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"That's my boulangerie! We used to go there to buy our bread!" I proudly announced as we came into town. "And that's my tailor, right there. And that's the boutique where we would go and buy cokes on really hot days." Driving through Yako was like a blast from the past.  Yako was my very first "home" in Burkina Faso. I stayed there at "les ailes de refuge" orphanage during the summer of 2013, and now here I was again, two years later, back in good 'ole Yako.  Things have changed a little bit at the orphanage in the past two years. Nice new walls have been built, gardens have been planted, and an Aquaponics system has been installed. The school has moved to a newer and bigger location, and the old school has become a shelter for women where they can come with their children to live, receive job skills training, and hear about Jesus. The toddlers have their own play area now, and the laundry lady has her own hangar so she c

"Do you think you've changed?" she asked me as she sat across the table from me, licking her ice cream cone.  I stopped, almost frozen, thinking deeply about her question until a drop of melted ice cream plopped off the cone and onto the table, snapping me back into reality.  I have now been in Africa for three months, and I have. I have changed. You can't be here for more than a day and not be changed. I just didn't know how to articulate it.  Perhaps my definition of heat has changed. I used to be like a pansie, that cute little flower that can survive any frost but will wither up and die in the heat. Now, I can sleep when it's 100 degrees in my room at night, and I don't notice so much any more when drops of sweat roll down my back.  Or take the dust for example. The concept of dusting has definitely changed for me. Back in the United States, my mom taught me to dust once a week to remove the fine layer from all surfaces. Here, that same layer of dust a

"Today was my first Easter in Burkina," I started off my brief devotional thought in French, "and I think it was the best one for me!" They laughed, our whole team of Americans and Burkinabe, as we sat around the table after our big Easter celebration dinner Sunday night.  It really was the best Easter ever. Normally, my Easter consists of finding candy in my basket first thing in the morning (when exactly am I too old to do that?), going to church with my family, maybe wearing a new dress, eating a big lunch afterwards, and dying eggs. (Am I too old to do that, too? Because it definitely still happens around the Roussel household.) Here, Easter traditions mean a little bit more.  For months in advance, people in the village have been hearing the gospel and deciding to follow Jesus. When they do, they begin a class that teaches them about baptism and prepares them to act in obedience to Jesus' command. Then, on Easter morning, the whole church ga

I could see the colorful gathering from afar. Against the red African dirt, bright patterns of yellow, navy, and orange fabric make a beautiful contrast on dark brown skin, and everyone was packed as tightly as possible under the shade of the hangar. Even from afar, I could see the color and I could hear the sound. Patrice's voice, vibrant and passionate for the work of the Lord, brought an Easter message to the attentive crowd. After he explained the meaning of the resurrection, the significance of baptism, and the importance of abandoning fetishes and idols to follow Jesus, everyone rose to their feet and began a procession into the village. This was no ordinary procession! We first went into a family's courtyard and stopped in front of one house, where some women began to lead the crowd in singing and dancing. A man went inside with an empty burlap sack, but it didn't come out that way. And when he came out of the house, the crowd erupted into wild celebration.  Inside t

It was Friday, the Friday before Easter, the Friday when we remember the suffering and crucifixion of Jesus. Some call it Good Friday, but when I sat down on my floor with my Bible to spend some time with the Lord on this Good Friday, I didn't feel like "good" was the right name for a day of such grief. To be honest, I really didn't want to think about suffering, especially the suffering of Jesus, who is the last person on earth who I would ever  want to suffer. I see enough suffering. I come face to face with it everyday. I am surrounded by it. I hear it and smell it. I try not to let it harden my heart, but I also have to try not to let it absolutely tear me apart. Therefore the thought of sitting down to contemplate the suffering of Jesus, the one whom I love the most, was just more than I could bear on this particular Friday.  As I opened my Bible to Matthew 26 to begin reading the story of the last days of Jesus, my attention was drawn to the very first story - t

I love playing this little game. It's called "You know you live in Africa when..." You know you live in Africa when... ...No one reacts when the power goes out because it's such a normal occasion. ...You shower in your pajamas. And then shower again four more times in the middle of the night.  ...Everyone oohs and aahs when someone announces they made cookies with chocolate chips from America.  ...You have to eat your fruit and vegetables within one day of buying them (because everything goes bad so fast). ...You check your towel for cockroaches before drying off. ...Your tan washes off in the shower. ...Taking a shower cleans the entire bathroom. ...Instead of waiting for the shower water to get warm, you wait for all the hot water to empty from the pipes so you can take a cold shower.  ...You get excited when Facebook loads or when a Skype conversation lasts more than 4 minutes.  ...You drink hot coffee even when it's 108 degrees outside. ...You are off-roading