If I had any question about where the children go while the parents dance, it was answered for me when I set out to leave my house about six this morning, curious to see what the people looked like then, after a whole night of wedding dancing without sleep.
I opened my door to see three little shadows sitting in a line on our front rocks. They turned their faces up to me and whispered happy hellos. I wondered how long they’d been sitting there waiting for me—perhaps summoned by my reading light at 4:30—and how many other mornings they’d sat there anxiously, to no avail.
It was probably a letdown that I told them I was going up to the ringing bell (the central sound ringing from every wedding celebration… quite nonstop… for at least two days) to see the people dancing.
It wasn’t so exciting—to us it normally isn’t—just a bunch of drunk people, scarcely dressed yet elaborately adorned with beads and any other bit of nonsense from outside, covered in white ash and gyrating awkwardly around or inside a circle.
But I’ve always wondered how they would be in the morning. We’ve been there at night, at the beginning of the all-night bashes. But never have I ventured out in the morning, though I wake up often to hear the bells and drums still going full-bore.
Well, my wondering has ceased. They’d just a bit more drunk, a bit more off-beat and a lot more likely to spontaneously break out in quarreling or fighting. But I tell you, these people would be all-stars at pulling all-nighters at college.
My curiosity quenched and my patience running thin with all the fighting, I headed back home. I felt a bit like a pied piper, collecting more and more children as I walked home, all asking if they could come to my house and play. I haven’t been doing that as much lately, and I miss it—a sentiment, it seems, shared by the kids.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
The Kissy Face
You can tell a house of missionaries is in need of vacation when they kick a child out of their compound for a week… for “making the kissy face.”
(Try to get a Lopit translation for that.)
The children are so often disobedient and indifferent to our rules, it can get trying, especially in this heat. Since we won’t wield the stick, our rebukes often fall on deaf ears and the children have taken to testing us.
But we’ll prevail… in love and discipline, I suppose… even when they mock us with “the kissy face.” Haha.
But, do pray for us as this hard, hard unit on prayer and spiritual warfare is coming to an end, the heat puts us in a constant sweat and vacation is in view, for better or for worse. It’d be so easy to go into survival mode—burying ourselves only in our studies, lying as still as possible in the shade against the heat and dropping our role as learners in the community, resolving to jump right back in the instant we get back from holiday.
I’ve been close lately to that hapless state of survival—seduced there by recent trials with my health and stress in the community, among other things—so please pray especially for me.
(Try to get a Lopit translation for that.)
The children are so often disobedient and indifferent to our rules, it can get trying, especially in this heat. Since we won’t wield the stick, our rebukes often fall on deaf ears and the children have taken to testing us.
But we’ll prevail… in love and discipline, I suppose… even when they mock us with “the kissy face.” Haha.
But, do pray for us as this hard, hard unit on prayer and spiritual warfare is coming to an end, the heat puts us in a constant sweat and vacation is in view, for better or for worse. It’d be so easy to go into survival mode—burying ourselves only in our studies, lying as still as possible in the shade against the heat and dropping our role as learners in the community, resolving to jump right back in the instant we get back from holiday.
I’ve been close lately to that hapless state of survival—seduced there by recent trials with my health and stress in the community, among other things—so please pray especially for me.
Moon Walking
Kim and I went on a night walk last night. It was beautiful.
The moon is sometimes so bright you can walk by it, and nightfall brings the only relief—albeit small—from the heat.
On a really good night, you’ll even get a sweet breeze by which to walk and wonder at God’s creation.
And wonder you would, were you here. Wow. Just wow.
Annika and I went on a bike ride the other day and both nearly fell of our bikes when we were so distracted by the view across the valley—a purple-gray horizon etched with the shadow of soft blue mountain range.
These days you’ll often fall into the humanist view that cultures untouched by modernization and our understanding of civilization set the standard to which all humanity should aspire. That is, that the people unfettered by that which we know are perfect and reflect “the way things should be.”
In light of the Bible you see it’s actually the opposite—that these people, too, are fallen, and have received none of the blessing connected to the knowledge and foundation of Christianity
Far from perfect, their lives often reflect more starkly the curse put on Adam in the garden—to suffer the effects of sin and disease, to toil hard in the land for food, etc.
But creation, it stands a mighty proclamation of its Creator, maybe even better when it is untouched, unpopulated. A person with ears can’t help but hear what these hills are saying, what the roar of the ocean screams, what the rocks cry out…
The moon is sometimes so bright you can walk by it, and nightfall brings the only relief—albeit small—from the heat.
On a really good night, you’ll even get a sweet breeze by which to walk and wonder at God’s creation.
And wonder you would, were you here. Wow. Just wow.
Annika and I went on a bike ride the other day and both nearly fell of our bikes when we were so distracted by the view across the valley—a purple-gray horizon etched with the shadow of soft blue mountain range.
These days you’ll often fall into the humanist view that cultures untouched by modernization and our understanding of civilization set the standard to which all humanity should aspire. That is, that the people unfettered by that which we know are perfect and reflect “the way things should be.”
In light of the Bible you see it’s actually the opposite—that these people, too, are fallen, and have received none of the blessing connected to the knowledge and foundation of Christianity
Far from perfect, their lives often reflect more starkly the curse put on Adam in the garden—to suffer the effects of sin and disease, to toil hard in the land for food, etc.
But creation, it stands a mighty proclamation of its Creator, maybe even better when it is untouched, unpopulated. A person with ears can’t help but hear what these hills are saying, what the roar of the ocean screams, what the rocks cry out…
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Heading Home
Hey all… Just a quick note to let you know I’m headed back into the Sudan. My eyes are feeling better, though my vision is still a little blurry—but with a healthy dose of these drops the doc gave me and maybe eventually a new prescription, I could be good as new again. Or at least I’m praying!
Thanks for all your prayers... about this and about the ministry.
I can’t wait to get back in there and see my teammates and my friends!
Thanks for all your prayers... about this and about the ministry.
I can’t wait to get back in there and see my teammates and my friends!
Thursday, January 18, 2007
my Eyes
The eyes thing is... OK. Kind of weird. I went to the Lions Club hospital here. (You ever seen the donation bins for hand-me-down glasses at restaurants? That's Lions Club.) The lady there was like, you need to come home right now and have surgery. Talk about drama. So I started the wheels on that while I looked for a guy to get a second opinion. During that time, I got over the panic of needing to go home and started instead to see all the positives. (Restocking on things like shoes, which I'm in dire need of; packing everything I should've packed the first time; seeing my parents and friends; going to an Illini basketball game.)But then I ended up at some German doc at Nairobi Hospital. He told me I didn't need to go home and to get the surgery she wanted me to get would be OK, but not altogether necessary and could end up negating itself later. Again, drama, drama. And then I was all positive about going home for no reason.And so now here I sit. I'm in Nairobi at a friend's house. I've bounced between here and the DIGUNA mission station, have relaxed very little and spent VERY MUCH between flights and bus fare and food and all that. Anyway, so I'm one big ball of stress. I've been hassling AIM AIR for a flight back into Lopitland, to no avail. They say the bush plane is out of commission for inspection all next week, which would put the next flight on the 29th. So I'm pushing for a (expensive, grr) diversion sometime early next week, but even that might be a dream.And all this to get back into Lopitland and to my team, which will be leaving for supplies and our first holiday the first week of February! Nothing like traveling thousands of Ks and paying hundreds of dollars to simply turn around two weeks later and come back. *sigh*
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Little Francis
A few days ago, I went visiting and found my favorite little friend lying on a rice bag in his compound, burning up with fever. His name is Francis; he’s four (or so his mom says—you can’t really be sure); and he truly is the light of my roommates’ and my Lopit life.
He’s on our compound almost all day every day, always with this amazing smile and cute little giggle. He used to wear a raggedy read turtleneck with shorts that had the butt ripped out. But sometime ago I gave him one of my t-shirts, which actually disappeared until Christmas—at which time it became his everyday attire. I guess that’s how it works here—the kids change clothes on Christmas. And that’s pretty much the only time. Hehe. Anyway, now he parades around in my tshirt (it’s HUGE on him) and an old (but new-to-him) pair of jeans—complete with a butt. We always joke that’s going to take a while to get used to, having a seat in his pants.
He’s my friend and helper. He hands me my clothes pins one at a time when I do laundry and empties our compost bucket proudly and without complaint. So when I saw him there, lying limp, some kind of motherly fear/panic came over me. (This is a predisposition I’m not always convinced the Lopit mothers have. They often resign to, “If Jok—the bad god—wants him, he’ll take him anyway.)
Pattie and I took his temp and it was 40.3 C and climbing. (We didn’t keep it in the full time, for fear he’d bite it.) I checked my bush medicine book for the Celsius to Fahrenheit conversion and about freaked out when I realized he was near 105 F.
The clinic is closed because the workers haven’t been paid in ages and would rather drink with the holiday visitors from Juba and Khartoum than take care of the cholera and other woes. (See previous blog about needing reliable Christian nurses… ugh.) So it’s just Pattie and I, armed only with OTC headache medicine and this stupid bush book.
And, oh yes, prayer.
But I forgot about that part somehow. I ended up picking up his hot little body and carrying him back to our house. And as he half clung to me, half sunk onto my shoulder, I told God, “I refuse to let this child die. I refuse to let you let this child die.”
Quite the ridiculous thing to say to the Creator of the universe and my only source of hope and strength, eh? What am I? What is man, that God is mindful of him, that He cares for him? And where was I when He laid the foundation of the earth, that I dare pit my will against His?
The thing is, God will be glorified. And He will be glorified how He wants to be glorified. And having that mindset is far different from the fatalist, animist mindset because there is hope in the true God and I can raise my petitions to Him. And that’s what I should have been doing as I carried Francis back to my house, stripped him, put him in a basin of water and battled his fever.
He’s on our compound almost all day every day, always with this amazing smile and cute little giggle. He used to wear a raggedy read turtleneck with shorts that had the butt ripped out. But sometime ago I gave him one of my t-shirts, which actually disappeared until Christmas—at which time it became his everyday attire. I guess that’s how it works here—the kids change clothes on Christmas. And that’s pretty much the only time. Hehe. Anyway, now he parades around in my tshirt (it’s HUGE on him) and an old (but new-to-him) pair of jeans—complete with a butt. We always joke that’s going to take a while to get used to, having a seat in his pants.
He’s my friend and helper. He hands me my clothes pins one at a time when I do laundry and empties our compost bucket proudly and without complaint. So when I saw him there, lying limp, some kind of motherly fear/panic came over me. (This is a predisposition I’m not always convinced the Lopit mothers have. They often resign to, “If Jok—the bad god—wants him, he’ll take him anyway.)
Pattie and I took his temp and it was 40.3 C and climbing. (We didn’t keep it in the full time, for fear he’d bite it.) I checked my bush medicine book for the Celsius to Fahrenheit conversion and about freaked out when I realized he was near 105 F.
The clinic is closed because the workers haven’t been paid in ages and would rather drink with the holiday visitors from Juba and Khartoum than take care of the cholera and other woes. (See previous blog about needing reliable Christian nurses… ugh.) So it’s just Pattie and I, armed only with OTC headache medicine and this stupid bush book.
And, oh yes, prayer.
But I forgot about that part somehow. I ended up picking up his hot little body and carrying him back to our house. And as he half clung to me, half sunk onto my shoulder, I told God, “I refuse to let this child die. I refuse to let you let this child die.”
Quite the ridiculous thing to say to the Creator of the universe and my only source of hope and strength, eh? What am I? What is man, that God is mindful of him, that He cares for him? And where was I when He laid the foundation of the earth, that I dare pit my will against His?
The thing is, God will be glorified. And He will be glorified how He wants to be glorified. And having that mindset is far different from the fatalist, animist mindset because there is hope in the true God and I can raise my petitions to Him. And that’s what I should have been doing as I carried Francis back to my house, stripped him, put him in a basin of water and battled his fever.
Reality
There’s danger in writing a blog update sometime after midnight when you can’t sleep.
That’s why I didn’t. Pattie and I played cards instead.
But there’s still danger in writing blogs at all, I’ve decided. The danger in writing about all the fun stories and strange adventures from my life in Africa is that people at home think my life is all frolicking through fields of African wildflowers and giving Pillsbury Doughboys to naked little village children.
I’ve come to realize that the instant I write something about how life really is hard, people at home go into deep worry about me. And I’m not one to like people fretting over my situation, so let this be a sort of disclaimer…
Life in Lopitland is hard. Sometimes I can’t sleep. Sometimes I don’t think I can stand one more mooching village woman who I don’t know demanding chai or soap or clothes or water. Sometimes I’m sick in bed. Sometimes I want more to eat than noodles or rice or beans. Sometimes I can’t think over the yelling women or crying babies. Sometimes I shoo those cute kids off my compound because they just won’t listen or stop asking for stuff. Sometimes I want to give up on learning this language, give up on bringing the Gospel here. Sometimes even my Western teammates get on my nerves!
Missionaries truly are real people.
But we’ve got the same God here as we did back in the comfort and familiarity of our homes and churches in America. And we’re spurred on because we love that God, and that God loves these people, even when we can’t or don’t want to. And He’ll keep us and sustain us.
So, please, don’t worry! But definitely pray.
That’s why I didn’t. Pattie and I played cards instead.
But there’s still danger in writing blogs at all, I’ve decided. The danger in writing about all the fun stories and strange adventures from my life in Africa is that people at home think my life is all frolicking through fields of African wildflowers and giving Pillsbury Doughboys to naked little village children.
I’ve come to realize that the instant I write something about how life really is hard, people at home go into deep worry about me. And I’m not one to like people fretting over my situation, so let this be a sort of disclaimer…
Life in Lopitland is hard. Sometimes I can’t sleep. Sometimes I don’t think I can stand one more mooching village woman who I don’t know demanding chai or soap or clothes or water. Sometimes I’m sick in bed. Sometimes I want more to eat than noodles or rice or beans. Sometimes I can’t think over the yelling women or crying babies. Sometimes I shoo those cute kids off my compound because they just won’t listen or stop asking for stuff. Sometimes I want to give up on learning this language, give up on bringing the Gospel here. Sometimes even my Western teammates get on my nerves!
Missionaries truly are real people.
But we’ve got the same God here as we did back in the comfort and familiarity of our homes and churches in America. And we’re spurred on because we love that God, and that God loves these people, even when we can’t or don’t want to. And He’ll keep us and sustain us.
So, please, don’t worry! But definitely pray.
Site for Sore Eyes
Sudan can be a rough on your eyes.
I mentioned before that something is up with mine. Steve and Iris decided eyes aren’t something you mess around with, so I’m going to be heading into Kenya on the next plane.
Please pray for the logistics of that—hopping a flight first from the bush to Loki, then from Loki to Nairobi—and for the expenses. Unless I can jump in with a Samaritans Purse flight from Loki to Nairobi, it’ll be $170 each way, plus whatever it is to get picked from Lopitland.
I’ve never had to travel over 1000k to see an eye doctor before.
Pray also against discouragement and frustration. My biggest battle is on this front sometimes.
I mentioned before that something is up with mine. Steve and Iris decided eyes aren’t something you mess around with, so I’m going to be heading into Kenya on the next plane.
Please pray for the logistics of that—hopping a flight first from the bush to Loki, then from Loki to Nairobi—and for the expenses. Unless I can jump in with a Samaritans Purse flight from Loki to Nairobi, it’ll be $170 each way, plus whatever it is to get picked from Lopitland.
I’ve never had to travel over 1000k to see an eye doctor before.
Pray also against discouragement and frustration. My biggest battle is on this front sometimes.
Say Cheese!
My roommates and I have been near a breaking point this last week.
We’re out of good food. Our supply of ‘fresh’ veggies left from the Loki trip are gone. We’ve been blessed so far to have a few cans of fruits, vegetables and even processed meat (!!!) to call our own. When a bunch of missionaries pulled out of Sudan, they sent a lot of supplies and tins Steve’s way. And some people sent stuff just for our team, because everyone was pretty excited about us. But we hit that container hard and there isn’t much left now, so Steve and Iris closed the ‘Gates of Food Heaven.’ Hehe. There’s a huge 40-foot container in Yei, but we can’t get to it because security isn’t that great—there have been lots of attacks on the road. And tins in Loki are 200+ KSH each—that’s around THREE DOLLARS each. Now, don’t think we’re starving. We have food! But with nothing much more than beans, rice and noodles, we’re realizing how great those gift cans were. And we will from now on appreciate them more (especially if we’re shelling out hundreds of dollars for fruit cocktail and Spam).
We hadn’t gotten mail in nearly a month. Christmas came and went, but no one got their Christmas cards or packages. That’s rough, especially when you know there’s stuff coming.
But then came Kurt and Hannah.
They’re veteran DIGUNA missionaries in the Congo, and they’re amazing. We met them and were blessed by their fellowship when we were in Nairobi in October. But when they came Sunday for a short visit… wow.
First, we got mail.
My roommates got handfuls of letters and cards. I got an AIM statement. Talk about devastating. But, nevertheless, it was great.
Then they came up to our house for lunch. I’m not sure there is another field of work in which you have so much contact with people who are so experienced in what they do nor a field in which it’s so important to have that kind of contact. And, what’s more, they want to share what they know with you. They brought a leveling perspective to three girls aching from the second round of culture shock and wondering at times if they’re getting anywhere in ministry. And they brought encouragement, stories, new conversations…
And cheese.
Oh wow.
Cheese.
It’s been four months since we had cheese.
And they brought a huge chunk of cheese.
CHEESE.
Pattie, Kimpie and I were nearly moved to tears.
Oh, praise God! Cheese!
After we showed them along the path to their next stop, we ran back into the house and just stared at it, thinking about all the wonderful things we could cook with it. And they said we had to eat it all that night because it would be bad by morning. (No fridges in the bush.)
Suddenly, the food world broke open. We had CHEESE. They also brought us eggs, onions and potatoes. We deliberated about what to cook—cheese quesadillas, omelets, cheesy potatoes, cheesy rice, cheesy lentils, cheesy beans, flour and cheese… just cheese, cheese, cheese. During that time, Kim ate half her cheese. But no matter, we still had plenty. Too much, in fact.
We stuffed ourselves with cheese omelets and cheese potatoes.
And it was so amazing.
Of course, this morning we were all terribly sick. But that answered our question of whether eating too much cheese would cause constipation or diarrhea.
And we all agreed that every moment over the longdrop was worth it.
We’re out of good food. Our supply of ‘fresh’ veggies left from the Loki trip are gone. We’ve been blessed so far to have a few cans of fruits, vegetables and even processed meat (!!!) to call our own. When a bunch of missionaries pulled out of Sudan, they sent a lot of supplies and tins Steve’s way. And some people sent stuff just for our team, because everyone was pretty excited about us. But we hit that container hard and there isn’t much left now, so Steve and Iris closed the ‘Gates of Food Heaven.’ Hehe. There’s a huge 40-foot container in Yei, but we can’t get to it because security isn’t that great—there have been lots of attacks on the road. And tins in Loki are 200+ KSH each—that’s around THREE DOLLARS each. Now, don’t think we’re starving. We have food! But with nothing much more than beans, rice and noodles, we’re realizing how great those gift cans were. And we will from now on appreciate them more (especially if we’re shelling out hundreds of dollars for fruit cocktail and Spam).
We hadn’t gotten mail in nearly a month. Christmas came and went, but no one got their Christmas cards or packages. That’s rough, especially when you know there’s stuff coming.
But then came Kurt and Hannah.
They’re veteran DIGUNA missionaries in the Congo, and they’re amazing. We met them and were blessed by their fellowship when we were in Nairobi in October. But when they came Sunday for a short visit… wow.
First, we got mail.
My roommates got handfuls of letters and cards. I got an AIM statement. Talk about devastating. But, nevertheless, it was great.
Then they came up to our house for lunch. I’m not sure there is another field of work in which you have so much contact with people who are so experienced in what they do nor a field in which it’s so important to have that kind of contact. And, what’s more, they want to share what they know with you. They brought a leveling perspective to three girls aching from the second round of culture shock and wondering at times if they’re getting anywhere in ministry. And they brought encouragement, stories, new conversations…
And cheese.
Oh wow.
Cheese.
It’s been four months since we had cheese.
And they brought a huge chunk of cheese.
CHEESE.
Pattie, Kimpie and I were nearly moved to tears.
Oh, praise God! Cheese!
After we showed them along the path to their next stop, we ran back into the house and just stared at it, thinking about all the wonderful things we could cook with it. And they said we had to eat it all that night because it would be bad by morning. (No fridges in the bush.)
Suddenly, the food world broke open. We had CHEESE. They also brought us eggs, onions and potatoes. We deliberated about what to cook—cheese quesadillas, omelets, cheesy potatoes, cheesy rice, cheesy lentils, cheesy beans, flour and cheese… just cheese, cheese, cheese. During that time, Kim ate half her cheese. But no matter, we still had plenty. Too much, in fact.
We stuffed ourselves with cheese omelets and cheese potatoes.
And it was so amazing.
Of course, this morning we were all terribly sick. But that answered our question of whether eating too much cheese would cause constipation or diarrhea.
And we all agreed that every moment over the longdrop was worth it.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Cultural Strongholds
One of the wisest things anyone as ever said to me was from my friend Sprouts way back in the day. He said, "Andi, you can't expect people who don't know Jesus to act like they do."
This morning as Kim and I sat down to do our Bible study, I was forced to remember that bit of wisdom. We sat there as we heard our neighbor and friend Susannah yelling and beating on a small kid. The child was just screaming, wailing in pain and trying to run away. Susannah was chasing her. This stuff always causes a moment of crisis. You want to run out of the house, demanding them stop and railing them for it. An even better case is when they're so drunk with balu (the local beer) they're doing absolutely ridiculous and terrible things. You want to somehow persuade them that balu is bad and it makes them do stupid things and why don't they just stop?! But you can't expect people who don't know Jesus to act like they do.
Eventually I couldn't stand it and went outside, heart beating and wanting to take a stick to this woman like she was to the child. The other women were standing there, watching, as Susannah chased the kid up the path. And when they caught view of me, you could see the news ripple up the houses -- "Ibeja is watching."
They tried to greet me casually. I could do nothing but stand there and coldly stare up the path to where Susannah was. By this time, the kid had either gotten away or she was done with her. I can't stand the idea of someone beating a child. It tears at my very being. I hate it in the States, but I hate it even more here. Beating is just what you do. Husbands beat their wives; wives beat the children. And they know it's bad. The women will sit at our table -- even Susannah -- and tell us it's bad, just like they'll tell us balu is bad. We make a point of not crusading around telling them everything they're doing is bad. It doesn't work. They have to know why it's bad. And, in many cases, they have to know Christ to know that.
I know that seems impossible because all of you have grown up in cultures where, sure, fathers may beat their children, but they hide it. Here, it's just part of the culture. Not long ago, our friend William was beating his wife Anuk terribly. Anuk ran to our house, yelling for Kim to open the gate and protect her. The whole thing escalated to the point where eventually Anuk yanked Kim in front of her and pulled her to the ground, using Kim as a kind of shield. William just beat her still, avoiding hitting Kim. And there are four adorable children -- Paula, Francis, Frano and Ellen -- who are our favorites. They're sweet and wonderful and great to us. And we always hear their mom tearing into them or beating them. The sound of her voice calling their names makes me cringe. But she's our friend. And I'm somehow thankful that at least we can give them love.
What would you do? How do you react? It's a tricky thing, and it's not as easy as you might think. This morning I wanted to yell at Susannah. I wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her and tell her this was a CHILD, a LIFE. And I wanted to sweep that child away, comfort her and hide her away somewhere where none of the stupid people here could hurt her. But instead all I could do was watch as she came down the hill, still holding that stick, suddenly noticing I was watching. And when she got to me, I muttered in response to her greeting, turned around and went home. And I cried. because you can't expect people who don't know Jesus to act like they do.
And these people don't know Jesus. Yet.
This morning as Kim and I sat down to do our Bible study, I was forced to remember that bit of wisdom. We sat there as we heard our neighbor and friend Susannah yelling and beating on a small kid. The child was just screaming, wailing in pain and trying to run away. Susannah was chasing her. This stuff always causes a moment of crisis. You want to run out of the house, demanding them stop and railing them for it. An even better case is when they're so drunk with balu (the local beer) they're doing absolutely ridiculous and terrible things. You want to somehow persuade them that balu is bad and it makes them do stupid things and why don't they just stop?! But you can't expect people who don't know Jesus to act like they do.
Eventually I couldn't stand it and went outside, heart beating and wanting to take a stick to this woman like she was to the child. The other women were standing there, watching, as Susannah chased the kid up the path. And when they caught view of me, you could see the news ripple up the houses -- "Ibeja is watching."
They tried to greet me casually. I could do nothing but stand there and coldly stare up the path to where Susannah was. By this time, the kid had either gotten away or she was done with her. I can't stand the idea of someone beating a child. It tears at my very being. I hate it in the States, but I hate it even more here. Beating is just what you do. Husbands beat their wives; wives beat the children. And they know it's bad. The women will sit at our table -- even Susannah -- and tell us it's bad, just like they'll tell us balu is bad. We make a point of not crusading around telling them everything they're doing is bad. It doesn't work. They have to know why it's bad. And, in many cases, they have to know Christ to know that.
I know that seems impossible because all of you have grown up in cultures where, sure, fathers may beat their children, but they hide it. Here, it's just part of the culture. Not long ago, our friend William was beating his wife Anuk terribly. Anuk ran to our house, yelling for Kim to open the gate and protect her. The whole thing escalated to the point where eventually Anuk yanked Kim in front of her and pulled her to the ground, using Kim as a kind of shield. William just beat her still, avoiding hitting Kim. And there are four adorable children -- Paula, Francis, Frano and Ellen -- who are our favorites. They're sweet and wonderful and great to us. And we always hear their mom tearing into them or beating them. The sound of her voice calling their names makes me cringe. But she's our friend. And I'm somehow thankful that at least we can give them love.
What would you do? How do you react? It's a tricky thing, and it's not as easy as you might think. This morning I wanted to yell at Susannah. I wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her and tell her this was a CHILD, a LIFE. And I wanted to sweep that child away, comfort her and hide her away somewhere where none of the stupid people here could hurt her. But instead all I could do was watch as she came down the hill, still holding that stick, suddenly noticing I was watching. And when she got to me, I muttered in response to her greeting, turned around and went home. And I cried. because you can't expect people who don't know Jesus to act like they do.
And these people don't know Jesus. Yet.
Tyranny of Time
We had a team day yesterday and one of our articles to discuss was about the unrealistic expectations of new missionaries -- ones that often cause them to leave the field early. There's the inability to relate to the host culture or pick up the language, family problems, living conditions, the expectations of missions boards back home, being jarred by suddenly being a nobody on the field, etc.
The one that really struck me, as we're coming up on the six month mark and I often am frustrated I don't know more language or have better relationships, is the area of time. The author said this, "In my home church, when I was young, warm feelings crept over me when I heard missionaries tell how nice it was of the natives to call them 'mother.' Many years later I learned you had to earn the title, not because you had white skin, but because you had persevered long enough to have gray hair. . Time is the price we pay."
It's true, time is the price. And it sometimes seems like a high one. Patience and perseverance. I know I committed to two years here and I know my plan is to go long-term, but sometimes it's easy to think about those years as just that, years, and not the months, weeks, days and MOMENTS that make up those years.
One other thing I liked from the article, an area I can really identify with, as I'm often saying I came to Africa and became completely stupid. "The new missionary, picked for leadership skills and all-around talent at home, suddenly is thrown into the role of learner, a student begging for a chance to serve. No one knows his or her worth, or even cares. . Simple, everyday tasks become complicated, or even traumatic."
How true those words are! The mission field is about the most humbling place in the world!
The one that really struck me, as we're coming up on the six month mark and I often am frustrated I don't know more language or have better relationships, is the area of time. The author said this, "In my home church, when I was young, warm feelings crept over me when I heard missionaries tell how nice it was of the natives to call them 'mother.' Many years later I learned you had to earn the title, not because you had white skin, but because you had persevered long enough to have gray hair. . Time is the price we pay."
It's true, time is the price. And it sometimes seems like a high one. Patience and perseverance. I know I committed to two years here and I know my plan is to go long-term, but sometimes it's easy to think about those years as just that, years, and not the months, weeks, days and MOMENTS that make up those years.
One other thing I liked from the article, an area I can really identify with, as I'm often saying I came to Africa and became completely stupid. "The new missionary, picked for leadership skills and all-around talent at home, suddenly is thrown into the role of learner, a student begging for a chance to serve. No one knows his or her worth, or even cares. . Simple, everyday tasks become complicated, or even traumatic."
How true those words are! The mission field is about the most humbling place in the world!
Fuel for Prayer
A pastor Daniel and Steve worked with a few years ago died in a car accident the other day. He'd jumped on to an army truck, which ended up tipping over on a turn. The pastor jumped from it, but was crushed. Someone came by and picked him up. Ironically, it was someone who actually knew him, but he couldn't tell who he was because his face was all swollen. He took him to the hospital in Torit to be treated, but it was Christmas, so the pastor just laid there unconscious and unattended in a bed for two days, where he died.
The hospital didn't know who he was, but he had facial markings for his tribe, so they called someone from his tribe. The woman didn't know who he was, but she kept his body in her house for two days until she could get money and people to help her bury him. The church finally realized their pastor had died and looked all over for him. They came upon people digging the hole and asked whose body it was. It was his, and they requested they would be able to bury him behind the church.
Steve talked really highly of this guy-one of two, he said, really strong national Christians who had taken real ownership of the church. He says it will be hard for him to be replaced -- there just aren't the Christian bodies, let alone the drive and talent this guy had. He also used it as a spur on to prayer for us, in the area of the medical care here.
The clinic was started by the African Inland Church (or AIM missionaries) and still bears the AIC name, but the nurses aren't Christian. And there is a difference between Christian caretakers and those who aren't. A man lay in a bed for two days and died because the workers at the hospital in Torit were just that-workers. Nothing more. So he asked that we pray for our own clinic workers (they are so few) and that someday we can give good Christian care.
The hospital didn't know who he was, but he had facial markings for his tribe, so they called someone from his tribe. The woman didn't know who he was, but she kept his body in her house for two days until she could get money and people to help her bury him. The church finally realized their pastor had died and looked all over for him. They came upon people digging the hole and asked whose body it was. It was his, and they requested they would be able to bury him behind the church.
Steve talked really highly of this guy-one of two, he said, really strong national Christians who had taken real ownership of the church. He says it will be hard for him to be replaced -- there just aren't the Christian bodies, let alone the drive and talent this guy had. He also used it as a spur on to prayer for us, in the area of the medical care here.
The clinic was started by the African Inland Church (or AIM missionaries) and still bears the AIC name, but the nurses aren't Christian. And there is a difference between Christian caretakers and those who aren't. A man lay in a bed for two days and died because the workers at the hospital in Torit were just that-workers. Nothing more. So he asked that we pray for our own clinic workers (they are so few) and that someday we can give good Christian care.
Cholera for Christmas
And you thought coal was bad.
A handful of folks came from two village-clusters over with cholera. I talked with Michael at the clinic; he said there were five. One died, but the other four went home fine. But now we just know it's out there, so please pray that it doesn't spread over here. (This cluster of villages is far enough away I've never ridden to it.)
It's really a nasty thing, this cholera. It passes really easily among those who are hygienically inclined (read: every single person in Lopitland) and can take its fatal toll fast if not treated. BUT -- nobody freak out -- for those of us who wash our hands and who are more selective about where we "go" and what we eat, it's not that big of a deal.
If anyone remembers, they had a terrible outbreak before I came. I wrote blogs about it. You can look back. (I want to say mid-March.) But, my team leaders waded through sick people for hours on end for three weeks and didn't get sick. Neither did their children. And all you have to do is keep hydrated and it'll pass.
So don't worry about me. But pray for these people. Since dry season is upon us, there isn't as much water readily available. And James, the area's chief, came by Wednesday to let us know we shouldn't use the water from the rivers anymore-it's bad. And people can carry it without showing signs, so that makes it even more tricky.
Oh, and while you're at it... The village I rode my bike to a while back hit a rough spot this week as well. Some lady got mad at her husband. or her husband's other wife. or something. and burned their hut down. Along with 34 or so others. So there are a bunch of unfortunate people whose homes (and the food stored inside) are now ashes. I haven't been other there yet, but they need your prayers as well!
The great thing about South Sudan is it never leaves you short on prayer requests..
A handful of folks came from two village-clusters over with cholera. I talked with Michael at the clinic; he said there were five. One died, but the other four went home fine. But now we just know it's out there, so please pray that it doesn't spread over here. (This cluster of villages is far enough away I've never ridden to it.)
It's really a nasty thing, this cholera. It passes really easily among those who are hygienically inclined (read: every single person in Lopitland) and can take its fatal toll fast if not treated. BUT -- nobody freak out -- for those of us who wash our hands and who are more selective about where we "go" and what we eat, it's not that big of a deal.
If anyone remembers, they had a terrible outbreak before I came. I wrote blogs about it. You can look back. (I want to say mid-March.) But, my team leaders waded through sick people for hours on end for three weeks and didn't get sick. Neither did their children. And all you have to do is keep hydrated and it'll pass.
So don't worry about me. But pray for these people. Since dry season is upon us, there isn't as much water readily available. And James, the area's chief, came by Wednesday to let us know we shouldn't use the water from the rivers anymore-it's bad. And people can carry it without showing signs, so that makes it even more tricky.
Oh, and while you're at it... The village I rode my bike to a while back hit a rough spot this week as well. Some lady got mad at her husband. or her husband's other wife. or something. and burned their hut down. Along with 34 or so others. So there are a bunch of unfortunate people whose homes (and the food stored inside) are now ashes. I haven't been other there yet, but they need your prayers as well!
The great thing about South Sudan is it never leaves you short on prayer requests..
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