Back to reality…

I’m back in Sudan—have been for a while—which means I’m a bit out of touch with the world.
That hit home last week when I found out on Sunday night that my Grandpa had died Thursday morning. It’s strange, being so far behind.
So, in light of my bush reality, to those who exchange emails with me, forgive me for not answering or being behind or sending off only a quick note under the sinking-solar-power gun.
I want to be sure to spend lots of time in the community, so the communication will be lacking. I’m confident you’ll understand! And I’ll try to keep you updated on here as much as I can.
Oh, and that doesn’t mean I can’t receive emails—I do like getting notes from home.
Thanks for understanding!

Cheap shots...

So, the other day I “hit the deck”  in response to gunfire for the first time.

It seems everyone has their stories. In fact, at our retreat the other day, I came upon three of the SoSud fellas exchanging their tales over the BBQ pit.

Yeah, I hit a landmine in my car. Felt like lightning. Rebels were firing shots just over our heads in the village. We had to run from Antioch bombs to the shelters. It was as if we were in slow motion. The sky was red and orange with exploding shells. Etc, etc.

You can hear some pretty intense stuff if you listen long enough.

As it turns out, however, mine was more just humorous.

But first, some framework through which to see this.

In Lopit, gunfire is pretty common. Every guy has a gun and its purpose is often exchanged from a tool of war to a medium of expression. “I’m happy!” Bang, bang! “This man came back after 20 years away!” Bang, bang, bang! “I’m just plain drunk!!!” Bangity, bang, bang!

So, we rarely jump at shots. There’s always a calculation—conscious or unconscious—once they go off, a considering of the facts. Can I attribute this to a loud party next door? Did someone just come back from the North? Are my neighbors absolutely wasted? Just where it is coming from? How many shots?

Then there’s the embarrassment factor: How certain am I that if I react in a serious way to this gunfire, I will be ridiculed for the rest of TIMO?

So, clearly, the calculation is key, though it takes only a millisecond or so.

This particular night the three of us were in the kitchen, diligently making samosas. The village was relatively quiet—no parties or dances or funerals or homecomings of any sort.

But then it was just like, Bang-bang, bang-bang-bang, bang-bang, bang-bang-bang, etc. Right in our front yard, it seemed.

Now, about the sixth or seventh bang in there, the scale of the calculation started to tip a bit and the “This sure isn’t usual” alarm bells started going ringa-dinga-dingy.

Oh, wow, if you could have been there for this part!

Kim just stands there, blankly. “Deer in headlights” seems appropriate.

Meanwhile, Pattie—true to form, “bless her heart”—goes into a bit of a panic, spinning around and around and moving closer and closer to the standing cupboard thingie, which I think she darn near climbed inside.

Turns out all that spinning was her looking for me, who—as it also turns out—she sees as the sort of go-to girl in these situations. She said she assumed I had a plan and know what to do, so she was looking to follow me. Haha. She’s so sweet. (Kim is just as capable as I am.)

But, well, of course she didn’t see me in her panic spins because I had somewhat unconvincingly—remember the “ridicule for the rest of your TIMO life” factor—dropped to my knees.

Which, might I add, is exactly what we’ve been told to do when there’s gunfire in the villages.

And which I DID add… when the shots stopped ringing, Pattie stopped spinning, Kim came to and they were both looking at me expectantly.

“This is what we’re supposed to do.”

Half an apology. Half a question.

Wholly out of fear of ridicule.

(Thankfully, they agreed and I was spared any and all ridicule, and instead can dish it out…)

So, there you have it, my first hit-the-deck story, in all its lack of glory!

Lopit Carnival Music

Today I started teaching Ellen how to throw things in the rubbish bin. I figure she might as well be useful as she’s running in and out of my room like a madwoman.

I see in her a sincere desire to be helpful, but I’m afraid it’s always only manifested in everything becoming sticky and scattered.

What’s that Pattie says? “Bless her heart.”

To be honest, it’s hard to distinguish this place from a madhouse lately. There’s a handful of grimy kids crowded around the coloured pencils and paper I put on the table. Never does more than two minutes pass without at least one of them yellering at me to come and look at their latest squiggle.

I’m trying to sweep and dust and scrub every inch of what the termites left of my room, stray supplies and books and clothes scattered about, waiting to be put in their places. The windows are lined with big eyes which are attached to the equally big mouths, snapping out demands for my things at quick intervals.

You’ve got Ellen giggling and bouncing from place to place, only stopping occasionally to plop herself down in the middle of the madness and intently arrange her new dress around her like the pedals on a flower.

Oh, then there’s the women carrying water for us who demand tea each time they come up and are constantly trying to cheat us out of more soap or clothes for payment.

Babies crying. Toddlers peeing or poohing in our yard or house. Kids shouting. Women fighting.

Goats. Rosters. Cows.

I read this book—Me Against My Brother—and in it, the author wrote about the UN/US tactic in Somalia of blaring carnival music outside the bad guys’ headquarters, to drive them mad or into submission. (I think they did something like this in Waco, Texas, too.)

I can totally see how that would be effective.

Home at Last, Home at Last...

Thank God Almighty, we’re home at last!

I woke up this morning to the sun glowing red-orange over the mountainside, and it just felt right.

We flew in yesterday, after having had our bush flight canceled and resurrected a couple of times over. (That’s just the way it goes.) Lopit is beautiful from the sky. I wish you could see it. You’d hardly know it was here, hidden away in the mountains. It’s funny, flying over this part of Southern Sudan, because—to me, anyway—it looks like a whole bunch of nothing, especially during dry season, when it’s all just dust. (Does that contradict me saying it’s beautiful? I stand by my contradiction.)

But, we’re finally here.

I will admit to hoofing it up the mountain as fast as possible, overstuffed, uneven rucksack and all. Our friends saw us from afar (someone is always watching…) and came to shake hands or hollered down at us from their perches.

I’d been daydreaming of my reunion with little Monkey Do for a quite a while now, so you can imagine my heartache when she looked at me like I was an alien and took flight, whimpering.

Kids are so fickle.

(It didn’t take her long to get back into following us around and begging for attention, don’t worry. She’s here now, in my lap.)

Otherwise, it’s good to be back in the house, back with my roommates, back in the village and back with our little friends.

Smells like rain...

I love the smell of rain.

And I love the saturated colour Lopit takes on when it’s raining.

And, I will admit, I sort of love that a good soaking muffles the village activity a bit. Normally frantic and constantly a-buzz, our paths and compound get much more calm when it’s raining.

Sure, sometimes Francis & Co. come over to dance and yelp in the big drops falling on our front rocks, or to play in the overflow of our water tank. And, yes, a lot of times our friends will rock up, soaking wet, to partake in that extra water as well, filling their jericans and popping inside for some hot chai.

But sometimes the rain offers me moments like this one, where I can sit at my desk, sip my hot chocolate, watch the puddles form and the clouds roll, and enjoy in relative quiet the weather and Word of my Maker.

April Prayer Letter

Finally. :)

Enjoy, folks.

Hellos.

That's Kenyan English for "hello" when addressing multiple people.

Also, a surefire way to drive me absolutely crazy.

In other news, we're going up to Loki today. So praise the Lord.

Random...

I’m in love with a man named Paul.

I think I have been since the day my friend Derek walked me through Romans 1 for the first time, when I didn’t have a clue how to read the Bible.

Seriously, though, Paul is awesome.

I suppose I like him because he’s hardcore. He won’t stand for cheap grace, a watered-down gospel or anyone daring to bring shame to the name of Christ.

Favorite hardcore Paul moment: Galations 5:12. I mean, wow, he said that?? Hahaha.

And his heart, oh! I bet he’d be the kind of guy who cries in movies. You know, if the movie were about, say, the saints in one of the churches he’s planted.

Anyway, with a lot of time on my hands, I’m working on falling more in love with Paul and the God his inspired words reveal…