It’s still hot, hot, hot dry season here, but we may be witnessing a little change in the spiritual season here in Lopitland.
Like I told you before, the rainmaker has come back. She’s the big deal—the mother of the guy who was here before. She came in from Uganda and has been the focus of much worship, much to-do in these last two or three weeks. People have been flooding in from the other Lopit villages to greet her, pay homage, bring gifts and work on her compound and in her field. It’s been the buzz of this place.
But there hasn’t been rain. Not a drop.
It’s actually been hotter and drier since she came.
And it’s left some of the Munimiji wondering.
Yesterday the men beat the drums in all the villages, a call to all the surrounding villages—miles and miles away—for the people to bring their grain to the rainmaker and for the men to ready for the big day of hunting. All the Munimiji take the long, long foot journey to the valley to hunt (their wives, however, carry all of the equipment) for one day and bring back meat offerings for the rainmaker and witchdoctor. But even as the drums throbbed, some of the men were talking to Cath and Jen about the extreme weather and their confusion.
Pastor the other day said that some of the people (probably the ones who would call themselves Christians) would even say God brings the rain, but they think of the rainmaker rather as a go-between for them—that is to say, sort of like a priest representing their pleas before God, not the one who actually brings the rain.
In their conversation with the warrior guys, Cath and Jen told them about the true go-between, our liaison to the throne, the High Priest, the only one by whom we can approach the Father. Cath asked how it was that the rainmaker could even approach the Father, without believing and trusting in the Son, and explained that we must ask God, in Jesus’ name, for the rain to come.
They said, yes, you’re right—you go ahead and pray to Jesus for rain then. But eventually Cath explained that they could pray themselves, and encouraged them to do just that.
The girls relayed the story to us over the radio, when they’d got back from praying with the Munimiji.
It could be this is a huge step—huge.
I’ve wondered lately if the lack of rain—it should be coming by now—is God showing himself, showing his judgment on a people bent on worshipping the creation, not the Creator. I’ve hoped that maybe this is the time He’s chosen to make them see HE is the one who brings the rain, not this lady or any human. And as terrible as this heat is for us as well, I think we’d all gladly taken months and months more of it, if they would only see and turn away from their ways and to Jesus.
We certainly don’t always understand why God does bring rain when He does, as if He is encouraging the people to continue on with the rainmaker. But we know God makes His sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust. And His purposes—sovereign and incapable of being kept from coming to pass—and character—good, holy, immutable, just—are perfect in timing and end.
And I—we—will wait on Him.
Saturday, April 07, 2007
“God has died.”
Do you remember those blessed off days in grade school in high school?
I didn’t even mind school so much, but I fondly remember vacation days. It was like enjoying some forbidden fruit—sleeping in on a weekday. What delicious scandal! Absolutely thrilling.
And, though I was still up before the rosters this morning, I’m feeling a bit of that same excitement now, as it’s nearly seven, I’ve been in the Word for three hours and have no compelling, pressing reason to close the Good Book now.
Good Friday, you know. No school.
Or, as the kids told us last night—some of our students had the good mind to come let us know there was no school; we would never have heard that from the “administration” (ie: drunk Willy B.)—we have no class because… “God has died.”
Huh?
Yeah, apparently the message went a little awry somewhere.
Don’t worry, we good missionaries assured them that God (the Father) never died. In fact, he is very much alive; but today is the day Jesus (also God, the Son) went to the cross to die for our sins.
Either way (I rather prefer the latter), we’re off school today. And I know it’s Good Friday and there could be an argument that this isn’t such a joyful day, since it’s when Jesus was tortured on that tree. But, first, there’s no school, and I will admit—that makes this teacher very happy. And, second (and more… spiritually), I feel like I can be happy because I know the end of the story, you know? I can see this day as another in a God’s wonderful work of redemption, when the veil in the Temple—not everything—came tumbling down.
Ah, that blessed Man who went to the cross!
Unfortunately, just as Jesus was resurrected, so will be school.
But, thankfully, while Christ did his good work in just three days, school will take a bit longer—we’ve got four until Monday.
Happy Easter, everyone. He is RISEN!
I didn’t even mind school so much, but I fondly remember vacation days. It was like enjoying some forbidden fruit—sleeping in on a weekday. What delicious scandal! Absolutely thrilling.
And, though I was still up before the rosters this morning, I’m feeling a bit of that same excitement now, as it’s nearly seven, I’ve been in the Word for three hours and have no compelling, pressing reason to close the Good Book now.
Good Friday, you know. No school.
Or, as the kids told us last night—some of our students had the good mind to come let us know there was no school; we would never have heard that from the “administration” (ie: drunk Willy B.)—we have no class because… “God has died.”
Huh?
Yeah, apparently the message went a little awry somewhere.
Don’t worry, we good missionaries assured them that God (the Father) never died. In fact, he is very much alive; but today is the day Jesus (also God, the Son) went to the cross to die for our sins.
Either way (I rather prefer the latter), we’re off school today. And I know it’s Good Friday and there could be an argument that this isn’t such a joyful day, since it’s when Jesus was tortured on that tree. But, first, there’s no school, and I will admit—that makes this teacher very happy. And, second (and more… spiritually), I feel like I can be happy because I know the end of the story, you know? I can see this day as another in a God’s wonderful work of redemption, when the veil in the Temple—not everything—came tumbling down.
Ah, that blessed Man who went to the cross!
Unfortunately, just as Jesus was resurrected, so will be school.
But, thankfully, while Christ did his good work in just three days, school will take a bit longer—we’ve got four until Monday.
Happy Easter, everyone. He is RISEN!
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Rainmaker, rainmaker, go away…
I don’t think it will ever cease to be discouraging when our entire village empties as everyone goes to serve the witchdoctor or rainmaker.
I guess that’s the one nice thing about dry season—the rainmaker issue isn’t quite so in-your-face. But now that rainy season is coming, the battle is picking up again.
Yesterday it was recoating the rainmaker’s house in dung that called all of Husa to the well (to get water to make mud) or to the rainmaker’s compound, not too far from here.
This, of course, meant a whole day of being hassled to come get water to bring to the rainmaker. And I do mean the whole day—they woke me up in my yard in the morning and were still haggling me about it as I laid down outside to go to bed.
“Come, awohini water for the rainmaker!”
“Ibeja, why aren’t you going to the well?”
“You’re bad and will be cursed. You’re all bad!”
Meh.
It was especially sad to see the women who came to church on Sunday and heard Steve preach—and Pastor translate into Lopit—about how these are mere men. To see them going just as mindlessly and willingly as anyone else. To try to talk with them, recall with them what Steve said and see how the two things were at odds. All to no avail.
Someday, someday…
In other, more encouraging news, I stopped by the future preschool compound yesterday and saw that Akili and Phillip had indeed arranged for poles to be brought for the bamboo fence—and they’d actually been brought. Things like that don’t normally happen here. So praise God for that.
Yes, everything isn’t so doom and gloom here, haha.
And Easter is coming! Jesus is risen, ruling King!
That ought to be enough to bouy our spirits—it should always be enough…
I guess that’s the one nice thing about dry season—the rainmaker issue isn’t quite so in-your-face. But now that rainy season is coming, the battle is picking up again.
Yesterday it was recoating the rainmaker’s house in dung that called all of Husa to the well (to get water to make mud) or to the rainmaker’s compound, not too far from here.
This, of course, meant a whole day of being hassled to come get water to bring to the rainmaker. And I do mean the whole day—they woke me up in my yard in the morning and were still haggling me about it as I laid down outside to go to bed.
“Come, awohini water for the rainmaker!”
“Ibeja, why aren’t you going to the well?”
“You’re bad and will be cursed. You’re all bad!”
Meh.
It was especially sad to see the women who came to church on Sunday and heard Steve preach—and Pastor translate into Lopit—about how these are mere men. To see them going just as mindlessly and willingly as anyone else. To try to talk with them, recall with them what Steve said and see how the two things were at odds. All to no avail.
Someday, someday…
In other, more encouraging news, I stopped by the future preschool compound yesterday and saw that Akili and Phillip had indeed arranged for poles to be brought for the bamboo fence—and they’d actually been brought. Things like that don’t normally happen here. So praise God for that.
Yes, everything isn’t so doom and gloom here, haha.
And Easter is coming! Jesus is risen, ruling King!
That ought to be enough to bouy our spirits—it should always be enough…
Sweating bullets…
It’s really hot here—about 104 in the shade (I don’t know what with the heat index)—and I’m about two more drops of sweat from going nuts.
I guess this makes me a whiny missionary, but please pray for our sanity!
And pray for rain—we have no water!!!
I guess this makes me a whiny missionary, but please pray for our sanity!
And pray for rain—we have no water!!!
HOM WORK
Sometimes I make the mistake of saying “Good morning!” when I walk into the classroom before class technically starts.
This spurs my students immediately and queerly into action, as they shoot to their feet and robotically respond, “Good morning, teacher!”
The routine continues with equal robotic flare.
“How are you, students?”
“We are fine, thank you. How are yewwwww?”
“I’m fine, students. You may be seated.”
Then they all fall to their makeshift seats, as if someone cut their legs out from under them.
I accidently stumbled on to said well-rehearsed routine the second day I taught. I think I’m still botching it some, but I do my best to remember it. I’m sure they were lost without it that first day.
Teaching has been hard so far this week, and we Husa girls have spent two nights dreading the next day’s class, I’m sad to say. We do our best to stay positive, but there’s still no timetable, still no direction, still no help from anyone. And each of our classes derailed so badly Monday that it’s a miracle we all didn’t crumble right then and there.
Another teacher came into Kim’s class and scolded her kids for half an hour.
The drunk headmaster, William (who clearly had a hangover this particular morning), paid my classroom the same visit and demanded to know why they wouldn’t participate, why they refused to learn. His big fuss might not have been so bad, had he not tried to explain the assignment I’d written on the board. He explained it entirely wrong, undid any teaching I’d done and ended with a bang by writing “HOM WORK” really big over it all.
Someday, my students will learn something. I am so hopeful.
This spurs my students immediately and queerly into action, as they shoot to their feet and robotically respond, “Good morning, teacher!”
The routine continues with equal robotic flare.
“How are you, students?”
“We are fine, thank you. How are yewwwww?”
“I’m fine, students. You may be seated.”
Then they all fall to their makeshift seats, as if someone cut their legs out from under them.
I accidently stumbled on to said well-rehearsed routine the second day I taught. I think I’m still botching it some, but I do my best to remember it. I’m sure they were lost without it that first day.
Teaching has been hard so far this week, and we Husa girls have spent two nights dreading the next day’s class, I’m sad to say. We do our best to stay positive, but there’s still no timetable, still no direction, still no help from anyone. And each of our classes derailed so badly Monday that it’s a miracle we all didn’t crumble right then and there.
Another teacher came into Kim’s class and scolded her kids for half an hour.
The drunk headmaster, William (who clearly had a hangover this particular morning), paid my classroom the same visit and demanded to know why they wouldn’t participate, why they refused to learn. His big fuss might not have been so bad, had he not tried to explain the assignment I’d written on the board. He explained it entirely wrong, undid any teaching I’d done and ended with a bang by writing “HOM WORK” really big over it all.
Someday, my students will learn something. I am so hopeful.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Storytelling
This is about my thousandth post today. It’s been a big week, sorry.
I wanted to clue you in on another ministry my team, as a whole, is doing.
New Tribes Mission put together this Creation to Christ series—a great storytelling kit that begins with God creating the world and goes all the way through the Bible to Christ. The idea is to use storytelling—a popular way of communicating information in cultures like ours—to set up a good, well-grounded foundation for a decision for Christ.
They’ve broke it up into a 40-week program, complete with a picture and story each week, which you can take to different levels of depth, depending on your audience.
Our plan is this. We will all do the same story each week, slowly making our way through the program. We want to saturate the community with one story a week.
We will all work to translate it and look for a way to incorporate it into our formal ministries or present it to a targeted group of people each week. So I’ll use it all week with my preschool kids and maybe work it into my English curriculum at the school. I’ll likely also use on one night to show the kids that come to play at our house. Cath will do that story at her kids’ Sunday school and with the young men and women she plans to work with during the rest of the week. Pastor will use it in his English/Lopit language classes. Joshua will probably use it at the Bible School. Jen and Craig will present it in their youth group. Heinrich will sit on the mongot with the Munimiji and tell them the same story. Doris will tell it to patients at the clinic, or the clinic workers. If I end up type-setting a newspaper after all, we’ll print the story in there. Everyone will be using it somehow.
And around here, stories like that don’t stop with the reader. We’ll be hitting the community from all different directions with one story, and they’ll be talking to one another about it. In that way, people will be talking about it, thinking about it and even spreading it. It will be the buzz each week.
And that’s the gameplan.Pray that we’ll get the materials from Nairobi quickly so we can start the weeks.
Pray for good translation and perseverance in that work, especially.
Pray that the church would join in the story-of-the-week push, too, and use it during the actual church service.
Pray for open ears and open hearts as we go through.
Pray that the continuity would lead to better understanding, better foundation for people who do end up choosing Christ.
We’re all really stoked about this. I hope you are, as well!
I wanted to clue you in on another ministry my team, as a whole, is doing.
New Tribes Mission put together this Creation to Christ series—a great storytelling kit that begins with God creating the world and goes all the way through the Bible to Christ. The idea is to use storytelling—a popular way of communicating information in cultures like ours—to set up a good, well-grounded foundation for a decision for Christ.
They’ve broke it up into a 40-week program, complete with a picture and story each week, which you can take to different levels of depth, depending on your audience.
Our plan is this. We will all do the same story each week, slowly making our way through the program. We want to saturate the community with one story a week.
We will all work to translate it and look for a way to incorporate it into our formal ministries or present it to a targeted group of people each week. So I’ll use it all week with my preschool kids and maybe work it into my English curriculum at the school. I’ll likely also use on one night to show the kids that come to play at our house. Cath will do that story at her kids’ Sunday school and with the young men and women she plans to work with during the rest of the week. Pastor will use it in his English/Lopit language classes. Joshua will probably use it at the Bible School. Jen and Craig will present it in their youth group. Heinrich will sit on the mongot with the Munimiji and tell them the same story. Doris will tell it to patients at the clinic, or the clinic workers. If I end up type-setting a newspaper after all, we’ll print the story in there. Everyone will be using it somehow.
And around here, stories like that don’t stop with the reader. We’ll be hitting the community from all different directions with one story, and they’ll be talking to one another about it. In that way, people will be talking about it, thinking about it and even spreading it. It will be the buzz each week.
And that’s the gameplan.Pray that we’ll get the materials from Nairobi quickly so we can start the weeks.
Pray for good translation and perseverance in that work, especially.
Pray that the church would join in the story-of-the-week push, too, and use it during the actual church service.
Pray for open ears and open hearts as we go through.
Pray that the continuity would lead to better understanding, better foundation for people who do end up choosing Christ.
We’re all really stoked about this. I hope you are, as well!
Baby Andrea
The Lopit don’t name their babies for at least three days after their born. But the suspense over what Cecelia’s new baby’s name will be is over.
She named it “Un-drey-yew.”
Which, umm, is Lopit for the German pronunciation of Andrea (“un-drey-uh”).
Andrea.
That’s me.
I should tell you that if someone came here to Lopit and asked for “Andi,” you’d be given only blank stares, even if you spoke perfect Lopit. The Lopit don’t know me as Andi—largely only as Ibeja. Only a few know Andrea, and they rarely use it.
But, anyway, Cecelia and the ladies got a hold of Andrea, and the baby will heretofore be known as such.
Though I did confide to Cecelia that my mother calls me “Andi,” which she liked a lot, so we’ll see.
I went to visit yesterday and the little one is doing well. I held her for a while—she took the opportunity to pee on me. (All Lopit babies seem to enjoy doing that to the white girls.)
Cecelia took the opportunity to tell Idiongo (Andrea’s older sister) that I had come to take the baby home with me, that I was now the mother. And, in fact, I was going to take Oluwaha (her brother), Idiongo and Andrea with me back to Kenya, where I live. (Recall that the USA is actually in Kenya, according to Lopit logic.) And we’d all live there together. Idiongo was admittedly afraid, until Cecelia told her she’d go, too, and Iris would be there. Idiongo loves Iris, Cecelia tells me, because Iris gave her clothes and shoes. At that, Idiongo was read to hop on a plane—baby sister, big brother and all, and come live with me in the United States.
I hope Andrea grows up to be as funny as Cecelia is.
She named it “Un-drey-yew.”
Which, umm, is Lopit for the German pronunciation of Andrea (“un-drey-uh”).
Andrea.
That’s me.
I should tell you that if someone came here to Lopit and asked for “Andi,” you’d be given only blank stares, even if you spoke perfect Lopit. The Lopit don’t know me as Andi—largely only as Ibeja. Only a few know Andrea, and they rarely use it.
But, anyway, Cecelia and the ladies got a hold of Andrea, and the baby will heretofore be known as such.
Though I did confide to Cecelia that my mother calls me “Andi,” which she liked a lot, so we’ll see.
I went to visit yesterday and the little one is doing well. I held her for a while—she took the opportunity to pee on me. (All Lopit babies seem to enjoy doing that to the white girls.)
Cecelia took the opportunity to tell Idiongo (Andrea’s older sister) that I had come to take the baby home with me, that I was now the mother. And, in fact, I was going to take Oluwaha (her brother), Idiongo and Andrea with me back to Kenya, where I live. (Recall that the USA is actually in Kenya, according to Lopit logic.) And we’d all live there together. Idiongo was admittedly afraid, until Cecelia told her she’d go, too, and Iris would be there. Idiongo loves Iris, Cecelia tells me, because Iris gave her clothes and shoes. At that, Idiongo was read to hop on a plane—baby sister, big brother and all, and come live with me in the United States.
I hope Andrea grows up to be as funny as Cecelia is.
Tanked
Yesterday we had the joy of cleaning out our 3000L water tank.
I’ll let the pictures tell most of the story, but know it was very dirty and very gross.
Kimmie was the first to jump in. I followed soon after. But at least here you can see how awesome Kim thinks she is. We had to climb in on our rickety stick ladder thing, throw ourselves over the side (in dresses, mind you) and get sure footing on a slippery plastic chair, lest we fall into the murky, disgusting water. We’d drained as much as we could out of it—a hayday for the women of the community, as they all brought anything that could hold water and shouldered their way in to get what they could. We had to empty the tank even though it was about half full. We have a theory that something—or many things—died in there, because our water has smelled and tasted like death (or cabbage) for the last two months. We finally broke down and drained it.
We’ve been showering with, cooking with and drinking this water for the past eight months. So disgusting.
I’ll let the pictures tell most of the story, but know it was very dirty and very gross.
Kimmie was the first to jump in. I followed soon after. But at least here you can see how awesome Kim thinks she is. We had to climb in on our rickety stick ladder thing, throw ourselves over the side (in dresses, mind you) and get sure footing on a slippery plastic chair, lest we fall into the murky, disgusting water. We’d drained as much as we could out of it—a hayday for the women of the community, as they all brought anything that could hold water and shouldered their way in to get what they could. We had to empty the tank even though it was about half full. We have a theory that something—or many things—died in there, because our water has smelled and tasted like death (or cabbage) for the last two months. We finally broke down and drained it.
As you can see, it was quite nasty and quite smelly. We scrubbed and scrubbed as best we could. Every time we had to move our chairs, we had to step down into the ick. Problem was there were a couple of weird swimming animal/bug things that the women told us would bite us. So we prayed each time we stuck our legs in.
You can see a little bit of how that went, here. If you only knew how terrible it was to have to stop and pose like that, with our feet in that stuff.
Still scrubbing.
We’ve been showering with, cooking with and drinking this water for the past eight months. So disgusting.
Preschool update
I’ve decided to try to make this preschool thing a reality and I’m running as fast as I can after it, but hitting every pothole, as is the way in Africa. But I’m still really excited and finding more support from the church than I expected.
They gave me an old building to fix up, sitting on a big compound with a huge tree and room enough to put up some makeshift play things. Pastor G and Akili (the education guy) are arranging for a fence to be put up around it and sound like they’ll support me as I try to make things work. My teammate Daniel has come alongside me, the self-proclaimed preschool maintenance man (he’s pretty much the practical work guy on our team), and has said he’ll help me to do a lot of the physical labor stuff—fixing up the building, painting the walls and making jungle gym-esque stuff. He’s in Loki now with Steve, trying to clear stuff for that pesky fire engine and buying me paint if there is time.
Putting together a preschool out here—with limited resources and a surplus of kids—will be a challenge, so keep it in your prayers! It will likely be months before I actually get kids in the building, and even then it will only be a dozen or so, while I try to recruit Lopit women to help and establish a routine and see what works. My parents are coming in August, so I’m going to try to convince them to bring supplies from the good ol’ United States of America.
Some things to pray about for the school…
-That God would supply the Lopit labor and materials to build the fence, because not much can be done before that.
-That the church would continue to support the project like it is. (Praise God for that!)
-That I would find a good balance between beginning something with my resources and making that something renewable and able to be continued with the Lopit’s. (I really don’t want dependency, in money, supplies or the work, especially teaching.)
-That I would find a good contact here in Africa who has experience and know-how in the area of preschool—some organization or person that I can learn from and maybe get training materials from. (Finding such contacts is hard from the bush.)
-That the children and the community would be blessed by the project and they would come to know Christ as a result!
There you have it. Thanks a lot for the prayers
They gave me an old building to fix up, sitting on a big compound with a huge tree and room enough to put up some makeshift play things. Pastor G and Akili (the education guy) are arranging for a fence to be put up around it and sound like they’ll support me as I try to make things work. My teammate Daniel has come alongside me, the self-proclaimed preschool maintenance man (he’s pretty much the practical work guy on our team), and has said he’ll help me to do a lot of the physical labor stuff—fixing up the building, painting the walls and making jungle gym-esque stuff. He’s in Loki now with Steve, trying to clear stuff for that pesky fire engine and buying me paint if there is time.
Putting together a preschool out here—with limited resources and a surplus of kids—will be a challenge, so keep it in your prayers! It will likely be months before I actually get kids in the building, and even then it will only be a dozen or so, while I try to recruit Lopit women to help and establish a routine and see what works. My parents are coming in August, so I’m going to try to convince them to bring supplies from the good ol’ United States of America.
Some things to pray about for the school…
-That God would supply the Lopit labor and materials to build the fence, because not much can be done before that.
-That the church would continue to support the project like it is. (Praise God for that!)
-That I would find a good balance between beginning something with my resources and making that something renewable and able to be continued with the Lopit’s. (I really don’t want dependency, in money, supplies or the work, especially teaching.)
-That I would find a good contact here in Africa who has experience and know-how in the area of preschool—some organization or person that I can learn from and maybe get training materials from. (Finding such contacts is hard from the bush.)
-That the children and the community would be blessed by the project and they would come to know Christ as a result!
There you have it. Thanks a lot for the prayers
More at school…
The Lopit way to learn is this:
The teacher writes on the board.
The students mindlessly and slowly copy it all into unorganized, torn notebooks.
And I really don’t know what happens after that.
But the writing thing is a process to behold.
My boys get out straight-edges to make margins, draw rules and underline words.
On Tuesday, I made a squiggly line. They had no idea what to do with that. No idea. The strict, line-drawing concentration on every one of their little faces clouded into confusion and they fingered their rules and looked around at each other, absolutely befuddled.
I’m sorry, but I had to smirk a little.
We’re trying to get used to one another, you know. It will take some time. I expect them to be on time. They mosey in when they please. I introduced “lines” to their school discipline. The other teachers make them carrying down bamboo poles from the mountain, I guess. Said bamboo poles just sit in a pile; I’m not sure what plans they have for them. Anyway, the idea of writing the same thing over and over is not so appealing for them, so I hope to get them to class on time from now on. Only one kid was on time this morning. The other ten came in anywhere from 10 to 30 minutes after 8:30. I know they were out dancing and drinking last night, so my sympathy isn’t so great. But, then again, there is still technically no timetable, and the teachers all come when they please and the other children run around like crazy people. Ugh.
I try to have fun. They stare at me blankly. I try to start in Lopit, showing them verbs and nouns, and bring that over into the English sentence structure we’re supposed to be learning. Their eyes glaze over. I ask them to shout out word as they think of them. They tense up, unaccustomed to spontaneity as part of the class.
But today I did have a little breakthrough, so that was good. We played a game and they got into it and didn’t want to stop. They might have even learned a little something.
Excellent.
It’s been a long first week of teaching, as we’ve had to take our routines and smash them into a million pieces. We’ve been exhausted every night, but somehow blessed by the work. Our friends have wondered some if we’ve died—they’re upset we haven’t come to play!—but we’ll strike a balance soon and get in the flow of things, I’m sure. Just pray for us. Teaching, plus the formal ministries we’re starting, plus the intense curriculum and the heat and practical everyday stuff like cooking and cleaning, etc., plus some strange happenings in the village, plus carrying our weight to carry the team, plus building and maintaining relationships with the people…. all that—preceded by and flowing from trying to run the Christian race ourselves, lest we be disqualified—has burn-out written all over it. But TIMO is as TIMO does, and we’re confident our labor will bear fruit!
The teacher writes on the board.
The students mindlessly and slowly copy it all into unorganized, torn notebooks.
And I really don’t know what happens after that.
But the writing thing is a process to behold.
My boys get out straight-edges to make margins, draw rules and underline words.
On Tuesday, I made a squiggly line. They had no idea what to do with that. No idea. The strict, line-drawing concentration on every one of their little faces clouded into confusion and they fingered their rules and looked around at each other, absolutely befuddled.
I’m sorry, but I had to smirk a little.
We’re trying to get used to one another, you know. It will take some time. I expect them to be on time. They mosey in when they please. I introduced “lines” to their school discipline. The other teachers make them carrying down bamboo poles from the mountain, I guess. Said bamboo poles just sit in a pile; I’m not sure what plans they have for them. Anyway, the idea of writing the same thing over and over is not so appealing for them, so I hope to get them to class on time from now on. Only one kid was on time this morning. The other ten came in anywhere from 10 to 30 minutes after 8:30. I know they were out dancing and drinking last night, so my sympathy isn’t so great. But, then again, there is still technically no timetable, and the teachers all come when they please and the other children run around like crazy people. Ugh.
I try to have fun. They stare at me blankly. I try to start in Lopit, showing them verbs and nouns, and bring that over into the English sentence structure we’re supposed to be learning. Their eyes glaze over. I ask them to shout out word as they think of them. They tense up, unaccustomed to spontaneity as part of the class.
But today I did have a little breakthrough, so that was good. We played a game and they got into it and didn’t want to stop. They might have even learned a little something.
Excellent.
It’s been a long first week of teaching, as we’ve had to take our routines and smash them into a million pieces. We’ve been exhausted every night, but somehow blessed by the work. Our friends have wondered some if we’ve died—they’re upset we haven’t come to play!—but we’ll strike a balance soon and get in the flow of things, I’m sure. Just pray for us. Teaching, plus the formal ministries we’re starting, plus the intense curriculum and the heat and practical everyday stuff like cooking and cleaning, etc., plus some strange happenings in the village, plus carrying our weight to carry the team, plus building and maintaining relationships with the people…. all that—preceded by and flowing from trying to run the Christian race ourselves, lest we be disqualified—has burn-out written all over it. But TIMO is as TIMO does, and we’re confident our labor will bear fruit!
Good Moooooorning
Well, that was sufficiently weird. A cow just woke me up.
I’ve taken to sleeping outside these days. I grew tired of waking up in the middle of the night covered in sweat and laying on wet sheets.
It’s hot, hot, hot here, and it doesn’t stop being so just because the sun is down. We all got these dinky little 12-volt fans in Nairobi in October and had them set up by December, but they’re junk and mine fried just as we got back from vacation—at the hottest point of our stay here thus far. No one has had much luck. Pattie’s makes a terrible, terrible noise. So much so that for a while the children, when Pattie laid down midday to take a nap or read, mistook it as a plane coming and would rush to our yard to warn us. And Abuba hates the thing. At first she took to imitating the whirling sound and would tell us she couldn’t sleep because of it. Which is funny, you know, because of the intense drumming that pumps through the night air. And the shrill screaming that cuts through any sort of pleasant evening stillness. And the crying children. Etc., etc. Anyway, the fans were a bust and my room doesn’t have any windows that welcome the blow of the night wind, so I dragged my mattress outside in the middle the night the other day and haven’t looked back since. Kim swears I’m going to get stung by a scorpion and I have a growing fear of waking up with a puff adder on my chest (Steve tells a story about how his army buddy woke up with one of the uber-poisonous snakes on his chest), but this new concept of sleeping through the night—and that, rather comfortably—is too irresistible.
Anyway, I slept in a little bit this morning, so around six, I heard someone coming up into the yard. But when I put on my glasses, I realized it wasn’t a person at all, it was a cow, close to hovering over me. We kind of stared at each other for a while, quite aware that the other was out of place, before I threw on my flips and chased it around the yard, trying to gently urge it to the door.
Never a dull moment—or morning—here in Lopit.
I’ve taken to sleeping outside these days. I grew tired of waking up in the middle of the night covered in sweat and laying on wet sheets.
It’s hot, hot, hot here, and it doesn’t stop being so just because the sun is down. We all got these dinky little 12-volt fans in Nairobi in October and had them set up by December, but they’re junk and mine fried just as we got back from vacation—at the hottest point of our stay here thus far. No one has had much luck. Pattie’s makes a terrible, terrible noise. So much so that for a while the children, when Pattie laid down midday to take a nap or read, mistook it as a plane coming and would rush to our yard to warn us. And Abuba hates the thing. At first she took to imitating the whirling sound and would tell us she couldn’t sleep because of it. Which is funny, you know, because of the intense drumming that pumps through the night air. And the shrill screaming that cuts through any sort of pleasant evening stillness. And the crying children. Etc., etc. Anyway, the fans were a bust and my room doesn’t have any windows that welcome the blow of the night wind, so I dragged my mattress outside in the middle the night the other day and haven’t looked back since. Kim swears I’m going to get stung by a scorpion and I have a growing fear of waking up with a puff adder on my chest (Steve tells a story about how his army buddy woke up with one of the uber-poisonous snakes on his chest), but this new concept of sleeping through the night—and that, rather comfortably—is too irresistible.
Anyway, I slept in a little bit this morning, so around six, I heard someone coming up into the yard. But when I put on my glasses, I realized it wasn’t a person at all, it was a cow, close to hovering over me. We kind of stared at each other for a while, quite aware that the other was out of place, before I threw on my flips and chased it around the yard, trying to gently urge it to the door.
Never a dull moment—or morning—here in Lopit.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Prayer for travel (still)
Martin messaged that he was finally on his way back with the fire engine. Please pray for his coming. The roads have gotten more dangerous and the border is a mess, so the stakes are higher. Steve is flying out to help him come back in.
Don’t freak out, though. We’re safe where we are.
Don’t freak out, though. We’re safe where we are.
School Daze
I decided I’d offer my services to the school while I’m waiting to get my other formal ministry ideas in order.
I think this is going to be a much harder time-filler than I ever imagined.
The school is so unorganized. They have no books. The kids don’t have pencils and notebooks. They have no teachers. There is no standardized testing—they pull from the Kenyan and Ugandan curriculums, if they pull from any curriculum at all. The schoolmaster is always drunk. Today he was tending his cows, not at school. This is a regular occurrence. They don’t have a timetable for classes yet. They’ve been “in session” for nearly two months. We had to pull teeth to see what they needed, had to kick and scream to try to get books to teach from… and eventually just showed up this morning, saw that there were kids in the different classrooms and jumped in and tried to teach. I picked P6 English. Today we tried to establish rules and talked about what respect was. The kids just stared blankly at me. No response. Nothing. Even when I spoke Lopit. It’s going to be a hard go of things!
After I dismissed my class (rather awkwardly), I walked over to the other school buildings. They’re actually not much like buildings. They used to be just shelled out brick things, then some DIGUNA guys came and put tin roofs on. Then the UN came while we were gone and detonated an old bomb that’s been sitting there… forever… and the whole place shook like there was an earthquake and some of the tin roofing came loose. Whoops. They’re coming to detonate another one soon, I hear. Can’t wait for that!
Inside it’s just piles of rocks and old split boards to sit on. No desks. It’s OK, though… no notebooks anyway.
(I’m not trying to whine, just trying to convey the sad reality. This is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I have to work hard not to go crazy in the face of Sudanese school.)
The buildings are teeming with children, sort of like an ant farm.
I walk into the first room. Filled with young children. (Many of them preschool age.)
“Tau Teacher nohoi?” (“Where is your teacher?)
“Obe nobo.” (There is none.)
The next. More children.
“Tau Teacher nohoi?”
“Obe nobo.”
And the last. Even more children.
“Tau Teacher nohoi?”
“Obe nobo.”
At least I established that there was a need for teachers. And a preschool teacher, at that.
And after that terrible experience came a wonderful one.
Kimmie and I walked back to the church compound and happened upon Pastor G, who had just told Kim about an old building he’d be willing to let me use for the preschool, if I get it going. Kim thought it was this sorry looking thing—a small shack with two green doors and a tilted foundation. But we asked Pastor G again and he pointed up the path to another building.
It was amazing!
It’s just a one-room, little thing but there are windows! And a door! And a big yard with a great big shade tree. It would be perfect! I was so excited. I scampered around and Kim and I imagined all the wonderful things we could do with the place. Pastor G is already talking about building a bamboo fence for it. Then I could clean it up. Paint it. Have Daniel build a few play things for the kids… Oh, joy.
It saved my day, got me excited. I saw the need, then I was able to see how the church was willing to help me meet it. Now all I need is a plan, some ideas and some Lopit people to come alongside me and take the vision for themselves.
I’m looking for contacts here in Africa of programs who have done the preschool thing. I hear there is even a book floating around that talks all about how to establish one—from how to set it up to the theory and concepts behind what you need to teach. The one bad things about living out here is that it’s nearly impossible to network properly, with limited electricity, no access to the internet and only a few outside emails. But still! I emailed my friend Whitney from the U of I and she put together a great thing to help me get started. (If you can help, please email me!!!! aclinard@gmail.com)
I can’t wait to see how God is going to work things out. Keep praying!
I think this is going to be a much harder time-filler than I ever imagined.
The school is so unorganized. They have no books. The kids don’t have pencils and notebooks. They have no teachers. There is no standardized testing—they pull from the Kenyan and Ugandan curriculums, if they pull from any curriculum at all. The schoolmaster is always drunk. Today he was tending his cows, not at school. This is a regular occurrence. They don’t have a timetable for classes yet. They’ve been “in session” for nearly two months. We had to pull teeth to see what they needed, had to kick and scream to try to get books to teach from… and eventually just showed up this morning, saw that there were kids in the different classrooms and jumped in and tried to teach. I picked P6 English. Today we tried to establish rules and talked about what respect was. The kids just stared blankly at me. No response. Nothing. Even when I spoke Lopit. It’s going to be a hard go of things!
After I dismissed my class (rather awkwardly), I walked over to the other school buildings. They’re actually not much like buildings. They used to be just shelled out brick things, then some DIGUNA guys came and put tin roofs on. Then the UN came while we were gone and detonated an old bomb that’s been sitting there… forever… and the whole place shook like there was an earthquake and some of the tin roofing came loose. Whoops. They’re coming to detonate another one soon, I hear. Can’t wait for that!
Inside it’s just piles of rocks and old split boards to sit on. No desks. It’s OK, though… no notebooks anyway.
(I’m not trying to whine, just trying to convey the sad reality. This is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I have to work hard not to go crazy in the face of Sudanese school.)
The buildings are teeming with children, sort of like an ant farm.
I walk into the first room. Filled with young children. (Many of them preschool age.)
“Tau Teacher nohoi?” (“Where is your teacher?)
“Obe nobo.” (There is none.)
The next. More children.
“Tau Teacher nohoi?”
“Obe nobo.”
And the last. Even more children.
“Tau Teacher nohoi?”
“Obe nobo.”
At least I established that there was a need for teachers. And a preschool teacher, at that.
And after that terrible experience came a wonderful one.
Kimmie and I walked back to the church compound and happened upon Pastor G, who had just told Kim about an old building he’d be willing to let me use for the preschool, if I get it going. Kim thought it was this sorry looking thing—a small shack with two green doors and a tilted foundation. But we asked Pastor G again and he pointed up the path to another building.
It was amazing!
It’s just a one-room, little thing but there are windows! And a door! And a big yard with a great big shade tree. It would be perfect! I was so excited. I scampered around and Kim and I imagined all the wonderful things we could do with the place. Pastor G is already talking about building a bamboo fence for it. Then I could clean it up. Paint it. Have Daniel build a few play things for the kids… Oh, joy.
It saved my day, got me excited. I saw the need, then I was able to see how the church was willing to help me meet it. Now all I need is a plan, some ideas and some Lopit people to come alongside me and take the vision for themselves.
I’m looking for contacts here in Africa of programs who have done the preschool thing. I hear there is even a book floating around that talks all about how to establish one—from how to set it up to the theory and concepts behind what you need to teach. The one bad things about living out here is that it’s nearly impossible to network properly, with limited electricity, no access to the internet and only a few outside emails. But still! I emailed my friend Whitney from the U of I and she put together a great thing to help me get started. (If you can help, please email me!!!! aclinard@gmail.com)
I can’t wait to see how God is going to work things out. Keep praying!
Thank you, Hoofprints!
I put 65K (about 40 miles) on my new bike this weekend. That’s on top of probably 100K I’ve already done this week.
Annika and I took off for a neighboring village—about 20K’s away—on Saturday and stayed the night there with Pastor Clero’s wife, Eunice. This isn’t the same one I went to before; it’s the other direction and apparently the county seat of Lopitland. That in itself is hilarious. It’s nothing more than one little police building, the unremarkable commissioner’s compound and a brick school that must’ve been wonderful back in its day. Now it’s just the brick shells of the buildings with no tin roofs (probably stolen during the war) and a huge waste of space and reminder of how little education is given around here. Anyway, it was funny riding in, because of the immense disappointment. :)
We wanted to check out the road and the villages on the way and encourage Eunice, who is building a new compound there and is trying to teach the women how to make and sell soap for business.
There’s no church there—just a powerful witchdoctor and rainmaker and the like—so Eunice also wants to start introducing the women to the Gospel. There actually is a “pastor” there, Eunice says, but he’s been so ridiculed and so threatened he’s been rendered ineffective. The two Bible students who didn’t show back up at school this year both live in this village, too. So it’s a dark, dark place.
But it was nice to visit. We talked to people on the way there. We were mobbed as we rode into town. (Mobbed by curious people wanting to shake hands, Mom and Dad. Not men with guns.) We hiked up into the villages and people just went crazy with laughter when they heard these white women speaking their language. We found it to be quite close to our local dialect, which bodes well for our plans to spread out in the future. I can happily report that no little children fell backward off their rock perches upon seeing my white face this time around. I’ll call that progress.
We slept outside on grass mats and propped up on our elbows this morning in time to watch a beautiful sunrise over our Lopit mountain range, before we road back to our place for church. We’ve decided our mountains—the Three Sisters—are the most beautiful in the whole of Lopit. We even dared to tell the people in this other village that.
Anyway, a big thanks again to Hoofprints for the bike, because I can see now even more how useful it will be in our outreach ministries. Steve has scrounged up a handful of bikes from containers in Yei and Loki, but each one is not much to see or use—basically old rusted Murrays or Walmart brand stuff that needs lots and lots of work and aren’t made for the harsh roads and rides out here. In fact, I ended up having to take components off Annika’s bike on the way back this morning; they were broken and getting in the way. But we’re thankful for what we have and I hope we can use them eventually in the way Steve dreams of doing. I don’t know how he’s going to get the other girls on the bikes—they’re not much into riding or vigorous exercise in the hot sun and Annika, the kids’ teacher and the only other one who dares ride with me, leaves in a month—but I’ll be trained and ready when he wants me to go!
This is me on the road to the other village. Those are our mountains in the bike ride. That’s Annika’s bike and her bag—proof to my mother that I didn’t travel to another village alone, which I promised her I wouldn’t do anymore. All that ash is from the Lopeeps (my new word for the Lopit people). They burn the mountains and the fields every dry season, again and again. I don’t know why. All I do know is that it’s ugly. And smelly.
Annika and I took off for a neighboring village—about 20K’s away—on Saturday and stayed the night there with Pastor Clero’s wife, Eunice. This isn’t the same one I went to before; it’s the other direction and apparently the county seat of Lopitland. That in itself is hilarious. It’s nothing more than one little police building, the unremarkable commissioner’s compound and a brick school that must’ve been wonderful back in its day. Now it’s just the brick shells of the buildings with no tin roofs (probably stolen during the war) and a huge waste of space and reminder of how little education is given around here. Anyway, it was funny riding in, because of the immense disappointment. :)
We wanted to check out the road and the villages on the way and encourage Eunice, who is building a new compound there and is trying to teach the women how to make and sell soap for business.
There’s no church there—just a powerful witchdoctor and rainmaker and the like—so Eunice also wants to start introducing the women to the Gospel. There actually is a “pastor” there, Eunice says, but he’s been so ridiculed and so threatened he’s been rendered ineffective. The two Bible students who didn’t show back up at school this year both live in this village, too. So it’s a dark, dark place.
But it was nice to visit. We talked to people on the way there. We were mobbed as we rode into town. (Mobbed by curious people wanting to shake hands, Mom and Dad. Not men with guns.) We hiked up into the villages and people just went crazy with laughter when they heard these white women speaking their language. We found it to be quite close to our local dialect, which bodes well for our plans to spread out in the future. I can happily report that no little children fell backward off their rock perches upon seeing my white face this time around. I’ll call that progress.
We slept outside on grass mats and propped up on our elbows this morning in time to watch a beautiful sunrise over our Lopit mountain range, before we road back to our place for church. We’ve decided our mountains—the Three Sisters—are the most beautiful in the whole of Lopit. We even dared to tell the people in this other village that.
Anyway, a big thanks again to Hoofprints for the bike, because I can see now even more how useful it will be in our outreach ministries. Steve has scrounged up a handful of bikes from containers in Yei and Loki, but each one is not much to see or use—basically old rusted Murrays or Walmart brand stuff that needs lots and lots of work and aren’t made for the harsh roads and rides out here. In fact, I ended up having to take components off Annika’s bike on the way back this morning; they were broken and getting in the way. But we’re thankful for what we have and I hope we can use them eventually in the way Steve dreams of doing. I don’t know how he’s going to get the other girls on the bikes—they’re not much into riding or vigorous exercise in the hot sun and Annika, the kids’ teacher and the only other one who dares ride with me, leaves in a month—but I’ll be trained and ready when he wants me to go!
This is me on the road to the other village. Those are our mountains in the bike ride. That’s Annika’s bike and her bag—proof to my mother that I didn’t travel to another village alone, which I promised her I wouldn’t do anymore. All that ash is from the Lopeeps (my new word for the Lopit people). They burn the mountains and the fields every dry season, again and again. I don’t know why. All I do know is that it’s ugly. And smelly.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Our boy friends are back (or in the mail)…
Good news!
The fellas are coming back today, Lord willing. They should be here in a few hours, if all goes well. Yay!
We’re trying to prepare for our welcoming party. And by that I mean, we’re trying to constantly remind ourselves to be markedly excited about the guys being here and not just our stuff. :)
In other (hilarious) news, us girls have been sitting on our team leaders’ porch all day (see previous comment about trying to conceal excitement about our stuff coming) and, quite naturally, our conversation has turned to trying to fight our fate as forever-single female missionaries. Well, Iris rose to the challenge and came swirling out of the house, wielding a Chalcedon Report magazine with… drum roll please… an advertisement for a Reformed Singles Matchmaking program.
(!!!!!!!!!!!)
Does it get any better than that?
Hahahaha.
So, obviously, we had to email them and ask for five applications.
Yes, there are applications.
Golly gee, I hope I get matched with someone great…
:)
The fellas are coming back today, Lord willing. They should be here in a few hours, if all goes well. Yay!
We’re trying to prepare for our welcoming party. And by that I mean, we’re trying to constantly remind ourselves to be markedly excited about the guys being here and not just our stuff. :)
In other (hilarious) news, us girls have been sitting on our team leaders’ porch all day (see previous comment about trying to conceal excitement about our stuff coming) and, quite naturally, our conversation has turned to trying to fight our fate as forever-single female missionaries. Well, Iris rose to the challenge and came swirling out of the house, wielding a Chalcedon Report magazine with… drum roll please… an advertisement for a Reformed Singles Matchmaking program.
(!!!!!!!!!!!)
Does it get any better than that?
Hahahaha.
So, obviously, we had to email them and ask for five applications.
Yes, there are applications.
Golly gee, I hope I get matched with someone great…
:)
Who am I?
(Probably not one for the kiddos.)
I didn’t want to get out of bed today.
Today, I hate this place.
There are moments when I could imagine staying here until I’m 80. But there are days, you see, when I convince myself I could leave here after two years and never look back. Today is one of those days, only worse. Rebelling parts of my mind and heart are trying to convince the whole of each that I could be OK in leaving today.
The people and the culture can get to you.
Last night I came up the mountain in the dark, after I rode a piece with Annika. I heard screaming and yelling ahead and soon met up with our friend Davitica, who was closely trailing our other friends—or maybe I should best say our neighbors—David and his wife.
David had a small, prickly tree branch—big enough to carry some umph, thin enough to have good bend to suit wonderfully for whipping—and was tearing at his wife with it as she alternated between stumbling up the trail, flopping defiantly on the ground and running off into the woods or down the trail.
Davitica informed me that the woman was drunk and insisted on sleeping on the trail or down in the valley. She whispered that it was bad, bad—this beating. And the balu—that was bad, bad, too… though I know her to drink just as heavily as anyone else here in the Hills.
David would whip his wife. She would in turn try to run away or bowl him over. He’d shove her back down to the ground, hard, sometimes smashing her into a rock or giving her a swift blow to the head with the end of the stick or his arm. She’d howl and moan. He’d grasp at her clothes, pulling her—anything to get her up the mountain. Sometimes her dress would come clean off and he’d beat her bare skin with that ugly branch. Davitica told me he would kill her.
I was shaking, at the same time furious and terrified. I demanded to know what he was doing, what she’d done, that he stop. He paid no heed to me, never so much as acknowledging that I was there. I yelled and yelled and then fell into a kind of bewildered shock as Davitica would at the same time tell me to leave it, leave it then echo my words. The wife used me—“Ibeja is watching! Ibeja is watching”—to no avail. Davitica pulled me here and there—there was no passing the spectacle, as the paths are skinny—and commanded me not to cry, not to cry as she took her hands and hurriedly wiped my eyes, just in case I dare shed a tear. She’d point my flashflight here and there, trying to give the battling couple enough light to see the path. I guess she thought the sooner they got home, the sooner it was over.
Eventually I couldn’t stand it—unable to coax him into stopping with words or throw myself between them—and tore up the rest of the path, still shaking and angry. I collapsed on my bedroom floor and cried, wanting to vomit, until poor Kimmie heard and came into to comfort me. Then we just listened on the path, praying and waiting until we heard them coming—still fighting—along the path and to their compound.
There is beating all around us in Lopit—of the children, of the women, sometimes even of the men by the women—but never have I been so helpless in the face of it or so right in the face of it. I had to follow that brawl for nearly twenty minutes, able neither to stop it or look away from it or close my ears to the yelling and the moaning. Who am I to yell and demand a man—of so much more worth in this culture than a woman—stop beating his wife, his property? It’s his right, his duty to keep his wives in line. Who am I to enforce my Western, Christian ways on a couple who knows only this way? Who am I? Apparently no one, not even an audible voice against the culture and the cruelty.
Don’t worry, I did get out of bed and faced this culture again. Little Francis (now known to us as Grasshopper) met me at our gate as we left and gave me his teethy smile. And even as I imagined him beating his wife in the future—for being drunk, for not fetching enough water, for not having dinner ready—I hoped that he would be different, that he would be a Christian…
I didn’t want to get out of bed today.
Today, I hate this place.
There are moments when I could imagine staying here until I’m 80. But there are days, you see, when I convince myself I could leave here after two years and never look back. Today is one of those days, only worse. Rebelling parts of my mind and heart are trying to convince the whole of each that I could be OK in leaving today.
The people and the culture can get to you.
Last night I came up the mountain in the dark, after I rode a piece with Annika. I heard screaming and yelling ahead and soon met up with our friend Davitica, who was closely trailing our other friends—or maybe I should best say our neighbors—David and his wife.
David had a small, prickly tree branch—big enough to carry some umph, thin enough to have good bend to suit wonderfully for whipping—and was tearing at his wife with it as she alternated between stumbling up the trail, flopping defiantly on the ground and running off into the woods or down the trail.
Davitica informed me that the woman was drunk and insisted on sleeping on the trail or down in the valley. She whispered that it was bad, bad—this beating. And the balu—that was bad, bad, too… though I know her to drink just as heavily as anyone else here in the Hills.
David would whip his wife. She would in turn try to run away or bowl him over. He’d shove her back down to the ground, hard, sometimes smashing her into a rock or giving her a swift blow to the head with the end of the stick or his arm. She’d howl and moan. He’d grasp at her clothes, pulling her—anything to get her up the mountain. Sometimes her dress would come clean off and he’d beat her bare skin with that ugly branch. Davitica told me he would kill her.
I was shaking, at the same time furious and terrified. I demanded to know what he was doing, what she’d done, that he stop. He paid no heed to me, never so much as acknowledging that I was there. I yelled and yelled and then fell into a kind of bewildered shock as Davitica would at the same time tell me to leave it, leave it then echo my words. The wife used me—“Ibeja is watching! Ibeja is watching”—to no avail. Davitica pulled me here and there—there was no passing the spectacle, as the paths are skinny—and commanded me not to cry, not to cry as she took her hands and hurriedly wiped my eyes, just in case I dare shed a tear. She’d point my flashflight here and there, trying to give the battling couple enough light to see the path. I guess she thought the sooner they got home, the sooner it was over.
Eventually I couldn’t stand it—unable to coax him into stopping with words or throw myself between them—and tore up the rest of the path, still shaking and angry. I collapsed on my bedroom floor and cried, wanting to vomit, until poor Kimmie heard and came into to comfort me. Then we just listened on the path, praying and waiting until we heard them coming—still fighting—along the path and to their compound.
There is beating all around us in Lopit—of the children, of the women, sometimes even of the men by the women—but never have I been so helpless in the face of it or so right in the face of it. I had to follow that brawl for nearly twenty minutes, able neither to stop it or look away from it or close my ears to the yelling and the moaning. Who am I to yell and demand a man—of so much more worth in this culture than a woman—stop beating his wife, his property? It’s his right, his duty to keep his wives in line. Who am I to enforce my Western, Christian ways on a couple who knows only this way? Who am I? Apparently no one, not even an audible voice against the culture and the cruelty.
Don’t worry, I did get out of bed and faced this culture again. Little Francis (now known to us as Grasshopper) met me at our gate as we left and gave me his teethy smile. And even as I imagined him beating his wife in the future—for being drunk, for not fetching enough water, for not having dinner ready—I hoped that he would be different, that he would be a Christian…
Incomplete
Well, the fellas are still in Kenya. Daniel and Craig are waiting on replacement parts for the UNI-MOG and Martin is… somewhere…. with the fire engine. I tell you, it’s a little weird around here with hardly a team about it—the Kenyan family is waiting on their baby in Kenya still; Heinrich, Doris & Co. remain in Germany; and the boys are it seems forever delayed in Kenya. Blah.
It’s also strange because we’re running on the bare minimum here. All our luggage and supplies are on the back of the broken truck in Loki. Pattie, Kim and I came here with our traveling clothes on our backs and 2kgs of potatoes. The potatoes are gone; the clothes have been washed again and again. The team as a whole (or this depleted part here in the Hills) is out of sugar and our other stores are going. Our Husa stock things (rice, flour, etc.) are full of bugs. In fact, somehow our flour container has moths flying around in it. How weird is that? Really weird.
Don’t think we’re starving. Not at all. It’s just strange, being here with just the four other girls and Stephan & Co.
We were blessed by a visit from Hannah and Kurt again, which was cool. (They’re the ones who brought us cheese long ago.) They came up for tea and stayed for hours. Again, their perspective was invaluable. Again, their words encouraging. I really enjoy them.
Oh, and I ceremoniously tore up our yard the other day, in honor of it being the first day of my life as a farmer. My friend Jesse sent me back with some amazing Pioneer corn seed (it’s not illegal to bring seed to Sudan) and Jen ever-so-kindly shared her other types of seeds with me. I have high hopes of growing a garden fit for a king. Actually, I just have high hopes for having fresh vegetables more than once every six weeks. So pray for my gardening!
Aaaaand pray as I struggle to begin my formal ministry, whatever that will be. I’m setting up meetings now with Pastor G; I met with the headmaster today to talk about teaching and I’m waiting on this guy Mark to get back so we can talk about the preschool. Heinrich shares my vision for the Lopit printing press, so I pray that will actually happen once he gets back.
Well, that’s really all I’ve got. Just pray for the truck, getting it fixed and getting things back here safely. Pray also for our team as we begin a new unit (hopefully soon) and another long stretch here.
It’s also strange because we’re running on the bare minimum here. All our luggage and supplies are on the back of the broken truck in Loki. Pattie, Kim and I came here with our traveling clothes on our backs and 2kgs of potatoes. The potatoes are gone; the clothes have been washed again and again. The team as a whole (or this depleted part here in the Hills) is out of sugar and our other stores are going. Our Husa stock things (rice, flour, etc.) are full of bugs. In fact, somehow our flour container has moths flying around in it. How weird is that? Really weird.
Don’t think we’re starving. Not at all. It’s just strange, being here with just the four other girls and Stephan & Co.
We were blessed by a visit from Hannah and Kurt again, which was cool. (They’re the ones who brought us cheese long ago.) They came up for tea and stayed for hours. Again, their perspective was invaluable. Again, their words encouraging. I really enjoy them.
Oh, and I ceremoniously tore up our yard the other day, in honor of it being the first day of my life as a farmer. My friend Jesse sent me back with some amazing Pioneer corn seed (it’s not illegal to bring seed to Sudan) and Jen ever-so-kindly shared her other types of seeds with me. I have high hopes of growing a garden fit for a king. Actually, I just have high hopes for having fresh vegetables more than once every six weeks. So pray for my gardening!
Aaaaand pray as I struggle to begin my formal ministry, whatever that will be. I’m setting up meetings now with Pastor G; I met with the headmaster today to talk about teaching and I’m waiting on this guy Mark to get back so we can talk about the preschool. Heinrich shares my vision for the Lopit printing press, so I pray that will actually happen once he gets back.
Well, that’s really all I’ve got. Just pray for the truck, getting it fixed and getting things back here safely. Pray also for our team as we begin a new unit (hopefully soon) and another long stretch here.
Sad times
I went over to Sohot this morning, upon hearing that they’d been broken into while we were gone.
Two days before we left, Jen’s key went missing. While frustrating, this wasn’t so extraordinary, as she’s already lost the key once or twice (or more?). Poor Cath (and her seemingly inexhaustible patience with her young roommate ;) ) searched up and down the villages but found nothing and had to resign to leaving Lopit with the key still at large. She put a padlock on the door, though, and felt that would stay any intruders.
But, as the story goes, Jen didn’t lose the key. Some boys stole the key while she wasn’t looking, then used it to open the door while we were gone. The little padlock Cath put on the door didn’t do much good; it slid right through the hole if you wiggled it just right.
Anyway, the boys rummaged the house and stole all the candy and all the pens. Those are typical little kid targets. Both Longija and Sohot have been broken into before (on less obnoxious, professional terms, however) and had their sweets taken. Actually, on Christmas, the kids took and ate a pie straight out of Jen’s oven. I will admit to finding that hilarious. Hehe. Sorry.
Ahem.
But this time isn’t so funny, as they also stole the girls’ boots (two nice pair), the sheets of Cath’s bed (brought special from home) and some other things. Worst of all, they fiddled with Jen’s solar panel stuff and may have broken it. That’s hundreds of dollars right there.
The girls seem much more calm than I would be. Our friend Deborah spared them the shock of finding their house a mess; she was checking on the place and the cats while they were gone, so she had a key and had everything swept, clean and fairly put back together when they got home.
Everyone knows who the boys are. As far as I can gather, one or more is still on the run—reported to be in some neighboring villages. Another, however, was caught and is being held (tied up?!?) at the witchdoctors house. Gulp. The thing about stealing in Lopit is, it’s a very stupid idea. They’ll probably be beaten really badly or worse. We’ll see how this all plays out.
We think Pastor Saba might have some of the stuff at his place, having recovered it, so we can hope for the best with that, though the solar panels would be nearly irreplaceable.
So pray for how this all goes down. And pray against discouragement in the girls.
In other, more exciting news, we got an ugly cat today. I say ugly because I’m a realist, not because I’m cruel. I’m sure I will come to love it, as it’s kittenness affords it some cuteness and I’ve already seen mice/rats scurrying around our house, so it’s pest-killing abilities will win the cat some favor. It’s sleeping now, and that’s also cute.
It’s name is Tiji (“teegee”—though that “t” is more like a g or a soft strange noise unrecognizable to our English tongues). That means, “Like this.” The people said it all the time when we first got here, mostly when we were doing laundry. We thought it was the word for scrubbing clothes. They’d hold the clothes up as they scrubbed and say “tiji tiji” again and again. Turns out, they were really just telling us we were scrubbing wrong. It’s become one of our favorite words to say. And now it’s our (ugly) cat.
Two days before we left, Jen’s key went missing. While frustrating, this wasn’t so extraordinary, as she’s already lost the key once or twice (or more?). Poor Cath (and her seemingly inexhaustible patience with her young roommate ;) ) searched up and down the villages but found nothing and had to resign to leaving Lopit with the key still at large. She put a padlock on the door, though, and felt that would stay any intruders.
But, as the story goes, Jen didn’t lose the key. Some boys stole the key while she wasn’t looking, then used it to open the door while we were gone. The little padlock Cath put on the door didn’t do much good; it slid right through the hole if you wiggled it just right.
Anyway, the boys rummaged the house and stole all the candy and all the pens. Those are typical little kid targets. Both Longija and Sohot have been broken into before (on less obnoxious, professional terms, however) and had their sweets taken. Actually, on Christmas, the kids took and ate a pie straight out of Jen’s oven. I will admit to finding that hilarious. Hehe. Sorry.
Ahem.
But this time isn’t so funny, as they also stole the girls’ boots (two nice pair), the sheets of Cath’s bed (brought special from home) and some other things. Worst of all, they fiddled with Jen’s solar panel stuff and may have broken it. That’s hundreds of dollars right there.
The girls seem much more calm than I would be. Our friend Deborah spared them the shock of finding their house a mess; she was checking on the place and the cats while they were gone, so she had a key and had everything swept, clean and fairly put back together when they got home.
Everyone knows who the boys are. As far as I can gather, one or more is still on the run—reported to be in some neighboring villages. Another, however, was caught and is being held (tied up?!?) at the witchdoctors house. Gulp. The thing about stealing in Lopit is, it’s a very stupid idea. They’ll probably be beaten really badly or worse. We’ll see how this all plays out.
We think Pastor Saba might have some of the stuff at his place, having recovered it, so we can hope for the best with that, though the solar panels would be nearly irreplaceable.
So pray for how this all goes down. And pray against discouragement in the girls.
In other, more exciting news, we got an ugly cat today. I say ugly because I’m a realist, not because I’m cruel. I’m sure I will come to love it, as it’s kittenness affords it some cuteness and I’ve already seen mice/rats scurrying around our house, so it’s pest-killing abilities will win the cat some favor. It’s sleeping now, and that’s also cute.
It’s name is Tiji (“teegee”—though that “t” is more like a g or a soft strange noise unrecognizable to our English tongues). That means, “Like this.” The people said it all the time when we first got here, mostly when we were doing laundry. We thought it was the word for scrubbing clothes. They’d hold the clothes up as they scrubbed and say “tiji tiji” again and again. Turns out, they were really just telling us we were scrubbing wrong. It’s become one of our favorite words to say. And now it’s our (ugly) cat.
Whoops
I guess this is why there are AIM rules against night driving. I have no idea whose car this is, but the poor guy probably did his car in with a little too much balu and not enough attention to the roads. Forgive me for never putting up a proper picture of the roads around our place—you probably wouldn’t even recognize them as roads anyway. These huge craters and drop offs are quite common. Pattie drove the LandCruiser again today—we’re short drivers, with Martin still waiting on the fire engine, Daniel manning the ‘MOG and Craig a necessary co-driver—and did a superb job working the holes and water traps. Way to go, Pattie Chapati.
Cleaning House
This is a few of the kids and I, cleaning the thick, thick layer of dirt and grime off every reachable inch of my room. The place was completely trashed… completely.
Bittersweet Homecoming
We’d been waiting so long to get home, so when we saw the outline of those three mountain peeks—the Three Sisters—we were more than excited. And the first people we saw were so showered with “Mong!!!”s and “Itigolo!!!”s, I’m surprised they didn’t drown.
Rolling into town was just as wonderful, as a crowd of people—fresh from discussing what could have possibly happened to the white people—met us at Steve’s house with smiles and handshakes. We split as soon as possible, eager to hike the mountain and be back home in Husa. We talked on the way up about how big the kids probably got, if our houses would still be standing and if Lodina’s baby—expected while we were gone—would be a girl or a boy.
As we got closer, we could hear the murmur hit the village and start to swell into a weak thunder. Then the calls came—“Efonu!!!” (“They’re coming!!!”) “Awong Ibeja! Awong Oudo! Efonu dang!” (“Ibeja comes! Kim comes! They’re all coming!”) I’ve always laughed at the conversations the Lopit have across the spots on the mountain; I love it the most, though, when we’re the subject of or participants in said long-distance yell fests.
The kids flooded our compound. Franco flashed me his shy smile. Paula bounced over with little Ellen. And just as I was scanning the crowd for him, sweet Francis called my name, tugged at my arm and awkwardly yet gladly embraced in a hug. (Hugging isn’t something the Lopit do; they have no idea what it is.) It was so good to see them.
The excitement was tempered suddenly, though, when a woman pulled me aside, pointed to Lodina’s compound and said the baby died. Heart-breaking. This one was mine to name—they’ve told me for months. It was a little boy. He lived for seven days and then died, five days ago. He wouldn’t take food.
The locals say it’s a curse. This is the third baby Lodina has had die like this. The two that have survived were born during the war, in Uganda. Now William (Lopit neighbor) says she’ll be sent away again when she gets pregnant, because there is “no benefit to her being here.” Thank goodness, though, they’ll let her come back when she’s had the baby. But how sad, to have to be sent away. And how terrible to lose a sweet baby boy. I wish we were here to bear the pain with her.
We sat with Lodina for a while, but finally had to break away to get settled in the house. It was an absolute mess, from top to bottom. But the kids were up to the challenge—they fought for brooms and sponges and helped us clean everything. They’re sweet, but I wouldn’t have you think it’s all charity—they assume they’ll get candy (not an unwise assumption) and being allowed in the house is a big deal, especially when they’re given so much time to stare at all the weird white people things. : )
So, yes, we’re back… and happy to be here, albeit completely exhausted. You’ll be happy to know God was in our delay. (Duh.) We found out today that our original travel plans would have put us smack dab in the middle of attacks on the road. And this latest delay with the UNI-MOG (still in Loki being fixed) was a blessing because there was a bit of a shake down at the border place and the whole thing is a mess. So, if the fellas would have tried to come through with it today, they likely would have been given a huge hassle or told to return to Loki and wait anyway. So, praise God for all that. Praise Him for protection and for his perfect timing. And praise Him for these people, that we may come back to them and minister among them.
Rolling into town was just as wonderful, as a crowd of people—fresh from discussing what could have possibly happened to the white people—met us at Steve’s house with smiles and handshakes. We split as soon as possible, eager to hike the mountain and be back home in Husa. We talked on the way up about how big the kids probably got, if our houses would still be standing and if Lodina’s baby—expected while we were gone—would be a girl or a boy.
As we got closer, we could hear the murmur hit the village and start to swell into a weak thunder. Then the calls came—“Efonu!!!” (“They’re coming!!!”) “Awong Ibeja! Awong Oudo! Efonu dang!” (“Ibeja comes! Kim comes! They’re all coming!”) I’ve always laughed at the conversations the Lopit have across the spots on the mountain; I love it the most, though, when we’re the subject of or participants in said long-distance yell fests.
The kids flooded our compound. Franco flashed me his shy smile. Paula bounced over with little Ellen. And just as I was scanning the crowd for him, sweet Francis called my name, tugged at my arm and awkwardly yet gladly embraced in a hug. (Hugging isn’t something the Lopit do; they have no idea what it is.) It was so good to see them.
The excitement was tempered suddenly, though, when a woman pulled me aside, pointed to Lodina’s compound and said the baby died. Heart-breaking. This one was mine to name—they’ve told me for months. It was a little boy. He lived for seven days and then died, five days ago. He wouldn’t take food.
The locals say it’s a curse. This is the third baby Lodina has had die like this. The two that have survived were born during the war, in Uganda. Now William (Lopit neighbor) says she’ll be sent away again when she gets pregnant, because there is “no benefit to her being here.” Thank goodness, though, they’ll let her come back when she’s had the baby. But how sad, to have to be sent away. And how terrible to lose a sweet baby boy. I wish we were here to bear the pain with her.
We sat with Lodina for a while, but finally had to break away to get settled in the house. It was an absolute mess, from top to bottom. But the kids were up to the challenge—they fought for brooms and sponges and helped us clean everything. They’re sweet, but I wouldn’t have you think it’s all charity—they assume they’ll get candy (not an unwise assumption) and being allowed in the house is a big deal, especially when they’re given so much time to stare at all the weird white people things. : )
So, yes, we’re back… and happy to be here, albeit completely exhausted. You’ll be happy to know God was in our delay. (Duh.) We found out today that our original travel plans would have put us smack dab in the middle of attacks on the road. And this latest delay with the UNI-MOG (still in Loki being fixed) was a blessing because there was a bit of a shake down at the border place and the whole thing is a mess. So, if the fellas would have tried to come through with it today, they likely would have been given a huge hassle or told to return to Loki and wait anyway. So, praise God for all that. Praise Him for protection and for his perfect timing. And praise Him for these people, that we may come back to them and minister among them.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Update
It's Thursday afternoon here.
Daniel has been under the 'MOG for a while and informs me he's taken out the broken part and ordered a new one from Nairobi. It will, Lord willing, come tomorrow on a plane with one of the DIGUNA guys.
Sigh. So at least another day here, if not two. I'm sure God has got some reason for all this. Maybe I'll ask him someday.
Please pray for the team, as we continue on in close quarters and at high stress levels. No one has killed anyone yet, but money is starting to grow tight (it's expensive to be out of the bush) and we only have a couple changes of clothes. I know, we're really roughing it, right?
Oh, and Craig just informed me the diff-lock on the LandCruiser is busted and will also need to be tended to before we leave. Hahaha. This really is a botched trip!
Keep praying!
AND! My dad says my blog about my bike made it sound like my BIKE was mangled, not the bike BOX. The bike is fine. I actually put it together and rode it around DIGUNA for a while. In flipflops, though (they're all I have), so all I could think in my head the entire time was my father's voice from childhood, telling me how bad that is and telling me the story about how my Uncle Bill almost lost his toes doing that... Funny how things like that still haunt you across many years and oceans. ;)
Anyway, the bike is fine. Just needs a little tweaking and breaking in. The stuff I'd packed with the bike to keep in place, however, was lost. The much-anticipated denim jumpers (perfect Lopitland clothes) I searched for so long in the States and the pajama and workout pants I was so excited about getting from home. *sigh* That's just life, I guess!
OK, I'm out. It's hot and I need to find a piece of shade I can lay motionless in.
Daniel has been under the 'MOG for a while and informs me he's taken out the broken part and ordered a new one from Nairobi. It will, Lord willing, come tomorrow on a plane with one of the DIGUNA guys.
Sigh. So at least another day here, if not two. I'm sure God has got some reason for all this. Maybe I'll ask him someday.
Please pray for the team, as we continue on in close quarters and at high stress levels. No one has killed anyone yet, but money is starting to grow tight (it's expensive to be out of the bush) and we only have a couple changes of clothes. I know, we're really roughing it, right?
Oh, and Craig just informed me the diff-lock on the LandCruiser is busted and will also need to be tended to before we leave. Hahaha. This really is a botched trip!
Keep praying!
AND! My dad says my blog about my bike made it sound like my BIKE was mangled, not the bike BOX. The bike is fine. I actually put it together and rode it around DIGUNA for a while. In flipflops, though (they're all I have), so all I could think in my head the entire time was my father's voice from childhood, telling me how bad that is and telling me the story about how my Uncle Bill almost lost his toes doing that... Funny how things like that still haunt you across many years and oceans. ;)
Anyway, the bike is fine. Just needs a little tweaking and breaking in. The stuff I'd packed with the bike to keep in place, however, was lost. The much-anticipated denim jumpers (perfect Lopitland clothes) I searched for so long in the States and the pajama and workout pants I was so excited about getting from home. *sigh* That's just life, I guess!
OK, I'm out. It's hot and I need to find a piece of shade I can lay motionless in.
Toromile. ("Car.")The girls, enjoying a coke (and each other) in the LandCruiser. Notice I'm wearing longsleeves. It's part of an on-going mental battle I've waged against reality. I wear warm clothes and try to convince myself it's not that hot, so when it is really, really hot I'm more comfortable. I'll let you know when I have conclusive evidence for whether it works or not.
Gas. ("Gas.") Filling up this machine takes about forever, especially when Daniel has to fill up the extra drums for back home. It's pretty hardcore. I informed him Americans would probably not go for him climbing like a money on their gas pumps. He informed me the same would be true of Germans. God bless Africa.
Akafini Oudo nang. ("Oudo--Kim--carries me.")Kim and I decided it'd be best if I rode on the bonnet from now on. Apparently, "bonnet" is European for "hood." They also "hoot" with their "hooter," as opposed to "honking" with their "horn." I love the "No Hooting!" signs. Anyway, Mama Pattie killed our riding-on-the-bonnet idea right as we developed it to this point, so I guess I'll be riding inside. (Or on the roof rack, if we can distract her so she doesn't realize it.) Kim also plans to drive... with such a nonchalant approach as her face here reflects.
We really need to get back to Lopit before we go crazy.
Hifiong erribo. (Literally... "Water fight.")Who can resist a water fight in the heat of Africa after so many hours of dirt in your face in a LandCruiser? Not Cath and I. The wonderful thing was we came out of the mountains and into the desert, so it didn't take long to dry off. Notice the random men in the background enjoying the weird white women.
Die Jen und die Annika.
Far from the splashes, Jen and Annika found a relaxing spot of their own. That is, until Daniel and Craig came along in the UNI-MOG and made waves.
by gorge!
Oyiri iyohoi. ("We rest.")After many, many hours on the road, we girls found a beautiful gorge to stop and rest in. This is Annika and I, dipping our feet in.
Ofonya iyohoi itai. ("We greet ya'll.")Isn't it beautiful?
Adaha nang ("I'm eating.")
I figured since I'm stuck in Loki, I should use my time and the (free, albeit rickedy) internet at this "restaurant" to send some pictures along.
This is Kim and I, in the new, kitted-out LandCruiser, enjoying some corn we bought from roadside fellas who chase down the cars. I'd say we're REALLY enjoying that corn.
A big, big deal...
MY PARENTS ARE COMING IN AUGUST!!!
:)
Yaaaaaaay.
My mom informed me today that she got her second round of shots, and she was talking about it without disclaimers or constant "if I come"s, so I feel that seals the deal.
If you see my mom, give her a big hug. The last thing she wants to do is to come to dirty, hot Africa. :)
:)
Yaaaaaaay.
My mom informed me today that she got her second round of shots, and she was talking about it without disclaimers or constant "if I come"s, so I feel that seals the deal.
If you see my mom, give her a big hug. The last thing she wants to do is to come to dirty, hot Africa. :)
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Heading back to Sudan
(Sunday)
Today at the second-hand market, I was pick-pocketed.
But, it’s OK, I caught the guy.
Kim and I chased him down. She jumped on his back while I tripped him. It was a wonderful show.
Or at least it would have been, were any of that true. Well, alright, the bit about being pick-pocketed is true. The rest is the scenario that Kim and I decided upon just earlier in the afternoon—what we would do if someone stole our purse. Kim said she’d chase him and jump on his back. I decided I’d do the same, only I’d trip him at the end.
Of course, when the real situation came upon, I was rather polite in my handling of the caper. It was more like, “Excuse me, what are you doing? Do you think I’m stupid?” as I pulled away the sweatshirt he’d throw over my bag as a cover for his hand diving in. He simply laid my cell phone down on the crate table in front of us and slithered away. I gave a few half-hearted “theif!”s after him. Half-hearted because I was taught if you’re going to do that in the Africa culture, you have to accept the fact that said thief could be mobbed and killed right there because of your accusations. So, yeah, I wasn’t feeling so much like witnessing a murder—it’s been a long week—so I just stared, dumbfounded, as he scampered off.
At least this sweet bag Ang gave me for Christmas has a flap and a zipper—pure anti-pick-pocket genius.
So, anyway, another day in Nairobi town, another day waiting for our LandCruiser to be fixed up and this fire engine to come off a ship in Mombassa. The fire engine (no longer equipped with hoses and men in uniform) was given to us as a team car and shipped from Germany. It was supposed to come off the ship nearly two weeks ago, but has been held up since then… and has been holding us up in return. Keep praying they can get the thing off soon so we can be on our way!
(Monday)
We’re finally leaving Nairobi—praise the Lord!
The fellas in the UNI-MOG and us (six chicks in the LandCruiser) are off for Eldoret Missionary College—the end of our first leg of our back-to-Sudan journey and current home to Joshua and Justina & Co., our Kenyan teammates expecting a baby very soon.
OH! I should say! Heinrich and Doris emailed from Germany. They are now four! Little Phillip came just the other day—the newest member to our team. So praise God that both Mom and baby boy are doing fine, and for our team getting even bigger! They’ll be back with us come May. We miss them dearly.
(Tuesday)
So these new, front-facing seats in the LandCruiser are cool and all, but I’ve found a downside. You can see forward.
Looking over the driver’s shoulder is sort of like a wide-screen horror movie. But, unfortunately, a horror movie you’re rather involved in and affected by… yet have no influence over.
You know how when you go bowling and the ball is scooting into the gutter or sliding right through the middle of a split, and you sort of wiggle a little bit, or wave your arms, all in the hope of somehow willing the ball to redirect its path? That’s a little what it’s like being in the back seat of this LandCruiser right now.
We have a new driver, see, and she’s no so used to the vehicle and doesn’t seem to have a splendid grasp of just where the wheels are. But, poor lady, it was a hard, frustrating drive. And praise God we survived it.
Now we’re in Lodwar, somewhere in the Kenyan desert. It’s hot, so I’m dripping, and all I want is a shower.
(Wednesday)
I think this might go down as the trip that just wouldn’t end.
We made it to Loki this morning. Unfortunately, Daniel lost the clutch in the UNI-MOG somewhere along the way. So now we’re here in the middle of what amounts to little more than an airstrip, uncertain of what exactly we’ll do from here.
I think poor Daniel has a night of work before him—another addition to his many frustrations—and we’re all back in the waiting game.
So please pray for the car situation and for our patience with said situation and with each other. We’ve been stuffed together way too long and are at times at each others’ throats.
Oh, and still no news on that fire engine on the coast.
I can’t wait to get home…
Today at the second-hand market, I was pick-pocketed.
But, it’s OK, I caught the guy.
Kim and I chased him down. She jumped on his back while I tripped him. It was a wonderful show.
Or at least it would have been, were any of that true. Well, alright, the bit about being pick-pocketed is true. The rest is the scenario that Kim and I decided upon just earlier in the afternoon—what we would do if someone stole our purse. Kim said she’d chase him and jump on his back. I decided I’d do the same, only I’d trip him at the end.
Of course, when the real situation came upon, I was rather polite in my handling of the caper. It was more like, “Excuse me, what are you doing? Do you think I’m stupid?” as I pulled away the sweatshirt he’d throw over my bag as a cover for his hand diving in. He simply laid my cell phone down on the crate table in front of us and slithered away. I gave a few half-hearted “theif!”s after him. Half-hearted because I was taught if you’re going to do that in the Africa culture, you have to accept the fact that said thief could be mobbed and killed right there because of your accusations. So, yeah, I wasn’t feeling so much like witnessing a murder—it’s been a long week—so I just stared, dumbfounded, as he scampered off.
At least this sweet bag Ang gave me for Christmas has a flap and a zipper—pure anti-pick-pocket genius.
So, anyway, another day in Nairobi town, another day waiting for our LandCruiser to be fixed up and this fire engine to come off a ship in Mombassa. The fire engine (no longer equipped with hoses and men in uniform) was given to us as a team car and shipped from Germany. It was supposed to come off the ship nearly two weeks ago, but has been held up since then… and has been holding us up in return. Keep praying they can get the thing off soon so we can be on our way!
(Monday)
We’re finally leaving Nairobi—praise the Lord!
The fellas in the UNI-MOG and us (six chicks in the LandCruiser) are off for Eldoret Missionary College—the end of our first leg of our back-to-Sudan journey and current home to Joshua and Justina & Co., our Kenyan teammates expecting a baby very soon.
OH! I should say! Heinrich and Doris emailed from Germany. They are now four! Little Phillip came just the other day—the newest member to our team. So praise God that both Mom and baby boy are doing fine, and for our team getting even bigger! They’ll be back with us come May. We miss them dearly.
(Tuesday)
So these new, front-facing seats in the LandCruiser are cool and all, but I’ve found a downside. You can see forward.
Looking over the driver’s shoulder is sort of like a wide-screen horror movie. But, unfortunately, a horror movie you’re rather involved in and affected by… yet have no influence over.
You know how when you go bowling and the ball is scooting into the gutter or sliding right through the middle of a split, and you sort of wiggle a little bit, or wave your arms, all in the hope of somehow willing the ball to redirect its path? That’s a little what it’s like being in the back seat of this LandCruiser right now.
We have a new driver, see, and she’s no so used to the vehicle and doesn’t seem to have a splendid grasp of just where the wheels are. But, poor lady, it was a hard, frustrating drive. And praise God we survived it.
Now we’re in Lodwar, somewhere in the Kenyan desert. It’s hot, so I’m dripping, and all I want is a shower.
(Wednesday)
I think this might go down as the trip that just wouldn’t end.
We made it to Loki this morning. Unfortunately, Daniel lost the clutch in the UNI-MOG somewhere along the way. So now we’re here in the middle of what amounts to little more than an airstrip, uncertain of what exactly we’ll do from here.
I think poor Daniel has a night of work before him—another addition to his many frustrations—and we’re all back in the waiting game.
So please pray for the car situation and for our patience with said situation and with each other. We’ve been stuffed together way too long and are at times at each others’ throats.
Oh, and still no news on that fire engine on the coast.
I can’t wait to get home…
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Back in Nairobi
Just now in Nakumatt (big Walmart-esque place) I saw drinkable jelly. Yes, drinkable jelly. Ala drinkable yogurt, I suppose. My reaction to said drinkable jelly was stronger than to cooked rat.
But, really, that's not important at all.
In other, more relevant news, here we are, safe in Nairobi. I had a happy reunion with my teammates—especially my roommates—but, unfortunately, I wasn't reunited with all the luggage I left Chicago with.
Hoofprints for Christ gave me a wonderful gift for Christmas, and I told them I'd buy a bike with it to travel between villages. Well, I bought the bike, laboriously packed it in a box and had to watch as it came around the conveyor belt, mangled.
But that's the way it goes in Africa.
Now we're stuck in Nairobi, waiting on some things to be done with our automobiles. It's hard to keep things going for 23—soon to be 25—people. Good ol' Steve pulled some captains chairs and a bench out of some old cars and had them put in our ancient LandCruiser. He's talked about it for a while, but I suppose his final motivation may have come on the way here. It used to have two long benches down the sides, and Jen was laying on one. Well, Martin hit a bump and she went flying up, nearly touched the ceiling and then crashed back down to the floor of the thing all floppy-like. I'd say it was one of the most terrifying moments of our time here, seeing her lying there, eyes glazed over, as we yelled at Martin to stop the car… in the middle-of-nowhere, Sudan. Praise God, she was only unconscious for a while and survived only with a headache and big bump—a far cry from the broken neck both Kim and I were certain she had, as our minds raced in those first few seconds when it happened. Anyway, we all wore our (albeit terribly uncomfortable and makeshift) seatbelts from then on and went with no further accident. Well, accept that one time when I had unbuckled for some silly reason for a moment and later found myself face-first in Jen's lap. We have some good times here in Africa.
I suppose none of that is all that important, but now you know. We're just hanging out and trying to keep on top of business and language and we fight all that is African culture for getting things done. It looks like we'll head back Saturday at the earliest, so please be praying that we do get out of here in a reasonable time and have safe travels home.
We're all getting really anxious to get home, pining for our own beds, routine and—of course—our friends in the village. I can't wait to get there and get settled back in until we trek out again for supplies.
Everyone take care—I'll write soon!
But, really, that's not important at all.
In other, more relevant news, here we are, safe in Nairobi. I had a happy reunion with my teammates—especially my roommates—but, unfortunately, I wasn't reunited with all the luggage I left Chicago with.
Hoofprints for Christ gave me a wonderful gift for Christmas, and I told them I'd buy a bike with it to travel between villages. Well, I bought the bike, laboriously packed it in a box and had to watch as it came around the conveyor belt, mangled.
But that's the way it goes in Africa.
Now we're stuck in Nairobi, waiting on some things to be done with our automobiles. It's hard to keep things going for 23—soon to be 25—people. Good ol' Steve pulled some captains chairs and a bench out of some old cars and had them put in our ancient LandCruiser. He's talked about it for a while, but I suppose his final motivation may have come on the way here. It used to have two long benches down the sides, and Jen was laying on one. Well, Martin hit a bump and she went flying up, nearly touched the ceiling and then crashed back down to the floor of the thing all floppy-like. I'd say it was one of the most terrifying moments of our time here, seeing her lying there, eyes glazed over, as we yelled at Martin to stop the car… in the middle-of-nowhere, Sudan. Praise God, she was only unconscious for a while and survived only with a headache and big bump—a far cry from the broken neck both Kim and I were certain she had, as our minds raced in those first few seconds when it happened. Anyway, we all wore our (albeit terribly uncomfortable and makeshift) seatbelts from then on and went with no further accident. Well, accept that one time when I had unbuckled for some silly reason for a moment and later found myself face-first in Jen's lap. We have some good times here in Africa.
I suppose none of that is all that important, but now you know. We're just hanging out and trying to keep on top of business and language and we fight all that is African culture for getting things done. It looks like we'll head back Saturday at the earliest, so please be praying that we do get out of here in a reasonable time and have safe travels home.
We're all getting really anxious to get home, pining for our own beds, routine and—of course—our friends in the village. I can't wait to get there and get settled back in until we trek out again for supplies.
Everyone take care—I'll write soon!
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Long overdue pictures...
Since it's been a while since I've been able to post pictures, I figured I'd take time to do that now, as I wait for my flight. Hope you enjoy.
Mohrika is a good friend of ours -- one of the teens. Sadly, though, she left for school in Uganda just before we left for holiday. She hasn't gone to school before, so we're excited to see her go, yet heartbroken because we really love her. We pooled together some pencils, erasers and clothes for her as a going-away gift. I will gladly say that this dress looks MUCH better on her than it ever did on me. Oh, and about that salute... I dunno, the Lopit do the weirdest thing in pictures. They always look super serious or make like boxers or salute like soldiers. I have no idea where that comes from, but we could hardly get her to put that arm down for a good picture.
You might remember little Pattie from a while back. This is her -- growing like a weed -- with momma Davitika and Auntie Pattie.
The baby flow hasn't stopped, of course. This is our good friend Mary and her baby, Cheri -- named after Kimmie's mom. She's a cutie. I was supposed to name our other friend's baby, but she may have had it while we were gone! I can't wait to see the little one. (And I'm praying that all of our little friends are still there when we get back this time.).jpg)
It's not all about babies. I guess this was a rather funny afternoon. Daniel and his Lopit friend were trying to coax a very stubborn cow up the mountain. I think Dan ended up pushing the thing the entire way there.
Back to babies. This is sweet little Ellen, my favorite baby from my favorite family. I have dreams that she grows up into a strong Christian woman someday. She's adorable and smiles constantly. 
Sometimes even the really adorable ones pee all over you when you're carrying them, though. Ewww.Alright, that's it. Hope this works. Oh, and PLEASE give Mark a HUGE thank you for doing all this blog stuff for me -- without him, I couldn't work this thing at all!
Back in the Game
Hello, hello, hello.
Greetings from Heathrow Airport in London; I'm halfway back from my holiday/medical trip in the States. Wow, what a whirlwind.
I was blessed with a relatively low-key time at home -- I spent time with my family, saw a handful of close friends (including my favorite kids!), caught an Illini game (!!!) and was able to visit both Oglesby Union and Stratford Park, my home churches. I say "relatively" low-key because anyone who knows me knows low-key doesn't come easy, and anyone who knows coming back in the country after 7 months abroad knows everyone wants to spend time with you. So, yes, it actually was really stressful, but I'm hoping it was a good kind of stressful that will still leave me somehow refreshed and ready to head back into the bush.
Coming back to America was interesting. I'd tell people I was on holiday (vacation) and they'd always ask me what particular holiday it was in Kenya that would bring me home. That wasn't the only language blunder -- my poor parents had to endure bits and pieces of Lopit and German.
I had to ease back into things. The first day I gave a go at Target but ended up having to leave, completely overwhelmed. And I found myself constantly walking around the house turning off TVs and lights, concerned that we'd run out of solar power since it was overcast. (My parents run on regular electricity, just like everyone else.) But I finally did adjust to being able to drive 110kpm without fear of destroying my automobile on some dirtroad pothole. Oh, and I adjusted to being able to drive, period, and thinking in mph again, as well. And I was Walmart's biggest customer, I do believe.
Good showers, good food, good friends and all that was nice, but I'm ready to get back to Africa. (And I dare say my parents were very ready to get rid of me.) I found myself missing my team terribly and called Kim three or four pathetic times. I even sat in front of my television one night, watching the Lopit footage I sent back to my friends while I was away. Now that is sad. I miss my little village, my little house and even my little longdrop toilet.
The computer disaster came and went. I got my new one in just a couple days before I left and Tom tried to load it up with good books and programs for me. (Thanks, Thomas!) All the financial stress was calmed, as the folks at OUC and a couple of my friends covered all but $500 of the thing. What a HUGE relief. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Frustratingly, other things kept going wrong. But, conveniently, I was in the States and in a position to fix them. Praise God for his nice timing on that.
Anyway, so here I go, back into Nairobi, then a three-days' journey into Sudan. God worked in my heart while I was gone, and I'm happy -- nay, joyful -- to say I can't wait to get back and work harder, with more focus than before.
I'll do my best to get the blogs a'flowin' again -- I was amazed to know how many people read it at home, so I'll do my best to keep it up. Pray for the satellite situation -- that it would work and we'd have email connection!
Thanks again for everything... God bless!
Greetings from Heathrow Airport in London; I'm halfway back from my holiday/medical trip in the States. Wow, what a whirlwind.
I was blessed with a relatively low-key time at home -- I spent time with my family, saw a handful of close friends (including my favorite kids!), caught an Illini game (!!!) and was able to visit both Oglesby Union and Stratford Park, my home churches. I say "relatively" low-key because anyone who knows me knows low-key doesn't come easy, and anyone who knows coming back in the country after 7 months abroad knows everyone wants to spend time with you. So, yes, it actually was really stressful, but I'm hoping it was a good kind of stressful that will still leave me somehow refreshed and ready to head back into the bush.
Coming back to America was interesting. I'd tell people I was on holiday (vacation) and they'd always ask me what particular holiday it was in Kenya that would bring me home. That wasn't the only language blunder -- my poor parents had to endure bits and pieces of Lopit and German.
I had to ease back into things. The first day I gave a go at Target but ended up having to leave, completely overwhelmed. And I found myself constantly walking around the house turning off TVs and lights, concerned that we'd run out of solar power since it was overcast. (My parents run on regular electricity, just like everyone else.) But I finally did adjust to being able to drive 110kpm without fear of destroying my automobile on some dirtroad pothole. Oh, and I adjusted to being able to drive, period, and thinking in mph again, as well. And I was Walmart's biggest customer, I do believe.
Good showers, good food, good friends and all that was nice, but I'm ready to get back to Africa. (And I dare say my parents were very ready to get rid of me.) I found myself missing my team terribly and called Kim three or four pathetic times. I even sat in front of my television one night, watching the Lopit footage I sent back to my friends while I was away. Now that is sad. I miss my little village, my little house and even my little longdrop toilet.
The computer disaster came and went. I got my new one in just a couple days before I left and Tom tried to load it up with good books and programs for me. (Thanks, Thomas!) All the financial stress was calmed, as the folks at OUC and a couple of my friends covered all but $500 of the thing. What a HUGE relief. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Frustratingly, other things kept going wrong. But, conveniently, I was in the States and in a position to fix them. Praise God for his nice timing on that.
Anyway, so here I go, back into Nairobi, then a three-days' journey into Sudan. God worked in my heart while I was gone, and I'm happy -- nay, joyful -- to say I can't wait to get back and work harder, with more focus than before.
I'll do my best to get the blogs a'flowin' again -- I was amazed to know how many people read it at home, so I'll do my best to keep it up. Pray for the satellite situation -- that it would work and we'd have email connection!
Thanks again for everything... God bless!
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Good news and bad news...
Well, folks, I've got good news.
I got my eyes checked out yesterday -- everything is a-OK, which makes me a happy woman. My vision has come back to nearly where it used to be, and the pain is gone. So praise God for that.
On the other end of the spectrum, I have bad news.
I also heard the news on my computer yesterday. Its death certificate has been signed. I now officially have some other huge thing to stress about. (Whimper.) I guess this will be another lesson in trusting God for finances and to bring me through. I have to order a new computer today to get it in time to take it back into the Sudan, so please pray as I look for the money and wade through process of choosing and buying a new computer.
Well, there you have it. I'm going to try to resurrect my harddrive and get all my photos and documents off there. I'm hopeful I'll be able to recover everything and share it with all of you!
God bless you!
I got my eyes checked out yesterday -- everything is a-OK, which makes me a happy woman. My vision has come back to nearly where it used to be, and the pain is gone. So praise God for that.
On the other end of the spectrum, I have bad news.
I also heard the news on my computer yesterday. Its death certificate has been signed. I now officially have some other huge thing to stress about. (Whimper.) I guess this will be another lesson in trusting God for finances and to bring me through. I have to order a new computer today to get it in time to take it back into the Sudan, so please pray as I look for the money and wade through process of choosing and buying a new computer.
Well, there you have it. I'm going to try to resurrect my harddrive and get all my photos and documents off there. I'm hopeful I'll be able to recover everything and share it with all of you!
God bless you!
Sunday, February 18, 2007
from the dark...
Goodness, it's been forever. Pardon me. The satellite we work from in Sudan stopped working with my computer, and my computer has since decided to stop working, as well.
Talk about technological mutiny.
We're on holiday now and will be for a couple of weeks. During that time, I hope to catch ya'll up on things and post some photos. Of course, that all depends on the resurrection of my computer. So please be praying for that, as replacing a dead computer will make my wallet... equally dead.
Things in our village are going OK. I know I left a lot of things hanging. Francis is better and just as cute as ever--a few people have asked. I'll try to get on here and update more in the future, but for now, I'm going to go enjoy a soda and a hot shower.
(Thank you, civilization.)
Talk about technological mutiny.
We're on holiday now and will be for a couple of weeks. During that time, I hope to catch ya'll up on things and post some photos. Of course, that all depends on the resurrection of my computer. So please be praying for that, as replacing a dead computer will make my wallet... equally dead.
Things in our village are going OK. I know I left a lot of things hanging. Francis is better and just as cute as ever--a few people have asked. I'll try to get on here and update more in the future, but for now, I'm going to go enjoy a soda and a hot shower.
(Thank you, civilization.)
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Wedding Bells and Fist Fights
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.
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.
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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