The Mayfield...

So I'm an introvert.

Yes, yes, some people have a hard time believing this, but it's true: In my heart of hearts, I defintely get my energy from spending time alone. Now, consider that I live in Africa and serve on a team of 24-26 people. Now, imagine that I haven't had more than a six-hour span of time of being absolutely alone for the last 14 months or so. It's a wonder--to me--that I've survived.

So I came to Mayfield--AIM's guesthouse in Nairobi--to be alone and relax. Bad idea. A good idea would just be to finally realize there is no possible way to be absolutely alone in Africa, serving in Missions, haha. Anyway, Mayfield is a great place. It's full of missionaries and you eat all your meals family-style, so you spend nearly every meal answering the same questions from different people--Where are you from? Where do you work? And, wow, what do you think of working THERE?! It's actually nice to get to know new people and hear about what God is doing and make connections, but--like I said--I'm an introvert gasping for breath, so it's a bit of a challenge. :)

It can be sort of funny, though. Sometimes, especially with young missionaries or people going through culture shock, there starts a competition--real or imagined, conscious or unconscious--to discover whose situation is actually worse. Haha. It makes me laugh, to sit back and listen. Yes, missionaries are people, too. Pride can sneak in the weirdest places. I'm certainly not immune!

Now, talking with our friends J and E from the Horn team is a completely different animal. We're both on TIMO teams in very different but *perhaps* similarly challenging places. They love the Horn. We love Sudan. So normally it turns into more of a "Wow, YOUve got it so bad!" conversation--quite antithetical of the aforementioned race to the bottom. Since they can make no answer to my blog, I will simply say it now and you'll have to take my word for it: They have it much worse! :)

Anyway, despite my introvertedness, it's been good to talk to folks here at Mayfield. We've come across folks from different TIMO teams at varying stages of the two-year term (which has been really good for our perspective), a couple who plans to lead another team in the So Sud who we've heard about a lot but never met, and a whole bunch of folks from all over. I even traded blogs with a missionary/photojournalist. (Hi Adel!)

Only a few more days until we get to go home!!!

Monday, Monday...

This is Monday.

Monday is all business, all the time. She's an efficient hand shaker, and she rarely smiles. Here, I think she was a bit miffed that I dared to stand in her way on the path. Alllllll business.

Night, baby Cheri and Esther.

Baby Kimmie...

How adorable is she? She used to look a bit more like an alien. We actually called her the alien baby. I'm not sure if she's actually grown cuter in reality, or just in our minds.



She really didn't know what to think of the baby powder action...

Happy Birthday, Cath!

Craigers, Kimmers and I(ers), at the Italian place for Cath's birthday. (Cath, regrettably, isn't pictured.)

Those are napkins on our head.

I really have no explanation.

Old Glory...

I told you about the Fourth of July, but here’s a picture, to really bring it home. Unfortunately, this is the second-best picture of the event. The best one—where Laudina is giving this hilarious, quizzical look at me—is too blurry. So you get No. 2. By this point, she’d grown weary of the national anthem and was quite ready to be done, I do believe. But, being the real friend she is, she stuck it out, for our sake.

These boots are made for...

We’ve always joked with Mark that he gets a bit sassy when he puts his gumboots on. Well, he came over the other day—while we were preparing the cars to leave—and he was more sassy than ever. And a bit drunk. But, that’s not the story. The story is, Kimmie donned the sassy boots. And she was more sassy than ever. Hilarious.


In a related story, Mark is in general a huge ham. You should have seen him posing this day as we were working the Rebel to its max. Click, click, click. This is just one of many great Mark shots.

Maritime Merry-time

So, we’re back from Malindi.

Some highlights?

Craig, Kim and I went out into the Indian Ocean in these canoe/kayak things one day—Craig in his own boat, us in a double. The waves were a little rough. Daniel quite enjoyed the show from the shore, of Kimmie and I trying to pull that stupid kayak past the breaker so we could get in it and paddle. The problem was, we were just laughing too hard. The hotel water sports guy eventually informed us that we shouldn’t laugh, that this wasn’t a joke, and that the waves certainly weren’t laughing. Duly noted. (No one died in said seafaring adventure.)

Otherwise, the majority of our time we spent eating ice cream and drinking Diet Coke (curious combination) and basking in the sun’s rays. Daniel ridiculed me when I told him I always feel healthier when I have a tan (this pale body hadn’t seen the sun in 14 months!). I suppose he reacted this way because I was actually sick the whole time, writhing after every meal. But, still, it stands: I feel healthier when I have a tan.

And I'm doing my darnedest to get some posts up here with some pictures. But the internet situation is sketchy, so I'll do what I can, when I can!

I wear my sunglasses...

More sunglasses pictures. This is probably one of my favorite days in Lopit. I do believe this is Franco’s “I’m wearing sunglasses” dance, because it’s basically all he did the whole time he had them on. He’s really grown up since we came last year. He used to go quietly about and look at us warily all the time. Now, he’s becoming a little firecracker, like his brother, though he still does that bit where he shadows him around and repeats everything Francis says, only with an extra dash of jubilee or sass.

Monica's Throne...

Little Monica, on her equally little stool. This day she teetered up the rocky path to our house with this little chair in tow and made herself comfortable in our doorway. This picture certainly doesn’t do justice to how adorable she looked. (On a side note, I cannot confirm that she hadn’t been drinking.) KP and I are convinced that Monica is a bit in love with her neighbor, Odek. He’s about the same age, and they go everywhere together. And if they’re not together, they always seem to be searching for one another. We sometimes narrate from afar their lovers’ quarrels and lengthy Lopit professions of devotion. (You’ve gotta keep yourself entertained somehow.) We eventually invited Monica and her stool inside, and Odek was quick to follow. Monica would look up at him from her stool with her big brown eyes and scoot over to the side, so he could sit with her. And he would. But I guess he’s a restless little fellow, because he kept getting back up. And that would throw the teeny loveseat’s balance all out of whack and nearly tip her to the floor, save that she would scoot back just in time. But then he’d come back. And she’d scoot over again. And he’d sit down. Pause. Get up. Monica again saves herself from toppling to the floor. (This might be some evidence for her sobriety, come to think of it.) Anyway, it was quite the spectacle.

During rain storms, the Abuba kids joy in coming over stark naked and dancing around our yard and in the overflow of our rainwater tank. They giggle like mad. This is Paula, after one such episode. She’s smirking under that cloth, I can assure you. I guess you have to know her to appreciate this picture like I do. It’s one of my all-time favorites.

Black lung and other ramblings...

Went for a run this morning in Nairobi.

Dumbest idea ever.

My lungs might explode, on account of all the smog. Oh, how I'm missing home in the mountains!

I think there's a certain point in a missionary's career at which the missionary isn't quite sure where "home" is--on the field or back in the States. I won't claim to be at that point yet, but I certainly have mixed emotions.

I wake up in the mornings and miss Francis at my window, or Ebiong on the path, or any one of our friends stopping by to say hello. I want to sit and play with Abuba and Laudina. The noises aren't quite right; the people and places and culture, unfamiliar. I just miss home: Lopit.

Then again, Nairobi culture is closer to Western living, so it almost puts more of an ache for America in me, for the places and activities that are wholy American and familiar. Imagine, baseball and a barbecue... And the longer we're in Nairobi, the more chance I have of being in contact with people from home. And that's good, catching up. But I also have to realize how far away they are, and how life goes on rather swimmingly and rather quickly without me there. My friends are getting new jobs, new lives. They are engaged, married... basically just different. It's hard to hear about how they're all doing this and this together, and having all this fun. And so in that way, I miss my friends and I miss home: Illinois.

Guess this is just one of those things you've got to go through when you're a missionary. And I've only been out here for a year. Ugh!

Alright, I'm out. There are minutes to be counted until this extended break is over...

Goodbye, JImbo...

Here I am!

Just in case anyone was wondering if I had died.

I haven’t. And I don’t plan to.

My father left yesterday morning—his crazy African vacation came to a rather uneventful end, as far as I know. (And, honestly, I don’ t know much; I haven’t heard from him.)

((Calling now, to fulfill my daughterly duties.))

(((No answer. No news is good news. I know the plane landed. We’ll assume everything is fine. Anyway…)))

It was sad to see him go, but I think we were both ready. He missed his wife (and his television?); I was worn out from a week of “hosting,” so to speak. His visit itself was a bit bittersweet—it’s hard for me to swallow that my father was so close to where I actually minister, so close to the people I love and live with, and he didn’t see the place or meet my friends. On a whim, I checked into going in the Sudan, and God worked out all the details. It was all set, but a late-night email derailed the whole glorious thing.

Mom tells people it was “common sense” that prevailed in the situation, that my dad’s smarts outweighed the attempts of his “persuasive—but not always bright—daughter.” I think we all know it was age and rank that triumphed; experience (mine, since I live and work in Sudan) was disregarded. Oh, well… maybe someday. Or never. I suppose I have to be fine with it either way.

Anyway, I think we enjoyed some of the finest that Euro-Africa had to offer, and I think my dad had fun. I did. We spent a week on safari, then a few days down on the coast. Dad was surprisingly positive and patient; I couldn’t believe it. He really prepared himself for things well. He even pulled the “This is Africa” line on me once.

Here’s some pictures. I’m sure he’ll put more up on JamboJimbo when he gets home.

The classic Jimbo-on-Safari look. Well done.

This lion was ginormous. A male—I suppose we were lucky. He was more interesting when he put his head up, but still very ginormous even when he was chillaxing.

Here’s us, at the coast. We asked Kim to come along a while back—I foresaw that a week alone with just my dad would be long enough—but she declined. But then I think she took pity on me because of the crushed Sudan dream, so she came along. She and my dad got along really well, sparing all the time. It was fun.

The beautiful Indian ocean.

On the last day, we rented two quads and had a guide take us through some of the surrounding village area. The guide’s motorbike pooped out soon after we started our ride, so he had to hop on my dad’s single four-wheeler. Oh, gosh, it was funny, watching Dad get off that thing. He was quite the trooper—he and KP both. They both were quite sore. Good times.

Jambo, Jimbo!

OK, I moved the stuff from my Dad's visit to its own site, so this one doesn't get bogged down with safari craziness. :)

www.jambojimbo.blogspot.com

Jambo--Hello in KiSwahili.
Jimbo--my dad.

Very clever, right? ;)

Enjoy!

Back in the Saddle…

Alright, friends, it’s been a while—for reasons completely beyond my control. But I’m going to try to pound out some blogs here in Nairobi before things get absolutely nuts. We got into Nairobi on Wednesday evening, after a long journey filled with many interesting twists. We’ve since had our one-year evaluations with Steve and Rod (TIMO rep) and welcomed the two families, who were delayed longer than us for reasons I’ll explain later. And, now, this tired TIMO team is officially on vacation… and this Daddy’s girl is eagerly awaiting the arrival of her Daddy. Sooooo… Let me spin few out before I crash for the night. I pray you’re all well and enjoying the love of Jesus.

My Daddy is on his way!

I just got a message from my dad that he’s through security in Chicago and somehow rearranged things so he wouldn’t be a day late getting here (and thereby ruining his big safari plans). :) I’m really, really, really, really, (really x 1000) excited about him coming. And rumor has it, he’s just as giddy.

Thanks to the ladies at work for the party for him. And he says I’m spoiled rotten. (OK, yes, fine; I am spoiled rotten, but that doesn’t mean we’re not both spoiled rotten.) We’ll see if my mom can survive without her other half. :)

I-L-L…

I keep forgetting to write this, but I know at least a handful of people out there will appreciate it.

The last couple weeks, I got to play the drums in church. (You know, like the handmade skin ones, not some Pearl five-piece set.)

I will fully—yea, even eagerly—admit that I worked in the Illini beat whenever possible. :)

I know my parents will be proud of me. Oskee-wow-wow!

Blast from the Past…

I wrote these blogs a week and a half ago or so, but then I lost them, so I’m going to go ahead and send them to Mark, with the hope that he’ll humor me and put them up, along with the other slew of blogs I’m about to type up.

I plead innocence, as it’s been difficult to write blogs—what, with my computer being confiscated and all. Try not to let the 731 blogs all at once overwhelm you. And say a prayer of thanks for Mark, ‘cause he’s the one who really suffers because of my love of writing…

Bum, bumbum, bum, bum bummm…

This morning, Francis was at my window, trying his best to reproduce the melody of the Star Spangled Banner, for my enjoyment and his ever-expanding place in my heart.

It was adorable, quite naturally.

Pattie tells me Francis could throw up and I would think it was adorable. She’s likely not far off.

I’ve met my match…

There’s this new little, two-year-old girl who’s been coming around to our place, a one Miss Cassia SomethingOrOther. Every time she comes, she leaves me in such shame, such a blubbering mess I really don’t know what to do with myself.

It’s customary in Lopit to shotgun any passerby with questions of “Where are you coming from?” and “Where are you going?”

Well, said Cassia has thrice come to my door, demanded my attention and—upon me giving it to her by coming to the doorway—completely befuddled me.

I come to the door, and am hit with an authoritative, “Where’d you come from?”
Um. For whatever reason, I’m tongue-tied. Surely, she knows I’ve come from the very kitchen stool or stove she’s called me from. All I can do is point weakly.

Trickier yet, before I can recover, comes the second of the blows: “Where are you going?”
Errr. I’m just… I don’t know…. You called me here… I’m not going anywhere. (No idea how to say that in Lopit.)

Never in Lopit have I been so intellectually outmatched. And this, by a toddler. A master of conversation, of manipulation.

I’ll never cease to be amazed by the fact that, though the children carry with them rarely even clothes, they’re quite abundantly outfitted with personality—which often presents me with precious little Lopit moments that I’m sure only I find so very amusing…

A Baby Boy…

(Not for the kiddos.)

I suppose when you live in Africa, you should somehow be prepared for the day when you hold a dying baby in your arms—that day, and all the feelings of utter helplessness and confusion that come with it.

But I wasn’t. Not at all.

One of our schoolteacher friend’s (A.) wives had a baby seven days ago, and I came upon him today to find that the baby was sick. I came upon his house at a most unfortunate time, because the compound was filled with monyemiji who had reportedly just tried their luck at healing him traditionally, by trying to counter the curse that was allegedly put on the little boy. Something about an uncle taking an unfair amount of cows and rousing up the ancestors’ wrath.

I was allowed inside and saw the grieving mother and the frail, twisted frame of a yet unnamed baby boy. And I, even now, some of me wishes I’d never had that moment and the pain, but more of me hopes I never forget it and such times never cease to be so affected. (I’ve talked before about my fear of becoming callous.)

I sat there and held him for a long time and found it hard to pray—an uncertainty of what exactly to pray for. And I looked at the mother, so clearly hurting. I saw her unable to look at him. And I saw her later at first refuse to sit up to put him to her breast. And I saw the tears, though not entirely acceptable in the Lopit culture, and I heard A. shortly tell her again and again, “Don’t cry.”

Ugh.

Lost Forever…

The baby, still unnamed, died last night.

This little guy’s death still sharpens a fear in my heart.

You see, I left at home six ultimately precious children—and many other precious ones besides. My fear used to simply be that something would happen to even one of those precious six, and my whole world would fall apart. Now, as we get ready to leave for an extended break from this place, my fears have increased. Now it is not only the dear six at home who I carry in my mind and heart, but also another ultimately precious six, of the Lopit variety (and many other precious ones besides). And what of me, if but one of these precious six falls to some ill, especially in this, the wet, malaria season? Could my heart—our hearts—withstand it? I confess this fear moves to centrality as the day of departure gets nearer and my memory turns to the last two returns, when each time we’ve found another neighbor child dead.

I just keep asking the Lord to protect these children and our friends, to let them live to hear and accept the Gospel, for His glory.

Chicken Run…

Finally, someone else agreed to blogging on this dumb thing. Below is a funny little excerpt from KP’s prayer letter. I heard her giggling the entire time she wrote it; I pray you find it as funny as she did.

Nearing the end of our first year in Africa and of a four month stint in the bush, my housemate (that’s ME!) and I decided to host a fancy dinner for our team. A chance to look back over our time with the L sharing stories, lots of laughs, and, we expected, even a few tears.

Wanting this dinner to be an all out extra special occasion, we set out to buy a few chickens (protein a definite deficiency in our diets). Not a difficult task, you’d think, considering the half-a-dozen or so chickens that frequent our yard alone, leaving their stinky chicken poo everywhere they go and cocka-doodle-dooing all wee hours of the morning, no matter how determined we are to sleep in. The idea of our first taste of real meat in months was tempting, yes, but that of three less chickens in L land probably even more so. Ironic that everyone we asked insisted there were no chickens left and how much more so when we could watch 2 or 3 scratching through our compost heap, spreading rubbish all over our yard, as we were told Jiok (a L god) had consumed them all. Determined and driven further by every cocka-doodle-doo, we carried our inquiry to our neighboring villages and finally to the “church compound” at the foot of the mountain. We begged. We pleaded. Finally, we found a lady with 1 rooster to spare. We’ll take it.

Problem is, you’ll have to catch it. At first we thought, yay, chasing chickens is cool. We quickly changed our minds, however, after the first close encounter. One less rooster in the world is a great idea, but is it really worth having one or both my eyes pecked out? We ran around a bit more, pretending to actually try to catch him just to prove what great, tough missionaries we are. Then we called in the reinforcements. What utter joy it was to find myself chasing 1 measly chicken with 6 or 7 determined L women up and down the road. And even more so when one brave soul managed to finally grab firm hold of his nasty little chicken feet and secured his fate. We caught our breath, they bound his legs, and we triumphantly paraded our prize up the mountain, making sure to take the long way home. Ha! So you say Jiok has consumed all the chickens, eh? Well it seems this one got away…for a time.

We reached home and left him bound and helpless outside while we gathered to plot his demise. It’s decided, mashed potatoes with chicken gravy for dinner next night.

Later it started to rain, and, realizing our cruel malice for L fowl didn’t run so deep, we brought him in out of the rain. Funny, looking back now, how calm and quietly he laid by the front door. (He made a nice doorstop.) A rather dear, helpless creature of God really. As the clouds cleared and the sun came out, I looked up from my book to see him rustling just a bit. He almost seemed to be nestling further down into his comfy rest. A few minutes later, I look up again to check on him to find dear creature of God has somehow managed to get fully on his feet. Amazing that dear creature is able to manage such a feat with legs so tightly bound. Even more amazing he’s able to manage walking casually though our front door. Hmm. Dear creature of God is now running wildly around our yard, freedom within his grasp. I suddenly realize what’s happened, not sure what could have caused the delayed reaction, though I suspect protein deficiency of dulling senses. I run out of the house screaming, “The chicken got loose, the chicken got loose!” And all of Husa comes alive.

Our most faithful little neighbor kid (that’s Francis) comes a running, bound and determined to secure himself as our hero. Our neighbor lady (Ebiong), who for months I was sure hated us, but is now our good friend, came sprinting. I stood in our doorway immobilized with laughter, confused by the whirlwind of L women and children and wild chicken frenzy. Our neighbor makes a nosedive and comes up with a handful of feathers. Doubled over, I learn from the wild screaming that he’s managed to squeeze through our bamboo fence. The chase continues up into the village and just as I’m about to give up, our proud little neighbor kid comes tripping though our gate, one wet, dirty, and miserably defeated chicken in hand.

Mashed potatoes with chicken gravy for dinner after all.

This morning, Francis was at my window, trying his best to reproduce the melody of the Star Spangled Banner, for my enjoyment and his ever-expanding place in my heart.

It was adorable, quite naturally.

Pattie tells me Francis could throw up and I would think it was adorable. She’s likely not far off.

Photos, again...

I finally was able to add some random photos--from baptisms to pirate parties, nice-looking clothes to guilty looks. Enjoy.

Life After Death

I’ve had more interviews about the death rites and funerals here, and I’ve found it’s a great avenue to understand the people better.

It’s interesting, the things they do. But maybe what’s more interesting is that most of them can’t explain why they do these things anymore. Some traditions have fallen by the wayside over the years, and not one person I’ve talked to yet can tell me exactly what things mean. It’s just this vague idea that if they don’t do things a certain way, some bad will befall them—in the community and at the hand of the spirits.

Daniel, one of the school teachers and elders in church, had this to say: “Without beliefs, we shall be animals. They make us to be human beings. Without our customs and culture, we are beasts.” Without saying much, that says a lot.

Some anthropologists will talk about “maladaptive practices”—those engrained, culture things that have no redeeming value and often put the society in danger. An example of this that Cath talked about in her paper was how whole groups of women will stand over a crouching woman in labor and push and push and push her stomach. It’s a culture practice that’s just plain unhealthy. You’ll find other things that are more neutral—that is, they have neither a positive or negative effect on the health or well-being of the society—and that’s more of what I’m seeing in studying funerals. There’s animal sacrifice and all-night dancing, but they’re not necessarily inherently bad. The graves of the Landlords and Rainmakers are exhumed after a year or so and the bones taken to certain caves, but I don’t know enough about the health issues there to say if it’s dangerous. And there are some things that are perhaps inadvertently good—before a man dies, monyemiji come in and ask him about his debts in the community and the debts to him, and they also ask him if he has unresolved conflict. They take his saliva and sprinkle it over the community, signifying his forgiveness of those who’ve done him wrong. I think that could have good emotional effects on the community, though they do it to protect the family and community from bad spirits and curses. I think the balu consumption is bad on its face, but that’s everywhere in this culture.

So, I dunno, just some thoughts so far. I won’t bore you with every (sometimes gory) detail about Lopit death rites…

Happy Fourth!!!

Yesterday I told Daniel that today was a special day. He had no idea why. So I turned to Jen (an American, mind you) for some backup. She’s like, “Ummmmm…. Hmmm… OK… What’s the date tomorrow?” Daniel, looking at his watch, “The fourth.” Jen: “Ummmm… Oh GOSH, NO, did I forget someone’s birthday?! There’s so many birthdays.” Me, quite disappointed: “Only our nation’s, jerk.”

The Fourth of July doesn’t mean much around here, in the middle of nowhere South Sudan, surrounded by Germans, South Africans and one lonely Australian. And, apparently, Jen.

We began the day with the Star Spangled Banner and a presentation of the Colors. We brandished the miniature flags someone sent Pattie. I blew on mine—you know, for the Old-Glory-in-the-wind effect—until I became so lightheaded I nearly fainted. Anything for my country. After the anthem, Kim gave an equally stirring rendition of “The Fifty Nifty United States.” It truly was a beautiful ceremony.

I plan on using my screensaver tonight for a very special Lopit fireworks show. ;)

A precious line from Kimperly: “You can’t celebrate the Fourth of July in Sudan—they’re KILL you!!!” I’m not sure if she means the Germans, Craig or the Sudanese. I can’t say much for the former two, but the latter I’m convinced will only make good associations with the Stars and Stripes—her emblem was plastered all over the seven trucks full of grain that game two days ago from Save the Children. And Laudina was quite happy to laugh at our singing and miniature-flag-waving this morning.

Oh, happy Fourth, indeed. Just pray we don’t annoy our team half to death with our American antics—it’s team day, and they have to withstand our nostalgia and spontaneous and horrendous performances of “God Bless America.” :)

Worth a thousand words…

I’m feeling a little tired and not all that inspired to write just now, so I figured I’d just shoot ya’ll some photos.

Here’s Kibaki—akak: the president of Kenya—and Francis. I have no idea what Kibaki is wearing on her head, except to say that whatever it is, it’s hilarious.

Thomaso is a shy little guy, but he really comes alive when he wears this hat. And he wears this hat whenever he comes to church—I do believe he and Laudina (his mother) have picked up on how much we love it. He’s giving ya’ll a grand salute, though he had no idea what we were having him do. The poor guy timidly held his hand up like that for minutes after the picture was taken, looking cautiously and somewhat expectantly at us.



One of the funniest new aspects of our Lopit life revolves around this little (stinky) baby. This is baby Kim, daughter of Ebiong, our neighbor. It took us a while to win Ebiong into our little circle of friends, but now she comes by each night and greets us “very very very very much.” But that’s not the funny part. Two or three times now, she’s come to the gate and been like, “Kim, come take baby Kim. I’m going to the river.” Hahaha. So, yeah, we’re a babysitting service. Kimpie took the opportunity to give baby Kim a bath—Ebiong’s kids are notoriously stinky, smelling of balu. (Recall previous story about Monica tottering in drunk with a mug of beer. We call Monica, Linus. Lovingly, of course.) Anyway, baby Kim loved the bath and later tried to eat the baby powder.

“Our” Kids…

All of our kids came down to church with us today. By “our” kids, I mean Abuba and Laudina’s kids—Paula, Francis, Franco, Ellen, Jessica and Thomaso. I love when they all come. We all trounce down together, the girls’ colorful princess dresses floating around them and the boys—dressed in the secondhand clothes I brought them from Kenya—chattering excitedly about their clothes and the songs they’re going to sing and all the silly things Kim and Andi had done already that morning. There are moments when I’m filled with untouchable joy in where God has me and who he has me with. This was certainly one of them.

Francis challenged me to a race once we hit the valley, so we all took off running like fools toward the church, leaping from rocks and weaving along the path, all the while making super-hero noises. OK, sure, they don’t know what super-hero noises are. They probably just think they’re weird Andi noises. You get me. It’s so funny to see Franco and Thomaso—the little brothers—toddle along, giggling and grinning. Every once and a while, I’d just throw one under my arm and run and catch up with the rest. They didn’t miss a beat.

It’s hard, to love a bunch of rugrats so much. It’s risky, knowing the government could usher us out someday when war starts again, knowing God may or may bring me back to this specific place, knowing these precious kids could grow up to adopt the ways of their culture and not the way of the Lord, and be lost forever. But I suppose it’s a risk I can’t help but take—I’m helpless against the love for these people God has put on my heart, even if I don’t feel it every day and in every situation.

Please pray for them, by name if possible. My prayer is to change one generation for Christ—and it might just be this one. Wow, just imagine.

Curious.

Sometimes things just don’t jive.

Maria, a local eboni (a healer and fortuneteller) whose favorite trick is to stick pens through the hole in her lower lip, came to visit the other day. She told Kimmie she—the healer—was sick and needed medicine.

Craig took the Iltis to pick up Juliana—the rainmaker, believed to bring the rain—in a nearby village. On the way home, she asked Craig if it had rained in our village. Shouldn’t she, um, know?

It’s all very curious. ;)

Prayer Requests

Some prayer request for you!
Rainy season has a nasty setback—malaria. Seems we’re getting into malaria season now as well, so pray the clinic can get the right meds (especially for children) and that people would actually go get the meds and take care of themselves. (Last year, we came back from vacation and Mary’s son was dead, from malaria. Franco has it now, and I couldn’t bear to lose another one of our neighbors—it’s one of my biggest fears.)

We’re working on our ethnograph papers now for the TIMO curriculum, which basically means we take a really close look at one particular part of the culture. It’s actually really a cool thing, but hard because of the language barrier—especially for us women—and the reluctance to talk about most stuff. Really digging into the culture like this could help us uncover keys for the Gospel, so be lifting that up. I’m working on death rites and funerals, so we’ll see what I uncover there.

Please be bringing our team before the throne. We’re all back now—praise God! As always, there is team unity. Then for Joshua & Co., as they readjust with baby Joy and try to get back into the language. We also have year-end evaluations soon—a chance to look back at this past year and forward at the year ahead, as well as considering options beyond TIMO. I’m excited about these.

Thank you, Canada!

Alright, this is going to be a little bit strange, I guess. But…

Crystal, Natalie, the girls of Schindler Hall and all ya’ll at Taylor University College… Here’s a huge THANK YOU, coming at you from the very thankful and newly encouraged members of this TIMO team. :) Oh, and, while we’re at it, here’s wishing you a happy Canada Day… which, according to my Cubs calendar, is next Monday. I don’t even know if people in Canada wish other Canadian folks a happy (merry?) Canada Day, but I figure it doesn’t hurt in trying, right?

Anyway, I can only assume this mystery package’s senders are the same Canadian college students who, a long while back, talked to ol’ Steve-o about corresponding with us. And, to tell you the truth, I have no idea how it all went down, but he must’ve referred you to this blog (which is why I’m making this pathetic attempt at contacting you on it) and you’ve been following and praying for us, so much as I gather. And we appreciate that very, very much!

The package came a bit ago and a handful of us ohh-ed and ahh-ed at its contents as I opened it on the porch. Actually, Iris took some wonderful pictures—one particularly precious one of Craig showing his excitement over the included feminine products, I think—but I wasn’t able to get them from her quite yet to post up here. I’ll work on it! We had a drawing yesterday at team day to divvy up the rest of the goodies. It was a nice treat.

So, anyway, it’s awesome to know you’re following along on here and keeping us in prayer. That’s amazing. Drop me an email if you do somehow read this (aclinard@gmail.com), because I’d love to find out just what your class or whatever is all about. Pretty sweet to know there are people all over lifting up this lonely mountain range!

The Buzz…

Abuba excused me from playing the last two nights, on account of my suffering.

You see, it’s been a rough past few days in Lopitland.

Kimmie and I had the bright idea Saturday to climb up to the top of a little neighboring mountain—the one we had church on not long ago—and shoot a video greeting for Annika, Steve & Co.’s recently departed school teacher. It was her favorite place in Lopitland.

Well, I’m here to tell you it’s now my least favorite place, despite all the warm-and-fuzzies associated with Annika.

The long and short of It is that I climbed into a tree at the very top of the mountain, only to find said tree was the home of a giant beehive. On any normal day, we would have been fine—and I assure Kimpie to that affect. (We later learned that thieves had come the night before and stole all the honey, so the bees were already agitated.) But next thing we know, we’re absolutely swarmed by the things and fleeing down the mountain, screaming and flailing and completely at the whim of the little beasts. You know in the cartoons when there’s this big arrow of angry bees? That’s pretty much what it was like. I just kept thinking, it’s got to end soon; they’ve got to stop. But they didn’t stop. It’s safe to say I was frantic. And to make it worse, after the initial barrage had passed, I had to go back up the mountain to get the video camera… and was attacked again, though—praise God—by a lesser army.

We spent the rest of Saturday in a miserable state—burning all over and unable to get any sort of relief. We pounded down the antihistamines and lathered up with cream, to no avail. Sunday went by in similar fashion. Poor Kimmie looks like she has a golf ball lodged in her cheek and swollen Mickey Mouse hands. My whole body is like a pincushion—I’m talking dozens of stings. And it doesn’t help that I’d just absolutely fried my frontside playing at the river. Then I got up in the middle of the night and was so doped I slammed my head against my stool and have a knot just above my eyebrow. Like I said, it’s been a rough few days!

And there you have it, the story of our current misery. Or, as the Lopit would say, our suffering. Laudina and Abuba lu-lu-lu-ed at our pitiful fate and have told us maybe a thousand times how the bees are bad, bad, bad. They’ve made us promise never to go up that mountain again. They’re such dear friends and have done their best to inform the whole of the community about our little adventure. (Gee, thanks!) Our friends keep coming by to “look” at us (the literal translation sounds a bit funny there) and tell us how bad bees are and how we should never, never, never go back there.

So perhaps the blessing in all this is that we’re just that much more humbled before our neighbors. Or that we were able to see how much they really do care.

Or maybe God just thought the Lopit needed another good laugh at the expense of their white visitors? ;)

Just another Francis morning…

I’ve just been having so much fun here lately, and loving the people—especially the kids—so much.

Grasshopper (Francis/Odwari) is as adorable as ever. The other morning I looked up from my Bible to see him grinning through my window screen. We weren’t ready to come out and play yet, so I just gave him one of my softballs.

He proceeded to stand on one side of the yard, throw it to the other, pitter-patter over to it, throw it back again, pitter-patter over to it… over and over again. I couldn’t help but grin as he skittered from one corner of my window to the other.

African kids clearly aren’t made to be alone!

Here’s that picture I promised ya’ll the other day. Our little Odwari is quite the worker. I’m not sure what I’ll do without this kid.

Sunshine Kid

I gave Paula, Grasshopper and Franco sunglasses the other day. You could say it’s been a big hit.

Here’s Franco. He puts these babies on and turns into a dancin’, laughin’ fool. Franco wouldn’t even talk when we first came, now he’s quite the chatterbox!

He’s currently squealing and laughing as he runs around my yard, chasing the softball he and Francis are throwing back and forth. I’m currently trying to figure out how I can fit them into my checked baggage on the way home…

Ridin’ the River

It’s been a long time since my butt has hurt this much—or my heart has been so happy.

I joined in a wonderful Lopit pastime the other day when I went to the river with Paula and the girls to fetch water. They dropped their water cans and their dresses, then squirted down the moss-covered rock river bed on their butts.

I wanted to resist, but it wasn’t long ‘til I, too, was ridin’ the river in my skivvies. Oh, gosh, it was amazing. Kimmie was a bit ticked at me—we’ve long been planning a covert night mission to take on said Lopit waterslide—but she and I both went this afternoon and had an aMAZing time.

Here’s a picture of our new favorite spot, so you can get an idea how great this place is. If you only knew what you were missing…

Toddlers Tippin’ Back

There are moments where you’re forced to look right in the face of the culture here.

We had one of those this morning.

Little Monica—our neighbor Ebiong’s daughter who is probably not even two—came wobbling into our kitchen. We called her over to the table, so we could shake her grimy hand. (Monica is known for being quite the stinky kid, bless her heart.)

Then we realize she’s carrying this equally grimy red mug. And, sure enough, when Kim gives it a wiff, what’s inside?

Balu.

We could just imagine Ebiong, “Alright, kid, I’m going to the field for the day. Here’s a mug of balu for breakfast. Now skitter off to the white peoples’ house and play.”

And that’s… completely normal. Hahaha.

The Little Things…

Sometimes it’s the littlest things that feel like huge steps forward here in Lopit.

This morning as Ebiong was leaving for the field, she hollered over here and asked us to take her clothes inside if it rained.

And that neighborly little gesture, for whatever reason, made me feel really, really happy.

I know we’ll always be white. And we’ll always be a little queer in our ways. But if ever we could just be their friends—to any degree—that’s where my heart is.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles…

Well, we’re back in Lopit. We ended up joining a MAF flight back home because of a myriad of problems. Some important bridge was out between Loki and Nairobi, so there was no diesel (not to mention fresh vegetables) in Loki and the truck we were supposed to load our groceries in couldn’t come from Nairobi.

Dan took our LandCruiser to pick up Joshua, Justina & Co. When we left, he was at a garage—both the front and back axles cracked. Ha! Then last I heard, he was sitting on riverbank somewhere in the middle of nowhere, watching other cars that had tried to cross float by.

Seriously, isn’t Africa great? I won’t lie—I’m a little glad I opted out of being his co-driver this go-around. ;)

Merry-Happy Christmas-Birthday-Easter-Valentine’s Day!

Yesterday was such a sweet day, because we rustled up some of our post in Loki just before the plane left. We’d spent the last day getting the weights just perfect—kilo by kilo—so we could load up the bush plane and land it safely on our grass airstrip. Then we made a last-ditch effort to get mail there on the tarmac, just before the flight. I was ready to swap out even the most essential groceries when I saw the heap of packages our teammates. Folks here would much rather get a letter from home than eat for the next four weeks. (You think I’m kidding…)

We got home and celebrated—in opening various packages—Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Easter and three birthdays. Kim, Pattie and I listened to the CD Kimmie’s mom sent—one of her family singing Christmas songs quite terribly—and ate homemade cookies… sent in November, nearly eight months ago. Probably one of the brightest dark spots of my bush experience.

I got my birthday package! Happy Birthday, me! Mind you, my birthday was in February. Mom sent the box in January. Iris said it was the best birthday package she’d ever seen. I agreed. I’ve set up a rationing system, so it’s not all gone in a couple weeks. :)

Anyway, thank you to anyone who ever has or ever will send a missionary a letter or a postcard or any little thing from the great USA. You have no idea how much of a blessing even a few words from home are!

Sweethearts in Lopitland

(Bet that title made you think I had a Lopit boyfriend, eh? Not quite.)

I was sitting in my room the other day when I heard Pattie rush outside and start quizzing the teenage boys about the things they were saying. I went outside to see what the deal was, and she explained to me that she’d heard them saying things like, “I love you!” and couldn’t believe it. (They don’t have that same concept of love here, let alone say it.)

I had to laugh. Just a moment before, I shared some conversation Sweetheart things—you know, the little Valentine’s Day hearts with funny messages written on them?—with them. They were just practicing their English. Poor Pattie got all excited.

Earlier, I’d handed Oseta one and he scowled and gave it back to me, saying, “This one is hito-ongoruo (woman)!” It said, “Go girl!” Apparently, he didn’t think that one was fit for a young man to eat…

Gosh, my stories are so lame…

Bicycle Built for…

I think in my daydreams of old—especially in my pre-Christian days—I always figured I’d have kids by the time I was 24 and would eventually be teaching them great things like riding a bike and playing catch. (Baseball training will begin at birth, naturally.)

But God has different plans, so the first kids I got to teach how to ride a bike were a handful of rambunctious 12 year olds in the middle-of-nowhere, Sudan. The boys have been basically begging me to teach them, so I finally broke down the other day and took Babiano (of split-open-head fame), Odume and Otaban down to the valley to let them give it a go. The whole way down I just prayed that God would please, please, please spare my bike. I mean, it’s His and all, and I know that. But there’s a reason you don’t teach kids to ride on precious TREK mountain bikes, you know?

Anyway, it took a while to get them going, but finally I got to have that precious moment of letting go of Odume and watching him wobble off happily, then topple off awkwardly but with a ginorous grin that I wouldn’t have traded for twelve precious TREK mountain bikes. Seeing them so happy made it one of my best days here in Lopit. I really, really am enjoying these boys and my neighbors.

I find I keep telling people about the latest “one of the best days I’ve had here in Lopit.” Praise God for giving me so much joy in the relationships I’ve made here! Just yesterday I was walking down the road in Loki, with a lot on my mind, just sort of stepping back and watching life there, and I thought to myself, “This is better than ___.” I could put just about anything in there. And that’s definitely God’s doing.

Pictures from Paradise…

Well, gang, I figured I should use my internet opportunity wisely and send you pictures while it’s not costing me $3 a pop. So, here’s some pictures from the last couple months or so. I realized I haven’t been taking so many lately, so I’ll get on that. I hope you enjoy!

Praying on the Mountain

A while back, I told you about Mark’s crazy idea to go atop one of the mountains and pray for rain. Well, here’s a couple pictures to show you just what that looked like. There’s Kimmie with Mark himself and our friends. Those are the Three Sisters in the backround—the trademark mountains of Lopitland. Some say the people actually worship them. I dunno. That big one on the right is the Father. I want to say that’s Oudo—the one Kimmie is named after.
Notice how high we are. I carried Thomaso up that thing. In my church clothes. Yes, I suppose I deserve some sort of medal…

Here’s our little church gathering. That’s Pastor Saba on the left, preachin’ it up. Or maybe he was translating for Kareem, on the right. Whatever the case, it was a cool service. Another interesting fact—Idiongo (bottom right) shopped Shoe Carnival and LIVED! (He wears that every week to church and it never seems to get less curious to me.)

Pattie and the Termites

Pattie has had her fair share of battles with the bugs. Termites came in and chewed up her closet-esque thing. Here she is, taking it to it with a hammer. One of the two—Pattie and the closet—didn’t make it out alive.

Lighting the Stove

Once again raising the question… how many people does it take to light a geko oven? Well, in this case, five, it seems. That’s Maria (Davitica’s niece; cousin to baby Pattie), Cassia (Davitica’s second youngest), a mystery child (forgive me?) and Night, Mary’s girl and a constant help to us.
I’ve since given up on lighting the geko from scratch—it really is a pain—and taken to one of two alternatives.
Sometimes I simply take my tongs and hold a piece of coal over my gas stovetop until it’s lit, then I use it to light everything else. Yes, I just admitted that. I’m somewhat ashamed, but somehow very proud of my brilliance.
Then there’s the better option. I noticed that folks ‘round here often send their kids to other huts to grab a piece of hot firewood or coal; then they light their own fires with it. Perhaps equally brilliant to my over-the-stovetop idea. (… Perhaps…) So now I just run up to Lodina’s with my oven mitt and pan lid. They laugh at my “clothes for my hands”—they just carry the stuff on a flat rock or lid. They have the amazing ability to touch and carry ridiculously hot pans and stuff. (As in, they pick up a pot of boiling water with zero problem… and wonder why we can’t.)

Breaking In

Once, Kim and I both forgot our keys to the bicycle lock that keeps our gate closed. (Sometimes we lock it when we have laundry on the line; we’ve had bras stolen before—they like to dance in them!) We were too ashamed to tell Pattie, so simply squeezed through a hole in the fence. Pattie thought it was a bit curious that the door was still locked when she came home… and we were giggling in the front yard.

Pattie and Pattie

Pattie and her namesake. She’s actually quite cute. (I’ll let you decide if I mean Big Pattie or Baby Pattie… or both.)

The Great Coal Fridge Fiasco

This cool veteran missionary suggested to Kimmie that we make a coal… thing… so we could keep things cool. Apparently, this coal fridge thing has worked for people in the past.
Well, after a whole day of struggling and cutting wood with her LeatherMan and numerous defeats, Kim decided the coal fridge was definitely not going to work for her.
She launched the ugly, awkward thing over the fence, even though Oseta (in the backround there) begged her not to.
Launching things over the fence has become Kim’s go-to move in the face of frustration.
It’s actually quite funny. The other day she broke the broom stick and ceremoniously heaved it over the fence. One of the boys watched this with a smile, then—upon Kim’s return into the house—calmly went and retrieved it for her.
We’re starting to be known for our quirks—and know the quirks of our neighbors. :) It’s great.
Oh, and again, that’s Oseta, of chicken-killing fame. I’d say this is the day he really became one of our favorites—he’s been our loyal helper and friend ever since.

Sweet Ellen

Just a few more adorable pictures of Miss Ellen. Honestly, how cute is this little girl? I think she’ll be walking in the next week!

Cath and the Easter Play

Just a little scene from the Easter Play. If you remember, Cath (in blue) and Martin and others worked really hard to make a play that was contextualized to the culture. It was really neat. That’s Kim in the back there, also known as Mary, mother of Jesus/Craig.

Just another morning…

If you don’t know these two faces by now, you probably haven’t read my blog before. This is Franco (left) and his brother Francis. They are, still and always, some of our favorite little boys.
This particular morning, I looked outside my window when I woke up to see the two of them crouching on our rocks, naked and waiting for us to wake up. They normally come in the morning to say hello and see if they can sweep our compound for us or play.
They actually were quite naughty the other week—they came in the house while Pattie was napping/reading and took the playing cards and some peanuts without asking. Oh, the drama! We had to ban them from the compound for a week. It was one of those “This hurts me as much as it hurts you” situations.
But, that’s gone and forgotten and they’re back now, and better than even.
Kim and I started a project while Pattie was in Nairobi—a retaining wall in the back of the house to keep our kitchen and Pattie’s room from flooding, and giving us a nice place to sit and greet people. It’s right on the main path to the village, so we can sit and say hello to everyone as they go by and see what everyone in the village is up to. (We have adapted to Lopit culture in that way, haha.)
Francis has been as gungho about the project as Kimmie was—every day before I came to Loki ,he was there, bringing rocks or moving dirt or some special thing*. He’d show up in the morning at my window, asking if he could help. Hehe. The first day, he got a hold of my sandals and put them on, then stood there for an hour, trying to maneuver a shovel that was as big as he was. It really was adorable. I took a picture, but it’s still in Lopit—I’ll put it up when I can.
Oh, good ol’ Francis… I love that kid.

Fowl Play

You’re probably getting by now that meat is sort of a big deal ‘round these parts. So it wouldn’t be beyond your imagination that we, as we drive out of Sudan, often encourage Daniel to try to hit one of the guinea fowl that sometimes saunter across the road.
Well, I’m here to tell you that sometimes dreams do come true.
Dan nailed one yesterday.
I heard the murmuring from the front seat as he and Jen were clearly conspiring against the poor animal and aiming the LandCruiser.
Then the telling thud as he clocked it clean in the head with the underside of the car.
And the triumphant acclamations as the rearview mirrors confirmed that, yes, Daniel had in fact successfully killed tonight’s dinner.
Next thing I know, we’re in full reverse, heading back for the kill. Then Daniel’s sort of looking perplexed at the poor thing—turns out the hit wasn’t as clean as first thought. Then the optimistic brandishing of the knife. Then some indecision.
Then we realize we have nothing to put the thing in anyway, and to seal the deal, a truckload of Sudanese and Kenyans rolls up and starts laughing at us, asking why we killed their animal. And so a friendship was struck as we handed over the bird and headed on our way… smirk with our success and somehow comforted that we were heading out—to Kenya, where if you look hard enough, you can find meat—and not back in, to the land of protein deficiencies.
Oh, and we saw this ginormous bird later. I’m talking three dinners’ worth of food here, people. We really wanted that bird. Then Jen—in this case, the voice of reason—suggested that it would really be a terrible thing if said bird was on the endangered species list…

Chicken Tonight

Sometimes, all you want out here is some meat.
One of those times was the other day. Kimmie and I set out to the village in search of a delicious chicken. This isn’t our first meat breakdown; it happens every so often. We always spend at least a day asking anyone and everyone if we could please, please, please just buy a chicken from them. Normally everyone tells us, “Absolutely!” but then never come with the chicken.
But Sunday—a glorious, glorious day—was different.
Somehow, Mary’s father was happy to relinquish one of his flock.
I helped the boys chase the silly thing all around the village. Seriously, it was hilarious. I nearly took out my eye on a bamboo pole sticking out of a thatched roof.
That thing did not want to become dinner.
But, low and behold, Oseta finally snatched it up. (Interesting note: Oseta is one of our favorite P7 kids. His name means “vomit.” And I guess here, that’s OK.) I carried the thing home—by its legs—triumphantly and was still searching for a sharp knife when the boys called and said Oseta had already taken care of it.
It’s a good thing, too. Kim says when you slaughter a chicken, you cross some imaginary threshold which you can never come back across. You’re just… different. And we both have this irrational fear that if we become too independent, God will decide we don’t need husbands and pass us by… So, a double thank you to Oseta.
Anyway, Susanna came and helped me pluck and gut the thing. It was an all-around not terrible experience.
And we were two very happy women at dinner that night. :)

It’s been a while…

Oh, gracious, it’s been a while since I’ve written, hey? Sorry about that. I’ve had about a million things to write about, too.
Let’s see. What’s new in Lopitland?
Well, I’ve been learning a lot of culture stuff lately. No, wait. It’s more like I’ve found myself more and more confused by cultural stuff lately. But, whatever the case—I’m hopeful things will become more and more clear as time goes on and as we learn more language.
Ministry is same ol’, same ol’—still hard, still overwhelming. But God’s still keeping me through it, so that’s good.
The preschool is still just a building without a door. Dan’s still working on the door—in between the other thousand projects he has—and the curriculum is still…. Somewhere? It was supposed to come from U a week or two ago. As I see how the church is already running in a million different directions with the primary and adult classes, I wonder how the preschool is going to work out. But it’s something the community and the church has told me—and continues to tell me—they want, so I’ll keep pressing on. Pray for Lopit workers and teachers and support.
We’ve been going to the gardens a lot lately—another way to spend time with our friends. I’m not at all convinced they appreciate us being there!
There’s been a little excitement around here, with some folks coming in and raiding goats. It was actually nice, though, to see our brave Manyumiji (this, I think, is how I’m going to spell it from now on) gearing up for battle. There was no battle, but seeing how they rise to the occasion certainly makes it easier not to harbor bitterness for their apparent laziness.
My bike has been sidelined for a while. The tubes are like pincushions, and the anti-puncture slime I brought from the States is completely gone. Which pretty much means every other ride ends in a frustrating flat. Boo to that. I’m praying to somehow get supplies soon—I was really enjoying meeting the new people and even got a letter from Asia the other day.
Oh, and I was listening to my John Piper sermons the other morning and had a bit of an epiphany. I realized there was no reason I couldn’t start recording Pastor’s sermons now—just like Desiring God record’s Pipers—and clean them up on my audio editing program, so in the future when DIGUNA does get a radio station up here, we’ll have material for it, straight away. he was jazzed about it, too, so that’s cool. (A lot of the men around here have these wind-up radios that the UN or somebody distributed. They wear them around their necks as status symbols and often have them blaring a station in a language they don’t understand.)
Well, that’s a general overview, I guess. I’ll try to keep up on these from now on…

I’m No Green Thumb

Kim and I would be the first ones to tell you, we really don’t like going to the gardens.
It’s pretty miserable. So far, we’ve either been waist-deep in a slew of green—they don’t plant in rows—trying to decipher the good stuff from the weeds. Or we’ve been on our hands and knees, pulling up the clumps of sod the Manyumiji hoed up, shaking out the grass and weeds by the roots and throwing it into a big heap.
The other day, I walked—barefoot, with mud to my ankles, slipping all over the place—for an hour and a half, just to get to Adwina’s field. Then we worked for seven hours—knees planted in that same mud, pulling up stuff—before walking the hour and a half home.
We laugh, because I really don’t think the ladies appreciate our coming and working with them so much. Yes, our TIMO hearts want to work next to them. But I’m afraid we’re a bit of a pain—we’ve been known to accidently weed out good plants and have other traits that don’t exactly make us super gardeners. Hehehe. They often tell us to just sit under the tree and rest—they don’t want us to get tired or dirty.
Ever get the feeling someone is just trying to get rid of you? ;)
We actually joke that we’ll find whoever it was that was especially not nice to us the previous days, then punish them by going to their field with them. I can imagine their pity for us, as we show up with our bookbags full of water and sunscreen. :)
Farming in Lopitland is nothing like farming in America. There’s no plows—not even oxen plows. There’s no rakes, just hands. The men have these long, long poles with a flat iron piece at the end—their version of a plow. So they all get together scrape at the ground, in rhythm. Then we go behind and pick up what they left behind.
More than once (and probably upon seeing our utter incompetence), they’ve asked us if people weed in America. The specialization system is foreign to them—they don’t have it. I’ve tried to explain that, no, I don’t weed, but some people do. Some people work in the field, some people work with books, some people work in an office. They work in different ways.
Glazed over looks.
So I don’t have a field? No.
And my father doesn’t have a field? No.
Pause.
Lu-lu-lu, shaking their head.
Anyway, despite all that, it’s still been nice in some ways. Adwina & Co. asked me to pray to my God so he wouldn’t bring the storm that was coming at us from all directions—we were so far from home, with babies and the wind was getting cold. So, I did pray. Hardly a drop fell—crazy. And I did get to witness a great garden moment. There was a fury of excitement (I thought at first they were going to kill another puff-ader) and then the boys pulled up with the kill—three field rats, for our dining pleasure. Threw ‘em straight in the fire and ate ‘em right then and there. The kids got the tails and feet Adwina broke off. YUM!

Welcome home!

Heinrich and Doris are back. That’s big news. They brought new baby Philip, who’s just adorable. Salome is all grown up and lots more outgoing than when she left. It was amazing to see how easily she slipped back into life here. Kimmie said that first night they were home, little Salome had already found her way to a Lopit woman’s lap.
Philip had a Lopit name even before the LandCruiser hit Steve’s compound, so that’s great for the little guy. They all say how chubby he is and how great that is. He’s got red hair, just like his mom and sister; I’m sure that’s an added attraction.
We’re really, really happy to have them back. They’re a super great couple and add so much to our team—with their talents, their ministry and just with their marriage. They make me laugh and just add some invisible thing that makes our team stronger. (Gosh, I’m really going on about them, aren’t I?) And it’s nice to know they’re in it for the long haul—they have a vision and a heart for this place that extends well after TIMO.
Which logically leads me to say that they’re happy to be back, too. Heinrich was just giddy to see people and get back home. He was like a kid at Christmas, ha. I think he’s really going to kick things up with getting stuff translated and all that. He, Doris, Kimmie and I are meeting tonight about translation stuff.
It won’t be long until Joshua, Justina & Co. are back, too. Wow, to have our entire team back in the game! I can’t wait. And we get to meet our other new member—baby Joy. Be praying for their safe travel and for an easy adjustment back into Lopitland.

Touche.

Alright, I’ve been chewed up one side and down the other about my choice for Bill Mueller as my BoSox player.
(All these blogs I put up about ministry, without a single comment. I write about Billy and I get clobbered with emails.)
So please forgive my poor judgment.
I just wanted to be a former Cub, regardless of who the real heroes of the World Series were…

Happy Birthday, Jen!

It’s probably not so hard to imagine that birthday’s in the bush can be a bummer if you’re not careful, so we here in TIMO (at least the single female contingency) do our best to play ‘em up big. And we’ve been doing a lot of playing lately, with Kimmie and Craiger’s birthdays last month, Pattie’s earlier this month, Martin’s yesterday and Jen’s today. Wowza. We gave Kim a weeklong birthday celebration. (The gift that kept on giving and giving and giving.) Craiger got a TIMO madlib. Pattie got a special radio show, complete with honky-talking Big Tex the radio announcer.
And Jen got malaria.
Ok, no, wait. We didn’t give her the malaria. That just happened. Haha. Poor thing.
Luckily, I think Jen’s probably one of the more resilient team members (and, like me, isn’t crazy about birthdays anyway), so she’s doing OK. She was a’suffering last night, but I think she cycled out of her fever just long enough to enjoy a special birthday tea this afternoon.Cath gave her a “Red Sox Day,” complete with a cake in the shape of a sock and a ball and a viewing of Fever Pitch later tonight. Each of us also made her a special birthday baseball card of ourselves, which I think she really liked.
(You can see them there in the picture, with Jen grinning away like mad. Jen informed me today that her parents asked if we’d had a fight, since there weren’t any pictures of her up lately. So you’re going to get a spattering now. I hope you enjoy!)
Anyway, like I said, we do our best to make birthday’s special. The packages our families send never come. (My mom sent one in December for my February birthday; I still haven’t got it. Kimmie’s Mom sent one, also in December, for her late April birthday. It’s also MIA, along with Craig’s. We pray often for our mail to come…) We miss home a bit more. Sometimes we even get malaria. (Poor Jen!) But I think, all in all, we do alright. :)

She’s Topps. So, here’s Jen with her baseball cards. I spent a good half an hour at team day Wednesday, trying to explain to people just what baseball cards were and what position each one of them should be. We were each members of the BoSox World Series team. I wisely picked Bill Mueller—former Cub and AL batting champion. I consider it due reward for actually knowing what baseball is… I told Steve he had to be the Green Monster. That, for better or worse, was lost on him.

Red Sox Nation—errr—Village. Kimpie and I really cowboyed up for Jen’s birthday. That’s coal marks on our cheeks. You gotta do what you’ve gotta do, you know? On the hike to Sohot, everyone kept asking what was on our cheeks. We just told them they were dirty. (How would you explain that?) Our German and South African friends weren’t quite as satisfied with that answer and wondered why the heck we had coal marks on our cheekbones. Sigh. Hello intercultural confusion.

Burping… and Other Cultural Breakthroughs

Yesterday, Kim learned the best cultural thing ever.
She was with her language helper, Mark—a constant font of language and culture knowledge… and great entertainment—and he burped. So, naturally, she laughed at him.But then he informed her that burping was a special skill in Lopitland.
Yes, it takes a very rare person to be able to do it. In fact, he’s only one of three people in the whole of Lopit who can let out long, drawn-out burps.
Which you’d think would be just random trivia, until you learn that these three gifted people, by virtue of their burping, are believed to be healers.
That’s right, healers.
Because they can burp.
You probably think I’m making this up, but I’m dead serious. And Pastor G even confirmed it today. Crazy.
Also today, Kimmie told Mark that she, too, was able to let out long burps (I can bear witness to this fact), along with nearly every person in the United States of America.
He was impressed, I guess, but quickly lowered his voice and asked if she could take some bad news.
Apparently, also in the Lopit culture, they say those burping people won’t live for very long, unless they become witchdoctors.
I think she took the bad news in stride…

The Fellas

Though our stint at the primary school didn’t last long, with all the random vacations and confusion and lack of organization, we were there long enough to make quite a lot of friends among the teenage boys.
Our P5, P6 and P7 boys love to come by here and hang out—whether it just be to join the myriad of other children enjoying the Whiteys Show or to play cards or to help us with language or for help in math, etc.
They are so much fun.
The other day, Kim and I were playing 80’s music on my iPod speakers, and they told us to come dance with them. Long story short—they now know how to “Walk like an Egyptian.” And my stomach still hurts from laughing. Now they keep asking us to come dance with them.
They’ve taken to calling Kim, Hyena. I think that’s hilarious. They’ll walk by the fence and call to her. Hahaha. Last night, I got an animal name of my own. I’m Leopard. Kim tried to get them to call me Snake. It didn’t catch. Though once, I was bantering with Kimmie and Akang broke through, from behind the fence, “You, Snake—shh!!” We were rolling. This probably isn’t as funny to you as it was to me…
Anyway, Pattie made the mistake of asking what her animal name was.
Elephant.
That’s a high compliment ‘round these parts. In Africa, the bigger the better. I especially love the days when they tell me how fat I’m getting and how great that is and how soon I’ll be big, big, BIG! Super encouraging for an American. Luckily, I can turn around and have someone tell me I’m getting too skinny and I need to eat more…

School’s In

Things got a little juggled around, with school being so crazy.
Pattie is continuing on at the primary school. I’m waiting out all the practical problems for the preschool and guarding my time for that.
And they asked Kim to teach a new program the government is pushing across South Sudan. It’s an adult, accelerated learning course. It’s for all the adults who were kids in school when the war broke and had to stop their education.
It finally got off the ground this week, an answer to much prayer.
Kim is loving it. She gets to teach a lot of the adults we know—the two house help people at America (Angelo, the guard, and Elizabeth, the househelp), the teachers, some of our neighbors, etc.
She always has good stories to tell. She says all the guys have to leave their guns outside the school building, so you’ve got this pile of rifles outside in the schoolyard. They use the primary school, so the grown men are awkwardly sitting—long legs bent like a spider’s, knees poking up somewhere above their elbows—on the logs the kids use for seats. She says a lot of them really love it and soak up every word, loving to answer what they can in English.
It’s weird, thinking of our adult friends in that situation. We love Angelo, the guard. He’s hilarious. He’s just goofy and always drunk and never doing much guarding at America. We can joke with him a lot and he says all sorts of funny things. The first day in class, he was talking with his neighbor while Mark was teaching. And so Mark called him out on it. Kimmie said he gave the most innocent look and pointed to his neighbor, shrugging. Thinking of him doing that makes me laugh so hard.
I guess the more I get to know the people here, the more we learn the bits of their personalities. And, unfortunately, the harder it becomes to communicate to ya’ll the funny little things that make life here bright and fun, despite all the other circumstances…

Update on the Witchdoctor

Cath and Pastor Saba had an early morning meeting with the witchdoctor who wanted to give her life to Christ after seeing the Easter Play. They met with her and explained everything to her, laid out the whole Gospel.
She said that yes, that’s what she wants. She wants to have Jesus in her life.
But, when Cath explained to her that that would mean giving up a lot of this other stuff—this worship of other gods and witchdoctoring (yes, I made that word up)—she bawked a little.
She really wants to be a Christian, wants to live for Jesus. But right now the cultural strings are too tight and too many. But she wants it—that’s what’s key. And through God, all things are possible.
Cath and Pastor will continue to meet with her. She wants to come to church and everything.
So, be praying for her convictions, for her true conversion.
Pray she’d count the cost and see the glory of God as infinitely valuable.
And pray that she’d be one of many!!

“Heavily Soiled”

This morning, I daydreamed about the dial on my mom’s washer at home.
Oh, to have a setting called, “Heavily Soiled” or something.
I scrubbed clothes for two hours this morning, working out the dirt from my ride the other morning.
The UNIMOG—sent out for supplies—hadn’t arrived back from Kenya the night before, like it was supposed to. That’s not such a tragedy—oftentimes the trek takes longer than we’d expect, be it because of rain filling up the rivers or trouble at the border or whatever.
Since I normally ride in the mornings, I set out to find them on their way. There’s 28K’s (‘bout 17-18 miles) of rough, muddy track between us and the main road, so I figured I’d either find them stuck in some pit on that stretch or making their way along it, having bunked up at some village the night before.
I’ve been enjoying using the bike as a little ministry lately. I ride out on the road and meet new people and find out where they’re from and try my dialect of the Lopit language on them. Sometimes I have to coax them back on to the road, after they’ve seen my white face and fled. Haha!
It’s always so neat to meet new people. I met these three hilarious women on the way. I’d stopped to check on a soft tire and a few of them came up the track. Whenever I greet them in Lopit, it always shocks them and they just start rolling in laughter. But it’s funnier when I’ve been on a muddy ride, because they gawk at how dirty I am. Remember, they’re used to only seeing mud on coal-black skin. Mud on my pale whiteness looks quite stark to them. (It’s the same with bruises or scratches, they’re always very concerned about our scratches.) Anyway, these women “lu-lu-lu-lu”ed at how messy I was, and one of them snatched my bandana from me and started wiping me down with it. We did our best to chat and they finally let me go.
About 25K’s out, I had a flat, but I was right at a village I’d greeted people at before, so it worked out well. I got to the village—the name of which rings more of Asia than the bush of Sudan (to me, anyway)—at rush hour, as the women were coming out to go to the garden. So as I sat there tinkering with my flat, I tried to greet people. Between the bike and I, we’re quite a show. Always draw a crowd.
After about five minutes, I saw all the Munimiji, armed, flying out the village and to the road. It’s always funny to watch them run past. The schoolmaster—who I had met and was talking to—told me casually that there was an “enemy” in the field they were off to track and kill him. He also told me he was upset because the teachers were at school, but the children refused to come. Africa is so weird to this Western girl…
Anyway, all ended well. I finally got the tire patched and met the truck only a kilometer more up the road, then we headed back together. The roads are much kinder to a girl on a bike than driver in a truck—I can pace with, if not beat, most lorries on this stretch. :)

Praying on the Mountain

Yesterday, it was ultra sweet because we were ready to leave for church and Abuba and Lodina—who previously only sent their children with us to church—said they were going with us! Woohoo! Happy Mothers’ Day, indeed. The moms came with us to church.
But then we hiked all the way down the mountain to the church and they told us we had to turn around and go up another mountain, that we were having church on a mountaintop today, to pray for rain.
Figures, the only time Abuba and Lodina come to church…
But it was still cool. We took on the hot sun, put the kids on our back and climbed up to the little shade tree and a handful of people, singing and praying.
Pretty sweet, if you ask me.
And then, last night as I was walking all around Lopit for two hours, trying to find a nurse to take care of this kid who had cut her toe off (emergency medicine, Lopit style), it starts to drizzle and I look up and this HUGE rainbow is stretching all the way from the Three Sisters (the three peaks, kind of the Lopit trademark) across to Oliri, another big mountaintop. Really, really cool.
And now you know.
Alright, the kids are being so funny today. I have to go play with them.

How can I not laugh?

I will confess to laughing at the Munimiji (ruling warrior guys) just now.
Yes, I know, that’s probably really bad, but I can’t help it.
They’re flowing by our fence, asking us if we’re going to the rainmaker’s garden. Well, why aren’t we going? Do we think it’s bad? (Clearly trying to start a fight.) Give them chai. Give them chai now. We have to give them things because we didn’t go to the garden. We’re so bad. If we don’t go, the rain won’t come and we’ll be in so much trouble.
But the thing is, the thunder is rumbling and the storm clouds are swirling and—duh—the rain is coming, NOW.
How can I not laugh?
The problem is, little Francis and Franco and Paula are outside, also laughing.
Even the little kids are making fun of them.
That’s so bad.
Oh, Lord, forgive my laughter…

Hungry Kids

I doubt there is a missionary or even NGO worker out there who has ever adjusted to the situation of people going hungry around them, while there is food on their own table.
That’s kind of what I’m dealing with now. Or have been dealing with, I guess.
The rain came and everything, so people were able to put their crops in the ground, but now it’s just back to being hot, hot, hot and dry. And the same empty food stores are there as before the rain.
I was up at Lodina’s today, hanging out, and she was telling me about how everyone is hungry because there is no jiaji—that is, vegetables. So she’s telling me everyone is hungry. And Mundari comes and says the same thing.
I hate knowing people are hungry.
But.
Then you see the balu (beer). Mary’s brother came back from Kh. yesterday—the first time he’s been back in 20 years. So they threw an all-night party. You could smell the balu, two compounds down, where we live. (OK, you can always smell balu in these villages, but it was even more potent than normal.) The goods were a’flowing.
The night before, Lodina and her husband slaughtered a goat and had similar brew for all the people who worked in their garden. (Groups of people join together and spend a day in each individual’s garden; the individual treats everyone to beer. They go to the next garden the next day and it continues on like that, until everyone’s field has been planted.)
So you see how they have all this beer, but they say they have no food. But they make the balu from the same thing they could make regular food from. On her compound, Lodina has a really long bamboo pole with a plastic bottle on top. That means she’s selling balu. And so you ask her about it. And they all know we think balu is bad. But what can you say when she says, I sell the balu for money, so I can buy food in Torit.
It’s a Catch 22. I hate to see them waste good food on balu and not feel the repercussion for it, but I hate even more knowing that Icholpi or Thomaso or Odwari (Francis) or Franco or Paula or Ellen—the kids—would even be a little bit hungry while I’m sitting here, fat as a cow.
I guess there really is no answer.

(Way past) Easter play

Cath worked up a little more drama magic and has a handful of the village children and a couple church folk putting on a neat little drama in each of the villages—one each day this week.
Martin—an amazing drama guy—is Satan. And Kim plays Mary, mother of Craig (aka: Jesus).
Then there’s baby Jesus.
Cath bought a little baby doll on our last trip out. It’s suspiciously small and almost glowingly white, but it does the job, I guess. Kim straps it to her back just like the locals here to do their babies.
Kim did the Lopit mourning with the best of them (waling “lulululululululululu”) and Craig was convincing enough on the cross (though it’s rumored that he at first simply said “oww” as they pounded in the nails), but plastic baby Jesus really stole the show.
They can’t get enough of him.
On the other hand, I’m quite sick of him.
Now, hold off on the blasphemy charges for a second.
You see, baby Jesus has a built in annoyance feature. If you “tickle” its foot, it giggles and says, “That tickles, Mommy!” over and over again.
And I do mean over and over. The people can’t get enough of him. Davitica came by this morning for the sole purpose of tickling baby Jesus’ foot. I’m trying to work through Hebrews and all I can hear is, “More, Mommy, more! Hehehehe.”
I pray my view of baby Jesus isn’t forever ruined. ;)
Anyway, last night we had the play in Husa, our village. It was great. A ton of our women friends came, and a whole swarm of kids. Martin said to me that he can tell we live and work there because so many people came. That was a big encouragement for our sometimes-weary household.
The men on the mangot clapped for the kids’ songs and when Kimmie presented baby Jesus. Kim was a little worried they wouldn’t get it when she came back in a scene later with Craig (grown up Jesus), but her fears were calmed when this guy, upon seeing Craig and Mary/Kim, shouted with glee, “Ibolo Jesus!” (Jesus is BIG!) They laughed at Satan and his attempts to tempt Jesus. They clapped and cheered when he was shooed away.
Unfortunately, lots of people also laughed at the crucifixion. The problem is, this happens a lot—whether you’re doing a play or the Jesus Film or what—because that’s what the Lopit do, it seems, when they’re uncomfortable or don’t know how to handle a situation. Rarely do they shed tears. So, yes, that takes a lot to get over.
(And, yes, they might have been laughing a bit at Kimmie’s lulululu-ing. They always get a kick out of it when we pick up on their habits.)
Anyway, despite all that, I think the message of the play did get through. The Gospel was presented; God was glorified.
And it’s the talk of the villages, that’s for sure. This morning, I kept hearing the boys talking about Jesus and Satan and quoting Craig, “Ibeti Satani!” (Get the heck out of here, Satan!)