We live on top of the world in Menyamya. When leaving, one is always going down. When returning, one is always coming up. Elevation and direction are irrelevant.
In the picture above chicken feathers are strewn on top of a roof. They were placed there as part of a ritual in which a husband brings his wife meat a few days after giving birth to mark the time she is allowed to start sleeping inside the house again. If the feathers were left on…
Granddaughter and the grandma raising her.
New Years is a time for meat in Menya. This morning Lucy said nonchalantly, “None of our cats got eaten.” (That’s one less than last year.)
Passed on the chance to buy this noise maker today.
Mati had a baby boy last week. Sorry for leaving you hanging if you were waiting to find out.
Santa came a day early to Menya. No reindeer.
After nearly five weeks alone in Menya, we are happy to have the Chappells back so we can cram a month of Christmas celebration into ten days.
I just heard 4 of our local men tell a visitor why they need a Bible in their own language—with the reasons we presented at our meeting.