Alright, I’ve been chewed up one side and down the other about my choice for Bill Mueller as my BoSox player.
(All these blogs I put up about ministry, without a single comment. I write about Billy and I get clobbered with emails.)
So please forgive my poor judgment.
I just wanted to be a former Cub, regardless of who the real heroes of the World Series were…
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Friday, May 25, 2007
Happy Birthday, Jen!
It’s probably not so hard to imagine that birthday’s in the bush can be a bummer if you’re not careful, so we here in TIMO (at least the single female contingency) do our best to play ‘em up big. And we’ve been doing a lot of playing lately, with Kimmie and Craiger’s birthdays last month, Pattie’s earlier this month, Martin’s yesterday and Jen’s today. Wowza. We gave Kim a weeklong birthday celebration. (The gift that kept on giving and giving and giving.) Craiger got a TIMO madlib. Pattie got a special radio show, complete with honky-talking Big Tex the radio announcer.
And Jen got malaria.
Ok, no, wait. We didn’t give her the malaria. That just happened. Haha. Poor thing.
Luckily, I think Jen’s probably one of the more resilient team members (and, like me, isn’t crazy about birthdays anyway), so she’s doing OK. She was a’suffering last night, but I think she cycled out of her fever just long enough to enjoy a special birthday tea this afternoon.Cath gave her a “Red Sox Day,” complete with a cake in the shape of a sock and a ball and a viewing of Fever Pitch later tonight. Each of us also made her a special birthday baseball card of ourselves, which I think she really liked.
(You can see them there in the picture, with Jen grinning away like mad. Jen informed me today that her parents asked if we’d had a fight, since there weren’t any pictures of her up lately. So you’re going to get a spattering now. I hope you enjoy!)
Anyway, like I said, we do our best to make birthday’s special. The packages our families send never come. (My mom sent one in December for my February birthday; I still haven’t got it. Kimmie’s Mom sent one, also in December, for her late April birthday. It’s also MIA, along with Craig’s. We pray often for our mail to come…) We miss home a bit more. Sometimes we even get malaria. (Poor Jen!) But I think, all in all, we do alright. :)
And Jen got malaria.
Ok, no, wait. We didn’t give her the malaria. That just happened. Haha. Poor thing.
Luckily, I think Jen’s probably one of the more resilient team members (and, like me, isn’t crazy about birthdays anyway), so she’s doing OK. She was a’suffering last night, but I think she cycled out of her fever just long enough to enjoy a special birthday tea this afternoon.Cath gave her a “Red Sox Day,” complete with a cake in the shape of a sock and a ball and a viewing of Fever Pitch later tonight. Each of us also made her a special birthday baseball card of ourselves, which I think she really liked.
(You can see them there in the picture, with Jen grinning away like mad. Jen informed me today that her parents asked if we’d had a fight, since there weren’t any pictures of her up lately. So you’re going to get a spattering now. I hope you enjoy!)
Anyway, like I said, we do our best to make birthday’s special. The packages our families send never come. (My mom sent one in December for my February birthday; I still haven’t got it. Kimmie’s Mom sent one, also in December, for her late April birthday. It’s also MIA, along with Craig’s. We pray often for our mail to come…) We miss home a bit more. Sometimes we even get malaria. (Poor Jen!) But I think, all in all, we do alright. :)
She’s Topps. So, here’s Jen with her baseball cards. I spent a good half an hour at team day Wednesday, trying to explain to people just what baseball cards were and what position each one of them should be. We were each members of the BoSox World Series team. I wisely picked Bill Mueller—former Cub and AL batting champion. I consider it due reward for actually knowing what baseball is… I told Steve he had to be the Green Monster. That, for better or worse, was lost on him.
Red Sox Nation—errr—Village. Kimpie and I really cowboyed up for Jen’s birthday. That’s coal marks on our cheeks. You gotta do what you’ve gotta do, you know? On the hike to Sohot, everyone kept asking what was on our cheeks. We just told them they were dirty. (How would you explain that?) Our German and South African friends weren’t quite as satisfied with that answer and wondered why the heck we had coal marks on our cheekbones. Sigh. Hello intercultural confusion.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Burping… and Other Cultural Breakthroughs
Yesterday, Kim learned the best cultural thing ever.
She was with her language helper, Mark—a constant font of language and culture knowledge… and great entertainment—and he burped. So, naturally, she laughed at him.But then he informed her that burping was a special skill in Lopitland.
Yes, it takes a very rare person to be able to do it. In fact, he’s only one of three people in the whole of Lopit who can let out long, drawn-out burps.
Which you’d think would be just random trivia, until you learn that these three gifted people, by virtue of their burping, are believed to be healers.
That’s right, healers.
Because they can burp.
You probably think I’m making this up, but I’m dead serious. And Pastor G even confirmed it today. Crazy.
Also today, Kimmie told Mark that she, too, was able to let out long burps (I can bear witness to this fact), along with nearly every person in the United States of America.
He was impressed, I guess, but quickly lowered his voice and asked if she could take some bad news.
Apparently, also in the Lopit culture, they say those burping people won’t live for very long, unless they become witchdoctors.
I think she took the bad news in stride…
She was with her language helper, Mark—a constant font of language and culture knowledge… and great entertainment—and he burped. So, naturally, she laughed at him.But then he informed her that burping was a special skill in Lopitland.
Yes, it takes a very rare person to be able to do it. In fact, he’s only one of three people in the whole of Lopit who can let out long, drawn-out burps.
Which you’d think would be just random trivia, until you learn that these three gifted people, by virtue of their burping, are believed to be healers.
That’s right, healers.
Because they can burp.
You probably think I’m making this up, but I’m dead serious. And Pastor G even confirmed it today. Crazy.
Also today, Kimmie told Mark that she, too, was able to let out long burps (I can bear witness to this fact), along with nearly every person in the United States of America.
He was impressed, I guess, but quickly lowered his voice and asked if she could take some bad news.
Apparently, also in the Lopit culture, they say those burping people won’t live for very long, unless they become witchdoctors.
I think she took the bad news in stride…
The Fellas
Though our stint at the primary school didn’t last long, with all the random vacations and confusion and lack of organization, we were there long enough to make quite a lot of friends among the teenage boys.
Our P5, P6 and P7 boys love to come by here and hang out—whether it just be to join the myriad of other children enjoying the Whiteys Show or to play cards or to help us with language or for help in math, etc.
They are so much fun.
The other day, Kim and I were playing 80’s music on my iPod speakers, and they told us to come dance with them. Long story short—they now know how to “Walk like an Egyptian.” And my stomach still hurts from laughing. Now they keep asking us to come dance with them.
They’ve taken to calling Kim, Hyena. I think that’s hilarious. They’ll walk by the fence and call to her. Hahaha. Last night, I got an animal name of my own. I’m Leopard. Kim tried to get them to call me Snake. It didn’t catch. Though once, I was bantering with Kimmie and Akang broke through, from behind the fence, “You, Snake—shh!!” We were rolling. This probably isn’t as funny to you as it was to me…
Anyway, Pattie made the mistake of asking what her animal name was.
Elephant.
That’s a high compliment ‘round these parts. In Africa, the bigger the better. I especially love the days when they tell me how fat I’m getting and how great that is and how soon I’ll be big, big, BIG! Super encouraging for an American. Luckily, I can turn around and have someone tell me I’m getting too skinny and I need to eat more…
Our P5, P6 and P7 boys love to come by here and hang out—whether it just be to join the myriad of other children enjoying the Whiteys Show or to play cards or to help us with language or for help in math, etc.
They are so much fun.
The other day, Kim and I were playing 80’s music on my iPod speakers, and they told us to come dance with them. Long story short—they now know how to “Walk like an Egyptian.” And my stomach still hurts from laughing. Now they keep asking us to come dance with them.
They’ve taken to calling Kim, Hyena. I think that’s hilarious. They’ll walk by the fence and call to her. Hahaha. Last night, I got an animal name of my own. I’m Leopard. Kim tried to get them to call me Snake. It didn’t catch. Though once, I was bantering with Kimmie and Akang broke through, from behind the fence, “You, Snake—shh!!” We were rolling. This probably isn’t as funny to you as it was to me…
Anyway, Pattie made the mistake of asking what her animal name was.
Elephant.
That’s a high compliment ‘round these parts. In Africa, the bigger the better. I especially love the days when they tell me how fat I’m getting and how great that is and how soon I’ll be big, big, BIG! Super encouraging for an American. Luckily, I can turn around and have someone tell me I’m getting too skinny and I need to eat more…
School’s In
Things got a little juggled around, with school being so crazy.
Pattie is continuing on at the primary school. I’m waiting out all the practical problems for the preschool and guarding my time for that.
And they asked Kim to teach a new program the government is pushing across South Sudan. It’s an adult, accelerated learning course. It’s for all the adults who were kids in school when the war broke and had to stop their education.
It finally got off the ground this week, an answer to much prayer.
Kim is loving it. She gets to teach a lot of the adults we know—the two house help people at America (Angelo, the guard, and Elizabeth, the househelp), the teachers, some of our neighbors, etc.
She always has good stories to tell. She says all the guys have to leave their guns outside the school building, so you’ve got this pile of rifles outside in the schoolyard. They use the primary school, so the grown men are awkwardly sitting—long legs bent like a spider’s, knees poking up somewhere above their elbows—on the logs the kids use for seats. She says a lot of them really love it and soak up every word, loving to answer what they can in English.
It’s weird, thinking of our adult friends in that situation. We love Angelo, the guard. He’s hilarious. He’s just goofy and always drunk and never doing much guarding at America. We can joke with him a lot and he says all sorts of funny things. The first day in class, he was talking with his neighbor while Mark was teaching. And so Mark called him out on it. Kimmie said he gave the most innocent look and pointed to his neighbor, shrugging. Thinking of him doing that makes me laugh so hard.
I guess the more I get to know the people here, the more we learn the bits of their personalities. And, unfortunately, the harder it becomes to communicate to ya’ll the funny little things that make life here bright and fun, despite all the other circumstances…
Pattie is continuing on at the primary school. I’m waiting out all the practical problems for the preschool and guarding my time for that.
And they asked Kim to teach a new program the government is pushing across South Sudan. It’s an adult, accelerated learning course. It’s for all the adults who were kids in school when the war broke and had to stop their education.
It finally got off the ground this week, an answer to much prayer.
Kim is loving it. She gets to teach a lot of the adults we know—the two house help people at America (Angelo, the guard, and Elizabeth, the househelp), the teachers, some of our neighbors, etc.
She always has good stories to tell. She says all the guys have to leave their guns outside the school building, so you’ve got this pile of rifles outside in the schoolyard. They use the primary school, so the grown men are awkwardly sitting—long legs bent like a spider’s, knees poking up somewhere above their elbows—on the logs the kids use for seats. She says a lot of them really love it and soak up every word, loving to answer what they can in English.
It’s weird, thinking of our adult friends in that situation. We love Angelo, the guard. He’s hilarious. He’s just goofy and always drunk and never doing much guarding at America. We can joke with him a lot and he says all sorts of funny things. The first day in class, he was talking with his neighbor while Mark was teaching. And so Mark called him out on it. Kimmie said he gave the most innocent look and pointed to his neighbor, shrugging. Thinking of him doing that makes me laugh so hard.
I guess the more I get to know the people here, the more we learn the bits of their personalities. And, unfortunately, the harder it becomes to communicate to ya’ll the funny little things that make life here bright and fun, despite all the other circumstances…
Update on the Witchdoctor
Cath and Pastor Saba had an early morning meeting with the witchdoctor who wanted to give her life to Christ after seeing the Easter Play. They met with her and explained everything to her, laid out the whole Gospel.
She said that yes, that’s what she wants. She wants to have Jesus in her life.
But, when Cath explained to her that that would mean giving up a lot of this other stuff—this worship of other gods and witchdoctoring (yes, I made that word up)—she bawked a little.
She really wants to be a Christian, wants to live for Jesus. But right now the cultural strings are too tight and too many. But she wants it—that’s what’s key. And through God, all things are possible.
Cath and Pastor will continue to meet with her. She wants to come to church and everything.
So, be praying for her convictions, for her true conversion.
Pray she’d count the cost and see the glory of God as infinitely valuable.
And pray that she’d be one of many!!
She said that yes, that’s what she wants. She wants to have Jesus in her life.
But, when Cath explained to her that that would mean giving up a lot of this other stuff—this worship of other gods and witchdoctoring (yes, I made that word up)—she bawked a little.
She really wants to be a Christian, wants to live for Jesus. But right now the cultural strings are too tight and too many. But she wants it—that’s what’s key. And through God, all things are possible.
Cath and Pastor will continue to meet with her. She wants to come to church and everything.
So, be praying for her convictions, for her true conversion.
Pray she’d count the cost and see the glory of God as infinitely valuable.
And pray that she’d be one of many!!
Friday, May 18, 2007
“Heavily Soiled”
This morning, I daydreamed about the dial on my mom’s washer at home.
Oh, to have a setting called, “Heavily Soiled” or something.
I scrubbed clothes for two hours this morning, working out the dirt from my ride the other morning.
The UNIMOG—sent out for supplies—hadn’t arrived back from Kenya the night before, like it was supposed to. That’s not such a tragedy—oftentimes the trek takes longer than we’d expect, be it because of rain filling up the rivers or trouble at the border or whatever.
Since I normally ride in the mornings, I set out to find them on their way. There’s 28K’s (‘bout 17-18 miles) of rough, muddy track between us and the main road, so I figured I’d either find them stuck in some pit on that stretch or making their way along it, having bunked up at some village the night before.
I’ve been enjoying using the bike as a little ministry lately. I ride out on the road and meet new people and find out where they’re from and try my dialect of the Lopit language on them. Sometimes I have to coax them back on to the road, after they’ve seen my white face and fled. Haha!
It’s always so neat to meet new people. I met these three hilarious women on the way. I’d stopped to check on a soft tire and a few of them came up the track. Whenever I greet them in Lopit, it always shocks them and they just start rolling in laughter. But it’s funnier when I’ve been on a muddy ride, because they gawk at how dirty I am. Remember, they’re used to only seeing mud on coal-black skin. Mud on my pale whiteness looks quite stark to them. (It’s the same with bruises or scratches, they’re always very concerned about our scratches.) Anyway, these women “lu-lu-lu-lu”ed at how messy I was, and one of them snatched my bandana from me and started wiping me down with it. We did our best to chat and they finally let me go.
About 25K’s out, I had a flat, but I was right at a village I’d greeted people at before, so it worked out well. I got to the village—the name of which rings more of Asia than the bush of Sudan (to me, anyway)—at rush hour, as the women were coming out to go to the garden. So as I sat there tinkering with my flat, I tried to greet people. Between the bike and I, we’re quite a show. Always draw a crowd.
After about five minutes, I saw all the Munimiji, armed, flying out the village and to the road. It’s always funny to watch them run past. The schoolmaster—who I had met and was talking to—told me casually that there was an “enemy” in the field they were off to track and kill him. He also told me he was upset because the teachers were at school, but the children refused to come. Africa is so weird to this Western girl…
Anyway, all ended well. I finally got the tire patched and met the truck only a kilometer more up the road, then we headed back together. The roads are much kinder to a girl on a bike than driver in a truck—I can pace with, if not beat, most lorries on this stretch. :)
Oh, to have a setting called, “Heavily Soiled” or something.
I scrubbed clothes for two hours this morning, working out the dirt from my ride the other morning.
The UNIMOG—sent out for supplies—hadn’t arrived back from Kenya the night before, like it was supposed to. That’s not such a tragedy—oftentimes the trek takes longer than we’d expect, be it because of rain filling up the rivers or trouble at the border or whatever.
Since I normally ride in the mornings, I set out to find them on their way. There’s 28K’s (‘bout 17-18 miles) of rough, muddy track between us and the main road, so I figured I’d either find them stuck in some pit on that stretch or making their way along it, having bunked up at some village the night before.
I’ve been enjoying using the bike as a little ministry lately. I ride out on the road and meet new people and find out where they’re from and try my dialect of the Lopit language on them. Sometimes I have to coax them back on to the road, after they’ve seen my white face and fled. Haha!
It’s always so neat to meet new people. I met these three hilarious women on the way. I’d stopped to check on a soft tire and a few of them came up the track. Whenever I greet them in Lopit, it always shocks them and they just start rolling in laughter. But it’s funnier when I’ve been on a muddy ride, because they gawk at how dirty I am. Remember, they’re used to only seeing mud on coal-black skin. Mud on my pale whiteness looks quite stark to them. (It’s the same with bruises or scratches, they’re always very concerned about our scratches.) Anyway, these women “lu-lu-lu-lu”ed at how messy I was, and one of them snatched my bandana from me and started wiping me down with it. We did our best to chat and they finally let me go.
About 25K’s out, I had a flat, but I was right at a village I’d greeted people at before, so it worked out well. I got to the village—the name of which rings more of Asia than the bush of Sudan (to me, anyway)—at rush hour, as the women were coming out to go to the garden. So as I sat there tinkering with my flat, I tried to greet people. Between the bike and I, we’re quite a show. Always draw a crowd.
After about five minutes, I saw all the Munimiji, armed, flying out the village and to the road. It’s always funny to watch them run past. The schoolmaster—who I had met and was talking to—told me casually that there was an “enemy” in the field they were off to track and kill him. He also told me he was upset because the teachers were at school, but the children refused to come. Africa is so weird to this Western girl…
Anyway, all ended well. I finally got the tire patched and met the truck only a kilometer more up the road, then we headed back together. The roads are much kinder to a girl on a bike than driver in a truck—I can pace with, if not beat, most lorries on this stretch. :)
Monday, May 14, 2007
Praying on the Mountain
Yesterday, it was ultra sweet because we were ready to leave for church and Abuba and Lodina—who previously only sent their children with us to church—said they were going with us! Woohoo! Happy Mothers’ Day, indeed. The moms came with us to church.
But then we hiked all the way down the mountain to the church and they told us we had to turn around and go up another mountain, that we were having church on a mountaintop today, to pray for rain.
Figures, the only time Abuba and Lodina come to church…
But it was still cool. We took on the hot sun, put the kids on our back and climbed up to the little shade tree and a handful of people, singing and praying.
Pretty sweet, if you ask me.
And then, last night as I was walking all around Lopit for two hours, trying to find a nurse to take care of this kid who had cut her toe off (emergency medicine, Lopit style), it starts to drizzle and I look up and this HUGE rainbow is stretching all the way from the Three Sisters (the three peaks, kind of the Lopit trademark) across to Oliri, another big mountaintop. Really, really cool.
And now you know.
Alright, the kids are being so funny today. I have to go play with them.
But then we hiked all the way down the mountain to the church and they told us we had to turn around and go up another mountain, that we were having church on a mountaintop today, to pray for rain.
Figures, the only time Abuba and Lodina come to church…
But it was still cool. We took on the hot sun, put the kids on our back and climbed up to the little shade tree and a handful of people, singing and praying.
Pretty sweet, if you ask me.
And then, last night as I was walking all around Lopit for two hours, trying to find a nurse to take care of this kid who had cut her toe off (emergency medicine, Lopit style), it starts to drizzle and I look up and this HUGE rainbow is stretching all the way from the Three Sisters (the three peaks, kind of the Lopit trademark) across to Oliri, another big mountaintop. Really, really cool.
And now you know.
Alright, the kids are being so funny today. I have to go play with them.
How can I not laugh?
I will confess to laughing at the Munimiji (ruling warrior guys) just now.
Yes, I know, that’s probably really bad, but I can’t help it.
They’re flowing by our fence, asking us if we’re going to the rainmaker’s garden. Well, why aren’t we going? Do we think it’s bad? (Clearly trying to start a fight.) Give them chai. Give them chai now. We have to give them things because we didn’t go to the garden. We’re so bad. If we don’t go, the rain won’t come and we’ll be in so much trouble.
But the thing is, the thunder is rumbling and the storm clouds are swirling and—duh—the rain is coming, NOW.
How can I not laugh?
The problem is, little Francis and Franco and Paula are outside, also laughing.
Even the little kids are making fun of them.
That’s so bad.
Oh, Lord, forgive my laughter…
Yes, I know, that’s probably really bad, but I can’t help it.
They’re flowing by our fence, asking us if we’re going to the rainmaker’s garden. Well, why aren’t we going? Do we think it’s bad? (Clearly trying to start a fight.) Give them chai. Give them chai now. We have to give them things because we didn’t go to the garden. We’re so bad. If we don’t go, the rain won’t come and we’ll be in so much trouble.
But the thing is, the thunder is rumbling and the storm clouds are swirling and—duh—the rain is coming, NOW.
How can I not laugh?
The problem is, little Francis and Franco and Paula are outside, also laughing.
Even the little kids are making fun of them.
That’s so bad.
Oh, Lord, forgive my laughter…
Hungry Kids
I doubt there is a missionary or even NGO worker out there who has ever adjusted to the situation of people going hungry around them, while there is food on their own table.
That’s kind of what I’m dealing with now. Or have been dealing with, I guess.
The rain came and everything, so people were able to put their crops in the ground, but now it’s just back to being hot, hot, hot and dry. And the same empty food stores are there as before the rain.
I was up at Lodina’s today, hanging out, and she was telling me about how everyone is hungry because there is no jiaji—that is, vegetables. So she’s telling me everyone is hungry. And Mundari comes and says the same thing.
I hate knowing people are hungry.
But.
Then you see the balu (beer). Mary’s brother came back from Kh. yesterday—the first time he’s been back in 20 years. So they threw an all-night party. You could smell the balu, two compounds down, where we live. (OK, you can always smell balu in these villages, but it was even more potent than normal.) The goods were a’flowing.
The night before, Lodina and her husband slaughtered a goat and had similar brew for all the people who worked in their garden. (Groups of people join together and spend a day in each individual’s garden; the individual treats everyone to beer. They go to the next garden the next day and it continues on like that, until everyone’s field has been planted.)
So you see how they have all this beer, but they say they have no food. But they make the balu from the same thing they could make regular food from. On her compound, Lodina has a really long bamboo pole with a plastic bottle on top. That means she’s selling balu. And so you ask her about it. And they all know we think balu is bad. But what can you say when she says, I sell the balu for money, so I can buy food in Torit.
It’s a Catch 22. I hate to see them waste good food on balu and not feel the repercussion for it, but I hate even more knowing that Icholpi or Thomaso or Odwari (Francis) or Franco or Paula or Ellen—the kids—would even be a little bit hungry while I’m sitting here, fat as a cow.
I guess there really is no answer.
That’s kind of what I’m dealing with now. Or have been dealing with, I guess.
The rain came and everything, so people were able to put their crops in the ground, but now it’s just back to being hot, hot, hot and dry. And the same empty food stores are there as before the rain.
I was up at Lodina’s today, hanging out, and she was telling me about how everyone is hungry because there is no jiaji—that is, vegetables. So she’s telling me everyone is hungry. And Mundari comes and says the same thing.
I hate knowing people are hungry.
But.
Then you see the balu (beer). Mary’s brother came back from Kh. yesterday—the first time he’s been back in 20 years. So they threw an all-night party. You could smell the balu, two compounds down, where we live. (OK, you can always smell balu in these villages, but it was even more potent than normal.) The goods were a’flowing.
The night before, Lodina and her husband slaughtered a goat and had similar brew for all the people who worked in their garden. (Groups of people join together and spend a day in each individual’s garden; the individual treats everyone to beer. They go to the next garden the next day and it continues on like that, until everyone’s field has been planted.)
So you see how they have all this beer, but they say they have no food. But they make the balu from the same thing they could make regular food from. On her compound, Lodina has a really long bamboo pole with a plastic bottle on top. That means she’s selling balu. And so you ask her about it. And they all know we think balu is bad. But what can you say when she says, I sell the balu for money, so I can buy food in Torit.
It’s a Catch 22. I hate to see them waste good food on balu and not feel the repercussion for it, but I hate even more knowing that Icholpi or Thomaso or Odwari (Francis) or Franco or Paula or Ellen—the kids—would even be a little bit hungry while I’m sitting here, fat as a cow.
I guess there really is no answer.
Friday, May 04, 2007
(Way past) Easter play
Cath worked up a little more drama magic and has a handful of the village children and a couple church folk putting on a neat little drama in each of the villages—one each day this week.
Martin—an amazing drama guy—is Satan. And Kim plays Mary, mother of Craig (aka: Jesus).
Then there’s baby Jesus.
Cath bought a little baby doll on our last trip out. It’s suspiciously small and almost glowingly white, but it does the job, I guess. Kim straps it to her back just like the locals here to do their babies.
Kim did the Lopit mourning with the best of them (waling “lulululululululululu”) and Craig was convincing enough on the cross (though it’s rumored that he at first simply said “oww” as they pounded in the nails), but plastic baby Jesus really stole the show.
They can’t get enough of him.
On the other hand, I’m quite sick of him.
Now, hold off on the blasphemy charges for a second.
You see, baby Jesus has a built in annoyance feature. If you “tickle” its foot, it giggles and says, “That tickles, Mommy!” over and over again.
And I do mean over and over. The people can’t get enough of him. Davitica came by this morning for the sole purpose of tickling baby Jesus’ foot. I’m trying to work through Hebrews and all I can hear is, “More, Mommy, more! Hehehehe.”
I pray my view of baby Jesus isn’t forever ruined. ;)
Anyway, last night we had the play in Husa, our village. It was great. A ton of our women friends came, and a whole swarm of kids. Martin said to me that he can tell we live and work there because so many people came. That was a big encouragement for our sometimes-weary household.
The men on the mangot clapped for the kids’ songs and when Kimmie presented baby Jesus. Kim was a little worried they wouldn’t get it when she came back in a scene later with Craig (grown up Jesus), but her fears were calmed when this guy, upon seeing Craig and Mary/Kim, shouted with glee, “Ibolo Jesus!” (Jesus is BIG!) They laughed at Satan and his attempts to tempt Jesus. They clapped and cheered when he was shooed away.
Unfortunately, lots of people also laughed at the crucifixion. The problem is, this happens a lot—whether you’re doing a play or the Jesus Film or what—because that’s what the Lopit do, it seems, when they’re uncomfortable or don’t know how to handle a situation. Rarely do they shed tears. So, yes, that takes a lot to get over.
(And, yes, they might have been laughing a bit at Kimmie’s lulululu-ing. They always get a kick out of it when we pick up on their habits.)
Anyway, despite all that, I think the message of the play did get through. The Gospel was presented; God was glorified.
And it’s the talk of the villages, that’s for sure. This morning, I kept hearing the boys talking about Jesus and Satan and quoting Craig, “Ibeti Satani!” (Get the heck out of here, Satan!)
Martin—an amazing drama guy—is Satan. And Kim plays Mary, mother of Craig (aka: Jesus).
Then there’s baby Jesus.
Cath bought a little baby doll on our last trip out. It’s suspiciously small and almost glowingly white, but it does the job, I guess. Kim straps it to her back just like the locals here to do their babies.
Kim did the Lopit mourning with the best of them (waling “lulululululululululu”) and Craig was convincing enough on the cross (though it’s rumored that he at first simply said “oww” as they pounded in the nails), but plastic baby Jesus really stole the show.
They can’t get enough of him.
On the other hand, I’m quite sick of him.
Now, hold off on the blasphemy charges for a second.
You see, baby Jesus has a built in annoyance feature. If you “tickle” its foot, it giggles and says, “That tickles, Mommy!” over and over again.
And I do mean over and over. The people can’t get enough of him. Davitica came by this morning for the sole purpose of tickling baby Jesus’ foot. I’m trying to work through Hebrews and all I can hear is, “More, Mommy, more! Hehehehe.”
I pray my view of baby Jesus isn’t forever ruined. ;)
Anyway, last night we had the play in Husa, our village. It was great. A ton of our women friends came, and a whole swarm of kids. Martin said to me that he can tell we live and work there because so many people came. That was a big encouragement for our sometimes-weary household.
The men on the mangot clapped for the kids’ songs and when Kimmie presented baby Jesus. Kim was a little worried they wouldn’t get it when she came back in a scene later with Craig (grown up Jesus), but her fears were calmed when this guy, upon seeing Craig and Mary/Kim, shouted with glee, “Ibolo Jesus!” (Jesus is BIG!) They laughed at Satan and his attempts to tempt Jesus. They clapped and cheered when he was shooed away.
Unfortunately, lots of people also laughed at the crucifixion. The problem is, this happens a lot—whether you’re doing a play or the Jesus Film or what—because that’s what the Lopit do, it seems, when they’re uncomfortable or don’t know how to handle a situation. Rarely do they shed tears. So, yes, that takes a lot to get over.
(And, yes, they might have been laughing a bit at Kimmie’s lulululu-ing. They always get a kick out of it when we pick up on their habits.)
Anyway, despite all that, I think the message of the play did get through. The Gospel was presented; God was glorified.
And it’s the talk of the villages, that’s for sure. This morning, I kept hearing the boys talking about Jesus and Satan and quoting Craig, “Ibeti Satani!” (Get the heck out of here, Satan!)
marshmallows
Here’s Lodina, trying her first ever marshmallow. I do believe that look says it all.
I spared you all the “Look at this rat I killed” and “Wow, that hole IS big” pictures; I really want you to appreciate the preciousness of Smores amidst such turmoil. To Lodina’s horror, I did that bit a couple times where your hand gets lazy and you accidently light the marshmallow on fire. She didn’t think it was nearly as cool as I did. But, then again, she also had no category in which to place marshmallows to begin with.
Husa’s Horrible Day
(I actually wrote this a while ago; so we’re well over our bad day now.)
Today was a really terrible day in Husa.
Don’t worry, I’m about to tell you why.
Got up for my morning bike ride this morning—a special one, Annika’s last here in Lopitland. When we got back from Nairobi, we’d gotten in the habit of beating the sun up and catching its stunning rise over the distant mountain ranges—this wonderful morning tradition was cut ended a couple weeks back by a fickle bike. But we’d fixed it up special for this mornings’ occasion, this one last sunrise.
Well, we hadn’t got 100 meters when the back tire went flat again and spoiled our plans.
I came home to my room to realize another thing had gone spoiled, somewhere in my room. Point one: rat population. A dirty thing had found its way into one of my big Rubbermaid action packers (full of precious supplies) and died there, apparently trying to crack the code on my extra-special jar of Jiff, now thrown down in disgust to the bottom of our longdrop. A couple of the village children actually threw themselves to the ground or removed themselves from our compound voluntarily (un-be-LIEVE-able) in reaction to the terrible smell. They then took it upon themselves to remind me of the wretched stench (“Ibeja, it smells very bad.”) at least hundred times in the next hour, as if I could forget that which so assaulted my nostrils. Praise God, he brought an onslaught of rain that sent them all scattering for shelter and officially relieved them of the post of relaying obvious and latent information.
Well, as I had the kitchen in disarray, bleaching and salvaging what I could from said precious action packer, Pattie notices there’s a little water coming into her room. This is a normal thing, but something was fishy about this, as it was seeming to flow directly from her wardrobe (already so riddled by termites) and quickly had the whole floor flooded. We added her stuff to the disarray of the kitchen and soon found the source of said water blessing.
Turns out the gutter pipe to our water tank had a little something-something go wrong, which sent the water gushing out on to the side of our house. This is an important point at which to remember I live in a MUD house.
Yes, as emphatic as the village children were about reminding me of the rat smell, they failed to even casually or singly mention, as they were catching the overflow from our tank, the fact that a HUGE HOLE was being water-blasted into Pattie’s wall.
Yes, a hole. Might has well have been a secret passage, bursting forth with water.
So I found myself slipping and slidding—in a sopping wet dress—across the plastic lid of the water tank, trying to fix the pipe problem, as Kim ran down to America—in an equally sopping wet dress—to see about getting a tarp.
The fellas sent their well-meaning condolences via the radio. And I’m sure they felt bad then. But I imagine they felt much worse about an hour later when the foundation their 3000L water tank cracked down the middle and sent the thing crashing to the ground and the water rushing down the village path. Now, that, my friends, would’ve been something to see. I can just imagine some poor, naked, wide-eyed Lopit child, standing in that rocky pathway as the water came a’gushing. (No one was hurt in the Great Longija Water Tank Disaster of 2007.)
Anyway, back in Husa, we were patching things up and laughing it off. We had neighbors come over to grab water and alternatively warm their wet selves by our coal stove, actually lit for the purpose of making ol’ Craiger a birthday cake. (No flour was to be found in Husa, however. See title about horrible day.) We ended up using it for an even greater purpose, as this bleak afternoon struck me as the perfect time to break out the Smores supplies I’d got in the mail Wednesday, sent from the States on October 10th, 2006. The chocolate was melted, the ‘mallows likewise gooely unified and the graham crackers, a bit on the soggy side, but it was amazing, roasting the marshmallows, skewed on my potato peeler. Maybe even better was watching as our neighbor Lodina tried a marshmallow. She really had no idea what to think of that.
Anyway, all seemed well when I was dry and cosy in my bed, trying to finish up that great classic, Great Expectations. But next thing I know who’s a peeping up over the side of my mattress but Mr. Rat himself, another one of those highly unwelcome fellow. Point two: rat population. It was then that I realized I was being quite ill used as the hapless landlord for that disgusting tenet and his entourage. And to think he thought us so chummy as to snuggle into my bed with me.
Quite enraged, I stalked him until my broom and I had our way.
Game, set, match (superior genes): human race.
If not for the Smores, that would’ve been the highlight of the day, for sure.
Let’s just pray that Sunday has as much goodness as it does potential—what, with that name and the Sabbath distinction…
Today was a really terrible day in Husa.
Don’t worry, I’m about to tell you why.
Got up for my morning bike ride this morning—a special one, Annika’s last here in Lopitland. When we got back from Nairobi, we’d gotten in the habit of beating the sun up and catching its stunning rise over the distant mountain ranges—this wonderful morning tradition was cut ended a couple weeks back by a fickle bike. But we’d fixed it up special for this mornings’ occasion, this one last sunrise.
Well, we hadn’t got 100 meters when the back tire went flat again and spoiled our plans.
I came home to my room to realize another thing had gone spoiled, somewhere in my room. Point one: rat population. A dirty thing had found its way into one of my big Rubbermaid action packers (full of precious supplies) and died there, apparently trying to crack the code on my extra-special jar of Jiff, now thrown down in disgust to the bottom of our longdrop. A couple of the village children actually threw themselves to the ground or removed themselves from our compound voluntarily (un-be-LIEVE-able) in reaction to the terrible smell. They then took it upon themselves to remind me of the wretched stench (“Ibeja, it smells very bad.”) at least hundred times in the next hour, as if I could forget that which so assaulted my nostrils. Praise God, he brought an onslaught of rain that sent them all scattering for shelter and officially relieved them of the post of relaying obvious and latent information.
Well, as I had the kitchen in disarray, bleaching and salvaging what I could from said precious action packer, Pattie notices there’s a little water coming into her room. This is a normal thing, but something was fishy about this, as it was seeming to flow directly from her wardrobe (already so riddled by termites) and quickly had the whole floor flooded. We added her stuff to the disarray of the kitchen and soon found the source of said water blessing.
Turns out the gutter pipe to our water tank had a little something-something go wrong, which sent the water gushing out on to the side of our house. This is an important point at which to remember I live in a MUD house.
Yes, as emphatic as the village children were about reminding me of the rat smell, they failed to even casually or singly mention, as they were catching the overflow from our tank, the fact that a HUGE HOLE was being water-blasted into Pattie’s wall.
Yes, a hole. Might has well have been a secret passage, bursting forth with water.
So I found myself slipping and slidding—in a sopping wet dress—across the plastic lid of the water tank, trying to fix the pipe problem, as Kim ran down to America—in an equally sopping wet dress—to see about getting a tarp.
The fellas sent their well-meaning condolences via the radio. And I’m sure they felt bad then. But I imagine they felt much worse about an hour later when the foundation their 3000L water tank cracked down the middle and sent the thing crashing to the ground and the water rushing down the village path. Now, that, my friends, would’ve been something to see. I can just imagine some poor, naked, wide-eyed Lopit child, standing in that rocky pathway as the water came a’gushing. (No one was hurt in the Great Longija Water Tank Disaster of 2007.)
Anyway, back in Husa, we were patching things up and laughing it off. We had neighbors come over to grab water and alternatively warm their wet selves by our coal stove, actually lit for the purpose of making ol’ Craiger a birthday cake. (No flour was to be found in Husa, however. See title about horrible day.) We ended up using it for an even greater purpose, as this bleak afternoon struck me as the perfect time to break out the Smores supplies I’d got in the mail Wednesday, sent from the States on October 10th, 2006. The chocolate was melted, the ‘mallows likewise gooely unified and the graham crackers, a bit on the soggy side, but it was amazing, roasting the marshmallows, skewed on my potato peeler. Maybe even better was watching as our neighbor Lodina tried a marshmallow. She really had no idea what to think of that.
Anyway, all seemed well when I was dry and cosy in my bed, trying to finish up that great classic, Great Expectations. But next thing I know who’s a peeping up over the side of my mattress but Mr. Rat himself, another one of those highly unwelcome fellow. Point two: rat population. It was then that I realized I was being quite ill used as the hapless landlord for that disgusting tenet and his entourage. And to think he thought us so chummy as to snuggle into my bed with me.
Quite enraged, I stalked him until my broom and I had our way.
Game, set, match (superior genes): human race.
If not for the Smores, that would’ve been the highlight of the day, for sure.
Let’s just pray that Sunday has as much goodness as it does potential—what, with that name and the Sabbath distinction…
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