Quick Prayer Request

Abuba brought little Ellen over yesterday, saying she was hot and shaking. I took her temp and it was ridiculously high—nearly 105. I stripped her and put her in a basin with water, the poor thing. Then let her sit with Abuba with wet towels on her forehead and chest.
Her little eyes were rolling back in her head and she was shaking.
Kim and Pattie came home in the meanwhile and we took turns fanning her. We must’ve fought that fever for two hours before we finally got it to stay down.
We’re not doctors. We don’t have children’s Tylenol. We don’t have children’s malaria medicine, if that’s even what it is it. Seeing our little gem like that was heart-wrenching.
We also found out yesterday there’s something like chicken pox running through the village. Baby Pattie is covered in spots and quite miserable, as are a growing number of children. I’m not sure if chicken pox runs through here often or if we should be worried about the adults catching cases. Then there are all the elderly and pregnant women.
Anyway, I have only a minute, but I wanted to ask for some prayer for health in our villages. This chicken pox thing is on top of all the malaria that’s normally around. Thanks for your prayers!

The Napping House…

Kim and I are enjoying some study time in her room right now. Little Edek is sitting at my feet. He recently woke up from falling asleep in my lap. (And depositing a considerable amount of drool on my arm.)

He’s an unhappy little 2-year-old. His mom leaves him alone every morning and he just wails and wails. Pattie can’t stand it, so she constantly is shouting across the village to him, trying to reason with him and console him. And, yes, we’ve even stooped to giving him candy in exchange for his (albeit temporary) silence. Anymore, he’ll come sit on our rocks and look absolutely pitiable. He just scowls.

Apparently, he sees our house as a sanctuary for all crying children, as this morning he stubbornly urged me from my room to inform me that there was a children up yonder, crying. I’m not sure I like this trend.

He called me from my room again—he speaks in this very commanding voice—to inform me he wanted to come in the house. He kept informing us until we relinquished and allowed him a place on Kimmie’s rug. I put a book in front of him. He doesn’t want to read it. I’ve given him a pen and paper. He won’t draw. He won’t even talk.

But I took him in my lap and eventually he relaxed and fell asleep.

It’s somewhat a comfort to know the children trust us.

Wee little Ellen is the belle of the village and spoiled rotten. Now that she’s walking, she’s constantly making our house her playground. She clings to Kim and I and daily charms cookies out of us. Lately, she’s been sitting in my lap a lot while I work on the video. Yesterday, she took the liberty of peeing on the floor in my room. Now that’s comfortable.

Edek is pulling at my pant leg now. He wants back up.

Did I tell this story already? Our friend Cecelia (mama of baby Andrea Ibeja no Bongi—Andrea the Runner of the White People) was in a fight with her husband. They were throwing punches and at one point I looked out to see Cecelia with a big rock in her cocked hand, ready to smash it on his head. (It was a particularly striking scene, as her mom killed her father this same way. But, it’s OK, her mom is fat and therefore respected in the community.) Abuba called to us and told us her eldest son wanted to come to our house, because he was afraid and sad. His sister soon followed. We love the kids, and I’m glad for these little moments when they appear to love and trust us.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

You know when parents always say, upon brandishing the spoon or belt or administering whatever punishment is due, “This hurts me more than it hurts you.” I’m not sure I really bought that until yesterday.

I was studying in my room and heard crinkling in the kitchen. Thinking it was a goat I needed to shoo out of our trash (common event), I lackadaisically stirred to accost our intruder. But when I went out, it wasn’t a goat causing the rustling. It was Paula, Abuba’s oldest, sitting in our doorway with quite a loot—an armload of crackers and instant noodles she stole from Pattie’s room. (Don’t ask me what she planned to do with the instant noodles.)

She’s been really naughty and obstinate lately, but I was flabbergasted. How could she steal from the people who so freely open their hands and house to her? Sure, it’s just crackers. But it’s the idea. Some of the kids are just ornery, and will look me straight in the face and refuse to do what I ask of them (like leave when they’re being bad). Do you know what it’s like for your reproofs to be utterly ignored or sneered at, or to be teased by a child? It gets to your very core and your whole self rises up against it. Or maybe that’s just me?

(Maybe this is God preparing me to be a parent. But wooooeee.)

I write this purposely juxtaposed to my last entry, because the juxtaposition is part of the struggle of being here. So it really does hurt me more than it hurts her. It makes me sad and wonder if we’ll ever make an impact here, as just strange white women who warrant no respect because we’re single, have no children and are completely foreign in every single way.

And because we can’t/won’t lift our hand against the children. Imagine: The word in Lopit for “to punish” is the same for “to beat.” So the two are tightly entwined in the culture and inseparable, even in words.

So, I’m not hurting so much over silly crackers, but of how I feel like something like this takes all the steps forward I think we’re making and pummels me back to what seems like ground zero.

Fatalism

If this culture’s fatalism was at all influenced/begot by the introduction of clothes into their culture, I think I completely understand.

I think I’m becoming a bit of a fatalist myself… in the area of laundry. Every time I do laundry, it rains. It’ll be bright and sun-shiny outside, then the instant I dip my hands into the wash water, it’ll cloud up. Or thunder will rumble in response to my even making a move toward the clothespins.

Curious.

Churchgoers…

It shouldn’t go unsaid that we’ve got a lot of praise to give about our friends coming to church lately.

Mary comes every Sunday morning to our house and tells us to call her before we go down. Abuba’s kids have long gone with us. Laudina finally is coming with her kids. Davitica comes now and then. Pattie goes to get Pasca, the witchdoctor and the rainmaker before every service.

And this week, little Monica came with us. We walked by the house and her mom told us she’d get her ready to go with us. That whole relationship is amazing, because at first Ebiong wanted nothing to do with us. But now she’s one of our best friends and doesn’t miss an opportunity to greet us as she goes by or sit and have fun with us. She’s the one who leaves Baby Kim when she goes to the river. The one who laid out after our fugitive chicken and came up with only feathers—and a huge grin.

Anyway, she stripped Monica right there and gave her a bath. Probably the first time I’ve seen Monica truly clean, if it was only for a second. (She cried the whole time, as if afraid and unaccustomed to the water. We lovingly call her Stinky.) Anyway, she came and clung to either Kim or I the entire time, not quite certain of her surroundings and refusing to go to Sunday school, opting instead for the comfort of Kim’s lap.

The funniest/worst moment was when Martin was doing a play. Kim was in it, so she left Monica alone in her chair. She was happy as could be—maybe a bit anxious—until Martin closed the doors of the church. She absolutely freaked out and started screaming bloody murder. Poor Jen picked her up, only to heighten the screams. What a nice feeling it was to come to her comfort and have her wrap her little arms around me so tightly. Poor thing!

Anyway, praise God for all of our friends he’s bringing to church. And let’s pray that Ebiong and Abuba, like Laudina, start following their children to church.

The Gospel of John…

Gracious, it’s been a long time since I’ve written. I apologize—the rain clouds are keeping the sun away, and I’ve been trying to use my allotment of solar power for this video I’m making for our TIMO team. I hope you’ll forgive me.

What’s been going on? Cath and I have been working on the nursery school a lot. And we’ve had a lot of help from this Lopit Bible student, John. He’s been so wonderful to us, and such an encouragement to me. He preached at church the other day—brought the Gospel full-force—and twelve men said they wanted to become (real) Christians. Pretty sweet! Then he came up to my house and we chatted for a while. It was wonderful to hear his heart for the spread of the Gospel—not just lipservice, but a real desire to see these mountains reached for Christ. He talked too about wanting to do discipleship and build up the people who become Christians. I’d say he’s basically every missionary’s dream, right? It’s too bad he’s not here year-round; he goes to school about 90km from here with another AIM missionary. But nonetheless I was encouraged, because you could tell this guy was really Spirit-filled and had taken ownership of the vision of evangelism and discipleship. It shows me, if nothing else, it’s possible here; that it can happen. I know, God can do anything. But it’s nice to be reminded in such a obvious way.

Anyway, the nursery school building is looking great. We’re nearly done painting! I’ll send pictures when I can!

Morning Mourning…

This morning’s calm was interrupted by a group of women wailing. My heart immediately sunk to hear the sound.

My entire body seizes up to that sound, and we all rush to the fence to ask our neighbors what has happened. We had a child die two houses up from us earlier in the week and other children have also died recently, so we know the sound of mourning well. I cringed to think that we’d lost another little one.

I was relieved to find it was just relatives who’d come late from Torit to express their grieve and give condolences, but I’m afraid of when we’ll hear the next wails.

This week has been a bit like that—uneasy. Our good friend Mary’s daughter, Night, was really sick, and we were afraid we were going to lose her. Mary even came to church Sunday and asked the congregation to pray. She is the one who lost a boy to malaria this time last year, so you can imagine our fear—only a shadow of hers. It was sad to see Night’s normally smiling face so troubled as she slept and her body so listless.

I’m not sure news of this year’s huge meningitis outbreak has surfaced in the States, but I read about AIMAIR pilots bringing medicine to villages and administering vaccinations right there on the airstrip, they were so desperate. I’m always afraid of finding a case here—it’s yet to reach us.

Anyway, we sat with them a lot and prayed, and pumped her full of rehydration salts, and she seems to be going better now, praise God. But please just pray for the community here, as 9 out of 10 tests at the clinic are positive for malaria—and that’s only the people who actually go there—and there is something else going around.

Regrets…

The other day on the path, I came across our friend David, carrying his son his back.

I asked what was wrong, and he explained to me that the boy (maybe 8 or 9?) was very sick. And it was clear he was—his stomach was swollen and he looked terrible. I asked where he was taking him, and he said to get medicine. He was going in the opposite direction of the clinic, however, and I knew full-well he was going to the witchdoctor a village over. He said she was going to cut his stomach. I tried to convince him to take him to the clinic, but he said there were no people there. Which is true, because the clinic workers had some sort of disagreement and are on strike. I urged him to call Michael, the nurse. He said he couldn’t get him. I eventually gave up.

That’s the boy who died. David took him to this witchdoctor, then to a witchdoctor about 14K’s away. I sort of wish I’d wrestled the boy away from him and carried him on my own back to someone—anyone—who could help him. It’s moments like this I hate not being a doctor, not having a clue how to help the kid.

The locals say the boy went to the river and killed a snake. The snake, in turn, got into his stomach and cursed him, which is why he died.

Ugh.

Earnestness.

I’ve mentioned before that I like to indulge in a classic novel every now and then out here, that it helps keep me sane and my mind active on things a little less dense than theology and Lopit language. My mind has been pleasantly stuck on this passage from David Copperfield since I read it a few days ago.
“My meaning simply is, that whatever I have tried to do in life, I have tried with all my heart to do well; that whatever I have devoted myself to, I have devoted myself to completely; that in great aims and in small, I have always been thoroughly in earnest. I have never believed it possible that any natural or improved ability can claim immunity from the companionship of the steady, plain, hard-working qualities, and hope to gain its end. There is no such thing as such fulfillment on this earth. Some happy talent, and some fortunate opportunity, may form the two sides of the ladder on which some men mount, but the rounds of that ladder must be made of stuff to stand wear and tear; and there is no substitute for thorough-going, ardent and sincere earnestness. Never to put one hand to anything, on which I could throw my whole self; and never to affect depreciation of my work, whatever it was; I find, now, to have been my golden rules.” –Charles Dickens, David Copperfield
I’ve read it again and again, and I’ve wedged it in my mind as another buttress for my new resolve to really tackle my language learning. Today I sat down with words swimming in my head, ready to just lay off for a day, but this passage—in plain English!—came floating back to my head. “Never put one hand to anything on which you can throw your whole self. … Whatever you try to do, try with all your heart to do it well… If you’re going to devote yourself to something, devote yourself completely.”
I am devoted to these people out here, so I’d better take on with all earnestness my charge of learning the language.

Presents of mine.

Francis comes for the children’s Bible every morning, but this week has been different. When he has met me at the front door to get it from me—usually after waiting at my window for me to wake up—he’s handed me some small present in exchange.
Two days ago, he gave me some sort of small fruit. “People eat it,” he assured me.
Then today it was… well, I really don’t know what it was. Some ballish nut or fruit or something.
The best, however, was the inaugural present. It was some sort of small clay creature, which Pattie, Kim and I sat over for a long time, wondering what it could be. We’re used to seeing cows and goats and even cars before, but never something like this. After a lot of Lopit gibberish and gesturing from the kids, we came to the conclusion that it was—drum roll please—a tick.
A clay tick.
I’m sure hoping this is some Lopit gesture of deep friendship I’m yet to completely comprehend.

Language.

I’ve learned 134 words in the last two weeks—A to E in Kimmie’s Lopit “dictionary.”
THANK YOU for your prayers!

Firsts, lasts… Can we last?

After a year of firsts, we’re already come to our year of lasts. Crazy, isn’t it?

Time is going much too fast, and I wonder how another year can possibly be enough. Not even a year! Gracious!

Oh, Lord, give us the strength and endurance to run this race well!

The Future…

I sat with Abuba on the rocks outside my house the other day, talking for a long time. She was trying to convince me of the necessity of my future husband paying my father in cows and goats. She couldn’t believe that a man could get away without having to pay anything in livestock for me. (Were my father allowed to answer to this point, he would surely say the poor unfortunate man who marries me will certainly be paying… for life. I’ve said it now, to slight him the satisfaction. :) )

Further, she wouldn’t stand for this nonsense about me wanting to have a maximum of three children. I nearly told her about the American average of 1.5, but didn’t think I had the Lopit words in me to explain a half of a child. Again, no culture-conscious mission agency has alerted the Lopit people to the “different isn’t necessarily bad” mindset, so in this case, it was definitely bad that I didn’t want the Lopit dream--10 children. Eventually, I gave up.

She said I should come back here with my husband and 10 children, and that then our children could be friends. Talk about ripping my undecided-about-my-future-plans heart out. Ugh.

Bicycle Built for Two…

Somehow, someway, the church came to own a two-seater bicycle in the last week. From what I gather, they got it from a storage container in the Western Bank. Some well-intending soul must have sent the thing years ago, because it’s nearly an antique.

It’s a canary yellow, Schwinn Twinn, in the classic beach-cruiser style with rounded handlebars and huge cushions for seats. And… it’s absolutely amazing.

Kimmie and I took it for a spin yesterday, to our delight and the equal delight of any Lopit bystanders. Kim nearly peed her pants in fright as we cruised down a nearly mile-long, slowly declining track—bumping and weaving our way through huge holes and banks. She was scream-laughing her head off and yelling at me to BRAKE! BRAKE! BRAKE! as we kept gaining speed. No brakes. Hehe! She took to simply beating me on the back in fear and closing her eyes. (It is probably good to point out here that she was on the back of the bicycle.)

Anyway, no one died, but everyone laughed. It was a really, really good day. The things you find yourself doing in this tucked-away little mountain village never cease to amaze me!

Takhomasak . . .

I’m standing at my gas cooker the other day, making some lunch, with an audience of Lopit children at the backdoor, as always.

One of them, Oholong, who I don’t know to speak any English, does a little dance to get my attention, looks me straight in the eye with a devilish grin and says…

“Ibeja, Ibeja!” motioning with his hands at the door. “Take-out win-DOH.”

I was crippled with laughter. Where he got that from, I have no idea. They don’t even have take-out windows in Sudan or Kenya or Uganda, from what I know! I suspect one of my teammates…