Baby Victor {August 2017}

It was a Sunday afternoon. I had already had an incredibly frustrating morning that involved rotten meat, poop and a really poor attitude on my part. (Just keepin' it real folks!) I finally had Dori laid down for a nap and I put on an episode of Friends and laid down on the couch to try to grab a little Sunday afternoon nap myself. My phone rang...

“Hello?”

“Tata.” – the line cut because the person calling didn’t have credit loaded on their phone to support a phone call. I called back, still not knowing who it was.

“Hello, who is this?”

It was the young uncle of a set of twins in our Infant Formula Program. His nephew, Victor, was sick. He didn’t say much, I didn’t ask much, I knew if he was calling me on a Sunday afternoon that it must not be great. “Bring him to the center now. I’m at home but I'll meet you there.”

After calling sweet Augustin to come be with Dori until she woke up and making myself a strong cup of coffee (I knew I was going to need it…) I jumped in my car and got to the center. Victor and his grandmother and uncle came up to the house soon after my arrival. I could see the look of desperation in her eyes. And Victor was lying very lifeless in her arms. I quickly triaged him in our clinic, did a malaria test that was positive and got a basic history of what had been going on. The family had already been at the hospital in town when they called me but didn’t yet have the bloodwork back. His uncle went to get the results and came back. His hemoglobin was so critically low the staff at the hospital in our village told the uncle to take him directly to the capital city (an hour away) with the hope of finding blood to transfuse him there as there was NO blood at the hospital in Sakété.

Our pastor was in the middle of a Bible study with all of our children in our large meeting room and I carried Victor in there with his family to pray over him before they got on the road to Porto Novo. “Let them find blood.” “Keep this baby with us.” Our children and staff prayed. The grandmother cradled him in her arms. I sent them ahead of me in a public taxi to the clinic we use in Porto Novo so that I could settle some things at the center and talk it all over with Justin and Rachel. I wanted them to get there as soon as possible with Victor and not be held up by me trying to get my act together.

I left several minutes later, Rachel following me out to the car, “Don’t worry about anything here. We’ll take care of everything and Dori. We’ll be praying. Let us know what we can do.”

I got in my car and started the drive to Porto Novo. My whole body was tense. I wanted to cry but didn’t/couldn’t. I was worried. Worried about Victor. Worried about whether blood would be found. Worried that we had literally fought to bring this baby back to health after the death of his mother during childbirth to watch him suffer and die from malaria as a 12 month old. I was questioning so much and if I’m really honest right now, I was worried that there would not be funds sufficient to cover Victor’s medical bills. He is sponsored through our Infant Formula Program but that money covers his formula…not a stay in the ICU of a private clinic in Porto Novo. (Read also: Expensive)

As I was driving and singing and thinking and praying, I felt very impressed in my spirit to ask family and friends to pray for him. When I arrived at the clinic, I went in and he was already being treated. I spoke with the doctors and staff, whom we know very well thanks to the relationships Jon and Ashley have established throughout their years here in Benin, and ran out to my car to get some water. I posted a quick picture and update on Facebook. Asking for prayers to be sent up on his behalf that specifically blood would be found. Back in the clinic I went.

His father was now there with his grandmother and uncle. They didn’t know the procedure of looking for blood and the staff in the ICU handed me the small cooler that blood is kept in and said, “Can you go? It might be better if you go.” Seraphin was there and he knows the procedure for looking for blood very well so off we went to the large, public hospital in Porto Novo to try to find blood at their blood bank.

The room was full of people when we arrived. Every chair was full. The line was long of people standing, waiting to even give their order for blood to the one person working in the blood bank. “You better just be patient”, one lady told me, “I’ve been here since 3pm waiting.” It was already well after 8pm by this point. I stand in line, holding the empty cooler, trying to patiently wait…trust me when I say this is not my forte. 

A big ruckus breaks out as the people in line are frustrated and there’s seemingly no blood at this blood bank but no one is really saying that. We could just continue down the road to Cotonou, to look for blood at their hospitals there, but since the order was written at a hospital in Porto Novo we must first be refused at a blood bank in Porto Novo before we have the right to go look for blood in Cotonou. This is a true story. They must literally write on the order “NO BLOOD RECEIVED” and sign it at the blood bank in Porto Novo before we could go on to Cotonou. So I keep trying to kindly ask, “Is there blood here? If there’s no blood here, that’s fine, but we would like to go on to Cotonou to look there.” I was afraid I would stand in this line for 3 hours and then be refused and then still have to go to Cotonou, an hour away, and try to find it there. It was like a ticking time bomb. Literally. My whole chest was pounding. For hours. Thinking of this baby boy lying lifeless on the bed in the hospital. Needing this blood so desperately. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

I mean, let’s be real, I stick out like a sore thumb in this setting. A white lady in a room filled with mainly men, most of whom are waiting for blood for one of their children who is sick with malaria. It’s the season. The time of malaria, as they say. The moms are with the child in the hospital room and the dads/uncles/big brothers are waiting for blood in the blood bank. I struck up a conversation with a young father, his daughter was Dori’s age, and his friends. He spoke really great French and we were bantering back and forth about just life and this process. He was frustrated, rightfully so, but felt very helpless in that there was honestly nothing he could do. He was waiting. As were the dozens of others.

Blood finally arrived and the people who had been there all afternoon and now into the night were given their blood. Those of us in line were finally able to at least give our order to the attendant. She took them all. “Sit down. Be patient.”

Now that there were chairs available since those waiting had left with the blood that was so desperately needed, we all sat. There was music playing from someone’s phone. A man beside me was whispering prayers over and over and over again. My heart was heavy as I sat there. My phone was dead by this point so I literally just sat there. Some small talk was occurring between those of us waiting when a man came to the entrance of this room and said something in a tribal language that I didn’t understand.

Every single person in the room sucked in their breath. Gasp.

I looked at Seraphin. “What? What did he say?”

And I saw the young father that I had been talking to earlier stand up from his seat, fall on the ground and stayed there…paralyzed in shock.

“His daughter died.”

I couldn’t hold back my tears. I’m the only woman in this room of men. Their mouths are gaped open. Their heads fall down. The dad in front of me is shaking his head with his eyes closed. The man beside me intensifies his prayers. My hot tears fell down to my chest.

This young dad left with his friends and no one in the room spoke again. Devastating.

Eventually, around one o’clock the morning, Victor’s name was called and a small pouch of dark red blood was placed into the cooler I had been holding. I honestly didn’t know if he was still alive or not. My phone was dead and we had no way of contacting the clinic or the family. We left the hospital and ran into the clinic once we arrived. The doctor on call was waiting for us, sleeping on a bench in the waiting room.

She sits straight up when we walk in, “Did you find it?”

I hold up the cooler and just shake my head yes.

“Thank God. Go. Take it to the ICU. I will be right there.”

I walk into the room and there he is. This small, precious body lying on a huge hospital bed. I hand the cooler to the nurse and put the side rail down. I kneel down beside his bed and cradle his little head in my hands. The tears continue to fall down my cheeks. “God please heal this baby boy. Please provide everything he needs to recover. Please let us know what we can do to help this family and help this baby boy.”

I don’t really have another option and I just really want to be home by this point. So at 2 in the morning I get in my car to make the drive back home to Sakété. Likely not my smartest move ever (Sorry mom!). I called Rachel from Séraphin’s phone before leaving to let them know we had found blood and that I was coming to Sakété now. “Message me when you get home.” Were her final words to me before I hung up the phone.

Once I got home the first thing I did was shower. I wanted to wash away this crazy day. But my heart was so broken from the reality of life here that I had encountered today. I’ve never been to a blood bank here in Benin until this summer. Jon is the one that has always done this since my arrival and it’s almost like I’ve been protected from the harshness of it all. Jon’s pretty good like that. But as my heart broke for this family who lost their daughter and my mind thought only of Victor and if he would be alive in the morning when the sun came up….I remembered that I had posted on Facebook and I wanted to give a quick update before going to bed.

My phone was charged enough to use it for a little bit before finally closing my eyes to go to sleep. Hundreds of people were praying for this baby boy. My heart was overwhelmed. I sent some What’s App messages to Jon and Ash and my family and then continued to look on Facebook for a few minutes, finding it hard to sleep.

I pulled open my messages and had one from a friend of mine who is on staff at a church in Owasso, Oklahoma. Their church has been incredibly supportive of Tree of Life’s ministry and myself since the very beginning of my time in Benin and their church’s VBS had raised funds specifically for Tree of Life USA.

Trent: “Hey, we have the check ready from our VBS offering. Where do we need to send it?”

I give him the logistics and he says something along the lines of, “What do I write in the memo? We really don’t care where the money goes. Where is it needed most?”

I respond with about 5 different options of how the funds can be designated. He quickly responds back that they would like it to go to cover the medical bills of some of the babies who have been sick recently. Victor was now our second baby to be critically hospitalized due to malaria in a matter of 3 weeks.

“Yeah, we’d like to help cover some of those costs for their medical bills.”

As I start typing, “That’s great. We just hospitalized another baby tonight and the first baby who was hospitalized had a bill of around $600 US dollars.”

He types at the same time, “It’s exactly $600 US dollars that the kids raised.”

I didn’t even have words to respond.

My mouth was hanging open.

New fresh tears poured out of my eyes.

What a miracle.

What an answer to prayer.

What a provision of our needs.

I don’t want to forget this. Ever.

I don’t know why I doubt. Why I question.

But I am so thankful that time and time and time again the Lord shows up in very mighty ways and provides exactly what we need. Exactly when we need it.

May He and He alone be glorified.

Death could not hold you

The veil tore before you

You silenced the boast of sin and the grave

The heavens are roaring the praise of Your glory

For you are raised to life again

You have no rival

You have no equal

Now and forever God you reign

Your's is the kingdom

Your's is the glory

Your's is the name above all names

I could have missed this.

I landed in Benin for the very first time 5 years ago today. 

It seems like yesterday and also a lifetime ago all at the same time. Time is funny like, isn't it? 

Yesterday, I was driving into Cotonou and the ride into town was calm (which is never the case) and easy (which is also never the case). Seems that Sunday's are the day to be in the city...except everything is closed.

Outside of the city, a song came on and I got all teary eyed thinking about how much life has changed since my feet first touched this red dirt 5 years ago. And just how thankful I am for this beautiful life I am blessed to live amongst some of the best people I've ever met. 

I don't know what I was expecting at the time. Traveling 6,000 miles from home to a place so foreign from all I had ever known. But I found quickly that life as I had always known it was completely wrecked. In all the best ways. 

I remember landing in Cotonou in 2012 like it happened last week. I'll never forget the humidity crashing into me as I went to walk down the stairs off the plane. On the bus that takes travelers from the plane into immigration I took off my SWEATSHIRT (why?) and tied it around my waist. I was already POURING in sweat. After fighting my way through the madness that is the baggage claim (I mean, I didn't even know how to say "Hello!" in French at the time. #trainwreck), I walked out into the lobby and there was Ashley in this cute tank top and skirt, with a purse bigger than she was, holding a big, cold 1.5 liter of water. "Jillian! Hey! I'm Ashley." As I hugged her and she welcomed me Jon was right behind her and quickly took everything from me and started pushing my massive amounts of luggage to their car. There I was in all my sweaty, yoga pants, sweatshirt wearing glory.

I didn't know it at the time, but I had found my way home. 

I also didn't know it at the time, but I had just met people who would become some of my closest friends and also my family. 

We oftentimes don't know when we meet people just how much of an impact they will have on us, do we? But really, all of life is about relationships. The beginnings. The middles. The endings. The good. The bad. The ugly. The laughs. The tears. The healthy. The sick. All of it. All that really counts is who's beside us. Who we are impacting. Who is impacting us. 

This last year, we have been incredibly fortunate to become friends and ministry partners with Mercy Ships. It all started back in 2014 with their Advance Team and then in the summer of 2016 before the ship's arrival in August, it picked up right where it had left off. It's been so nice. Like literally SO nice to have this influx of people who want to be friends with us, be with our kids at the orphanage, invite us to do things with them...and last night as I was having one last ice cream date with my friend KJ before she left today for Cameroon, I just had to smile and thank God for all the beautiful people He has brought into my life. Throughout my entire life and especially in these past 5 years.

I have been thinking pretty consistently in recent weeks, leading up to this "anniversary" of sorts, that I could have missed all of this. I could have listened to the MANY self-doubts I had. The fear of the unknown. The anticipation of the future. I could have let all of that dictate my choices and missed all of this. 

Baby snuggles.
Deep giggles. 
Healed bodies. 
Late night yogurt dates + Paw Patrol. 
Miracles unfolding. 
Songs with the girls.
Dancing. 
Kisses. 
Hugs.
Being Tats. 

I could have missed it all. And it wasn't only my yes that made everything in the last 5 years possible. It was also the yes of my two friends, Jon and Ashley. Who took a huge risk on a girl from Oklahoma that they had never met and welcomed me with open arms and ice cold water.

I'm forever grateful for all of it.

malaria. my new 4-letter-word.

Malaria. My new 4-letter word. Actually, the word for malaria in French is paludisme and around these parts we call it “palu”. So literally for us it is a 4-letter word. Palu.

I’ve debated writing a blog post about this for the past week or so. This is not an unusual debate to have, honestly. There are many circumstances and situations and stories that I want to share but the words just aren’t there and I find it’s really difficult to accurately describe what a day looks like around here. Ashley and I joke about it often but for us, this is life. And it’s real. And it’s hard sometimes. And it’s a struggle. But it’s life.

Jon told the kids that now that I’ve had malaria I’m officially in the club. Almost like a right of passage. It was bound to happen sooner or later, let’s be real, but the timing of it all was pretty awful and also pretty wonderful, all at the same time. I have definitely learned a lot through this process. This 4-letter-word illness process.

Jon and Ashley left Benin for a much-needed month long stay in the States during the middle of August. They were returning to Benin the middle of September. To be honest, I was anxious leading up to their departure. I voiced these concerns to Ashley, because let’s be real, I voice everything to her. Driving down the road in her car a few days before they were to leave with a car full of kids I blurted out with a lump in my throat, “I’m scared for the month without y’all here.” She always asks the right questions and says the right things and I felt much better leading up to their departure thanks to both her and Jon’s reassurance. Again to be honest, I was scared. I’ve never been here without them. They’ve lived PLENTY of life and years here without me but I’ve never known life in Sakété, Benin without Jon and Ashley alongside me.

We had multiple conversations. Covered many bases. Mathias was also on his scheduled vacation/time off for the month of August so for the first 2 weeks they were gone much of the daily responsibilities were in my hands. Thankfully Bernard, one of the older boys who has already graduated high school and is currently in university, was going to be here to help. Looking back on this time I honestly don’t know what I would have done without him AND all the kids help. And the other incredible staff members! God really provided just what was needed.

Dropping off the Barchus’ at the airport was difficult. Again, being honest because I can, there were many tears shed on my part and Ashley, who doesn’t cry much, was also crying and after I saw them walk through their first check point I turned around and walked to my car. I know it’s a feeling I’ll never forget. I sat in there for almost 15 minutes, all the while the security guard staring at me like I was an idiot, gaining my composure and praying. I clearly remember praying these words: “God, you know what this next month holds. You know my fears. You know my hopes. I place this month in Your hands. Be with me. Help me. Be with the kids. Help them. And be with Jon and Ashley and their time at home.” And then I drove out of the airport parking lot, meandering the streets of Cotonou at night for the first time by myself. Panic.

Over the next several weeks the kids and I fell into a really nice pattern. No pattern that was different than “normal” but it was nice and I found myself really enjoying my time with them. Of course there were little hiccups along the way, as is typical, but for the most part life carried on and it carried on well. Many administrative tasks fell by the wayside, but all that mattered to me was that the kids were taken care of and felt loved and didn’t lack for too much in their parents absence.

Time was flying by.

Augustin arrived home from his time in Germany.

Mathias arrived back to Arbre de Vie from his time off.

We had one week and mom and dad would be back with Alice and our family would be complete again. They were scheduled to arrive Sunday, September 14^th.

About a week before their arrival, I went to bed Friday night not feeling great. I thought it was exhaustion, of which everyone had warned me about. “You need to get rest.” “You won’t be able to help the kids at all if you get sick.” “Take a day off! Try to relax.” Unfortunately, I didn’t heed these warnings.

I woke up that Saturday morning, September 6^th with an incredible headache. There were 4 boys who had spent the night with me and I was short tempered with them and frustrated with myself for that. Hubert came up to me in my kitchen while I was making them breakfast and asked if I was okay. I smiled and hugged him, “Yes, sweetie, I’ll be fine. I just have a little headache.” He told me to take some medicine and go lay back down. He finished making the bread and drinks for him and his brothers. Sweet angel. He’s the best little doctor.

My headache wasn’t going away but I wanted to go to the orphanage to be with the kids. I already had plans of coming back home early in the evening around dinnertime to get to bed early. I remember the feeling I had walking up to the orphanage that Saturday morning. Something wasn’t right. The Ibuprofen, Tylenol and coffee hadn’t touched my headache and it was a different headache than I’d ever experienced before. We all gathered for lunch and I couldn’t eat anything. With my head between my hands Bernard came up and said I needed to go home and rest. I didn’t want to go home, I wanted to stay at the orphanage so Seraphin said if you wouldn’t go home then at least go lay down in the clinic on the bed and try to get a nap. I did.

I dozed on and off for a good 30 minutes or so but couldn’t ever get comfortable. I became nauseous and also realized I had a fever. I now decided it was best to go home. Should have listened to Bernard…Walking out of the clinic several kids were at a table on the terrace playing cards. They were worried and went to find one of their big brothers when they realized I wasn’t well. I couldn’t drive myself home so I got on the back of the motorcycle and Seraphin took me to my house. He was hesitant to leave me there alone but I took some medicine to help with my vomiting and assured him it would have me asleep in no time and there was no reason to worry. I’d be fine and one of the big boys could come get me later to get my car and I’d be back at the orphanage by dinnertime. I just needed a little sleep.

My car stayed at the orphanage for days.

This was Saturday afternoon and there honestly isn’t a whole lot I remember from entering my home Saturday afternoon until about Tuesday evening.

The kids were with me around the clock. Caring for me. Giving me medications. Cleaning up my vomit. Putting cold rags on me head. Helping me to the bathroom. Forcing me to drink. Spoon feeding me couscous. Searching for food items in town they thought I might eat.

The president of our organization was in Sakété on Sunday and heard that I was ill and came to my house. He is a medical doctor and determined very quickly that I was suffering from malaria and we started treatment that night. I don’t remember much of our conversation but do remember him being there. I remember him sitting on the bed next to me, praying over me. Writing out instructions for the kids to follow and instructions for when to take me to the hospital if necessary. I remember our pastor and his wife coming into my room, laying hands on me, praying for me. My neighbors coming up, sitting beside me, rubbing my back and praying for me. The kids taking turns sitting in the dark room with me, praying each time with me before they’d leave. If I’d move or make a sound, they were by my side immediately, “Tata, do you need anything?” And anytime one of them would come into the house to drop something off, medication, food, etc. they wouldn’t leave without grabbing my hand and praying over me. And I also discovered notes from the kids that had been brought and left on my nightstand every single day. This brought a smile to my face Tuesday night when I finally saw them, of course.

I finally turned a corner Tuesday early in the afternoon and wanted several of the kids to come over so I could see them. Sweet Augustin and Bernard transported them over on the motorcycles and my room was filled with them for several hours. Mathias was sitting in a chair in my room with all of us and I laughed at something one of the kids said or did. He smiled a big smile and said, “I know our Tata is going to be ok now because this is the first time you’ve laughed in 4 days.” Falling asleep on the bed with the kids still in my room and Louise rubbing my legs with everyone still quietly talking, I remember thinking, “Thank you Jesus for letting me laugh today.”

I don’t remember a lot. But I do remember one thing; in a time when I could have felt very alone and afraid, I did not. I remember turning over Sunday night and looking at Viviane, she was sitting there on the edge of the bed just watching me and I could hear my living room full of people. I hadn’t asked them to come, but they did. And to this day, I’m not quite sure who all was in my home. They might have known there wasn’t much they could do and they could have told themselves, “Oh the kids will take care of it all” but they didn’t. They came. They were here. At a time when I could have very easily felt like I had no one, I felt incredibly surrounded by the Lord’s love and His provision through His people.

This Sunday I was catching up on the new series Pastor Craig is doing and watched the first 2 sermons for his new series, #struggles. During his sermon for week 2 on relationships he talked about how there is incredible power in presence and that presence alone speaks so much of love. I know at a time when my family and loved ones in the United States were scared for me and my wellbeing, it was great assurance that those who care and love me here were physically present with me. When my sister called and would talk to Seraphin on the phone, she knew he was sitting right next to me. When my mom called Ashley who was always in contact with those here in Benin, she found great assurance in knowing that those who love the Barchus’ were also physically present here loving me.

I write all this to say, sometimes how you can most minister to someone is to show up. If you can’t be physically present, then let them know you are praying for them and love them by showing up in other ways. Send that message. Shoot them that text. Make that phone call. Just do it. Trust me, you will not regret it and it will minister to the person possibly more than you could ever know. When I got online for the first time in almost a week after being sick and saw my email and Facebook page flooded with prayers for healing and restoration, my heart was overwhelmed with thankfulness.

I sure know it ministered to me incredibly at a time when I needed it. And you can bet your bottom dollar; I won’t be participating in this 4-letter-word sickness anytime again soon. Or at least I pray I won’t.

But, in all sincerity, thank you to those who prayed for me and who continue to pray for me daily. Please keep me, the Barchus’, the children and the staff of Arbre de Vie in your prayers. We love you and we could not do this without YOU. Thank you.

“I thank my God every time I remember you. In all my prayers for all of you, I always pray with JOY because of your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now, being confident of this, that He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.” (Phil 1:3-6)

When ebola is at your backdoor...

As I tossed and turned last night in my moderately chilly room in Sakété, Benin, unable to sleep with my mind filled with worry over various situations I found myself praying. God, please be with this situation. God, please bring justice in this other situation. God, please bring peace to my friends. God, please give us wisdom to know what to do to best care for the 30 orphans You have put in our charge with Ebola sweeping across West Africa.

To be quite honest, there are many things I anticipated experiencing my first year living in Benin, West Africa. I anticipated struggling to learn a new language. I anticipated having difficulty acclimating to a new culture. I anticipated sweating, a lot. I anticipated being exhausted more often than not. There are many things I anticipated.

But above all the things that I anticipated there was one that topped my list: Love the children and staff of Arbre de Vie and love them well. Period.

Of all the things I could have possibly anticipated, an Ebola outbreak in West Africa with enormous death rates is not something that was even remotely on my radar. But, here it is.

And now what?

As I said, my #1 priority has been and continues to be to love the children and staff of Arbre de Vie and love them well. So what does love look like? Does love look like being filled with anxiety over a virus that has swept and is continuing to spread across countries near us? Does love look like irrationally making decisions without prayerfully seeking wisdom and guidance first? Does love look like packing up all my belongings and going back to the United States until this Ebola epidemic subsides? No. That is not what love looks like when I think about what my number one priority was in coming to this country and volunteering alongside this organization.

For my life and my situation, love looks a lot like staying. I don’t know what lies ahead. Do my eyes fill with tears at times being overwhelmed with the possibility of the unknown? Yes. Does my heart race and do I look over across the table with worried eyes at Ashley and say half-jokingly, “So, I think I might need a Xanax right about now.” Sure! Does my soul ache at the thought of one of these children I love so much becoming sick with this deadly virus and then wondering what I can do to help them in their suffering? Absolutely.

But all of these questions and unknowns don’t change anything in my mind, in my heart and in my soul…I am here to love these children, these staff members and my fellow colleagues. I am here to minister to these people and I know with every single fiber of my being THIS is where God has called me.

And none of this is a surprise to Him, is it? In all my anticipation and questions with preparing to come here and live here He knew all of this was down the road. And He’s already been with me, with us, each step of the way and I know He will not leave us now.

So I will continue on. Loving these children. Loving these people. Serving these children. Serving these people. We will continue to educate our children and our staff on needed precautions for this virus and we will continue implementing procedures at our orphanage to keep those who call Yedidja home safe.

Jon and Ashley have only the children’s best interests in mind at all times and I always support them 100%. We will also continue to support those in ministry alongside us here in Benin. We are blessed with incredible friends and ministry partners and I will always 100% support them and the decisions they make for their families and their ministry. Just as they support us and our family here at Arbre de Vie.

It’s no ones place to judge. So please, instead of asking me to come home or wondering why I don’t “get the heck out of dodge”, pray for me. Pray for guidance. Pray for our kids. Pray for Jon and Ashley. Pray for our fellow missionary friends. Pray that everyone makes the best decision for them and follows boldly after the Lord and what He’s calling them to. Please. You are right here with us. Your love and support is important and incredibly vital in our life and ministry here.

And please pray that Ebola continues to stay at our backdoor because this nasty virus is not welcome at our house and we will continue to do everything we can to keep the door bolted and closed!