’s pruning shears teaching me much about relationships these days

509.  A steep learning curve that never stops…

510.  The women of The Fern House:

From left:  Me, Rachel, Comfort, Dana

Rachel, Me, Dana, and a little friend that snuck in…

May you rest well knowing that He’s always got your back, that you are never without coverage, that you are so wholly loved…

Joining in with Ann for “Multitude Mondays” and Jen for “Soli Deo Gloria Sisterhood”



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