I know Friday morning has arrived because it is so quiet. Gone are the early morning minibuses honking, the bread man tooting his cart horn, and taxis zooming by. The dusty streets outside are nearly deserted. Even the call to prayer is silenced.

In Djibouti, Africa, where my family and I currently call home, Friday is our Sabbath. Streets are bare, markets are closed, and mosques are full. Friday is a day for everyone to spend with family, visit relatives, and worship.

Church for us consists of my husband and me, our two young children, and a returned sister missionary friend. Although it has been difficult in some respects to be so removed from a formal church unit, I have learned some great life lessons within the walls of our own home.

The terminology has taken more getting used to than the practice: “Friday dinner,” “Friday best,” “Friday School.” They just don't have the same familiar ring. We usually avoid the confusion and refer to Friday as the Sabbath.

My 5-year-old son Ravi thinks it's quite common for children everywhere to rotate their day of worship, depending on where they live.

“Where are we going, Mom?”

“Germany,” I answer.

“What day will we go church?”

“Sunday.”

“Oh. Sunday,“ he replies, as if any answer would be correct. “What language will they speak in Primary?”

“German,” I say.

“Oh,” he says and thinks for a minute. “Will I have to wear shoes?”

We meet in our living room for church. Though we wear our Sabbath best, we don't wear shoes inside the house. It's the first time I've ever attended my meetings barefoot.

Having our Sabbath on Friday takes some advance planning, since we don't get a Saturday to shine our shoes and wash our hair. Thursday evening after work becomes the time to prepare our clothes and make sure there's some form of dinner available for the Sabbath. We get our Saturday following the Sabbath instead of before.

“And that thou mayest more fully keep thyself unspotted from the world, thou shalt go to the house of prayer and offer up thy sacraments upon my holy day.” (D&C 59:9)

A shopper protects her head from the heat of the day.

Outside, the call to prayer starts quite early at 4:45 a.m. A nearby mosque's loudspeakers broadcast frequently throughout the day. I find the chant melodic and calming, though the Arabic words hold no meaning for me. Our children sleep through it in the morning, and it lulls them to sleep at night. Each time I hear it, I think of my own faith, and my heart turns to prayer. I find it a frequent reminder to “pray always.” (D&C 10:5)

I am one of a small handful of Christians in the country of Djibouti. This former French colony is 94% Muslim, and these good people have become my neighbors and friends. They have strong family values, culture and traditions. I respect them immensely.

I love the way they wear their religion on their sleeves, always apparent in their dress, their actions, their prayers on mats outside supermarkets, businesses, anywhere. Religion here is not a taboo subject, only discussed among the most intimate of acquaintances. It is referred to often, even at work: announcements about Ramadan, a plea to be more patient with staff who will be fasting, a reminder of an upcoming religious festival.

Five-year-old Ravi stands out from his schoolmates.

We received five hymnbooks for our wedding. At the time I laughed and wondered if we should return them. Now, all these thousands of miles away, we use each and every hymnal in our home.

Djibouti is officially under the Nairobi Kenya mission, and there is a small group of LDS servicemen that rotate through Camp Lemonier, the only sub-Saharan U.S. military base in Africa. They hold their sacrament meeting on Sunday, which is a workday for us, so we are not able to attend. My husband has permission from the mission president in Nairobi to administer the sacrament and to hold meetings in our home on Friday. We pay our tithing in my parents' ward, though we have never lived there. It feels good to have our records somewhere, rather than floating around cyberspace.

The city looks entirely different from cities in the United States, but this is the place the author's children call home.

We do not have a temple anywhere accessible, though we make an effort to find one when we travel. Last summer we attended a ward in Nuremburg, Germany. I felt the tears well up when I joined my Relief Society sisters to sing a familiar hymn. Just to be with other saints, singing the hymns of Zion (even in German), was a powerful experience.

People ask me if I feel my children are deprived by not attending Primary. I suppose on some level, yes. However, I know they are growing in the gospel as much as they would be anywhere else.

Ravi and friends.

Secretly I think they are even stronger than they might be otherwise. They get individualized attention during Primary, since they are the only ones. We follow the same lesson manual and try to gear our Family Home Evening lessons around the Sharing Time principles for the year. They miss connecting with other children but they don't miss any doctrine.

They also attend “Monday School” with a group of other Christian children, where they sing songs and discuss the Bible. Though I was a little hesitant at first, they really have enjoyed it.

Ravi said recently, “Mom, did you know that the Bible is a very special book?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“It teaches about Jesus,” Ravi added.

“Yes it does.”

“Why don't they use the Book of Mormon too?”

I explained a little and was grateful for another teaching moment in his young life. I was thankful for others, though not of our faith, who strengthen his testimony of our Savior.

Like children all over the world, Ravi enjoys playing soccer.

Each week I am responsible for something at church, often many things — a sacrament talk, Sunday School lesson, Relief Society/Priesthood lesson, pianist, chorister, prayers. It has forced me to come prepared to each lesson, for I have read the material and am ready to contribute.

I have no formal calling, not even as a visiting teacher. My life has become my calling. I am a mother, a wife, a neighbor, a friend.

My husband administers the sacrament and I am filled with gratitude each week that he is a worthy priesthood holder. His priesthood is our lifeline, in a way I never needed so desperately. There is one piece of bread for each one of us. If someone is missing, it is obvious. Was the Savior's Atonement worth it for just these few pieces of bread and water? Was it worth it for just me? Within my heart I know the answer.

“For where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I in the midst of them.” Matthew 18:20.

Produce is brought to the market by local farmers.

It's hard enough for me to make sense of this world. Why do some people have so much and others so little? Trying to explain such things to my 5-year-old is nearly impossible.

The fruit may be plentiful, but many do not have the money to buy.

For three months we didn't have a vehicle, so we did a lot of walking. As soon as we'd step outside of our gates we were noticed. The color of our skin, the way we dressed, the magnitude of our house — all these things set us apart.

Children came up to us with their hands outstretched, pointing to their mouths, begging for money. Some had parents nearby, others didn't.

A herd of goats is driven through the city streets by a local woman.

It made me sad, but for little Ravi it nearly broke his heart. He almost couldn't handle it. The conversation always went something like this:

“Mom, we have to give them some money.”

“Not right now. There are other ways we can give.”

“But you have change in your pocket — I can hear it.”

“You're right, I do.”

We'd usually end up giving something. Then I would try to explain in a later setting a question I hardly know the answer to myself: what is the “right” way to give?

Local basketmakers show their wares.

I firmly believe everyone has to answer this question individually. What works for one doesn't work for all.

For us, this has been a difficult issue and is one I still struggle with. We've found a few local charities to support. We have hired help in our home to provide jobs. We pay our offerings. We donate unneeded items to others. We share our resources in whatever ways we can.

But for Ravi, this isn't good enough. He needs to see it, to be part of it. So, we look for ways to let him help. We have a few children that come up to us each week at the store. We usually buy them a banana, a carton of milk or an apple. A few times they haven't been there and part of me hopes they're in school. But the next week, there they are, recognizing my vehicle immediately.

Of his own choice, Ravi has shared many of his toys and clothes. Whenever he earns any money, his first thought is to share it. If only we could all do likewise.

“… inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” (Matthew 25:40)

Weavers visit as they work.

I've always loved America, but living overseas in an area where there are only a small handful of Americans has made me really appreciate this wonderful country.

How do I instill in my children a sense of responsibility — not entitlement — to be an American? They will grow up overseas, in a variety of countries and cultures. They will really only visit America instead of live, at least until they leave home. Will they remember that they have red, white, and blue blood? Will they know all the good we stand for and what that means?

Living abroad in a remote part of Africa means we are removed from nearly everything familiar. The brands of food in the grocery store are unfamiliar, labeled mostly in French and Arabic. It's a constant struggle to fill our pantry with items that I know how to use and that the kids will eat. When I finally do find all the ingredients for, say, lasagna, it turns out quite different from what we're used too and I wonder why I even bother going to four different grocery stores for an end product I don't like. Our taste buds are adapting and we are getting accustomed to more garlic, ginger, lentils, and tomatoes than I ever thought reasonable.

The kitchen may look familiar, but the food doesn't taste the same.

I realize how many small and seemingly insignificant things comprise America. It's not the big stuff I miss, really: the Statue of Liberty, the Golden Gate Bridge, paved roads, plumbed restrooms, or clean drinking water from a tap. America is about the small stuff: outside playgrounds and green grass, grocery stores that remain open during daylight hours, movie theaters, Betty Crocker, Frisbees, Jell-O, Costco, peanut butter & jelly, barbequed hamburgers, waffle irons, clean rivers and lakes, garbage collection trucks, animal clinics, soup kitchens, and children's laughter.

America is a land of opportunity, a place where a young girl or young boy can grow up to be anything he or she wants to be if he or she works hard enough. A family can buy a home, send their children to school, go to Disneyland, and buy Christmas presents — not only in the same lifetime but in the same year.

In Djibouti, I am surrounded by people who are suffering in severe poverty, who live in the field across from my house in nothing but a tin-roofed shelter. I see children who will spend their entire lives without stepping foot into a classroom.

Our evening guard is the father of five, who supports his mother, several siblings, and a handicapped aunt — all on the amount of money most of us spend at the grocery store each week. His brother is our gardener, who is often seen wearing an Old Navy t-shirt. He has an American flag on his key ring, claims to have a large American flag in his bedroom and calls himself an American at heart. These are good people with solid hearts, hard lives, and dreams that seldom materialize.

America is about giving, sharing, teaching, encouraging, reaching, supporting, loving, and dreaming. It's made up of a million little things: a million smiles, a million prayers, a million thank yous. It's about remembering what our forefathers started and what so many have given their lives for.

“In memory of our God, our religion, and freedom, and our peace, our wives, and our children.” Alma 46:12

Camels share the road with motorized vehicles.

The kids and I enjoyed this past summer in America. We had a whirlwind of a time: visiting family and friends, attending church, going to Wal-mart. We did things, big and small: bowling, playing on the playground, picnicking on the grass, swimming, attending museums, riding public transportation, listening to concerts in the park, attending local day camps and activities, washing the car, going on walks and eating out.

After one such day, Ravi said, “Mom, I want to go home. Let's get on a plane in the morning and go home.”

His comment caught me off-guard and I thought of the fun things we had done that day. But none of that seemed to matter briefly for him. He wanted to go home, where he could sleep in his own bed, play with his own toys and friends and see his daddy.

While my children are very mobile and excellent travelers, they know and appreciate what it means to be home. Even though we live thousands of miles away from everything familiar to me — that is their life, their familiarity. That is their home, at least for now. That is what they know.

They don't really care where we are, as long as we're together. Ultimately, that's all that really matters. That's home.

“There is beauty all around, when there's love at home.” Hymn 294