Ghana Chronicles: Now THAT'S Church!

As many of you know, we made a ginormous trip to my husband's homeland last year for his mother's burial and celebration of life.  As with most things, time has a way of softening memories and that is the case with our trip to Ghana.  I equate it to childbirth where you barely remember the hours of pain and hard work when they place that little delicious bundle in your arms. In this case, I barely remember getting puked on en route numerous times due to an air sick child.  I faintly recall the utter sleep deprivation.  I have blocked out the crack-like cravings for one bite of American food.  Or the swollen ankles, horrendous stomach churning, running the girls by ipad light to the one restroom in the middle of the night after the generator went out again.  All challenges associated with being in a "developing country".  The roads, the lack of information I had, the lack of a blow dryer and hot water ya'll.  Okay so I haven't forgotten, but what I have done is remembered the enormity of the amazing times more.  I honestly am still processing the magnitude of the whole experience over a year later.  I have stories in my belly for days and they are likely to unfold but if you ask any of my three kids or myself what was the best thing we will all say the same thing.  Church.

Yep, church.  4:30 a.m., roll down the hill from the house to the church, maybe you had time to brush your teeth, maybe you didn't, maybe you had time to put on a bra, maybe you didn't.  Sleepy, semi- coherent cousins, siblings, and spouses one waking up the next to walk in a quiet and moonlit  parade full of faith and love to attend church most every morning. The church was nestled amidst vivid green vegetation in the family's ancestral village and was built just for his mom who was herself a renowned minister and pillar of the community. There were many hours we spent there in traditional attire holding formal, traditional service but it didn't hold a candle to the times we gathered at 4:30 in the morning.

At 4:30 in the morning, the experience was entirely organic.  There was nary a plan or agenda, only one prayer that naturally led into the next and one melodic song that rolled into another.  There was dancing...non-stop dancing...and singing...and  greeting one another...and hugs...and hand holding.  There was joy and grief and deeply felt faith.  There was family.  There was commonality found despite the weight of a very heavy reason for gathering that week.  There was the feeling that Grandma Lydia's legacy was in each and every prayer and person there.

As a person that has never embraced organized religion and that holds a set of beliefs that have to do with connectedness, positivity, and finding common ground while honoring our differences...I felt it.  I felt right there that there was a direct line from that church in the village surrounded by family, to something bigger than all of us.  The collective energy that lifts us up and out and makes us transcend and be better people.  It was deep and humbling and heart felt.  You can call it what you want.  Call it God, call it religion.  It didn't need a name to me.

Each morning after the last song and embrace wrapped up, we would make the trek back up the hill to the sound of roosters crowing and the sun rising over the village.  Each morning we left closer and more connected and ready to start the day.  That often meant me pining for a latte, bitching about sharing one cold shower, and resisting things outside my comfort zone....but holding on tight to the moments of ethereal transcendence.  Now THAT'S church.