deeper thoughts: FuFu

Thud. Thud. Thud.

It’s a rhythmic pounding. Consistent. Thud. Thud. Thud.

It can be heard in the early mornings or evenings outside of homes in Kumasi.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

It’s the pounding of FuFu, a traditional Ghanaian dish made out of the cassava root and plantains. It’s quite the process, one that takes time, energy, and strength. It begins with the cassava root, a staple food here that is similar to yam. First the root must be peeled and cut into smaller pieces. Then it’s boiled, to make it soft and malleable. After that it’s placed in a mortar about the size of a bucket and the pounding process begins: the heavy eight-foot pestle is lifted up and down, into the base of the mortar.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

After the cassava is sufficiently mashed, the plantain is added and pounded into the mixture. Thud. Thud. Thud. The process can take up to an hour, depending on the softness of the cassava. The harder the root, the longer it takes.

I’m like Cassava.

God uprooted me from my land, my comfortable hole in the ground, and brought me here. The process began almost immediately, as He peeled away the comforts that I clung to: the security of fellowship and deep friendships, American conveniences, and my idea of myself.

His Word and the Spirit’s whispers then began to penetrate my heart and reveal my weaknesses; I felt as through He was cutting me over and over again, conviction after conviction. Rebellion and bitterness teased me, and my heart came close to hardening.

Then came refinement: boiling. Through the heat and pursuit of His enduring love, my heart became softer and softer, recognizing its need and dependency upon its Creator.

Lord, I surrender all of my heart to you…make me what you want me to be. Put me in the mortar.

And then came the pounding:

Thud. Thud. Thud.

consistent reminders of His will and purpose for my life.

Rebecca, live in communion with me. Thud.
Rebecca, Let me mold you. Thud.
Rebecca, Trust me. Thud.

It’s been quite the process, one that isn’t over yet.

poem: awake

Awake

It waits in silence, expectant
In its dormant position. Still
And inclined, long neck extended
From its figure-eight frame.
It can do nothing but wait
For its Musician: the One
Who understands it well enough
To evoke the beautiful song.

It was carved from a tree
For one purpose: to be held
In the hands of a Skilled
Artisan. Without Him, it is nothing—
Only wood held together with glue
Hollow on the inside, asleep.

But with Him it is everything—
Complete. He puts His fingers on the
Six strings, serrated, metallic.

Then He sings over it, rejoicing
As notes reverberate, come alive
At His command. Created chords dance
With fingertips that strum
pick, pluck, move
Rest, Effortless.

When He reaches down
To touch it—to lay His
Hands upon it—it awakes
And responds. Delighted
To complement and accompany
His voice. Together they make music.

~rjr

(reference: psalm 57:8)