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.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Monday, July 09, 2007
Saturday, July 07, 2007
Photos, again...
I finally was able to add some random photos--from baptisms to pirate parties, nice-looking clothes to guilty looks. Enjoy.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
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…
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.” :)
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.” :)
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
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.
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.
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. ;)
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. ;)
Friday, June 29, 2007
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.
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!
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!
Monday, June 25, 2007
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? ;)
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? ;)
Friday, June 22, 2007
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.
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…
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…
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
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. ;)
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!
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…
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.
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.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
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…
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.) 
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. 
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
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…
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. :)
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. :)
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
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…
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!
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.
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.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
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…
(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…
Friday, May 25, 2007
Happy Birthday, Jen!
It’s probably not so hard to imagine that birthday’s in the bush can be a bummer if you’re not careful, so we here in TIMO (at least the single female contingency) do our best to play ‘em up big. And we’ve been doing a lot of playing lately, with Kimmie and Craiger’s birthdays last month, Pattie’s earlier this month, Martin’s yesterday and Jen’s today. Wowza. We gave Kim a weeklong birthday celebration. (The gift that kept on giving and giving and giving.) Craiger got a TIMO madlib. Pattie got a special radio show, complete with honky-talking Big Tex the radio announcer.
And Jen got malaria.
Ok, no, wait. We didn’t give her the malaria. That just happened. Haha. Poor thing.
Luckily, I think Jen’s probably one of the more resilient team members (and, like me, isn’t crazy about birthdays anyway), so she’s doing OK. She was a’suffering last night, but I think she cycled out of her fever just long enough to enjoy a special birthday tea this afternoon.Cath gave her a “Red Sox Day,” complete with a cake in the shape of a sock and a ball and a viewing of Fever Pitch later tonight. Each of us also made her a special birthday baseball card of ourselves, which I think she really liked.
(You can see them there in the picture, with Jen grinning away like mad. Jen informed me today that her parents asked if we’d had a fight, since there weren’t any pictures of her up lately. So you’re going to get a spattering now. I hope you enjoy!)
Anyway, like I said, we do our best to make birthday’s special. The packages our families send never come. (My mom sent one in December for my February birthday; I still haven’t got it. Kimmie’s Mom sent one, also in December, for her late April birthday. It’s also MIA, along with Craig’s. We pray often for our mail to come…) We miss home a bit more. Sometimes we even get malaria. (Poor Jen!) But I think, all in all, we do alright. :)
And Jen got malaria.
Ok, no, wait. We didn’t give her the malaria. That just happened. Haha. Poor thing.
Luckily, I think Jen’s probably one of the more resilient team members (and, like me, isn’t crazy about birthdays anyway), so she’s doing OK. She was a’suffering last night, but I think she cycled out of her fever just long enough to enjoy a special birthday tea this afternoon.Cath gave her a “Red Sox Day,” complete with a cake in the shape of a sock and a ball and a viewing of Fever Pitch later tonight. Each of us also made her a special birthday baseball card of ourselves, which I think she really liked.
(You can see them there in the picture, with Jen grinning away like mad. Jen informed me today that her parents asked if we’d had a fight, since there weren’t any pictures of her up lately. So you’re going to get a spattering now. I hope you enjoy!)
Anyway, like I said, we do our best to make birthday’s special. The packages our families send never come. (My mom sent one in December for my February birthday; I still haven’t got it. Kimmie’s Mom sent one, also in December, for her late April birthday. It’s also MIA, along with Craig’s. We pray often for our mail to come…) We miss home a bit more. Sometimes we even get malaria. (Poor Jen!) But I think, all in all, we do alright. :)
She’s Topps. So, here’s Jen with her baseball cards. I spent a good half an hour at team day Wednesday, trying to explain to people just what baseball cards were and what position each one of them should be. We were each members of the BoSox World Series team. I wisely picked Bill Mueller—former Cub and AL batting champion. I consider it due reward for actually knowing what baseball is… I told Steve he had to be the Green Monster. That, for better or worse, was lost on him.
Red Sox Nation—errr—Village. Kimpie and I really cowboyed up for Jen’s birthday. That’s coal marks on our cheeks. You gotta do what you’ve gotta do, you know? On the hike to Sohot, everyone kept asking what was on our cheeks. We just told them they were dirty. (How would you explain that?) Our German and South African friends weren’t quite as satisfied with that answer and wondered why the heck we had coal marks on our cheekbones. Sigh. Hello intercultural confusion.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Burping… and Other Cultural Breakthroughs
Yesterday, Kim learned the best cultural thing ever.
She was with her language helper, Mark—a constant font of language and culture knowledge… and great entertainment—and he burped. So, naturally, she laughed at him.But then he informed her that burping was a special skill in Lopitland.
Yes, it takes a very rare person to be able to do it. In fact, he’s only one of three people in the whole of Lopit who can let out long, drawn-out burps.
Which you’d think would be just random trivia, until you learn that these three gifted people, by virtue of their burping, are believed to be healers.
That’s right, healers.
Because they can burp.
You probably think I’m making this up, but I’m dead serious. And Pastor G even confirmed it today. Crazy.
Also today, Kimmie told Mark that she, too, was able to let out long burps (I can bear witness to this fact), along with nearly every person in the United States of America.
He was impressed, I guess, but quickly lowered his voice and asked if she could take some bad news.
Apparently, also in the Lopit culture, they say those burping people won’t live for very long, unless they become witchdoctors.
I think she took the bad news in stride…
She was with her language helper, Mark—a constant font of language and culture knowledge… and great entertainment—and he burped. So, naturally, she laughed at him.But then he informed her that burping was a special skill in Lopitland.
Yes, it takes a very rare person to be able to do it. In fact, he’s only one of three people in the whole of Lopit who can let out long, drawn-out burps.
Which you’d think would be just random trivia, until you learn that these three gifted people, by virtue of their burping, are believed to be healers.
That’s right, healers.
Because they can burp.
You probably think I’m making this up, but I’m dead serious. And Pastor G even confirmed it today. Crazy.
Also today, Kimmie told Mark that she, too, was able to let out long burps (I can bear witness to this fact), along with nearly every person in the United States of America.
He was impressed, I guess, but quickly lowered his voice and asked if she could take some bad news.
Apparently, also in the Lopit culture, they say those burping people won’t live for very long, unless they become witchdoctors.
I think she took the bad news in stride…
The Fellas
Though our stint at the primary school didn’t last long, with all the random vacations and confusion and lack of organization, we were there long enough to make quite a lot of friends among the teenage boys.
Our P5, P6 and P7 boys love to come by here and hang out—whether it just be to join the myriad of other children enjoying the Whiteys Show or to play cards or to help us with language or for help in math, etc.
They are so much fun.
The other day, Kim and I were playing 80’s music on my iPod speakers, and they told us to come dance with them. Long story short—they now know how to “Walk like an Egyptian.” And my stomach still hurts from laughing. Now they keep asking us to come dance with them.
They’ve taken to calling Kim, Hyena. I think that’s hilarious. They’ll walk by the fence and call to her. Hahaha. Last night, I got an animal name of my own. I’m Leopard. Kim tried to get them to call me Snake. It didn’t catch. Though once, I was bantering with Kimmie and Akang broke through, from behind the fence, “You, Snake—shh!!” We were rolling. This probably isn’t as funny to you as it was to me…
Anyway, Pattie made the mistake of asking what her animal name was.
Elephant.
That’s a high compliment ‘round these parts. In Africa, the bigger the better. I especially love the days when they tell me how fat I’m getting and how great that is and how soon I’ll be big, big, BIG! Super encouraging for an American. Luckily, I can turn around and have someone tell me I’m getting too skinny and I need to eat more…
Our P5, P6 and P7 boys love to come by here and hang out—whether it just be to join the myriad of other children enjoying the Whiteys Show or to play cards or to help us with language or for help in math, etc.
They are so much fun.
The other day, Kim and I were playing 80’s music on my iPod speakers, and they told us to come dance with them. Long story short—they now know how to “Walk like an Egyptian.” And my stomach still hurts from laughing. Now they keep asking us to come dance with them.
They’ve taken to calling Kim, Hyena. I think that’s hilarious. They’ll walk by the fence and call to her. Hahaha. Last night, I got an animal name of my own. I’m Leopard. Kim tried to get them to call me Snake. It didn’t catch. Though once, I was bantering with Kimmie and Akang broke through, from behind the fence, “You, Snake—shh!!” We were rolling. This probably isn’t as funny to you as it was to me…
Anyway, Pattie made the mistake of asking what her animal name was.
Elephant.
That’s a high compliment ‘round these parts. In Africa, the bigger the better. I especially love the days when they tell me how fat I’m getting and how great that is and how soon I’ll be big, big, BIG! Super encouraging for an American. Luckily, I can turn around and have someone tell me I’m getting too skinny and I need to eat more…
School’s In
Things got a little juggled around, with school being so crazy.
Pattie is continuing on at the primary school. I’m waiting out all the practical problems for the preschool and guarding my time for that.
And they asked Kim to teach a new program the government is pushing across South Sudan. It’s an adult, accelerated learning course. It’s for all the adults who were kids in school when the war broke and had to stop their education.
It finally got off the ground this week, an answer to much prayer.
Kim is loving it. She gets to teach a lot of the adults we know—the two house help people at America (Angelo, the guard, and Elizabeth, the househelp), the teachers, some of our neighbors, etc.
She always has good stories to tell. She says all the guys have to leave their guns outside the school building, so you’ve got this pile of rifles outside in the schoolyard. They use the primary school, so the grown men are awkwardly sitting—long legs bent like a spider’s, knees poking up somewhere above their elbows—on the logs the kids use for seats. She says a lot of them really love it and soak up every word, loving to answer what they can in English.
It’s weird, thinking of our adult friends in that situation. We love Angelo, the guard. He’s hilarious. He’s just goofy and always drunk and never doing much guarding at America. We can joke with him a lot and he says all sorts of funny things. The first day in class, he was talking with his neighbor while Mark was teaching. And so Mark called him out on it. Kimmie said he gave the most innocent look and pointed to his neighbor, shrugging. Thinking of him doing that makes me laugh so hard.
I guess the more I get to know the people here, the more we learn the bits of their personalities. And, unfortunately, the harder it becomes to communicate to ya’ll the funny little things that make life here bright and fun, despite all the other circumstances…
Pattie is continuing on at the primary school. I’m waiting out all the practical problems for the preschool and guarding my time for that.
And they asked Kim to teach a new program the government is pushing across South Sudan. It’s an adult, accelerated learning course. It’s for all the adults who were kids in school when the war broke and had to stop their education.
It finally got off the ground this week, an answer to much prayer.
Kim is loving it. She gets to teach a lot of the adults we know—the two house help people at America (Angelo, the guard, and Elizabeth, the househelp), the teachers, some of our neighbors, etc.
She always has good stories to tell. She says all the guys have to leave their guns outside the school building, so you’ve got this pile of rifles outside in the schoolyard. They use the primary school, so the grown men are awkwardly sitting—long legs bent like a spider’s, knees poking up somewhere above their elbows—on the logs the kids use for seats. She says a lot of them really love it and soak up every word, loving to answer what they can in English.
It’s weird, thinking of our adult friends in that situation. We love Angelo, the guard. He’s hilarious. He’s just goofy and always drunk and never doing much guarding at America. We can joke with him a lot and he says all sorts of funny things. The first day in class, he was talking with his neighbor while Mark was teaching. And so Mark called him out on it. Kimmie said he gave the most innocent look and pointed to his neighbor, shrugging. Thinking of him doing that makes me laugh so hard.
I guess the more I get to know the people here, the more we learn the bits of their personalities. And, unfortunately, the harder it becomes to communicate to ya’ll the funny little things that make life here bright and fun, despite all the other circumstances…
Update on the Witchdoctor
Cath and Pastor Saba had an early morning meeting with the witchdoctor who wanted to give her life to Christ after seeing the Easter Play. They met with her and explained everything to her, laid out the whole Gospel.
She said that yes, that’s what she wants. She wants to have Jesus in her life.
But, when Cath explained to her that that would mean giving up a lot of this other stuff—this worship of other gods and witchdoctoring (yes, I made that word up)—she bawked a little.
She really wants to be a Christian, wants to live for Jesus. But right now the cultural strings are too tight and too many. But she wants it—that’s what’s key. And through God, all things are possible.
Cath and Pastor will continue to meet with her. She wants to come to church and everything.
So, be praying for her convictions, for her true conversion.
Pray she’d count the cost and see the glory of God as infinitely valuable.
And pray that she’d be one of many!!
She said that yes, that’s what she wants. She wants to have Jesus in her life.
But, when Cath explained to her that that would mean giving up a lot of this other stuff—this worship of other gods and witchdoctoring (yes, I made that word up)—she bawked a little.
She really wants to be a Christian, wants to live for Jesus. But right now the cultural strings are too tight and too many. But she wants it—that’s what’s key. And through God, all things are possible.
Cath and Pastor will continue to meet with her. She wants to come to church and everything.
So, be praying for her convictions, for her true conversion.
Pray she’d count the cost and see the glory of God as infinitely valuable.
And pray that she’d be one of many!!
Friday, May 18, 2007
“Heavily Soiled”
This morning, I daydreamed about the dial on my mom’s washer at home.
Oh, to have a setting called, “Heavily Soiled” or something.
I scrubbed clothes for two hours this morning, working out the dirt from my ride the other morning.
The UNIMOG—sent out for supplies—hadn’t arrived back from Kenya the night before, like it was supposed to. That’s not such a tragedy—oftentimes the trek takes longer than we’d expect, be it because of rain filling up the rivers or trouble at the border or whatever.
Since I normally ride in the mornings, I set out to find them on their way. There’s 28K’s (‘bout 17-18 miles) of rough, muddy track between us and the main road, so I figured I’d either find them stuck in some pit on that stretch or making their way along it, having bunked up at some village the night before.
I’ve been enjoying using the bike as a little ministry lately. I ride out on the road and meet new people and find out where they’re from and try my dialect of the Lopit language on them. Sometimes I have to coax them back on to the road, after they’ve seen my white face and fled. Haha!
It’s always so neat to meet new people. I met these three hilarious women on the way. I’d stopped to check on a soft tire and a few of them came up the track. Whenever I greet them in Lopit, it always shocks them and they just start rolling in laughter. But it’s funnier when I’ve been on a muddy ride, because they gawk at how dirty I am. Remember, they’re used to only seeing mud on coal-black skin. Mud on my pale whiteness looks quite stark to them. (It’s the same with bruises or scratches, they’re always very concerned about our scratches.) Anyway, these women “lu-lu-lu-lu”ed at how messy I was, and one of them snatched my bandana from me and started wiping me down with it. We did our best to chat and they finally let me go.
About 25K’s out, I had a flat, but I was right at a village I’d greeted people at before, so it worked out well. I got to the village—the name of which rings more of Asia than the bush of Sudan (to me, anyway)—at rush hour, as the women were coming out to go to the garden. So as I sat there tinkering with my flat, I tried to greet people. Between the bike and I, we’re quite a show. Always draw a crowd.
After about five minutes, I saw all the Munimiji, armed, flying out the village and to the road. It’s always funny to watch them run past. The schoolmaster—who I had met and was talking to—told me casually that there was an “enemy” in the field they were off to track and kill him. He also told me he was upset because the teachers were at school, but the children refused to come. Africa is so weird to this Western girl…
Anyway, all ended well. I finally got the tire patched and met the truck only a kilometer more up the road, then we headed back together. The roads are much kinder to a girl on a bike than driver in a truck—I can pace with, if not beat, most lorries on this stretch. :)
Oh, to have a setting called, “Heavily Soiled” or something.
I scrubbed clothes for two hours this morning, working out the dirt from my ride the other morning.
The UNIMOG—sent out for supplies—hadn’t arrived back from Kenya the night before, like it was supposed to. That’s not such a tragedy—oftentimes the trek takes longer than we’d expect, be it because of rain filling up the rivers or trouble at the border or whatever.
Since I normally ride in the mornings, I set out to find them on their way. There’s 28K’s (‘bout 17-18 miles) of rough, muddy track between us and the main road, so I figured I’d either find them stuck in some pit on that stretch or making their way along it, having bunked up at some village the night before.
I’ve been enjoying using the bike as a little ministry lately. I ride out on the road and meet new people and find out where they’re from and try my dialect of the Lopit language on them. Sometimes I have to coax them back on to the road, after they’ve seen my white face and fled. Haha!
It’s always so neat to meet new people. I met these three hilarious women on the way. I’d stopped to check on a soft tire and a few of them came up the track. Whenever I greet them in Lopit, it always shocks them and they just start rolling in laughter. But it’s funnier when I’ve been on a muddy ride, because they gawk at how dirty I am. Remember, they’re used to only seeing mud on coal-black skin. Mud on my pale whiteness looks quite stark to them. (It’s the same with bruises or scratches, they’re always very concerned about our scratches.) Anyway, these women “lu-lu-lu-lu”ed at how messy I was, and one of them snatched my bandana from me and started wiping me down with it. We did our best to chat and they finally let me go.
About 25K’s out, I had a flat, but I was right at a village I’d greeted people at before, so it worked out well. I got to the village—the name of which rings more of Asia than the bush of Sudan (to me, anyway)—at rush hour, as the women were coming out to go to the garden. So as I sat there tinkering with my flat, I tried to greet people. Between the bike and I, we’re quite a show. Always draw a crowd.
After about five minutes, I saw all the Munimiji, armed, flying out the village and to the road. It’s always funny to watch them run past. The schoolmaster—who I had met and was talking to—told me casually that there was an “enemy” in the field they were off to track and kill him. He also told me he was upset because the teachers were at school, but the children refused to come. Africa is so weird to this Western girl…
Anyway, all ended well. I finally got the tire patched and met the truck only a kilometer more up the road, then we headed back together. The roads are much kinder to a girl on a bike than driver in a truck—I can pace with, if not beat, most lorries on this stretch. :)
Monday, May 14, 2007
Praying on the Mountain
Yesterday, it was ultra sweet because we were ready to leave for church and Abuba and Lodina—who previously only sent their children with us to church—said they were going with us! Woohoo! Happy Mothers’ Day, indeed. The moms came with us to church.
But then we hiked all the way down the mountain to the church and they told us we had to turn around and go up another mountain, that we were having church on a mountaintop today, to pray for rain.
Figures, the only time Abuba and Lodina come to church…
But it was still cool. We took on the hot sun, put the kids on our back and climbed up to the little shade tree and a handful of people, singing and praying.
Pretty sweet, if you ask me.
And then, last night as I was walking all around Lopit for two hours, trying to find a nurse to take care of this kid who had cut her toe off (emergency medicine, Lopit style), it starts to drizzle and I look up and this HUGE rainbow is stretching all the way from the Three Sisters (the three peaks, kind of the Lopit trademark) across to Oliri, another big mountaintop. Really, really cool.
And now you know.
Alright, the kids are being so funny today. I have to go play with them.
But then we hiked all the way down the mountain to the church and they told us we had to turn around and go up another mountain, that we were having church on a mountaintop today, to pray for rain.
Figures, the only time Abuba and Lodina come to church…
But it was still cool. We took on the hot sun, put the kids on our back and climbed up to the little shade tree and a handful of people, singing and praying.
Pretty sweet, if you ask me.
And then, last night as I was walking all around Lopit for two hours, trying to find a nurse to take care of this kid who had cut her toe off (emergency medicine, Lopit style), it starts to drizzle and I look up and this HUGE rainbow is stretching all the way from the Three Sisters (the three peaks, kind of the Lopit trademark) across to Oliri, another big mountaintop. Really, really cool.
And now you know.
Alright, the kids are being so funny today. I have to go play with them.
How can I not laugh?
I will confess to laughing at the Munimiji (ruling warrior guys) just now.
Yes, I know, that’s probably really bad, but I can’t help it.
They’re flowing by our fence, asking us if we’re going to the rainmaker’s garden. Well, why aren’t we going? Do we think it’s bad? (Clearly trying to start a fight.) Give them chai. Give them chai now. We have to give them things because we didn’t go to the garden. We’re so bad. If we don’t go, the rain won’t come and we’ll be in so much trouble.
But the thing is, the thunder is rumbling and the storm clouds are swirling and—duh—the rain is coming, NOW.
How can I not laugh?
The problem is, little Francis and Franco and Paula are outside, also laughing.
Even the little kids are making fun of them.
That’s so bad.
Oh, Lord, forgive my laughter…
Yes, I know, that’s probably really bad, but I can’t help it.
They’re flowing by our fence, asking us if we’re going to the rainmaker’s garden. Well, why aren’t we going? Do we think it’s bad? (Clearly trying to start a fight.) Give them chai. Give them chai now. We have to give them things because we didn’t go to the garden. We’re so bad. If we don’t go, the rain won’t come and we’ll be in so much trouble.
But the thing is, the thunder is rumbling and the storm clouds are swirling and—duh—the rain is coming, NOW.
How can I not laugh?
The problem is, little Francis and Franco and Paula are outside, also laughing.
Even the little kids are making fun of them.
That’s so bad.
Oh, Lord, forgive my laughter…
Hungry Kids
I doubt there is a missionary or even NGO worker out there who has ever adjusted to the situation of people going hungry around them, while there is food on their own table.
That’s kind of what I’m dealing with now. Or have been dealing with, I guess.
The rain came and everything, so people were able to put their crops in the ground, but now it’s just back to being hot, hot, hot and dry. And the same empty food stores are there as before the rain.
I was up at Lodina’s today, hanging out, and she was telling me about how everyone is hungry because there is no jiaji—that is, vegetables. So she’s telling me everyone is hungry. And Mundari comes and says the same thing.
I hate knowing people are hungry.
But.
Then you see the balu (beer). Mary’s brother came back from Kh. yesterday—the first time he’s been back in 20 years. So they threw an all-night party. You could smell the balu, two compounds down, where we live. (OK, you can always smell balu in these villages, but it was even more potent than normal.) The goods were a’flowing.
The night before, Lodina and her husband slaughtered a goat and had similar brew for all the people who worked in their garden. (Groups of people join together and spend a day in each individual’s garden; the individual treats everyone to beer. They go to the next garden the next day and it continues on like that, until everyone’s field has been planted.)
So you see how they have all this beer, but they say they have no food. But they make the balu from the same thing they could make regular food from. On her compound, Lodina has a really long bamboo pole with a plastic bottle on top. That means she’s selling balu. And so you ask her about it. And they all know we think balu is bad. But what can you say when she says, I sell the balu for money, so I can buy food in Torit.
It’s a Catch 22. I hate to see them waste good food on balu and not feel the repercussion for it, but I hate even more knowing that Icholpi or Thomaso or Odwari (Francis) or Franco or Paula or Ellen—the kids—would even be a little bit hungry while I’m sitting here, fat as a cow.
I guess there really is no answer.
That’s kind of what I’m dealing with now. Or have been dealing with, I guess.
The rain came and everything, so people were able to put their crops in the ground, but now it’s just back to being hot, hot, hot and dry. And the same empty food stores are there as before the rain.
I was up at Lodina’s today, hanging out, and she was telling me about how everyone is hungry because there is no jiaji—that is, vegetables. So she’s telling me everyone is hungry. And Mundari comes and says the same thing.
I hate knowing people are hungry.
But.
Then you see the balu (beer). Mary’s brother came back from Kh. yesterday—the first time he’s been back in 20 years. So they threw an all-night party. You could smell the balu, two compounds down, where we live. (OK, you can always smell balu in these villages, but it was even more potent than normal.) The goods were a’flowing.
The night before, Lodina and her husband slaughtered a goat and had similar brew for all the people who worked in their garden. (Groups of people join together and spend a day in each individual’s garden; the individual treats everyone to beer. They go to the next garden the next day and it continues on like that, until everyone’s field has been planted.)
So you see how they have all this beer, but they say they have no food. But they make the balu from the same thing they could make regular food from. On her compound, Lodina has a really long bamboo pole with a plastic bottle on top. That means she’s selling balu. And so you ask her about it. And they all know we think balu is bad. But what can you say when she says, I sell the balu for money, so I can buy food in Torit.
It’s a Catch 22. I hate to see them waste good food on balu and not feel the repercussion for it, but I hate even more knowing that Icholpi or Thomaso or Odwari (Francis) or Franco or Paula or Ellen—the kids—would even be a little bit hungry while I’m sitting here, fat as a cow.
I guess there really is no answer.
Friday, May 04, 2007
(Way past) Easter play
Cath worked up a little more drama magic and has a handful of the village children and a couple church folk putting on a neat little drama in each of the villages—one each day this week.
Martin—an amazing drama guy—is Satan. And Kim plays Mary, mother of Craig (aka: Jesus).
Then there’s baby Jesus.
Cath bought a little baby doll on our last trip out. It’s suspiciously small and almost glowingly white, but it does the job, I guess. Kim straps it to her back just like the locals here to do their babies.
Kim did the Lopit mourning with the best of them (waling “lulululululululululu”) and Craig was convincing enough on the cross (though it’s rumored that he at first simply said “oww” as they pounded in the nails), but plastic baby Jesus really stole the show.
They can’t get enough of him.
On the other hand, I’m quite sick of him.
Now, hold off on the blasphemy charges for a second.
You see, baby Jesus has a built in annoyance feature. If you “tickle” its foot, it giggles and says, “That tickles, Mommy!” over and over again.
And I do mean over and over. The people can’t get enough of him. Davitica came by this morning for the sole purpose of tickling baby Jesus’ foot. I’m trying to work through Hebrews and all I can hear is, “More, Mommy, more! Hehehehe.”
I pray my view of baby Jesus isn’t forever ruined. ;)
Anyway, last night we had the play in Husa, our village. It was great. A ton of our women friends came, and a whole swarm of kids. Martin said to me that he can tell we live and work there because so many people came. That was a big encouragement for our sometimes-weary household.
The men on the mangot clapped for the kids’ songs and when Kimmie presented baby Jesus. Kim was a little worried they wouldn’t get it when she came back in a scene later with Craig (grown up Jesus), but her fears were calmed when this guy, upon seeing Craig and Mary/Kim, shouted with glee, “Ibolo Jesus!” (Jesus is BIG!) They laughed at Satan and his attempts to tempt Jesus. They clapped and cheered when he was shooed away.
Unfortunately, lots of people also laughed at the crucifixion. The problem is, this happens a lot—whether you’re doing a play or the Jesus Film or what—because that’s what the Lopit do, it seems, when they’re uncomfortable or don’t know how to handle a situation. Rarely do they shed tears. So, yes, that takes a lot to get over.
(And, yes, they might have been laughing a bit at Kimmie’s lulululu-ing. They always get a kick out of it when we pick up on their habits.)
Anyway, despite all that, I think the message of the play did get through. The Gospel was presented; God was glorified.
And it’s the talk of the villages, that’s for sure. This morning, I kept hearing the boys talking about Jesus and Satan and quoting Craig, “Ibeti Satani!” (Get the heck out of here, Satan!)
Martin—an amazing drama guy—is Satan. And Kim plays Mary, mother of Craig (aka: Jesus).
Then there’s baby Jesus.
Cath bought a little baby doll on our last trip out. It’s suspiciously small and almost glowingly white, but it does the job, I guess. Kim straps it to her back just like the locals here to do their babies.
Kim did the Lopit mourning with the best of them (waling “lulululululululululu”) and Craig was convincing enough on the cross (though it’s rumored that he at first simply said “oww” as they pounded in the nails), but plastic baby Jesus really stole the show.
They can’t get enough of him.
On the other hand, I’m quite sick of him.
Now, hold off on the blasphemy charges for a second.
You see, baby Jesus has a built in annoyance feature. If you “tickle” its foot, it giggles and says, “That tickles, Mommy!” over and over again.
And I do mean over and over. The people can’t get enough of him. Davitica came by this morning for the sole purpose of tickling baby Jesus’ foot. I’m trying to work through Hebrews and all I can hear is, “More, Mommy, more! Hehehehe.”
I pray my view of baby Jesus isn’t forever ruined. ;)
Anyway, last night we had the play in Husa, our village. It was great. A ton of our women friends came, and a whole swarm of kids. Martin said to me that he can tell we live and work there because so many people came. That was a big encouragement for our sometimes-weary household.
The men on the mangot clapped for the kids’ songs and when Kimmie presented baby Jesus. Kim was a little worried they wouldn’t get it when she came back in a scene later with Craig (grown up Jesus), but her fears were calmed when this guy, upon seeing Craig and Mary/Kim, shouted with glee, “Ibolo Jesus!” (Jesus is BIG!) They laughed at Satan and his attempts to tempt Jesus. They clapped and cheered when he was shooed away.
Unfortunately, lots of people also laughed at the crucifixion. The problem is, this happens a lot—whether you’re doing a play or the Jesus Film or what—because that’s what the Lopit do, it seems, when they’re uncomfortable or don’t know how to handle a situation. Rarely do they shed tears. So, yes, that takes a lot to get over.
(And, yes, they might have been laughing a bit at Kimmie’s lulululu-ing. They always get a kick out of it when we pick up on their habits.)
Anyway, despite all that, I think the message of the play did get through. The Gospel was presented; God was glorified.
And it’s the talk of the villages, that’s for sure. This morning, I kept hearing the boys talking about Jesus and Satan and quoting Craig, “Ibeti Satani!” (Get the heck out of here, Satan!)
marshmallows
Here’s Lodina, trying her first ever marshmallow. I do believe that look says it all.
I spared you all the “Look at this rat I killed” and “Wow, that hole IS big” pictures; I really want you to appreciate the preciousness of Smores amidst such turmoil. To Lodina’s horror, I did that bit a couple times where your hand gets lazy and you accidently light the marshmallow on fire. She didn’t think it was nearly as cool as I did. But, then again, she also had no category in which to place marshmallows to begin with.
Husa’s Horrible Day
(I actually wrote this a while ago; so we’re well over our bad day now.)
Today was a really terrible day in Husa.
Don’t worry, I’m about to tell you why.
Got up for my morning bike ride this morning—a special one, Annika’s last here in Lopitland. When we got back from Nairobi, we’d gotten in the habit of beating the sun up and catching its stunning rise over the distant mountain ranges—this wonderful morning tradition was cut ended a couple weeks back by a fickle bike. But we’d fixed it up special for this mornings’ occasion, this one last sunrise.
Well, we hadn’t got 100 meters when the back tire went flat again and spoiled our plans.
I came home to my room to realize another thing had gone spoiled, somewhere in my room. Point one: rat population. A dirty thing had found its way into one of my big Rubbermaid action packers (full of precious supplies) and died there, apparently trying to crack the code on my extra-special jar of Jiff, now thrown down in disgust to the bottom of our longdrop. A couple of the village children actually threw themselves to the ground or removed themselves from our compound voluntarily (un-be-LIEVE-able) in reaction to the terrible smell. They then took it upon themselves to remind me of the wretched stench (“Ibeja, it smells very bad.”) at least hundred times in the next hour, as if I could forget that which so assaulted my nostrils. Praise God, he brought an onslaught of rain that sent them all scattering for shelter and officially relieved them of the post of relaying obvious and latent information.
Well, as I had the kitchen in disarray, bleaching and salvaging what I could from said precious action packer, Pattie notices there’s a little water coming into her room. This is a normal thing, but something was fishy about this, as it was seeming to flow directly from her wardrobe (already so riddled by termites) and quickly had the whole floor flooded. We added her stuff to the disarray of the kitchen and soon found the source of said water blessing.
Turns out the gutter pipe to our water tank had a little something-something go wrong, which sent the water gushing out on to the side of our house. This is an important point at which to remember I live in a MUD house.
Yes, as emphatic as the village children were about reminding me of the rat smell, they failed to even casually or singly mention, as they were catching the overflow from our tank, the fact that a HUGE HOLE was being water-blasted into Pattie’s wall.
Yes, a hole. Might has well have been a secret passage, bursting forth with water.
So I found myself slipping and slidding—in a sopping wet dress—across the plastic lid of the water tank, trying to fix the pipe problem, as Kim ran down to America—in an equally sopping wet dress—to see about getting a tarp.
The fellas sent their well-meaning condolences via the radio. And I’m sure they felt bad then. But I imagine they felt much worse about an hour later when the foundation their 3000L water tank cracked down the middle and sent the thing crashing to the ground and the water rushing down the village path. Now, that, my friends, would’ve been something to see. I can just imagine some poor, naked, wide-eyed Lopit child, standing in that rocky pathway as the water came a’gushing. (No one was hurt in the Great Longija Water Tank Disaster of 2007.)
Anyway, back in Husa, we were patching things up and laughing it off. We had neighbors come over to grab water and alternatively warm their wet selves by our coal stove, actually lit for the purpose of making ol’ Craiger a birthday cake. (No flour was to be found in Husa, however. See title about horrible day.) We ended up using it for an even greater purpose, as this bleak afternoon struck me as the perfect time to break out the Smores supplies I’d got in the mail Wednesday, sent from the States on October 10th, 2006. The chocolate was melted, the ‘mallows likewise gooely unified and the graham crackers, a bit on the soggy side, but it was amazing, roasting the marshmallows, skewed on my potato peeler. Maybe even better was watching as our neighbor Lodina tried a marshmallow. She really had no idea what to think of that.
Anyway, all seemed well when I was dry and cosy in my bed, trying to finish up that great classic, Great Expectations. But next thing I know who’s a peeping up over the side of my mattress but Mr. Rat himself, another one of those highly unwelcome fellow. Point two: rat population. It was then that I realized I was being quite ill used as the hapless landlord for that disgusting tenet and his entourage. And to think he thought us so chummy as to snuggle into my bed with me.
Quite enraged, I stalked him until my broom and I had our way.
Game, set, match (superior genes): human race.
If not for the Smores, that would’ve been the highlight of the day, for sure.
Let’s just pray that Sunday has as much goodness as it does potential—what, with that name and the Sabbath distinction…
Today was a really terrible day in Husa.
Don’t worry, I’m about to tell you why.
Got up for my morning bike ride this morning—a special one, Annika’s last here in Lopitland. When we got back from Nairobi, we’d gotten in the habit of beating the sun up and catching its stunning rise over the distant mountain ranges—this wonderful morning tradition was cut ended a couple weeks back by a fickle bike. But we’d fixed it up special for this mornings’ occasion, this one last sunrise.
Well, we hadn’t got 100 meters when the back tire went flat again and spoiled our plans.
I came home to my room to realize another thing had gone spoiled, somewhere in my room. Point one: rat population. A dirty thing had found its way into one of my big Rubbermaid action packers (full of precious supplies) and died there, apparently trying to crack the code on my extra-special jar of Jiff, now thrown down in disgust to the bottom of our longdrop. A couple of the village children actually threw themselves to the ground or removed themselves from our compound voluntarily (un-be-LIEVE-able) in reaction to the terrible smell. They then took it upon themselves to remind me of the wretched stench (“Ibeja, it smells very bad.”) at least hundred times in the next hour, as if I could forget that which so assaulted my nostrils. Praise God, he brought an onslaught of rain that sent them all scattering for shelter and officially relieved them of the post of relaying obvious and latent information.
Well, as I had the kitchen in disarray, bleaching and salvaging what I could from said precious action packer, Pattie notices there’s a little water coming into her room. This is a normal thing, but something was fishy about this, as it was seeming to flow directly from her wardrobe (already so riddled by termites) and quickly had the whole floor flooded. We added her stuff to the disarray of the kitchen and soon found the source of said water blessing.
Turns out the gutter pipe to our water tank had a little something-something go wrong, which sent the water gushing out on to the side of our house. This is an important point at which to remember I live in a MUD house.
Yes, as emphatic as the village children were about reminding me of the rat smell, they failed to even casually or singly mention, as they were catching the overflow from our tank, the fact that a HUGE HOLE was being water-blasted into Pattie’s wall.
Yes, a hole. Might has well have been a secret passage, bursting forth with water.
So I found myself slipping and slidding—in a sopping wet dress—across the plastic lid of the water tank, trying to fix the pipe problem, as Kim ran down to America—in an equally sopping wet dress—to see about getting a tarp.
The fellas sent their well-meaning condolences via the radio. And I’m sure they felt bad then. But I imagine they felt much worse about an hour later when the foundation their 3000L water tank cracked down the middle and sent the thing crashing to the ground and the water rushing down the village path. Now, that, my friends, would’ve been something to see. I can just imagine some poor, naked, wide-eyed Lopit child, standing in that rocky pathway as the water came a’gushing. (No one was hurt in the Great Longija Water Tank Disaster of 2007.)
Anyway, back in Husa, we were patching things up and laughing it off. We had neighbors come over to grab water and alternatively warm their wet selves by our coal stove, actually lit for the purpose of making ol’ Craiger a birthday cake. (No flour was to be found in Husa, however. See title about horrible day.) We ended up using it for an even greater purpose, as this bleak afternoon struck me as the perfect time to break out the Smores supplies I’d got in the mail Wednesday, sent from the States on October 10th, 2006. The chocolate was melted, the ‘mallows likewise gooely unified and the graham crackers, a bit on the soggy side, but it was amazing, roasting the marshmallows, skewed on my potato peeler. Maybe even better was watching as our neighbor Lodina tried a marshmallow. She really had no idea what to think of that.
Anyway, all seemed well when I was dry and cosy in my bed, trying to finish up that great classic, Great Expectations. But next thing I know who’s a peeping up over the side of my mattress but Mr. Rat himself, another one of those highly unwelcome fellow. Point two: rat population. It was then that I realized I was being quite ill used as the hapless landlord for that disgusting tenet and his entourage. And to think he thought us so chummy as to snuggle into my bed with me.
Quite enraged, I stalked him until my broom and I had our way.
Game, set, match (superior genes): human race.
If not for the Smores, that would’ve been the highlight of the day, for sure.
Let’s just pray that Sunday has as much goodness as it does potential—what, with that name and the Sabbath distinction…
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Unexpected church-goer…
Had a strange visitor to the church yesterday.
The rainmaker.
Yeah, Mama Justina showed up at church.
The surprises keep coming!
It was a little awkward, as it was pretty obvious the entire sermon was preached directly at her. (She was sitting right behind me, so I can say with a lot of confidence that if not the message was pointedly addressed, then at least Pastor’s gaze, haha.) They definitely made a big deal about her being there. Not sure yet how exactly I feel about that.
Then, stranger yet, we had tea and lunch with the rainmaker. She was an honored guest at Steve’s place after church.
Lots of the team was there, and a handful of churchfolk, and we were just chilling most of the time. Then Steve and Pastor gave an appropriate speech, thanking her for coming, telling her we appreciate the welcome we’ve received here (she’s pretty much the Mama of the whole of Lopitland) and telling her about the message we came to share. She was attentive and gave her own little speech back, recalling the days when the missionaries first came here, what they and the government brought to the Lopit people—a clinic, a school, a church and clothes. (She focused a lot on the clothes—once, we were naked, then you gave us clothes.) She even talked about fellowshipping with the missionaries at the church.
It’s all very strange. Just strange.
But it was nice for her to come, nice to hear from her, nice to be completely bewildered at what could possibly be going through her head.
Teamfolk have been greeting her now and then, and she’s told them she doesn’t tell the people to bring her things, doesn’t tell them to work for her, etc. I dunno, the whole thing is nuts and I haven’t figured it out, though I hope we can get a glimpse into it someday.
But at least for this day, I can say we had lunch with the rainmaker. After church.
Weird.
The rainmaker.
Yeah, Mama Justina showed up at church.
The surprises keep coming!
It was a little awkward, as it was pretty obvious the entire sermon was preached directly at her. (She was sitting right behind me, so I can say with a lot of confidence that if not the message was pointedly addressed, then at least Pastor’s gaze, haha.) They definitely made a big deal about her being there. Not sure yet how exactly I feel about that.
Then, stranger yet, we had tea and lunch with the rainmaker. She was an honored guest at Steve’s place after church.
Lots of the team was there, and a handful of churchfolk, and we were just chilling most of the time. Then Steve and Pastor gave an appropriate speech, thanking her for coming, telling her we appreciate the welcome we’ve received here (she’s pretty much the Mama of the whole of Lopitland) and telling her about the message we came to share. She was attentive and gave her own little speech back, recalling the days when the missionaries first came here, what they and the government brought to the Lopit people—a clinic, a school, a church and clothes. (She focused a lot on the clothes—once, we were naked, then you gave us clothes.) She even talked about fellowshipping with the missionaries at the church.
It’s all very strange. Just strange.
But it was nice for her to come, nice to hear from her, nice to be completely bewildered at what could possibly be going through her head.
Teamfolk have been greeting her now and then, and she’s told them she doesn’t tell the people to bring her things, doesn’t tell them to work for her, etc. I dunno, the whole thing is nuts and I haven’t figured it out, though I hope we can get a glimpse into it someday.
But at least for this day, I can say we had lunch with the rainmaker. After church.
Weird.
All that for a silly bird…
So we were pretty jazzed this weekend. There was an excited buzz going around the villages about all this stuff they were going to do.
Saturday morning, the women called us out of our house to stand in the drizzle and watch with them as the men ran down the mountain and into the valley. They were all dressed up, fully loaded down with ammo and guns and running full speed, all joining in the valley like little ants and spreading off into two directions around the ends of the U of the mountain range.
It was the great hunting day, and they were off to kill all sorts of delicious animals—some to give to the rainmaker, some to keep for them to enjoy. The kids in Cath and Jen’s village were giddy as they explained the Munu Miji were going to go kill an elephant (!!!) and carry it back to the village. Other, more realistic (or perhaps just pessimistic) folk spoke less of giant elephants and more of gazelles and antelope. But whoever was talking about it was talking big and with wide, excited (yay even hungry) eyes.
So, they went and we waited all day, anxious for the footrace that was supposed to take place later. The Obejas (runners) from our cluster of villages and three or four other clusters were all coming to race one another. Craiger was invited to join them, the lone white representative. (I was also invited to join, by virtue of my white skin, I imagine, and name, Ibeja—the female form of runner. I declined on the virtue of my gender—I would have been the only woman running!) Then there was all the rumblings about the big wrestling match that would take place in the dancing place of the main village later.
Oh, all the excitement! It seemed a bit to me like a town preparing for the summer’s county fair… sans, of course, the funnel cakes, other delicious fair food, carnival rides and—this might be the worst part—the rodeo. But, still, good times were afoot!
Or so we thought.
The Munu Miji (I spell this differently each post) came back with much fanfare, hooting and yelling and dancing and all that as they paraded into the rainmakers compound, still in their garb. They kept coming and coming, but Cath noticed a little something missing—all the bamboo poles with dead animals tied on them. She didn’t see a thing.
So she asked one of the Muni Miji where everything was.
Awkward pause.
He held up a pint-sized carcass.
“All we got was this bird.”
Cath did her best to keep a straight face.
“There was just so much rain, Toriana.”
Sympathetic nodding. I’m not sure how she didn’t die laughing. I guess her and Jen were in fits when they got back home, though.
Imagine, all those Munu Miji, armed to the teeth, trying to stalk all sorts of wild game and finally having to resort to a silly little bird. Can you imagine dozens of AK-47’s pointed at the poor, unlucky thing? I’m surprised there was anything left of it, with all the bullets that must’ve flown in its direction. Oh, I mean, WOW, that’s funny.
And, yes, of course I do feel sort of bad for them—all of them standing there, shivering something terrible from the rain, and presenting a single silly bird to their beloved rainmaker.
And I do feel bad for the guy I met on the path today. His foot was badly swollen and bandaged above his ankle. What happened?! I asked. He was shot in the foot on the hunt.
So, a bird and this poor fella’s leg.
Maybe not quite the carnival it was supposed to be.
Saturday morning, the women called us out of our house to stand in the drizzle and watch with them as the men ran down the mountain and into the valley. They were all dressed up, fully loaded down with ammo and guns and running full speed, all joining in the valley like little ants and spreading off into two directions around the ends of the U of the mountain range.
It was the great hunting day, and they were off to kill all sorts of delicious animals—some to give to the rainmaker, some to keep for them to enjoy. The kids in Cath and Jen’s village were giddy as they explained the Munu Miji were going to go kill an elephant (!!!) and carry it back to the village. Other, more realistic (or perhaps just pessimistic) folk spoke less of giant elephants and more of gazelles and antelope. But whoever was talking about it was talking big and with wide, excited (yay even hungry) eyes.
So, they went and we waited all day, anxious for the footrace that was supposed to take place later. The Obejas (runners) from our cluster of villages and three or four other clusters were all coming to race one another. Craiger was invited to join them, the lone white representative. (I was also invited to join, by virtue of my white skin, I imagine, and name, Ibeja—the female form of runner. I declined on the virtue of my gender—I would have been the only woman running!) Then there was all the rumblings about the big wrestling match that would take place in the dancing place of the main village later.
Oh, all the excitement! It seemed a bit to me like a town preparing for the summer’s county fair… sans, of course, the funnel cakes, other delicious fair food, carnival rides and—this might be the worst part—the rodeo. But, still, good times were afoot!
Or so we thought.
The Munu Miji (I spell this differently each post) came back with much fanfare, hooting and yelling and dancing and all that as they paraded into the rainmakers compound, still in their garb. They kept coming and coming, but Cath noticed a little something missing—all the bamboo poles with dead animals tied on them. She didn’t see a thing.
So she asked one of the Muni Miji where everything was.
Awkward pause.
He held up a pint-sized carcass.
“All we got was this bird.”
Cath did her best to keep a straight face.
“There was just so much rain, Toriana.”
Sympathetic nodding. I’m not sure how she didn’t die laughing. I guess her and Jen were in fits when they got back home, though.
Imagine, all those Munu Miji, armed to the teeth, trying to stalk all sorts of wild game and finally having to resort to a silly little bird. Can you imagine dozens of AK-47’s pointed at the poor, unlucky thing? I’m surprised there was anything left of it, with all the bullets that must’ve flown in its direction. Oh, I mean, WOW, that’s funny.
And, yes, of course I do feel sort of bad for them—all of them standing there, shivering something terrible from the rain, and presenting a single silly bird to their beloved rainmaker.
And I do feel bad for the guy I met on the path today. His foot was badly swollen and bandaged above his ankle. What happened?! I asked. He was shot in the foot on the hunt.
So, a bird and this poor fella’s leg.
Maybe not quite the carnival it was supposed to be.
Keep a’prayin’….
Well, Steve hopped a plane for Nairobi today, on account of him being sicker than a dog.
In fact, he must be sick something fierce, because never in my wildest dreams would I ever have thought he would be on a plane out of here. But he’s been hammered by a fever—it comes and goes, and comes back hotter each time—and body pain, looks pretty much half dead most of the time these last few days. And all the malaria tests say no. You wouldn’t know it if you saw him—he can’t seem to get a moment’s rest—but I guess he’s been a little delirious and would have his legs suddenly stop working. Weird. Like I said, though, the idea of Mr. Hardcore being airlifted… pretty wild.
Anyway, pray for him—safety in travel, a calm mind/heart about his family and team back here and, of course, a quick diagnosis and healing. And pray for Iris and the kiddos and our team, here without our fearless leader (yet, rest assured, completely capable and fine).
In fact, he must be sick something fierce, because never in my wildest dreams would I ever have thought he would be on a plane out of here. But he’s been hammered by a fever—it comes and goes, and comes back hotter each time—and body pain, looks pretty much half dead most of the time these last few days. And all the malaria tests say no. You wouldn’t know it if you saw him—he can’t seem to get a moment’s rest—but I guess he’s been a little delirious and would have his legs suddenly stop working. Weird. Like I said, though, the idea of Mr. Hardcore being airlifted… pretty wild.
Anyway, pray for him—safety in travel, a calm mind/heart about his family and team back here and, of course, a quick diagnosis and healing. And pray for Iris and the kiddos and our team, here without our fearless leader (yet, rest assured, completely capable and fine).
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Prayer Request
Please pray for my motivation and discipline in language and culture learning, and in building relationships here. It’s just so hard for me to be intentional about being with the ladies, and to be intentional about studying the language. I can get by with what I have, but I certainly need more to be an effective witness here. So please be lifting that up! I have been sufficiently humbled in this whole language thing. I’m really not good at it.
School HolYdays
One of our students and friends, Cecelia, brought us a crinkled note yesterday.
From Teacher Taudesio Odwa.
“We had just been informed by the Education Administration Office (we have an administration office?) to close the School for first-term holydays [sic] with effect from 15th April – 15th May. This is for your information, forgive me for not doing so before.”
Riiiiight. First-term holYdays? They haven’t even gotten things up and going yet. And for a MONTH? Ugh.Oh well, perhaps it’s a blessing in disguise. I can focus on the preschool now. I’m working on scraping paint and cleaning things up so I can paint. And, Lord and finances willing, I’ll be buying curriculum and class materials when we head to Kampala for supplies in a few weeks. So get excited about that. :)
From Teacher Taudesio Odwa.
“We had just been informed by the Education Administration Office (we have an administration office?) to close the School for first-term holydays [sic] with effect from 15th April – 15th May. This is for your information, forgive me for not doing so before.”
Riiiiight. First-term holYdays? They haven’t even gotten things up and going yet. And for a MONTH? Ugh.Oh well, perhaps it’s a blessing in disguise. I can focus on the preschool now. I’m working on scraping paint and cleaning things up so I can paint. And, Lord and finances willing, I’ll be buying curriculum and class materials when we head to Kampala for supplies in a few weeks. So get excited about that. :)
And then it rained…
God let loose on this place Wednesday night. It was… amazing.
The rain finally came. And came. And came. And came, and came, and came.
It rained all night, and not without fanfare. The lightning would snap and you could see the silhouette of the mountains and far out across the plains. The thunder shook said mountains and rattled everything in our house, including me. My heart actually felt as it if were hiding, for fear, behind my ribs, trembling. My body was quivering. I sat on my bed, writing letters home, and started at every new blast and then giggled with my housemates in awe of the great Conductor of this noisy orchestra. It was beyond my comprehension that these Lopeeps did not tremble with fear, could not recognize the long thunderblasts as the voice of a God wanting to be known, wanting to be glorified. I wonder what they were thinking.
Anyway, that great rain seems to have opened the skies for rainy season, as it’s been wet, wet, wet since. They nearly cancelled school on Thursday. Imagine, a rain day. Ha! Iron sheet roofs make quite a racket under even the tiniest bit of rain, making teaching impossible. I took the chance to celebrate the rain with a muddy, muddy workout bike ride, leaving no puddle untouched. I was soaked through, covered in ick from head to toe… but so, so, so happy to finally have relief from the dry season. And it’s actually raining now—making it a perfect, cool Saturday morning for journaling, studying the Word and writing letters home.
Praise God for the rain!
The rain finally came. And came. And came. And came, and came, and came.
It rained all night, and not without fanfare. The lightning would snap and you could see the silhouette of the mountains and far out across the plains. The thunder shook said mountains and rattled everything in our house, including me. My heart actually felt as it if were hiding, for fear, behind my ribs, trembling. My body was quivering. I sat on my bed, writing letters home, and started at every new blast and then giggled with my housemates in awe of the great Conductor of this noisy orchestra. It was beyond my comprehension that these Lopeeps did not tremble with fear, could not recognize the long thunderblasts as the voice of a God wanting to be known, wanting to be glorified. I wonder what they were thinking.
Anyway, that great rain seems to have opened the skies for rainy season, as it’s been wet, wet, wet since. They nearly cancelled school on Thursday. Imagine, a rain day. Ha! Iron sheet roofs make quite a racket under even the tiniest bit of rain, making teaching impossible. I took the chance to celebrate the rain with a muddy, muddy workout bike ride, leaving no puddle untouched. I was soaked through, covered in ick from head to toe… but so, so, so happy to finally have relief from the dry season. And it’s actually raining now—making it a perfect, cool Saturday morning for journaling, studying the Word and writing letters home.
Praise God for the rain!
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
And still no rain…
The clouds haven’t opened yet for us here in Lopit, and I’m not exactly sure what that means.
I’m becoming more convinced that maybe God is just holding it back. Every other place in Sudan has got rain, but not us.
It drizzled just a bit the other day and it set the people dancing like wild. It hasn’t dripped a drop since.
The rainmaker grows more and more nervous, I hear. The Munimiji are wondering what the heck is going on. The rainmaker now claims she put a spell on to make it not rain because people haven’t done enough for her or brought her enough gifts.
Some of the team went on a mini-outreach the other day, to check out a baptism in a village a couple hours away. They said a situation like this happened there, where it didn’t rain and didn’t rain and the rainmaker kept going ‘round and ‘round. Well, they eventually buried said rainmaker alive… and then it poured. I guess that’s not an isolated thing, burying the rainmaker alive. (Eeek.)
It’s starting to effect more than just the water now. Iris says there’s starting to be starvation in the villages. They get people daily coming to beg for food. We had our first such visitors yesterday, as well. I think this is a cultural struggle I’m not at all prepared for.
The hardest thing is, these people get food from the UN or World Food Program. And they tell the UN and WFP that there are about a gazillion more people here than actually are, so they really cash in. And they take the food they get and make beer out of it. So is this not just reaping what they sow? (But what exactly are the children sowing?)
It’s not so bad, yet. And I’m not sure it will get so bad. I wouldn’t have known about it, had Iris not told me and I noticed a few people have left to go for food elsewhere.
Anyway, just pray that God is glorified—in the famine, in the heat, in the dryness and in the rain, if He wills it come.
I’m becoming more convinced that maybe God is just holding it back. Every other place in Sudan has got rain, but not us.
It drizzled just a bit the other day and it set the people dancing like wild. It hasn’t dripped a drop since.
The rainmaker grows more and more nervous, I hear. The Munimiji are wondering what the heck is going on. The rainmaker now claims she put a spell on to make it not rain because people haven’t done enough for her or brought her enough gifts.
Some of the team went on a mini-outreach the other day, to check out a baptism in a village a couple hours away. They said a situation like this happened there, where it didn’t rain and didn’t rain and the rainmaker kept going ‘round and ‘round. Well, they eventually buried said rainmaker alive… and then it poured. I guess that’s not an isolated thing, burying the rainmaker alive. (Eeek.)
It’s starting to effect more than just the water now. Iris says there’s starting to be starvation in the villages. They get people daily coming to beg for food. We had our first such visitors yesterday, as well. I think this is a cultural struggle I’m not at all prepared for.
The hardest thing is, these people get food from the UN or World Food Program. And they tell the UN and WFP that there are about a gazillion more people here than actually are, so they really cash in. And they take the food they get and make beer out of it. So is this not just reaping what they sow? (But what exactly are the children sowing?)
It’s not so bad, yet. And I’m not sure it will get so bad. I wouldn’t have known about it, had Iris not told me and I noticed a few people have left to go for food elsewhere.
Anyway, just pray that God is glorified—in the famine, in the heat, in the dryness and in the rain, if He wills it come.
Epal Iyohoi
(“Whoops. We screwed up.”)
Lately we’ve had a lot of fun playing with the women, sitting with them on their compounds at night.
They’re actually quite hilarious and find great pleasure in making fun of us—what we say, what we do. And I love the times when we get off a good joke—one that cuts across the cultural barrier and is in clear enough Lopit. You know it’s good because they’ll keep repeating it to one another. We’re sitting in a chaotic cluster and you make some precious comment or screw up the language so badly, someone finds it funny. They go on to repeat it to the next person. (“Ojo Ibeja hijo, hijo…”/”Andi said…”)
Who repeats it to the next person, “Ojo Abuba hijo, ojo Ibeja hijo, hijo…”
Who repeats it to the next person, “Ojo Cecelia hijo, ojo Abuba hijo, ojo Ibeja hijo, hijo…”
And it just keeps on like that.
You know you’ve made a really good one (or said something really stupid) when it circles around for a second time. Or comes back to haunt you the next day, from someone who wasn’t even in the cluster at that time.
On one blessed night, we discovered the Lopit word for when you’re really tired and your head starts to bob up and down, emongita. (I love when complex ideas are caught in one word. I heard there is a word for “I know you know I know you know” in one Kenyan language. That’s so sweet.) Well Kim couldn’t resist and ran with it, telling them the story of how I was emongita-ing in the car on the way back from Torit and she couldn’t even look at me, lest she die of laughter. Well, the ladies thought it was equally funny, and now have taken on Kim’s cry—Emongita Ibeja sahian DANG! (Andi nods off ALL THE TIME.)—and bring it up whenever possible.
(Don’t worry, I have since tokened a phrase they find equally funny: Kim has gas ALL THE TIME. Language learning is so much fun.)
Anyway, all that to say, we have a lot of fun with them. And finally being able to laugh with them has been a huge deal.
So last night we wanted to have Lodina and Abuba and their kids over here for dinner. We’ve had some of our other neighbors before and decided it was time to serve up a special meal for them. Well, they were a little strange about it. They tried to get out of it, wouldn’t answer us directly when we called over the fence. Then they didn’t come and didn’t come until it was really late (they kept saying we’ll come when it’s darker), then left the kids at home because the path was “too dangerous.” (They are our direct neighbors and would have to walk maybe 30 feet.) They were really quite and looked terribly nervous. We hardly laughed! We even made food we knew they would like—none of our European garbage. We just chalked it up to our house being strange.But then we figured it out. They walked outside to leave, my flashlight in hand, and went into a bit of a panic when they heard women on the path. They shut off the torch really fast, then huddled together with their backs to the gate and shushed us. We were like… What the heck are you doing? They sort of giggled and handed back the torch, saying they’d just go slowly, slowly. Abuba’s stifled laughter and joked, “Pray for us.” Finally they had the all-clear and snuck back home.
Lodina came back later to explain it to us. She said everyone would be very, very angry at them if they knew they were eating here. So they tried to keep it a secret—coming in the dark, leaving the kids at home, being relatively quiet. Suddenly it all made sense. And here we were, yelling at them across the village (normal Lopit practice) to “Get on over here and EAT already!” We invited Lodina’s husband in front of other men. We kicked all the kids off the compound because we had special guests coming. And the list goes on.
Whoops.
We feel like heels, but at least we’re learning….
Lately we’ve had a lot of fun playing with the women, sitting with them on their compounds at night.
They’re actually quite hilarious and find great pleasure in making fun of us—what we say, what we do. And I love the times when we get off a good joke—one that cuts across the cultural barrier and is in clear enough Lopit. You know it’s good because they’ll keep repeating it to one another. We’re sitting in a chaotic cluster and you make some precious comment or screw up the language so badly, someone finds it funny. They go on to repeat it to the next person. (“Ojo Ibeja hijo, hijo…”/”Andi said…”)
Who repeats it to the next person, “Ojo Abuba hijo, ojo Ibeja hijo, hijo…”
Who repeats it to the next person, “Ojo Cecelia hijo, ojo Abuba hijo, ojo Ibeja hijo, hijo…”
And it just keeps on like that.
You know you’ve made a really good one (or said something really stupid) when it circles around for a second time. Or comes back to haunt you the next day, from someone who wasn’t even in the cluster at that time.
On one blessed night, we discovered the Lopit word for when you’re really tired and your head starts to bob up and down, emongita. (I love when complex ideas are caught in one word. I heard there is a word for “I know you know I know you know” in one Kenyan language. That’s so sweet.) Well Kim couldn’t resist and ran with it, telling them the story of how I was emongita-ing in the car on the way back from Torit and she couldn’t even look at me, lest she die of laughter. Well, the ladies thought it was equally funny, and now have taken on Kim’s cry—Emongita Ibeja sahian DANG! (Andi nods off ALL THE TIME.)—and bring it up whenever possible.
(Don’t worry, I have since tokened a phrase they find equally funny: Kim has gas ALL THE TIME. Language learning is so much fun.)
Anyway, all that to say, we have a lot of fun with them. And finally being able to laugh with them has been a huge deal.
So last night we wanted to have Lodina and Abuba and their kids over here for dinner. We’ve had some of our other neighbors before and decided it was time to serve up a special meal for them. Well, they were a little strange about it. They tried to get out of it, wouldn’t answer us directly when we called over the fence. Then they didn’t come and didn’t come until it was really late (they kept saying we’ll come when it’s darker), then left the kids at home because the path was “too dangerous.” (They are our direct neighbors and would have to walk maybe 30 feet.) They were really quite and looked terribly nervous. We hardly laughed! We even made food we knew they would like—none of our European garbage. We just chalked it up to our house being strange.But then we figured it out. They walked outside to leave, my flashlight in hand, and went into a bit of a panic when they heard women on the path. They shut off the torch really fast, then huddled together with their backs to the gate and shushed us. We were like… What the heck are you doing? They sort of giggled and handed back the torch, saying they’d just go slowly, slowly. Abuba’s stifled laughter and joked, “Pray for us.” Finally they had the all-clear and snuck back home.
Lodina came back later to explain it to us. She said everyone would be very, very angry at them if they knew they were eating here. So they tried to keep it a secret—coming in the dark, leaving the kids at home, being relatively quiet. Suddenly it all made sense. And here we were, yelling at them across the village (normal Lopit practice) to “Get on over here and EAT already!” We invited Lodina’s husband in front of other men. We kicked all the kids off the compound because we had special guests coming. And the list goes on.
Whoops.
We feel like heels, but at least we’re learning….
Saturday, April 07, 2007
Pray for Cecelia and baby Andrea
Our good friend Cecelia—mother to new little Andrea Ibeja—got really sick yesterday. We thought for a while she might be our first case of cholera in the hills.
They may have ruled that out—the symptoms aren’t quite right—but please pray for her quick and full recovery. We’re worried about the baby, as well.
In the bigger picture, she’s also a niece to the rainmaker; her family could be a huge key to this culture’s change.
They may have ruled that out—the symptoms aren’t quite right—but please pray for her quick and full recovery. We’re worried about the baby, as well.
In the bigger picture, she’s also a niece to the rainmaker; her family could be a huge key to this culture’s change.
Change of seasons…
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.
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.
“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.
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