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With the weather forecast showing night time lows in the 20s, it was decided last minute to leave the the tent in the trunk and hail an AirB&B in who-knows-where Arkansas. It turned out to be a great idea. Even with the floor heaters, we could barely get the cabin above 50 degrees, so we walked around “camp” in our wool socks and warm coats, hiking during the day and cozying up in the cabin at night.  The four of us happy campers met serving at the hospital in Togo in 2018, and this was the first time we had seen each other since we parted ways a year ago. Since we were all in the United States at the same time, naturally, we planned a reunion, which is what brought us out to this AirB&B.  After a good night’s sleep, we moseyed out of our chilly bedrooms into the kitchen, which felt ten degrees warmer to my heart just because the four of us were gathered together in the same room. Elizabeth fried hashbrowns, and I stood shoulder to shoulder with her at the stove as I t

“I’m definitely going to get pho,” I announce when I walk into the Vietnamese restaurant with some friends. We sat down and received our menus, and the inevitable happened: I was suddenly overwhelmed by the choices and began to doubt what I knew I wanted.  “Need a minute?” The waiter asks.  “Yes, please,” I say even though I know what I want but I still have to read all 92 menu options to makes sure there is not something better. Guess what? I got the pho. The original classic number one thing on the entree page, and it was delicious. We in our western culture are bombarded with choices. And we are blessed by them. Getting to chose where we live and work, where we get health care, where our kids go to school, what to buy at the grocery store, even down to what to order at the Vietnamese restaurant is a liberty that a lot of the world does not have.  And here I am trying to make a choice about my future, contemplating and stressing over where in the entire world I would

Winding its way through the Ozark mountains, Interstate 49 is a beautiful drive through northwest Arkansas. It cuts into mountains, skirts along ridges, crosses high bridges over rivers and valleys, and even goes through a tunnel. It’s a countryside that wears the seasons really well - fresh green in spring, mature and lively in summer, striking colors in autumn, and even beautiful in the barrenness of winter when the rolling mountains turn to shades of dusky blue and the branches on the trees make tangly silhouettes and catch the lightest dusting of snow.   I took the drive early enough on this particular fall morning that the wide open spaces between the mountains were saturated with heavy fog. The interstate seemed to wander aimlessly through thick clouds. I held the steering wheel with both hands, happily not anxiously, and leaned forward in anticipation, glancing upward and all around through my front windshield.  Fog is a rare phenomenon in west Africa. We just don’t get