We’ve been quite lonely around here lately, as Laudina went off to town and Abuba went in hiding.
So we were pretty thankful when Abuba came back yesterday, unscathed save for having lost a lot of weight because of being sick.
Praise God she’s back.
I haven’t got the full scoop yet, but I know there was a “hearing” yesterday at the main mongot about the cows. Let’s hope they’ve got it all settled.
Also, J came to church. And his brother, too. And his brother stood up not once, but twice, and was professing God. So we’ll see what comes of all that. One more kid has fallen sick, as well.
Also, pray for G’pa P, the main pastor, because he’s got a bad burn on his leg and it might have gone septic. He’s also diabetic.
Clearly, I’m too tired to write in detail. Just keep those things in your prayers, please!
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Next…
Apparently, one of the symptoms of malaria is being a big sissy.
This, in my very medically informed opinion.
Based mostly on my current experience.
That is, the fact that I couldn’t pull myself any further than our closest neighbor’s compound last night. Oh, and, also, the other day when KP woke up for a bit, sat there staring absentmindedly, licked two envelopes closed, then declared she’d exhausted herself and needed a nap.
Anyway, it’s pretty obvious I have malaria, but I’m trying to give it the cold shoulder and hoping it just passes quietly away. Meh.
Meanwhile, Kim has developed a more-than-healthy fear of mosquitoes (read: slightly irrational fear) and is seeing malaria behind every bush. She pleaded with Pattie yesterday to start me on malaria medicine because I’d nonchalantly said I was a bit achy.
To hammer home the point here, she’s also started an intense hand-washing campaign and just handed me a whole chunk of bread… because a fly had landed on it, and she refuses to eat it. It’s my pleasure, at this juncture, to point out that mosquitoes spread malaria, not germs. But, as I wrote my mom the other day, at these moments it’s futile to resist completely (such was the case when she, coming out of malaria and getting hungry, cut up what must have been 3lbs of potatoes to make French fries for the two of us) but instead to softly suggest moderation.
Even that didn’t work yesterday, as she was scuttling around my room, surrounding my ‘death bed’ with everything I could ever want. That is, until she suddenly realized that any mosquito that bit me would be carrying malaria, and her simple presence in the room—good-willed or otherwise—put her in danger of getting it again. I wish you could have seen her face when she did get bit. Oh wow.
So, yeah, tonight promises to be rather hellish, so please be praying as I have to go through the throes of this.
This, in my very medically informed opinion.
Based mostly on my current experience.
That is, the fact that I couldn’t pull myself any further than our closest neighbor’s compound last night. Oh, and, also, the other day when KP woke up for a bit, sat there staring absentmindedly, licked two envelopes closed, then declared she’d exhausted herself and needed a nap.
Anyway, it’s pretty obvious I have malaria, but I’m trying to give it the cold shoulder and hoping it just passes quietly away. Meh.
Meanwhile, Kim has developed a more-than-healthy fear of mosquitoes (read: slightly irrational fear) and is seeing malaria behind every bush. She pleaded with Pattie yesterday to start me on malaria medicine because I’d nonchalantly said I was a bit achy.
To hammer home the point here, she’s also started an intense hand-washing campaign and just handed me a whole chunk of bread… because a fly had landed on it, and she refuses to eat it. It’s my pleasure, at this juncture, to point out that mosquitoes spread malaria, not germs. But, as I wrote my mom the other day, at these moments it’s futile to resist completely (such was the case when she, coming out of malaria and getting hungry, cut up what must have been 3lbs of potatoes to make French fries for the two of us) but instead to softly suggest moderation.
Even that didn’t work yesterday, as she was scuttling around my room, surrounding my ‘death bed’ with everything I could ever want. That is, until she suddenly realized that any mosquito that bit me would be carrying malaria, and her simple presence in the room—good-willed or otherwise—put her in danger of getting it again. I wish you could have seen her face when she did get bit. Oh wow.
So, yeah, tonight promises to be rather hellish, so please be praying as I have to go through the throes of this.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Malaria misery…
KP has been miserable with malaria for the past two days, which makes us all a bit miserable, since there’s not much we can do for her.
It’s always nice to be the one who doesn’t have malaria, for obvious reasons. But there’s an added bonus around here, because you’re sane enough to see how the people react to it.
This morning all our friends streamed by and were asking again and again how she was. I’d tell them she hardly slept all night and the medicine was refusing to work but now she was resting and yadda, yadda, yadda, and it was kind of neat to see them grimace up their faces and shake their heads with concern. They all asked if they could come “look” at her—such is the culture, you come to look at the sick person and sit with them—but I’d try to put them off ‘til later, saying she just needed to sleep. It’s nice, because as we’ve started to understand their culture, they’ve learned a lot about how we function and don’t push things like this anymore. They know when we’re sick, we normally just like to sleep and be left alone. On some things, we meet in the middle. That’s part of love, I guess.
Anyway, I think poor Kimmie is feeling better this morning—finally, after more than 24 hours of kicking and being restless, her body has finally relaxed. But keep her in your prayers, and Baby Philip, too, who also is suffering. We probably picked up the malaria from the mosquitoes in Loki, which means I’m likely the next victim—I not only slept under the same mosquito net as Kim there, for four nights, but was locked in the same room with her for five days. Ugh.
I really, really don’t want malaria—again, for obvious reasons. But I’ve already had about nine weeks of sleepless nights, battling on other fronts, and was surprised to find I’ve lost—errr, misplaced?—about 3 kilos in that time. Not necessarily an unwelcome change, but not one that will carry me into dry season or through malaria well, haha. So, if God would be so kind to spare me…. that would be just super.
It’s always nice to be the one who doesn’t have malaria, for obvious reasons. But there’s an added bonus around here, because you’re sane enough to see how the people react to it.
This morning all our friends streamed by and were asking again and again how she was. I’d tell them she hardly slept all night and the medicine was refusing to work but now she was resting and yadda, yadda, yadda, and it was kind of neat to see them grimace up their faces and shake their heads with concern. They all asked if they could come “look” at her—such is the culture, you come to look at the sick person and sit with them—but I’d try to put them off ‘til later, saying she just needed to sleep. It’s nice, because as we’ve started to understand their culture, they’ve learned a lot about how we function and don’t push things like this anymore. They know when we’re sick, we normally just like to sleep and be left alone. On some things, we meet in the middle. That’s part of love, I guess.
Anyway, I think poor Kimmie is feeling better this morning—finally, after more than 24 hours of kicking and being restless, her body has finally relaxed. But keep her in your prayers, and Baby Philip, too, who also is suffering. We probably picked up the malaria from the mosquitoes in Loki, which means I’m likely the next victim—I not only slept under the same mosquito net as Kim there, for four nights, but was locked in the same room with her for five days. Ugh.
I really, really don’t want malaria—again, for obvious reasons. But I’ve already had about nine weeks of sleepless nights, battling on other fronts, and was surprised to find I’ve lost—errr, misplaced?—about 3 kilos in that time. Not necessarily an unwelcome change, but not one that will carry me into dry season or through malaria well, haha. So, if God would be so kind to spare me…. that would be just super.
Rat races…
The rats have launched a full siege again, which always gets me riled up. I admire their stealth night attacks, but the most recent involved eating a candy bar and my underwear, which is a blow that’s far too personal to be overlooked.
This definitely means war.
This definitely means war.
Shot heard ‘round the village…
I gave our neighbors a start this morning, and I blame my dad’s secretaries for it. (Yes, I mean yous.)
First, you should know that everyone is a bit on edge because Abuba and her kids recently “escaped” to her mom’s house, on account of her husband’s brother wanting to kill them all. I know, interesting, right? Something about her husband “consuming” all their father’s cows, a very bad deal ‘round these parts. I guess some big deal went down while we were at team day—the “best” things always happen in our absence—which spurred them to flee and, as Mary told me this morning, caused the whole village to fear and the children to cry. So that’s on their minds. (And, obviously, mine, since Abuba & Co. are pretty dear to us.)
Second, you should know that the ladies at work gave my dad a wee can of bug spray for his trip out here, which he graciously left to my use when he went home. I’ve since used it up, and somehow the can slipped into the trash this morning as I went out to burn it.
So, there I am, happily and innocently burning the trash in our front yard, when the wee can EXPLODES and goes shooting up into the sky, then clatters back down to the rocks.
Everyone—and I mean everyone—stops what they’re doing. I hear the village come to the consensus that it came from the house of the whities. I’m left to stand there, holding my fire stick and wide-eyed in my guilt, trying to look as apologetic as possible. Next thing I know, Mary’s hollerin’ at me, wondering what in the world I was doing and if I had somehow acquired a gun—which, apparently, was what all the men looking down at me from the mangot were also wondering. I told her it was only a can, and she laughingly scolded me and told me everyone thought Abuba & Co. had come back and the brother had shot them.
I gave an apologetic wave up to the village—it’s weird, knowing everyone is always looking at you, but it’s worse, knowing this time they’re looking at you with good reason—and slinked into the house as soon as possible.
I had to bear the story about four hundred more times, as Mary took tea in my kitchen and told every passing person. Ibeja is so silly. Ibeja is always causing mischief. Oh, that ridiculous, white Ibeja. And I’m sure it’s being convey through the mountainside—the those-stupid-whitefolk stories are golden ‘round here and never seem to die away completely.
Why is it that this place always rings with gunshots—they’re so common, even we don’t jump at them anymore—but the morning I blow up a can, apparently everyone is at rapt attention?
Haha. Ugh.
(And, ladies, I hope you feel the weight of your guilt… or at least some of my embarrassment…)
First, you should know that everyone is a bit on edge because Abuba and her kids recently “escaped” to her mom’s house, on account of her husband’s brother wanting to kill them all. I know, interesting, right? Something about her husband “consuming” all their father’s cows, a very bad deal ‘round these parts. I guess some big deal went down while we were at team day—the “best” things always happen in our absence—which spurred them to flee and, as Mary told me this morning, caused the whole village to fear and the children to cry. So that’s on their minds. (And, obviously, mine, since Abuba & Co. are pretty dear to us.)
Second, you should know that the ladies at work gave my dad a wee can of bug spray for his trip out here, which he graciously left to my use when he went home. I’ve since used it up, and somehow the can slipped into the trash this morning as I went out to burn it.
So, there I am, happily and innocently burning the trash in our front yard, when the wee can EXPLODES and goes shooting up into the sky, then clatters back down to the rocks.
Everyone—and I mean everyone—stops what they’re doing. I hear the village come to the consensus that it came from the house of the whities. I’m left to stand there, holding my fire stick and wide-eyed in my guilt, trying to look as apologetic as possible. Next thing I know, Mary’s hollerin’ at me, wondering what in the world I was doing and if I had somehow acquired a gun—which, apparently, was what all the men looking down at me from the mangot were also wondering. I told her it was only a can, and she laughingly scolded me and told me everyone thought Abuba & Co. had come back and the brother had shot them.
I gave an apologetic wave up to the village—it’s weird, knowing everyone is always looking at you, but it’s worse, knowing this time they’re looking at you with good reason—and slinked into the house as soon as possible.
I had to bear the story about four hundred more times, as Mary took tea in my kitchen and told every passing person. Ibeja is so silly. Ibeja is always causing mischief. Oh, that ridiculous, white Ibeja. And I’m sure it’s being convey through the mountainside—the those-stupid-whitefolk stories are golden ‘round here and never seem to die away completely.
Why is it that this place always rings with gunshots—they’re so common, even we don’t jump at them anymore—but the morning I blow up a can, apparently everyone is at rapt attention?
Haha. Ugh.
(And, ladies, I hope you feel the weight of your guilt… or at least some of my embarrassment…)
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Making Culture
I’m having trouble remembering what I have and have not written up here. Forgive me for my redundancy or negligence, whichever side of the evil I fall upon.
The other morning, all of our friends were nowhere to be found. They’d all somehow disappeared without us noticing, even as Kim was waiting for some of them to pick her up to go to the fields. Quiet doesn’t go long unnoticed here, so eventually our ears were perked to the nothingness and we started wondering what in the world was going on.
Our friend, Soil, came by and we asked him where everyone was.
“They’re making culture,” he said.
Making culture. Excellent.
They’d all gone up the mountain for a goat sacrifice, an attempt to ward off all the sickness that is taking the village—and maybe the curse that seems to be taking J’s family. (His brother’s boy, the baby, did die Tuesday morning. No word on the other one—did I mention another was sick? I don’t even know.)
We ran up there too late to catch what exactly happened, but Martin later gave us the details of it, and we could see for ourselves the goat intestines and feces splattered on their clothes and heads. I won’t try to give the whole thing in detail, but they sure did “make a lot of culture” from the sound of things.
Sigh.
Sometimes, I’m forced to remember where I’m at. The other day, the whole mountainside went NUTS with people wailing and banging their gates. I guess it was the new moon or something, and it’s some animistic tradition. Imagine, thousands of people, along a huge mountainside, all uniting at once in this huge, subhuman howl. Funny that Halloween is so close. Ha.
And the boys outside our house were frantically yelling at me to bang on my door, too, lest I get sick soon. We asked every passing person just what it was about, but never got a straight answer. Many say this and that about “Hollum” (the Christian God), while others will slip up and let out a “Joik” (the bad god who eats children). Most have learned by now to simply cloak all of this kind of stuff with the blanket statement, “It’s just our culture.”
It’s just so discouraging, knowing some of these people have heard the Gospel, time and time again, and yet they don’t hear.
I’ve said before that the wider tribe that our village comes from is called the [Ok, I guess I can’t really write the name of the] tribe, which in the language means “deaf.” They certainly are deaf right now to God’s message, and to the warnings in His Word against stuff like this.
We’re powerless to open their ears, but—Lord willing—we’ll keep speaking the message.
Pray for perseverance!
The other morning, all of our friends were nowhere to be found. They’d all somehow disappeared without us noticing, even as Kim was waiting for some of them to pick her up to go to the fields. Quiet doesn’t go long unnoticed here, so eventually our ears were perked to the nothingness and we started wondering what in the world was going on.
Our friend, Soil, came by and we asked him where everyone was.
“They’re making culture,” he said.
Making culture. Excellent.
They’d all gone up the mountain for a goat sacrifice, an attempt to ward off all the sickness that is taking the village—and maybe the curse that seems to be taking J’s family. (His brother’s boy, the baby, did die Tuesday morning. No word on the other one—did I mention another was sick? I don’t even know.)
We ran up there too late to catch what exactly happened, but Martin later gave us the details of it, and we could see for ourselves the goat intestines and feces splattered on their clothes and heads. I won’t try to give the whole thing in detail, but they sure did “make a lot of culture” from the sound of things.
Sigh.
Sometimes, I’m forced to remember where I’m at. The other day, the whole mountainside went NUTS with people wailing and banging their gates. I guess it was the new moon or something, and it’s some animistic tradition. Imagine, thousands of people, along a huge mountainside, all uniting at once in this huge, subhuman howl. Funny that Halloween is so close. Ha.
And the boys outside our house were frantically yelling at me to bang on my door, too, lest I get sick soon. We asked every passing person just what it was about, but never got a straight answer. Many say this and that about “Hollum” (the Christian God), while others will slip up and let out a “Joik” (the bad god who eats children). Most have learned by now to simply cloak all of this kind of stuff with the blanket statement, “It’s just our culture.”
It’s just so discouraging, knowing some of these people have heard the Gospel, time and time again, and yet they don’t hear.
I’ve said before that the wider tribe that our village comes from is called the [Ok, I guess I can’t really write the name of the] tribe, which in the language means “deaf.” They certainly are deaf right now to God’s message, and to the warnings in His Word against stuff like this.
We’re powerless to open their ears, but—Lord willing—we’ll keep speaking the message.
Pray for perseverance!
Thursday, October 11, 2007
More Tragedy…
As a Christian, I love it when I can connect the dots of God’s plan—when I can see for myself that this one thing happened so that this other thing could come from it. That’s sort of how I felt the other day when I wrote about James’ son dying and James and Grace coming to the Lord through it. What a wonderful thing, to know life can come from death!
But God just threw us a curve ball, and I’m left wondering.
James’ baby boy died tonight. He was maybe two months old.
I can’t even imagine the family and village’s grief—they buried the other boy not even five days ago, and now this new tragedy is heaped on them. And on Heinrich and Doris, as they feel with their Lopit friends. They had nearly the whole village out trying to find Michael—the clinic’s head nurse—this afternoon, so they could get the right supplies and know-how to try to save the baby, who was fading fast.
Just please pray for James and for his family. Pray his commitment would be proved true through these trials—that the same Spirit who raised Jesus from the dead would keep James through this timing of mourning and testing.
But God just threw us a curve ball, and I’m left wondering.
James’ baby boy died tonight. He was maybe two months old.
I can’t even imagine the family and village’s grief—they buried the other boy not even five days ago, and now this new tragedy is heaped on them. And on Heinrich and Doris, as they feel with their Lopit friends. They had nearly the whole village out trying to find Michael—the clinic’s head nurse—this afternoon, so they could get the right supplies and know-how to try to save the baby, who was fading fast.
Just please pray for James and for his family. Pray his commitment would be proved true through these trials—that the same Spirit who raised Jesus from the dead would keep James through this timing of mourning and testing.
Could be loaded…
Have I ever told you that Mark thinks American children are all trained, from the age of five, in all the arts of war and battle? Yeah, it’s true. Little soldiers, the whole lot of them. I’m not sure where he gets it. But he insists emphatically that it’s so.
Anyway, if he could have seen Kimmie and I on the path the other day, he might have known we’re taught more to fear guns than how to shoot them.
We came up behind our dear, kooky neighbor Ibiong on the path, and she swung around to give us an excited hello. Well, she had a AK-47 slung across her chest, so our natural response was to duck. Not from fear, just from instinct. You never point a loaded gun at someone, right? Not even a play gun. Any child knows that.
Imagine every mother’s terror at skinny little Ibiong swingin’ this thing around like it’s no big deal. She’d repeatedly turn around to say something to us as we walked, and we’d swoop down out of the line of fire. (More then, I’ll admit, for humor than anything else.) She really got a kick out of it. She insisted she didn’t know how to shoot it, so we shouldn’t be afraid. She fiddled with the trigger a bit, in an attempt to demonstrate her ignorance. I do believe at that point we nearly flung ourselves into the bushes. A few times when she’d turn around, she’d plug the end of the barrel with her index finger. You know, ‘cause then it’s not at all dangerous.
We taught her how to say “I gotta gun” in English. She took to saying “gun, gun-gun-gun-gun,” as if it were the shooting sound. This woman is hilarious; I wish I could even explain it.
Anyway, our adventure ended when she stepped off the path to greet someone and we dashed by. She laughed after us, “Erruat itia!” (“You’re escaping!”)
Anyway, if he could have seen Kimmie and I on the path the other day, he might have known we’re taught more to fear guns than how to shoot them.
We came up behind our dear, kooky neighbor Ibiong on the path, and she swung around to give us an excited hello. Well, she had a AK-47 slung across her chest, so our natural response was to duck. Not from fear, just from instinct. You never point a loaded gun at someone, right? Not even a play gun. Any child knows that.
Imagine every mother’s terror at skinny little Ibiong swingin’ this thing around like it’s no big deal. She’d repeatedly turn around to say something to us as we walked, and we’d swoop down out of the line of fire. (More then, I’ll admit, for humor than anything else.) She really got a kick out of it. She insisted she didn’t know how to shoot it, so we shouldn’t be afraid. She fiddled with the trigger a bit, in an attempt to demonstrate her ignorance. I do believe at that point we nearly flung ourselves into the bushes. A few times when she’d turn around, she’d plug the end of the barrel with her index finger. You know, ‘cause then it’s not at all dangerous.
We taught her how to say “I gotta gun” in English. She took to saying “gun, gun-gun-gun-gun,” as if it were the shooting sound. This woman is hilarious; I wish I could even explain it.
Anyway, our adventure ended when she stepped off the path to greet someone and we dashed by. She laughed after us, “Erruat itia!” (“You’re escaping!”)
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Liberty in Length…
I used to get on the fellas on the sports desk for writing too long. I know my demanding a 12” (and no longer!) column from them was a sure way to earn their distain; and my standing firm in it, enough to drive them crazy.
I look at how I go on and on on this thing, and I wonder how much it would delight them to smack me with a deadline and a length limit.
I guess I’ve at times abandoned the editor’s heart for brevity and abused my license for length. Forgive me!
As for my subject matter, it may bore you. After reading lots of missionary biographies and stressing about how my life here in Lopit will never compare, I’ve come to a sort of peace about it.
Those books looked back on a lifetime, selecting only the days and moments that “mattered.” But my blog is a bit of the opposite—you’ve got to suffering through all the days and minutes with me. So I guess that’s boring, but I’m hoping God eventually writes a pretty good book with it all.
I look at how I go on and on on this thing, and I wonder how much it would delight them to smack me with a deadline and a length limit.
I guess I’ve at times abandoned the editor’s heart for brevity and abused my license for length. Forgive me!
As for my subject matter, it may bore you. After reading lots of missionary biographies and stressing about how my life here in Lopit will never compare, I’ve come to a sort of peace about it.
Those books looked back on a lifetime, selecting only the days and moments that “mattered.” But my blog is a bit of the opposite—you’ve got to suffering through all the days and minutes with me. So I guess that’s boring, but I’m hoping God eventually writes a pretty good book with it all.
Lopit Computers…
Kim’s been spending hours working on this audio dictionary for Lopit words, so today I rewarded her by changing her computer sounds to Lopit sounds.
When her computer starts, it says “Mong, Mong, Mong, Mong, Mong.” When it turns of, it says, “Ino nalanyar” (go well).
I’m so glad I have an easily amused housemate.
When her computer starts, it says “Mong, Mong, Mong, Mong, Mong.” When it turns of, it says, “Ino nalanyar” (go well).
I’m so glad I have an easily amused housemate.
New birth…
Sometimes, death brings life.
Heinrich and Doris flew back to LH with James on Saturday. About 100 people met them at the airstrip and carried the boy back to their village, where they buried him on his family’s compound.
Later, James came to Heinrich and told him someone had shared the Gospel with him at Kijabe (AIM’s missionary hospital in Kenya) and that he “belonged to Christ now.” They gave him an NIV Bible with pictures and some study stuff, and James is anxious for Heinrich to help him with the words he doesn’t know.
James is a CHRISTIAN. Can you believe it? Can you even imagine how excited we are? Especially Heinrich and Doris? Wow.
He’s a village CHIEF, for crying out loud!
And it gets better.
Heinrich said something about the boy in church on Sunday, and Grace—Joshua & Co’s eldest daughter—was really affected by it. She went home and talked to her dad that night. She broke down into tears, and she, too, gave her life to Christ. Little Gracie!
I really was blown away today when all this came out. I’m so happy for Heinrich and Doris, that even though they weren’t able to save the boy, the village isn’t blaming them for his death and James has turned to the Lord. A whole bunch of doctors from different hospitals in Nairobi were involved in the case, and now they’re building a relationship there—a great thing for the medical work in Kenya, I’m sure, and also great because the Kijabe doctors can share about why they do the work they do.
Then to have such a blessing fall so close to home—to see one of our own MK’s make a decision for the Lord.
I guess I just don’t have words.
But now you know, and you can praise with me. :)
Heinrich and Doris flew back to LH with James on Saturday. About 100 people met them at the airstrip and carried the boy back to their village, where they buried him on his family’s compound.
Later, James came to Heinrich and told him someone had shared the Gospel with him at Kijabe (AIM’s missionary hospital in Kenya) and that he “belonged to Christ now.” They gave him an NIV Bible with pictures and some study stuff, and James is anxious for Heinrich to help him with the words he doesn’t know.
James is a CHRISTIAN. Can you believe it? Can you even imagine how excited we are? Especially Heinrich and Doris? Wow.
He’s a village CHIEF, for crying out loud!
And it gets better.
Heinrich said something about the boy in church on Sunday, and Grace—Joshua & Co’s eldest daughter—was really affected by it. She went home and talked to her dad that night. She broke down into tears, and she, too, gave her life to Christ. Little Gracie!
I really was blown away today when all this came out. I’m so happy for Heinrich and Doris, that even though they weren’t able to save the boy, the village isn’t blaming them for his death and James has turned to the Lord. A whole bunch of doctors from different hospitals in Nairobi were involved in the case, and now they’re building a relationship there—a great thing for the medical work in Kenya, I’m sure, and also great because the Kijabe doctors can share about why they do the work they do.
Then to have such a blessing fall so close to home—to see one of our own MK’s make a decision for the Lord.
I guess I just don’t have words.
But now you know, and you can praise with me. :)
Also, some prayer…
Our team is taking a bit of a beating right now.
Daniel is still in Nairobi.
There’s a plane on standby in Loki to fly Iris out the instant she says go, because she’s been really sick.
Poor Steve is in Nairobi—away from his wife—at a field conference and some other potentially hard meetings, and now I’m sure he’s worried about Iris.
Jen’s looking to fly out as well, to talk to a specialist about some nagging allergies.
So just keep us in your prayers. We’ve had blessings upon blessings heaped on our heads, and we know the road won’t always be easy—but it never hurts to pray that we find encouragement and strength in what could prove to be a really tough time for everyone.
Thanks!
Daniel is still in Nairobi.
There’s a plane on standby in Loki to fly Iris out the instant she says go, because she’s been really sick.
Poor Steve is in Nairobi—away from his wife—at a field conference and some other potentially hard meetings, and now I’m sure he’s worried about Iris.
Jen’s looking to fly out as well, to talk to a specialist about some nagging allergies.
So just keep us in your prayers. We’ve had blessings upon blessings heaped on our heads, and we know the road won’t always be easy—but it never hurts to pray that we find encouragement and strength in what could prove to be a really tough time for everyone.
Thanks!
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Naming Ceremony…
Kimmie’s language helper’s wife had a baby the other day. Mark’s been waiting on this one for a while. He’s got two wives and eight girls, and all he wants is a boy. Imagine how bad we felt for him when it was another girl. Heinrich and Kim have both tried to explain to him it’s his “fault,” not his wives’, but he doesn’t buy all that.
He’s really suffering right now—for this and other things—so please lift him up in your prayers. He’s not a Christian.
Anyway, some pictures from the naming ceremony… 
He’s really suffering right now—for this and other things—so please lift him up in your prayers. He’s not a Christian.
Anyway, some pictures from the naming ceremony…
Peanut, Peanut butter…
We like this time of the peanut season, because it’s when they all sit around in the fields and pick the peanut shells off the plants. We like it because, a) we just sit in a circle talking, which is great for language learning and b) we can actually do this part without looking like fools. Even our friends would agree. They’re hardly as apprehensive about us going to the fields with them as they were during weeding time (when we’d occasionally pull up some plants instead of weeds).
Walking to the fields is an adventure. It’s basically just pure sorghum for miles, and I really don’t know how they don’t get lost all the time. We couldn’t see a thing.
Anyway, it was good times. Laudina took us out to her field and we sat chatting for a long while. The new hot topic in Lopitland is when we’re leaving. I think the long break a couple months back got everyone—them and us—thinking about what it’s going to be like when we leave. Laudina says we’re going to go home and get husbands. She says we have to send a picture back (somehow?) so she can show everyone and say how “very, very, very good” our husbands are. Then we have to move back with our kids. That seems to be the consensus.
Power Struggle...
We’re looking for any excuse as to why our solar power has been so paltry lately, other than the fact that Kim and I are both working a lot on technical stuff for the team. We thought it’d be a splendid idea to get up on the roof and clean ‘em off. Kim decided she’d climb up, until she got up there and wimped out. Getting down proved harder—she needed a little help from Pattie. That’s some pretty full-on hand-to-butt contact.
Davitika (I will never know how to spell that) ended up shimmying up there like a champ. There were a few moments where we were sure she’d fall through the thin iron-sheet roof, but she adhered to Kim’s instructions to walk on the screws really well. She looked a bit like a tightrope walker.
We have really great friends. :)
Davitika (I will never know how to spell that) ended up shimmying up there like a champ. There were a few moments where we were sure she’d fall through the thin iron-sheet roof, but she adhered to Kim’s instructions to walk on the screws really well. She looked a bit like a tightrope walker.
We have really great friends. :)
House of Bath…
Little Stinky got her dream come true the other day. Do you remember me saying that when we gave her sister a bath, she came tottering up naked later, stinky underwear in one hand, little bit of soap in the other? Well, we were “babysitting” again the other day—Ibiong went off to the river and left the kids with us—and we couldn’t resist giving them baths. Monica was sitting happily on my bed, little feet dangling off the edge, face covered in yuck and smelling pretty foul. (Can you see the stuff coating her face?)
So here you have the results. The kids outside (you can see them looking in) asked if we were borrowing them from Ibiong and would take them back to our village (what they call the USA).
So here you have the results. The kids outside (you can see them looking in) asked if we were borrowing them from Ibiong and would take them back to our village (what they call the USA).
Powdering the kids up is probably the most fun part of everything. It’s such a curious thing for them. Monica wouldn’t have anything done to Baby Kim that wasn’t done to her.
Check out her little footsteps! We made her a “dress” out of an old Banana Republic tanktop we found at the second-hand market in Nairobi. That’s a designer dress, people. Haha.
Baby Kim kind of has bug eyes. I think I’ve said before that she looks a bit like an alien. A cute alien. Anyway, when you have her outside on your hip, then walk into the strange whitey’s house with her, her eyes get HUGE. It’s actually quite humorous to watch. She’s giving some big eyes here, but I’m telling you, they get bigger.
Monica’s cleanliness didn’t last long. Kim decided to take some liberties with the roll-on deodorant. Ellen befell a similar fate the next day; we smeared it all over her body, she smelled so badly. 
Rotten Vegetables…
I should say, Ellen is doing better. My mom asked me about her, and I realized I hadn’t given an update. I sometimes forget ‘cause about a million things happen a day that I think would be nice to write about.
Our little sweet pea is doing fine and getting all her cookie-snatching strength and charm back. Mom said she might send an outfit over for her. I think Abuba would love that. She told me to greet my mother “very, very, very, very, very much” from her.
Our little sweet pea is doing fine and getting all her cookie-snatching strength and charm back. Mom said she might send an outfit over for her. I think Abuba would love that. She told me to greet my mother “very, very, very, very, very much” from her.
Pray for James…
Heinrich and Doris have been concerned for quite a while about their friend’s son. The friend is James, one of the chiefs, and his little boy has been sick for a while, and they’ve been unable to get him better. So they decided the other day to get him out of Lopit and to Nairobi, where he could get real medical attention. We have a lot of peoples’ generosity to thank for that, I’m sure.
James had never been out of Sudan before, so H and D had the forethought to give him important lessons, like how to use a toilet and take a shower. They gave him a toothbrush, among other things, and sent him off on a plane Wednesday morning with assurances from the doctors that they’d be able to treat the boy and would return him to Lopit feeling much better after only some simple treatment.
Word came through two days ago that they’d been mistaken. They found a soccer ball-sized tumor in the boy’s stomach and said it’d already destroyed a lot of organs. James begged them to take the boy to Germany, to treat him with chemo. The doctor said it was too late. James, who we’d hoped would be led to Christ through this, asked why we couldn’t just pray to Hollum (God) and He’d heal him.
The boy died late last night in the hospital. My heart aches for James, in Nairobi now but flying back as soon as possible with the boy’s body. Lopit tradition has the family surrounded immediately by the entire village, and provides a familiar way for them to mourn. The closest James has to anyone there is Daniel, who was able to receive him and—from what I understand?—was with them through it all. And I’m sure there are other DIGUNA folks there coming around James, but how hard…
I know H and D are taking it hard, and it will be hard to come back to Lopit, the harbingers of such bad news. Please pray for this whole situation, that God would work through it.
James had never been out of Sudan before, so H and D had the forethought to give him important lessons, like how to use a toilet and take a shower. They gave him a toothbrush, among other things, and sent him off on a plane Wednesday morning with assurances from the doctors that they’d be able to treat the boy and would return him to Lopit feeling much better after only some simple treatment.
Word came through two days ago that they’d been mistaken. They found a soccer ball-sized tumor in the boy’s stomach and said it’d already destroyed a lot of organs. James begged them to take the boy to Germany, to treat him with chemo. The doctor said it was too late. James, who we’d hoped would be led to Christ through this, asked why we couldn’t just pray to Hollum (God) and He’d heal him.
The boy died late last night in the hospital. My heart aches for James, in Nairobi now but flying back as soon as possible with the boy’s body. Lopit tradition has the family surrounded immediately by the entire village, and provides a familiar way for them to mourn. The closest James has to anyone there is Daniel, who was able to receive him and—from what I understand?—was with them through it all. And I’m sure there are other DIGUNA folks there coming around James, but how hard…
I know H and D are taking it hard, and it will be hard to come back to Lopit, the harbingers of such bad news. Please pray for this whole situation, that God would work through it.
Grandpa Heinrich…
Heinrich told me a story about his Lopit “grandfather” the other day, and I can’t help but share it.
Heinrich and Doris brought these crank-turn tape players from Germany, and dug up some old Latuka language (not so far from our dialect) recordings from Look, Listen and Live. The LoPeeps love them. Unfortunately, it’s not a very stable medium and they often switch out the Gospel tapes for their own ancient tapes they got from the refugee camps in Kenya, so we’re looking to go in a different direction. But that’s beside the point.
Apparently, this old man—self-declared grandfather to HK—really digs the players, but couldn’t for the longest time get the turning thing down. He just couldn’t do it. So a whole bunch of monyemiji and Heinrich sat with him a whole afternoon at the mangot and tried to teach him how to crank it. He finally caught on. (Heinrich said one of the main obstacles was his inch-long fingernails, which Doris graciously clipped for him.) Now all he wants to do is turn it, turn it, turn it, all the time and listen to the tapes. And he tells everyone he can do it himself. I think only Heinrich’s smile upon that declaration can rival the old man’s!
Heinrich and Doris brought these crank-turn tape players from Germany, and dug up some old Latuka language (not so far from our dialect) recordings from Look, Listen and Live. The LoPeeps love them. Unfortunately, it’s not a very stable medium and they often switch out the Gospel tapes for their own ancient tapes they got from the refugee camps in Kenya, so we’re looking to go in a different direction. But that’s beside the point.
Apparently, this old man—self-declared grandfather to HK—really digs the players, but couldn’t for the longest time get the turning thing down. He just couldn’t do it. So a whole bunch of monyemiji and Heinrich sat with him a whole afternoon at the mangot and tried to teach him how to crank it. He finally caught on. (Heinrich said one of the main obstacles was his inch-long fingernails, which Doris graciously clipped for him.) Now all he wants to do is turn it, turn it, turn it, all the time and listen to the tapes. And he tells everyone he can do it himself. I think only Heinrich’s smile upon that declaration can rival the old man’s!
Yeti: (n) see Andrea Ifeja
Yesterday, my dear friend Lisa told me it sounded like I was becoming a bit of a yeti.
Hmm.
I asked Kim what a yeti was. She didn’t know. I had just written myself off as one of those old, disconnect people who googles newfangled slang to keep up with the world, when Lisa told me she didn’t really know what it was exactly, ‘cept that they used it on Friends and it seemed applicable.
Upon searching it, she found it was “abominable snowman, a hairy humanlike animal reportedly inhabiting the snows of the high Himalaya Mountains,” and quickly apologized.
Apology not accepted. It sounds a bit right. Though I did pluck my rather unkempt left eyebrow this morning, I still think I’m of that distinct “hairy” rank. The only thing I can’t account for is the snow thing. There definitely isn’t snow here.
Hmm.
I asked Kim what a yeti was. She didn’t know. I had just written myself off as one of those old, disconnect people who googles newfangled slang to keep up with the world, when Lisa told me she didn’t really know what it was exactly, ‘cept that they used it on Friends and it seemed applicable.
Upon searching it, she found it was “abominable snowman, a hairy humanlike animal reportedly inhabiting the snows of the high Himalaya Mountains,” and quickly apologized.
Apology not accepted. It sounds a bit right. Though I did pluck my rather unkempt left eyebrow this morning, I still think I’m of that distinct “hairy” rank. The only thing I can’t account for is the snow thing. There definitely isn’t snow here.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Life of Learning…
I’ve been reading a lot lately, for the TIMO curriculum, and I’m enjoying what I’m learning. We’re on our church-planting and discipleship unit, which is cool. In the other units, I think maybe the theory was a little more distant from the practice. Or maybe I’m just more into this stuff.
Granted, we don’t have many folks here who can be disciple. There are very few Christians. But that’s what’s golden—remembering to focus on a few, and trusting God to work through them to the rest. And it is the same with my friends in the village. I don’t have people who are already Christians, but I have people who I can be something to and witness to. As a house, we learned long ago to have a close core, not to spread ourselves too thin. That’s what you always hear about the same folks.
Anyway, I read J.I. Packer’s Evangelism and the Sovereignty of God last week. Excellent book. It talked about these two great truths—God’s sovereignty and man’s responsibility. Lots of folks get all bent out of shape wrestling with these two things that they see as contradicting. And they run themselves ragged trying to reconcile these two truths. But it was nice to walk with Packer on a road I’ve walked before; to again have my thinking swiveled is always good for me. I love deeply the sovereignty of God and feel equally the responsibility of man. I love what C.H. Spurgeon said when someone asked him to reconcile the two truths—“I wouldn’t try. I never reconcile friends.” So, it’s nice to be reminded that both truths are from God’s Word. God never lies. And sometimes we have to accept what maybe to us is a mystery—and live our lives holding both in equal esteem, not playing them off against each other, because God doesn’t.
I also was reminded that God is sovereign, and because of that, what I’m doing out here isn’t pointless. God will move if and how He wills to. “Were it not for the sovereign grace of God, evangelism would be the most futile and useless enterprise that the world has ever seen, and there would be no more complete waste of time under the sun than to preach the Christian Gospel.” :)
What else? I read a book by some Guillebaud guy who does ministry in Burundi, For What it’s Worth. It’s about no holds barred discipleship. What I took from it was about the Christian life. Though living a Christian life sometimes seems like an insurmountable thing, we have to press on it in. He quoted Christopher Columbus who, though his crew was on the verge of mutiny and things were looking grim, he ended his journal each day with, “Today, we moved westward!” So, each day I want to be able to say I moved “westward” in my sanctification. I also liked this, from Newton: “I’m not what I ought t be, I’m not what I’d like to be, I’m not what I hope to be, but I’m not what I was, and by the grace of God, I am what I am.” Superb.
It all tied in well with my recent Piper sermons on Romans 7. We have hope in the face of our weaknesses and struggles in this world because we have Jesus Christ.
I listened to a sermon this morning by a one Brent Rue (don’t know this fella at all), the gist of which was that our relationship with God should be rooted in intimacy. And he said that we need to spend more time being loved by God, to be able to love him. He said that love is recognizing what God has done in our lives, and telling him all about it. An interesting point.
Then I just started last night a book called Creative Ministry (Nouwen), which said in the introduction: “If it is perhaps possible for a doctor to cure a patient even where the doctor hardly believes in the value of life, a Christian minister will never be able to be a minister if it is not his own most personal faith and insight into life that forms the core of his pastoral work.”
It’s actually funny how God weaved all my recent reading and studying together. I’m reminded that the whole string of what I just talked about—discipleship in ministry, the sovereignty of God in grace that undergirds and justifies that ministry, God’s grace in my own life that I can live my Christian life from and on, and how out of that Christian life, my ministry flows, and I’m able to lead others to Christ in discipleship. A neat little circle, isn’t it?
Oh, that I will have a lifetime of such learning. :)
Granted, we don’t have many folks here who can be disciple. There are very few Christians. But that’s what’s golden—remembering to focus on a few, and trusting God to work through them to the rest. And it is the same with my friends in the village. I don’t have people who are already Christians, but I have people who I can be something to and witness to. As a house, we learned long ago to have a close core, not to spread ourselves too thin. That’s what you always hear about the same folks.
Anyway, I read J.I. Packer’s Evangelism and the Sovereignty of God last week. Excellent book. It talked about these two great truths—God’s sovereignty and man’s responsibility. Lots of folks get all bent out of shape wrestling with these two things that they see as contradicting. And they run themselves ragged trying to reconcile these two truths. But it was nice to walk with Packer on a road I’ve walked before; to again have my thinking swiveled is always good for me. I love deeply the sovereignty of God and feel equally the responsibility of man. I love what C.H. Spurgeon said when someone asked him to reconcile the two truths—“I wouldn’t try. I never reconcile friends.” So, it’s nice to be reminded that both truths are from God’s Word. God never lies. And sometimes we have to accept what maybe to us is a mystery—and live our lives holding both in equal esteem, not playing them off against each other, because God doesn’t.
I also was reminded that God is sovereign, and because of that, what I’m doing out here isn’t pointless. God will move if and how He wills to. “Were it not for the sovereign grace of God, evangelism would be the most futile and useless enterprise that the world has ever seen, and there would be no more complete waste of time under the sun than to preach the Christian Gospel.” :)
What else? I read a book by some Guillebaud guy who does ministry in Burundi, For What it’s Worth. It’s about no holds barred discipleship. What I took from it was about the Christian life. Though living a Christian life sometimes seems like an insurmountable thing, we have to press on it in. He quoted Christopher Columbus who, though his crew was on the verge of mutiny and things were looking grim, he ended his journal each day with, “Today, we moved westward!” So, each day I want to be able to say I moved “westward” in my sanctification. I also liked this, from Newton: “I’m not what I ought t be, I’m not what I’d like to be, I’m not what I hope to be, but I’m not what I was, and by the grace of God, I am what I am.” Superb.
It all tied in well with my recent Piper sermons on Romans 7. We have hope in the face of our weaknesses and struggles in this world because we have Jesus Christ.
I listened to a sermon this morning by a one Brent Rue (don’t know this fella at all), the gist of which was that our relationship with God should be rooted in intimacy. And he said that we need to spend more time being loved by God, to be able to love him. He said that love is recognizing what God has done in our lives, and telling him all about it. An interesting point.
Then I just started last night a book called Creative Ministry (Nouwen), which said in the introduction: “If it is perhaps possible for a doctor to cure a patient even where the doctor hardly believes in the value of life, a Christian minister will never be able to be a minister if it is not his own most personal faith and insight into life that forms the core of his pastoral work.”
It’s actually funny how God weaved all my recent reading and studying together. I’m reminded that the whole string of what I just talked about—discipleship in ministry, the sovereignty of God in grace that undergirds and justifies that ministry, God’s grace in my own life that I can live my Christian life from and on, and how out of that Christian life, my ministry flows, and I’m able to lead others to Christ in discipleship. A neat little circle, isn’t it?
Oh, that I will have a lifetime of such learning. :)
Letting Go…
The bottom of my feet are tinted green. I had fading blue streaks on my arms for nearly a week. My fingernail beds have similar discolorings—from the preschool paint—and my thumb and forefinger are stained with the deep violet of GV, the wonder drug that we slap on the village kids’ cuts nearly daily. I wake up each morning to my increasingly wild curly hair, and I’m forced to giggle at myself in the mirror. Today, my skirt and my tanktop do not (and could never, even in the wildest fashion dreams) match.
I’m starting to think maybe I’ve let myself go. Kim keeps trying to call me back to the living. I wonder what the implications of this are. Hmm. Hopefully, I’ll be able to pull it together before our next trip back to civilization…
I’m starting to think maybe I’ve let myself go. Kim keeps trying to call me back to the living. I wonder what the implications of this are. Hmm. Hopefully, I’ll be able to pull it together before our next trip back to civilization…
Go Cubs, Go!
I got a delightful email in my inbox this morning, saying my dear Cubbies have clinched the Central!
Oh, what joy! Oh, what bliss! Oh, what sports happiness!
Oh, what cruel, CRUEL fate, if the Loveable Losers make a push for the October Classic in my absence.
Meh.
But, still, go Cubs, GO!!!
I expect updates, people. I’m ashamed I didn’t have a dozen emails in my box. (Ahem, Phil.)
On a similar note, I use my Todd Walker baseball card as a bookmark, and little Monica was quite enraptured by it yesterday during church, as she sat on my lap. I’m pretty sure—because of my Cubs baseball calendar—all the children think the “men of my village” all wear some combination of white, blue or gray uniforms with pants that are much too small for them and funny gloves. Good times.
Oh, what joy! Oh, what bliss! Oh, what sports happiness!
Oh, what cruel, CRUEL fate, if the Loveable Losers make a push for the October Classic in my absence.
Meh.
But, still, go Cubs, GO!!!
I expect updates, people. I’m ashamed I didn’t have a dozen emails in my box. (Ahem, Phil.)
On a similar note, I use my Todd Walker baseball card as a bookmark, and little Monica was quite enraptured by it yesterday during church, as she sat on my lap. I’m pretty sure—because of my Cubs baseball calendar—all the children think the “men of my village” all wear some combination of white, blue or gray uniforms with pants that are much too small for them and funny gloves. Good times.
Heating up
I know you folks at home are enjoying all the wonderfulness (would you believe that’s a word?!) of Autumn back home, but ‘round these parts the thermostat is quickly climbing. I can’t believe how stuffed I am after a climb up the mountain. We here in Husa are praying this is just our bodies adjusting, otherwise this doesn’t bode well for our surviving dry season. Eek.
Thankfully, my wonderful father brought this supercharged fan from the United States of America (I like to write it out like that). Unfortunately, all that wonderfulness (again!) does a quick number on our solar system and might prove more a sad reminder of what could have been in the end. Oh pity. We will somehow prevail!
Even though it’s an oven here, my heart still feels the Fall, and I actually felt a physical ache in my body the other day for going to an Illini football game. Funny, because it was Saturday, which I hear was the very day my dear Illini pounced the stupid Littany Lions and caused enough of a pulse in the Illinois football program for my father to declare it resurrected. Wonderful! If this is so, I’ll be forced to miss sports year-round—college basketball season runs right into professional baseball season, which overflows into college football time, and before you know it, it’s back to Assembly Hall. Call it the circle of life.
Fall to me is bonfire smores, and I just tried to resurrect Kim’s fire from her baking this morning for the purposes of such an indulgence. (We found Nairobi had marshmallows this trip! Unfortunately, not a true graham cracker in the country.) My face is now ashen from blowing on the few lukewarm coals, and I’ve given the silly thing over to—by the grace of God?—light itself.
Enough about my thoughts on Fall… I’ve got an entirely different reality outside my window that’s currently calling my attention to my laundry on the line and a threatening storm. (I’m telling you… every time!)
Thankfully, my wonderful father brought this supercharged fan from the United States of America (I like to write it out like that). Unfortunately, all that wonderfulness (again!) does a quick number on our solar system and might prove more a sad reminder of what could have been in the end. Oh pity. We will somehow prevail!
Even though it’s an oven here, my heart still feels the Fall, and I actually felt a physical ache in my body the other day for going to an Illini football game. Funny, because it was Saturday, which I hear was the very day my dear Illini pounced the stupid Littany Lions and caused enough of a pulse in the Illinois football program for my father to declare it resurrected. Wonderful! If this is so, I’ll be forced to miss sports year-round—college basketball season runs right into professional baseball season, which overflows into college football time, and before you know it, it’s back to Assembly Hall. Call it the circle of life.
Fall to me is bonfire smores, and I just tried to resurrect Kim’s fire from her baking this morning for the purposes of such an indulgence. (We found Nairobi had marshmallows this trip! Unfortunately, not a true graham cracker in the country.) My face is now ashen from blowing on the few lukewarm coals, and I’ve given the silly thing over to—by the grace of God?—light itself.
Enough about my thoughts on Fall… I’ve got an entirely different reality outside my window that’s currently calling my attention to my laundry on the line and a threatening storm. (I’m telling you… every time!)
Lizards, lizards… everywhere.
A lizard found its way into our frying pan the other day. Perhaps some clever bug’s antics to keep from being eaten. Fortunately (or unfortunately?) the pan was cooled. We’re not that desperate for meat.
Rainy season brings the most spectacularly weird encounters with animal and bug life. I’m always interested to find a cornucopia of critters in my bed each morning. (You know, inside my mosquito net.) Keeps life interesting.
Rainy season brings the most spectacularly weird encounters with animal and bug life. I’m always interested to find a cornucopia of critters in my bed each morning. (You know, inside my mosquito net.) Keeps life interesting.
“Ote, ote, ofu, ote”
Here’s a Lopit language and time-telling lesson for you.
If your housemate hears a suspicious, soft cadence of “ote, ote, ofu, ote” (“dry, dry, wet, dry”) in the sideyard after you’ve spent the whole day doing laundry, it’s high time you get out there and defend your precious clothes from little Thomaso’s dirty-fingered checking to see if they’re ready to take down.
Haha. It’s too bad the fingerprints these kids leave on my heart will last far longer than even the ones they stain my clothes with, or else I’d be tempted into frustration…
If your housemate hears a suspicious, soft cadence of “ote, ote, ofu, ote” (“dry, dry, wet, dry”) in the sideyard after you’ve spent the whole day doing laundry, it’s high time you get out there and defend your precious clothes from little Thomaso’s dirty-fingered checking to see if they’re ready to take down.
Haha. It’s too bad the fingerprints these kids leave on my heart will last far longer than even the ones they stain my clothes with, or else I’d be tempted into frustration…
Friday, September 28, 2007
Quick Prayer Request
Abuba brought little Ellen over yesterday, saying she was hot and shaking. I took her temp and it was ridiculously high—nearly 105. I stripped her and put her in a basin with water, the poor thing. Then let her sit with Abuba with wet towels on her forehead and chest.
Her little eyes were rolling back in her head and she was shaking.
Kim and Pattie came home in the meanwhile and we took turns fanning her. We must’ve fought that fever for two hours before we finally got it to stay down.
We’re not doctors. We don’t have children’s Tylenol. We don’t have children’s malaria medicine, if that’s even what it is it. Seeing our little gem like that was heart-wrenching.
We also found out yesterday there’s something like chicken pox running through the village. Baby Pattie is covered in spots and quite miserable, as are a growing number of children. I’m not sure if chicken pox runs through here often or if we should be worried about the adults catching cases. Then there are all the elderly and pregnant women.
Anyway, I have only a minute, but I wanted to ask for some prayer for health in our villages. This chicken pox thing is on top of all the malaria that’s normally around. Thanks for your prayers!
Her little eyes were rolling back in her head and she was shaking.
Kim and Pattie came home in the meanwhile and we took turns fanning her. We must’ve fought that fever for two hours before we finally got it to stay down.
We’re not doctors. We don’t have children’s Tylenol. We don’t have children’s malaria medicine, if that’s even what it is it. Seeing our little gem like that was heart-wrenching.
We also found out yesterday there’s something like chicken pox running through the village. Baby Pattie is covered in spots and quite miserable, as are a growing number of children. I’m not sure if chicken pox runs through here often or if we should be worried about the adults catching cases. Then there are all the elderly and pregnant women.
Anyway, I have only a minute, but I wanted to ask for some prayer for health in our villages. This chicken pox thing is on top of all the malaria that’s normally around. Thanks for your prayers!
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
The Napping House…
Kim and I are enjoying some study time in her room right now. Little Edek is sitting at my feet. He recently woke up from falling asleep in my lap. (And depositing a considerable amount of drool on my arm.)
He’s an unhappy little 2-year-old. His mom leaves him alone every morning and he just wails and wails. Pattie can’t stand it, so she constantly is shouting across the village to him, trying to reason with him and console him. And, yes, we’ve even stooped to giving him candy in exchange for his (albeit temporary) silence. Anymore, he’ll come sit on our rocks and look absolutely pitiable. He just scowls.
Apparently, he sees our house as a sanctuary for all crying children, as this morning he stubbornly urged me from my room to inform me that there was a children up yonder, crying. I’m not sure I like this trend.
He called me from my room again—he speaks in this very commanding voice—to inform me he wanted to come in the house. He kept informing us until we relinquished and allowed him a place on Kimmie’s rug. I put a book in front of him. He doesn’t want to read it. I’ve given him a pen and paper. He won’t draw. He won’t even talk.
But I took him in my lap and eventually he relaxed and fell asleep.
It’s somewhat a comfort to know the children trust us.
Wee little Ellen is the belle of the village and spoiled rotten. Now that she’s walking, she’s constantly making our house her playground. She clings to Kim and I and daily charms cookies out of us. Lately, she’s been sitting in my lap a lot while I work on the video. Yesterday, she took the liberty of peeing on the floor in my room. Now that’s comfortable.
Edek is pulling at my pant leg now. He wants back up.
Did I tell this story already? Our friend Cecelia (mama of baby Andrea Ibeja no Bongi—Andrea the Runner of the White People) was in a fight with her husband. They were throwing punches and at one point I looked out to see Cecelia with a big rock in her cocked hand, ready to smash it on his head. (It was a particularly striking scene, as her mom killed her father this same way. But, it’s OK, her mom is fat and therefore respected in the community.) Abuba called to us and told us her eldest son wanted to come to our house, because he was afraid and sad. His sister soon followed. We love the kids, and I’m glad for these little moments when they appear to love and trust us. 
He’s an unhappy little 2-year-old. His mom leaves him alone every morning and he just wails and wails. Pattie can’t stand it, so she constantly is shouting across the village to him, trying to reason with him and console him. And, yes, we’ve even stooped to giving him candy in exchange for his (albeit temporary) silence. Anymore, he’ll come sit on our rocks and look absolutely pitiable. He just scowls.
Apparently, he sees our house as a sanctuary for all crying children, as this morning he stubbornly urged me from my room to inform me that there was a children up yonder, crying. I’m not sure I like this trend.
He called me from my room again—he speaks in this very commanding voice—to inform me he wanted to come in the house. He kept informing us until we relinquished and allowed him a place on Kimmie’s rug. I put a book in front of him. He doesn’t want to read it. I’ve given him a pen and paper. He won’t draw. He won’t even talk.
But I took him in my lap and eventually he relaxed and fell asleep.
It’s somewhat a comfort to know the children trust us.
Wee little Ellen is the belle of the village and spoiled rotten. Now that she’s walking, she’s constantly making our house her playground. She clings to Kim and I and daily charms cookies out of us. Lately, she’s been sitting in my lap a lot while I work on the video. Yesterday, she took the liberty of peeing on the floor in my room. Now that’s comfortable.
Edek is pulling at my pant leg now. He wants back up.
Did I tell this story already? Our friend Cecelia (mama of baby Andrea Ibeja no Bongi—Andrea the Runner of the White People) was in a fight with her husband. They were throwing punches and at one point I looked out to see Cecelia with a big rock in her cocked hand, ready to smash it on his head. (It was a particularly striking scene, as her mom killed her father this same way. But, it’s OK, her mom is fat and therefore respected in the community.) Abuba called to us and told us her eldest son wanted to come to our house, because he was afraid and sad. His sister soon followed. We love the kids, and I’m glad for these little moments when they appear to love and trust us.
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
You know when parents always say, upon brandishing the spoon or belt or administering whatever punishment is due, “This hurts me more than it hurts you.” I’m not sure I really bought that until yesterday.
I was studying in my room and heard crinkling in the kitchen. Thinking it was a goat I needed to shoo out of our trash (common event), I lackadaisically stirred to accost our intruder. But when I went out, it wasn’t a goat causing the rustling. It was Paula, Abuba’s oldest, sitting in our doorway with quite a loot—an armload of crackers and instant noodles she stole from Pattie’s room. (Don’t ask me what she planned to do with the instant noodles.)
She’s been really naughty and obstinate lately, but I was flabbergasted. How could she steal from the people who so freely open their hands and house to her? Sure, it’s just crackers. But it’s the idea. Some of the kids are just ornery, and will look me straight in the face and refuse to do what I ask of them (like leave when they’re being bad). Do you know what it’s like for your reproofs to be utterly ignored or sneered at, or to be teased by a child? It gets to your very core and your whole self rises up against it. Or maybe that’s just me?
(Maybe this is God preparing me to be a parent. But wooooeee.)
I write this purposely juxtaposed to my last entry, because the juxtaposition is part of the struggle of being here. So it really does hurt me more than it hurts her. It makes me sad and wonder if we’ll ever make an impact here, as just strange white women who warrant no respect because we’re single, have no children and are completely foreign in every single way.
And because we can’t/won’t lift our hand against the children. Imagine: The word in Lopit for “to punish” is the same for “to beat.” So the two are tightly entwined in the culture and inseparable, even in words.
So, I’m not hurting so much over silly crackers, but of how I feel like something like this takes all the steps forward I think we’re making and pummels me back to what seems like ground zero.
I was studying in my room and heard crinkling in the kitchen. Thinking it was a goat I needed to shoo out of our trash (common event), I lackadaisically stirred to accost our intruder. But when I went out, it wasn’t a goat causing the rustling. It was Paula, Abuba’s oldest, sitting in our doorway with quite a loot—an armload of crackers and instant noodles she stole from Pattie’s room. (Don’t ask me what she planned to do with the instant noodles.)
She’s been really naughty and obstinate lately, but I was flabbergasted. How could she steal from the people who so freely open their hands and house to her? Sure, it’s just crackers. But it’s the idea. Some of the kids are just ornery, and will look me straight in the face and refuse to do what I ask of them (like leave when they’re being bad). Do you know what it’s like for your reproofs to be utterly ignored or sneered at, or to be teased by a child? It gets to your very core and your whole self rises up against it. Or maybe that’s just me?
(Maybe this is God preparing me to be a parent. But wooooeee.)
I write this purposely juxtaposed to my last entry, because the juxtaposition is part of the struggle of being here. So it really does hurt me more than it hurts her. It makes me sad and wonder if we’ll ever make an impact here, as just strange white women who warrant no respect because we’re single, have no children and are completely foreign in every single way.
And because we can’t/won’t lift our hand against the children. Imagine: The word in Lopit for “to punish” is the same for “to beat.” So the two are tightly entwined in the culture and inseparable, even in words.
So, I’m not hurting so much over silly crackers, but of how I feel like something like this takes all the steps forward I think we’re making and pummels me back to what seems like ground zero.
Fatalism
If this culture’s fatalism was at all influenced/begot by the introduction of clothes into their culture, I think I completely understand.
I think I’m becoming a bit of a fatalist myself… in the area of laundry. Every time I do laundry, it rains. It’ll be bright and sun-shiny outside, then the instant I dip my hands into the wash water, it’ll cloud up. Or thunder will rumble in response to my even making a move toward the clothespins.
Curious.
I think I’m becoming a bit of a fatalist myself… in the area of laundry. Every time I do laundry, it rains. It’ll be bright and sun-shiny outside, then the instant I dip my hands into the wash water, it’ll cloud up. Or thunder will rumble in response to my even making a move toward the clothespins.
Curious.
Churchgoers…
It shouldn’t go unsaid that we’ve got a lot of praise to give about our friends coming to church lately.
Mary comes every Sunday morning to our house and tells us to call her before we go down. Abuba’s kids have long gone with us. Laudina finally is coming with her kids. Davitica comes now and then. Pattie goes to get Pasca, the witchdoctor and the rainmaker before every service.
And this week, little Monica came with us. We walked by the house and her mom told us she’d get her ready to go with us. That whole relationship is amazing, because at first Ebiong wanted nothing to do with us. But now she’s one of our best friends and doesn’t miss an opportunity to greet us as she goes by or sit and have fun with us. She’s the one who leaves Baby Kim when she goes to the river. The one who laid out after our fugitive chicken and came up with only feathers—and a huge grin.
Anyway, she stripped Monica right there and gave her a bath. Probably the first time I’ve seen Monica truly clean, if it was only for a second. (She cried the whole time, as if afraid and unaccustomed to the water. We lovingly call her Stinky.) Anyway, she came and clung to either Kim or I the entire time, not quite certain of her surroundings and refusing to go to Sunday school, opting instead for the comfort of Kim’s lap.
The funniest/worst moment was when Martin was doing a play. Kim was in it, so she left Monica alone in her chair. She was happy as could be—maybe a bit anxious—until Martin closed the doors of the church. She absolutely freaked out and started screaming bloody murder. Poor Jen picked her up, only to heighten the screams. What a nice feeling it was to come to her comfort and have her wrap her little arms around me so tightly. Poor thing!
Anyway, praise God for all of our friends he’s bringing to church. And let’s pray that Ebiong and Abuba, like Laudina, start following their children to church.
Mary comes every Sunday morning to our house and tells us to call her before we go down. Abuba’s kids have long gone with us. Laudina finally is coming with her kids. Davitica comes now and then. Pattie goes to get Pasca, the witchdoctor and the rainmaker before every service.
And this week, little Monica came with us. We walked by the house and her mom told us she’d get her ready to go with us. That whole relationship is amazing, because at first Ebiong wanted nothing to do with us. But now she’s one of our best friends and doesn’t miss an opportunity to greet us as she goes by or sit and have fun with us. She’s the one who leaves Baby Kim when she goes to the river. The one who laid out after our fugitive chicken and came up with only feathers—and a huge grin.
Anyway, she stripped Monica right there and gave her a bath. Probably the first time I’ve seen Monica truly clean, if it was only for a second. (She cried the whole time, as if afraid and unaccustomed to the water. We lovingly call her Stinky.) Anyway, she came and clung to either Kim or I the entire time, not quite certain of her surroundings and refusing to go to Sunday school, opting instead for the comfort of Kim’s lap.
The funniest/worst moment was when Martin was doing a play. Kim was in it, so she left Monica alone in her chair. She was happy as could be—maybe a bit anxious—until Martin closed the doors of the church. She absolutely freaked out and started screaming bloody murder. Poor Jen picked her up, only to heighten the screams. What a nice feeling it was to come to her comfort and have her wrap her little arms around me so tightly. Poor thing!
Anyway, praise God for all of our friends he’s bringing to church. And let’s pray that Ebiong and Abuba, like Laudina, start following their children to church.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
The Gospel of John…
Gracious, it’s been a long time since I’ve written. I apologize—the rain clouds are keeping the sun away, and I’ve been trying to use my allotment of solar power for this video I’m making for our TIMO team. I hope you’ll forgive me.
What’s been going on? Cath and I have been working on the nursery school a lot. And we’ve had a lot of help from this Lopit Bible student, John. He’s been so wonderful to us, and such an encouragement to me. He preached at church the other day—brought the Gospel full-force—and twelve men said they wanted to become (real) Christians. Pretty sweet! Then he came up to my house and we chatted for a while. It was wonderful to hear his heart for the spread of the Gospel—not just lipservice, but a real desire to see these mountains reached for Christ. He talked too about wanting to do discipleship and build up the people who become Christians. I’d say he’s basically every missionary’s dream, right? It’s too bad he’s not here year-round; he goes to school about 90km from here with another AIM missionary. But nonetheless I was encouraged, because you could tell this guy was really Spirit-filled and had taken ownership of the vision of evangelism and discipleship. It shows me, if nothing else, it’s possible here; that it can happen. I know, God can do anything. But it’s nice to be reminded in such a obvious way.
Anyway, the nursery school building is looking great. We’re nearly done painting! I’ll send pictures when I can!
What’s been going on? Cath and I have been working on the nursery school a lot. And we’ve had a lot of help from this Lopit Bible student, John. He’s been so wonderful to us, and such an encouragement to me. He preached at church the other day—brought the Gospel full-force—and twelve men said they wanted to become (real) Christians. Pretty sweet! Then he came up to my house and we chatted for a while. It was wonderful to hear his heart for the spread of the Gospel—not just lipservice, but a real desire to see these mountains reached for Christ. He talked too about wanting to do discipleship and build up the people who become Christians. I’d say he’s basically every missionary’s dream, right? It’s too bad he’s not here year-round; he goes to school about 90km from here with another AIM missionary. But nonetheless I was encouraged, because you could tell this guy was really Spirit-filled and had taken ownership of the vision of evangelism and discipleship. It shows me, if nothing else, it’s possible here; that it can happen. I know, God can do anything. But it’s nice to be reminded in such a obvious way.
Anyway, the nursery school building is looking great. We’re nearly done painting! I’ll send pictures when I can!
Morning Mourning…
This morning’s calm was interrupted by a group of women wailing. My heart immediately sunk to hear the sound.
My entire body seizes up to that sound, and we all rush to the fence to ask our neighbors what has happened. We had a child die two houses up from us earlier in the week and other children have also died recently, so we know the sound of mourning well. I cringed to think that we’d lost another little one.
I was relieved to find it was just relatives who’d come late from Torit to express their grieve and give condolences, but I’m afraid of when we’ll hear the next wails.
This week has been a bit like that—uneasy. Our good friend Mary’s daughter, Night, was really sick, and we were afraid we were going to lose her. Mary even came to church Sunday and asked the congregation to pray. She is the one who lost a boy to malaria this time last year, so you can imagine our fear—only a shadow of hers. It was sad to see Night’s normally smiling face so troubled as she slept and her body so listless.
I’m not sure news of this year’s huge meningitis outbreak has surfaced in the States, but I read about AIMAIR pilots bringing medicine to villages and administering vaccinations right there on the airstrip, they were so desperate. I’m always afraid of finding a case here—it’s yet to reach us.
Anyway, we sat with them a lot and prayed, and pumped her full of rehydration salts, and she seems to be going better now, praise God. But please just pray for the community here, as 9 out of 10 tests at the clinic are positive for malaria—and that’s only the people who actually go there—and there is something else going around.
My entire body seizes up to that sound, and we all rush to the fence to ask our neighbors what has happened. We had a child die two houses up from us earlier in the week and other children have also died recently, so we know the sound of mourning well. I cringed to think that we’d lost another little one.
I was relieved to find it was just relatives who’d come late from Torit to express their grieve and give condolences, but I’m afraid of when we’ll hear the next wails.
This week has been a bit like that—uneasy. Our good friend Mary’s daughter, Night, was really sick, and we were afraid we were going to lose her. Mary even came to church Sunday and asked the congregation to pray. She is the one who lost a boy to malaria this time last year, so you can imagine our fear—only a shadow of hers. It was sad to see Night’s normally smiling face so troubled as she slept and her body so listless.
I’m not sure news of this year’s huge meningitis outbreak has surfaced in the States, but I read about AIMAIR pilots bringing medicine to villages and administering vaccinations right there on the airstrip, they were so desperate. I’m always afraid of finding a case here—it’s yet to reach us.
Anyway, we sat with them a lot and prayed, and pumped her full of rehydration salts, and she seems to be going better now, praise God. But please just pray for the community here, as 9 out of 10 tests at the clinic are positive for malaria—and that’s only the people who actually go there—and there is something else going around.
Regrets…
The other day on the path, I came across our friend David, carrying his son his back.
I asked what was wrong, and he explained to me that the boy (maybe 8 or 9?) was very sick. And it was clear he was—his stomach was swollen and he looked terrible. I asked where he was taking him, and he said to get medicine. He was going in the opposite direction of the clinic, however, and I knew full-well he was going to the witchdoctor a village over. He said she was going to cut his stomach. I tried to convince him to take him to the clinic, but he said there were no people there. Which is true, because the clinic workers had some sort of disagreement and are on strike. I urged him to call Michael, the nurse. He said he couldn’t get him. I eventually gave up.
That’s the boy who died. David took him to this witchdoctor, then to a witchdoctor about 14K’s away. I sort of wish I’d wrestled the boy away from him and carried him on my own back to someone—anyone—who could help him. It’s moments like this I hate not being a doctor, not having a clue how to help the kid.
The locals say the boy went to the river and killed a snake. The snake, in turn, got into his stomach and cursed him, which is why he died.
Ugh.
I asked what was wrong, and he explained to me that the boy (maybe 8 or 9?) was very sick. And it was clear he was—his stomach was swollen and he looked terrible. I asked where he was taking him, and he said to get medicine. He was going in the opposite direction of the clinic, however, and I knew full-well he was going to the witchdoctor a village over. He said she was going to cut his stomach. I tried to convince him to take him to the clinic, but he said there were no people there. Which is true, because the clinic workers had some sort of disagreement and are on strike. I urged him to call Michael, the nurse. He said he couldn’t get him. I eventually gave up.
That’s the boy who died. David took him to this witchdoctor, then to a witchdoctor about 14K’s away. I sort of wish I’d wrestled the boy away from him and carried him on my own back to someone—anyone—who could help him. It’s moments like this I hate not being a doctor, not having a clue how to help the kid.
The locals say the boy went to the river and killed a snake. The snake, in turn, got into his stomach and cursed him, which is why he died.
Ugh.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Earnestness.
I’ve mentioned before that I like to indulge in a classic novel every now and then out here, that it helps keep me sane and my mind active on things a little less dense than theology and Lopit language. My mind has been pleasantly stuck on this passage from David Copperfield since I read it a few days ago.
“My meaning simply is, that whatever I have tried to do in life, I have tried with all my heart to do well; that whatever I have devoted myself to, I have devoted myself to completely; that in great aims and in small, I have always been thoroughly in earnest. I have never believed it possible that any natural or improved ability can claim immunity from the companionship of the steady, plain, hard-working qualities, and hope to gain its end. There is no such thing as such fulfillment on this earth. Some happy talent, and some fortunate opportunity, may form the two sides of the ladder on which some men mount, but the rounds of that ladder must be made of stuff to stand wear and tear; and there is no substitute for thorough-going, ardent and sincere earnestness. Never to put one hand to anything, on which I could throw my whole self; and never to affect depreciation of my work, whatever it was; I find, now, to have been my golden rules.” –Charles Dickens, David Copperfield
I’ve read it again and again, and I’ve wedged it in my mind as another buttress for my new resolve to really tackle my language learning. Today I sat down with words swimming in my head, ready to just lay off for a day, but this passage—in plain English!—came floating back to my head. “Never put one hand to anything on which you can throw your whole self. … Whatever you try to do, try with all your heart to do it well… If you’re going to devote yourself to something, devote yourself completely.”
I am devoted to these people out here, so I’d better take on with all earnestness my charge of learning the language.
“My meaning simply is, that whatever I have tried to do in life, I have tried with all my heart to do well; that whatever I have devoted myself to, I have devoted myself to completely; that in great aims and in small, I have always been thoroughly in earnest. I have never believed it possible that any natural or improved ability can claim immunity from the companionship of the steady, plain, hard-working qualities, and hope to gain its end. There is no such thing as such fulfillment on this earth. Some happy talent, and some fortunate opportunity, may form the two sides of the ladder on which some men mount, but the rounds of that ladder must be made of stuff to stand wear and tear; and there is no substitute for thorough-going, ardent and sincere earnestness. Never to put one hand to anything, on which I could throw my whole self; and never to affect depreciation of my work, whatever it was; I find, now, to have been my golden rules.” –Charles Dickens, David Copperfield
I’ve read it again and again, and I’ve wedged it in my mind as another buttress for my new resolve to really tackle my language learning. Today I sat down with words swimming in my head, ready to just lay off for a day, but this passage—in plain English!—came floating back to my head. “Never put one hand to anything on which you can throw your whole self. … Whatever you try to do, try with all your heart to do it well… If you’re going to devote yourself to something, devote yourself completely.”
I am devoted to these people out here, so I’d better take on with all earnestness my charge of learning the language.
Presents of mine.
Francis comes for the children’s Bible every morning, but this week has been different. When he has met me at the front door to get it from me—usually after waiting at my window for me to wake up—he’s handed me some small present in exchange.
Two days ago, he gave me some sort of small fruit. “People eat it,” he assured me.
Then today it was… well, I really don’t know what it was. Some ballish nut or fruit or something.
The best, however, was the inaugural present. It was some sort of small clay creature, which Pattie, Kim and I sat over for a long time, wondering what it could be. We’re used to seeing cows and goats and even cars before, but never something like this. After a lot of Lopit gibberish and gesturing from the kids, we came to the conclusion that it was—drum roll please—a tick.
A clay tick.
I’m sure hoping this is some Lopit gesture of deep friendship I’m yet to completely comprehend.
Two days ago, he gave me some sort of small fruit. “People eat it,” he assured me.
Then today it was… well, I really don’t know what it was. Some ballish nut or fruit or something.
The best, however, was the inaugural present. It was some sort of small clay creature, which Pattie, Kim and I sat over for a long time, wondering what it could be. We’re used to seeing cows and goats and even cars before, but never something like this. After a lot of Lopit gibberish and gesturing from the kids, we came to the conclusion that it was—drum roll please—a tick.
A clay tick.
I’m sure hoping this is some Lopit gesture of deep friendship I’m yet to completely comprehend.
Language.
I’ve learned 134 words in the last two weeks—A to E in Kimmie’s Lopit “dictionary.”
THANK YOU for your prayers!
THANK YOU for your prayers!
Monday, September 03, 2007
Firsts, lasts… Can we last?
After a year of firsts, we’re already come to our year of lasts. Crazy, isn’t it?
Time is going much too fast, and I wonder how another year can possibly be enough. Not even a year! Gracious!
Oh, Lord, give us the strength and endurance to run this race well!
Time is going much too fast, and I wonder how another year can possibly be enough. Not even a year! Gracious!
Oh, Lord, give us the strength and endurance to run this race well!
The Future…
I sat with Abuba on the rocks outside my house the other day, talking for a long time. She was trying to convince me of the necessity of my future husband paying my father in cows and goats. She couldn’t believe that a man could get away without having to pay anything in livestock for me. (Were my father allowed to answer to this point, he would surely say the poor unfortunate man who marries me will certainly be paying… for life. I’ve said it now, to slight him the satisfaction. :) )
Further, she wouldn’t stand for this nonsense about me wanting to have a maximum of three children. I nearly told her about the American average of 1.5, but didn’t think I had the Lopit words in me to explain a half of a child. Again, no culture-conscious mission agency has alerted the Lopit people to the “different isn’t necessarily bad” mindset, so in this case, it was definitely bad that I didn’t want the Lopit dream--10 children. Eventually, I gave up.
She said I should come back here with my husband and 10 children, and that then our children could be friends. Talk about ripping my undecided-about-my-future-plans heart out. Ugh.
Further, she wouldn’t stand for this nonsense about me wanting to have a maximum of three children. I nearly told her about the American average of 1.5, but didn’t think I had the Lopit words in me to explain a half of a child. Again, no culture-conscious mission agency has alerted the Lopit people to the “different isn’t necessarily bad” mindset, so in this case, it was definitely bad that I didn’t want the Lopit dream--10 children. Eventually, I gave up.
She said I should come back here with my husband and 10 children, and that then our children could be friends. Talk about ripping my undecided-about-my-future-plans heart out. Ugh.
Bicycle Built for Two…
Somehow, someway, the church came to own a two-seater bicycle in the last week. From what I gather, they got it from a storage container in the Western Bank. Some well-intending soul must have sent the thing years ago, because it’s nearly an antique.
It’s a canary yellow, Schwinn Twinn, in the classic beach-cruiser style with rounded handlebars and huge cushions for seats. And… it’s absolutely amazing.
Kimmie and I took it for a spin yesterday, to our delight and the equal delight of any Lopit bystanders. Kim nearly peed her pants in fright as we cruised down a nearly mile-long, slowly declining track—bumping and weaving our way through huge holes and banks. She was scream-laughing her head off and yelling at me to BRAKE! BRAKE! BRAKE! as we kept gaining speed. No brakes. Hehe! She took to simply beating me on the back in fear and closing her eyes. (It is probably good to point out here that she was on the back of the bicycle.)
Anyway, no one died, but everyone laughed. It was a really, really good day. The things you find yourself doing in this tucked-away little mountain village never cease to amaze me!
It’s a canary yellow, Schwinn Twinn, in the classic beach-cruiser style with rounded handlebars and huge cushions for seats. And… it’s absolutely amazing.
Kimmie and I took it for a spin yesterday, to our delight and the equal delight of any Lopit bystanders. Kim nearly peed her pants in fright as we cruised down a nearly mile-long, slowly declining track—bumping and weaving our way through huge holes and banks. She was scream-laughing her head off and yelling at me to BRAKE! BRAKE! BRAKE! as we kept gaining speed. No brakes. Hehe! She took to simply beating me on the back in fear and closing her eyes. (It is probably good to point out here that she was on the back of the bicycle.)
Anyway, no one died, but everyone laughed. It was a really, really good day. The things you find yourself doing in this tucked-away little mountain village never cease to amaze me!
Takhomasak . . .
I’m standing at my gas cooker the other day, making some lunch, with an audience of Lopit children at the backdoor, as always.
One of them, Oholong, who I don’t know to speak any English, does a little dance to get my attention, looks me straight in the eye with a devilish grin and says…
“Ibeja, Ibeja!” motioning with his hands at the door. “Take-out win-DOH.”
I was crippled with laughter. Where he got that from, I have no idea. They don’t even have take-out windows in Sudan or Kenya or Uganda, from what I know! I suspect one of my teammates…
One of them, Oholong, who I don’t know to speak any English, does a little dance to get my attention, looks me straight in the eye with a devilish grin and says…
“Ibeja, Ibeja!” motioning with his hands at the door. “Take-out win-DOH.”
I was crippled with laughter. Where he got that from, I have no idea. They don’t even have take-out windows in Sudan or Kenya or Uganda, from what I know! I suspect one of my teammates…
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Preschool update…
I’d hit a bit of a wall in the preschool area.
Daniel was in and out so much last unit—with bringing in the families or doing other errands—that he didn’t help me much with the building aspect of things. And on the curriculum side, I got completely overwhelmed, wondering how in the world I’m going to use what I have here (read: nothing) and plant a nursery school that the Lopit can take ownership of and continue.
But while we were in Kenya, Cath talked with me about coming alongside me on it. She broaden my narrow vision of just a school building to include a place for Sunday school as well, or a place we could do other kid (or even adult) functions. Duh, Andi.
So, I’m excited again, and I’m feeling like it is more manageable now, certainly since Cath has committed to working with me two days a week on the building part of things, and I’m sure she’ll kick ideas around with me about curriculum and things.
Also, something to pray for. One of her friends might come in December. She’s an artist, and we’d love to have her paint on the walls and things. And, even better, Cath wants to ask her other friend to consider coming. She worked with Cath at a school in South Africa and basically started the preschool program there, in a place with similar situations to this one, from what I understand. So, that would be a HUGE help to me and, ultimately, to the kids here. So, please pray that God would make a way for these ladies to come serve here with us, if even just for a short time!
Daniel was in and out so much last unit—with bringing in the families or doing other errands—that he didn’t help me much with the building aspect of things. And on the curriculum side, I got completely overwhelmed, wondering how in the world I’m going to use what I have here (read: nothing) and plant a nursery school that the Lopit can take ownership of and continue.
But while we were in Kenya, Cath talked with me about coming alongside me on it. She broaden my narrow vision of just a school building to include a place for Sunday school as well, or a place we could do other kid (or even adult) functions. Duh, Andi.
So, I’m excited again, and I’m feeling like it is more manageable now, certainly since Cath has committed to working with me two days a week on the building part of things, and I’m sure she’ll kick ideas around with me about curriculum and things.
Also, something to pray for. One of her friends might come in December. She’s an artist, and we’d love to have her paint on the walls and things. And, even better, Cath wants to ask her other friend to consider coming. She worked with Cath at a school in South Africa and basically started the preschool program there, in a place with similar situations to this one, from what I understand. So, that would be a HUGE help to me and, ultimately, to the kids here. So, please pray that God would make a way for these ladies to come serve here with us, if even just for a short time!
The rat strikes again…
While we were gone, the rat ate my Camelbak—the waterpack I use when riding my bike to different villages.
I was pretty sad, but not altogether devastated, as my little brother just sent with my dad a new day-pack one. I think it’s army issue—the booklet tells me how it can hook straight up to my gasmask. I hope I never use this feature! Oh, and it’s camouflage, which naturally means its invisible, so the Lopit people won’t be asking me if I’m sick anymore. Excellent.
On that same note, Jen says camo is a good color on me, which I take to mean she likes it when I’m invisible. Jerk.
I was pretty sad, but not altogether devastated, as my little brother just sent with my dad a new day-pack one. I think it’s army issue—the booklet tells me how it can hook straight up to my gasmask. I hope I never use this feature! Oh, and it’s camouflage, which naturally means its invisible, so the Lopit people won’t be asking me if I’m sick anymore. Excellent.
On that same note, Jen says camo is a good color on me, which I take to mean she likes it when I’m invisible. Jerk.
Language is a pain in the rear…
Subtleties in language can be everything.
Take, for example, that there is a sort of soft ‘t’ in our language, as well as a harder ‘t.’ An untrained ear probably won’t hear the difference.
Which is why we’ve been mistakenly calling children, anuses for more than a year now. “Hito,” with the soft, lispy ‘t’—child. “Hitto,” with the hard ‘t’—anus.
Imagine. “Hitto, come here.” “Mama, how is your hitto?” “You have a beautiful hitto.” Ugh.
Take, for example, that there is a sort of soft ‘t’ in our language, as well as a harder ‘t.’ An untrained ear probably won’t hear the difference.
Which is why we’ve been mistakenly calling children, anuses for more than a year now. “Hito,” with the soft, lispy ‘t’—child. “Hitto,” with the hard ‘t’—anus.
Imagine. “Hitto, come here.” “Mama, how is your hitto?” “You have a beautiful hitto.” Ugh.
The things which are wrong…
Most of the men in Lopit have these whistle things and their own signature call. When they are coming and going, they blow it, so everyone knows what they’re up to. They’ll also use the whistle to announce themselves at a gathering, and everyone will respond by saying the person’s name.
One day, Craig shows up at a party and blows his whistle, to which most of the men cry out “Obeja!” (his Lopit name) or “Cor-EG!” (the way the Lopit say his given name).
But one guy yells, “Correction!”
Craig whistles again. The guy says, “The things which are wrong!”
Craig whistles again. The guy yells, “The things which need to be changed!”
Craig looks at the guy quizzically, and asks him what in the world he’s talking about.
The guy explains that “Coreg” is short for “correction,” the things which are wrong and need to be changed. Ooooooooooh.
Definitely one of my favorite Lopitland stories.
One day, Craig shows up at a party and blows his whistle, to which most of the men cry out “Obeja!” (his Lopit name) or “Cor-EG!” (the way the Lopit say his given name).
But one guy yells, “Correction!”
Craig whistles again. The guy says, “The things which are wrong!”
Craig whistles again. The guy yells, “The things which need to be changed!”
Craig looks at the guy quizzically, and asks him what in the world he’s talking about.
The guy explains that “Coreg” is short for “correction,” the things which are wrong and need to be changed. Ooooooooooh.
Definitely one of my favorite Lopitland stories.
Missing pieces…
They say distance makes the heart grow fonder.
Well, we girls are all already pretty fond of Daniel, but judging by Kim and my quivering chins and sinking stomachs as we pulled away from him at DIGUNA, distance—if only a few feet—can accentuate even the best of friendships.
Dan’s staying back in Nairobi for a while, on account of being sick. He had to make the call the night before we left, so it was even sadder, since we didn’t have time to prepare for it.
On a team like this—living where we live, going through what we’ve gone through—having someone missing is like missing an arm or a leg or your nose or something. (Granted, Steve & Co. were gone for three weeks and no one’s heart was aching, but I guess there’s a difference between team-to-team and team-to-leader.)
It just wasn’t the same, traveling without Daniel. He’s us girls’ self-proclaimed protector and source of inexhaustible energy. Not to mention the team’s truck-loading perfectionist—his absence was sorely felt when they nearly loaded half a ton on top of my bike’s gears, or when eggs cracked all over our travel bags, or when one of my boxes, with clothes and precious things my dad brought me, was soaked in diesel that leaked out of the drums. I realized on this vacation that even when I absolutely cannot stand Daniel, I still trust him, so it’s weird to be without him.
Anyway, we’re anxious for him to come back, and it’s only been a few days. Pray that they’d figure out the root of the problem, and that he’d be able to join us again as soon as possible.
Well, we girls are all already pretty fond of Daniel, but judging by Kim and my quivering chins and sinking stomachs as we pulled away from him at DIGUNA, distance—if only a few feet—can accentuate even the best of friendships.
Dan’s staying back in Nairobi for a while, on account of being sick. He had to make the call the night before we left, so it was even sadder, since we didn’t have time to prepare for it.
On a team like this—living where we live, going through what we’ve gone through—having someone missing is like missing an arm or a leg or your nose or something. (Granted, Steve & Co. were gone for three weeks and no one’s heart was aching, but I guess there’s a difference between team-to-team and team-to-leader.)
It just wasn’t the same, traveling without Daniel. He’s us girls’ self-proclaimed protector and source of inexhaustible energy. Not to mention the team’s truck-loading perfectionist—his absence was sorely felt when they nearly loaded half a ton on top of my bike’s gears, or when eggs cracked all over our travel bags, or when one of my boxes, with clothes and precious things my dad brought me, was soaked in diesel that leaked out of the drums. I realized on this vacation that even when I absolutely cannot stand Daniel, I still trust him, so it’s weird to be without him.
Anyway, we’re anxious for him to come back, and it’s only been a few days. Pray that they’d figure out the root of the problem, and that he’d be able to join us again as soon as possible.
Coming Home…
The whole ride home, I was trying to prepare myself for Francis dying. I figured that was the worst-case scenario, and not entirely unrealistic.
I’m happy to report that, so far as I know, none of our friends’ kids died while we were away this time. What a relief. What a joy. I think the worst thing that happened was little Jessica fell out of a tree and now has a bit of a kink in her arm. (Oh, and one of the Pastor’s wives—not a Christian—crunched up glass in the Bible students’ food in a fit of rage. But that’s a whole other story…)
We were dreading cleaning our house when we got home—recall the pictures from last time, with the kids with brooms and clouds of dust—but when we got here, we found it spick and span, compliments of our neighbor Laudina. It really was amazing. This time, we decided it was good to leave our house in the hands of one of our neighbors. I think it did a lot in the area of trust.
I nearly cried when I saw Abuba and all her children (very much alive!). Abuba and I must have shook hands for ages, and she kept saying, “Iruhu! My friend, my friend!” Iruhu (or something like that) is sort of her special name for me. Our other friends use it sometimes, but she always greets me “Iruhu!” It means a person who is always busy. I’d take it as my second name (one Lopit person can have a whole list of names), but I can’t roll my R’s, so I can’t pronounce it. I can’t pronounce my own name. I’m such a tool.
Anyway, a few of the women even gave us awkward hugs, which isn’t at all part of their culture—that made it extra special. I’m so happy to be home.
I’m happy to report that, so far as I know, none of our friends’ kids died while we were away this time. What a relief. What a joy. I think the worst thing that happened was little Jessica fell out of a tree and now has a bit of a kink in her arm. (Oh, and one of the Pastor’s wives—not a Christian—crunched up glass in the Bible students’ food in a fit of rage. But that’s a whole other story…)
We were dreading cleaning our house when we got home—recall the pictures from last time, with the kids with brooms and clouds of dust—but when we got here, we found it spick and span, compliments of our neighbor Laudina. It really was amazing. This time, we decided it was good to leave our house in the hands of one of our neighbors. I think it did a lot in the area of trust.
I nearly cried when I saw Abuba and all her children (very much alive!). Abuba and I must have shook hands for ages, and she kept saying, “Iruhu! My friend, my friend!” Iruhu (or something like that) is sort of her special name for me. Our other friends use it sometimes, but she always greets me “Iruhu!” It means a person who is always busy. I’d take it as my second name (one Lopit person can have a whole list of names), but I can’t roll my R’s, so I can’t pronounce it. I can’t pronounce my own name. I’m such a tool.
Anyway, a few of the women even gave us awkward hugs, which isn’t at all part of their culture—that made it extra special. I’m so happy to be home.
Patent Pending…
(If you get squeamish about feminine products, this post probably isn’t for you. ;) )
We’ve been traveling in the back of the UNIMOG or bumping around in the Cruiser for more than a year now, which has given us plenty of time to think about ways to prevent clanging our heads together or against the sides of the automobile.
What we have here are the fruits of these many long car rides of meditation—Paddie Helmets. Many ideas have come and gone—including a rather solid one for a super-sized toe separator like you use for a pedicure, to thread between our necks—but this is the one that Kim and I finally moved on, in a moment of desperation, at a Nakumatt in Eldoret.
Paddie Helmets. Paddie, which rings of “Pattie,” our housemate and driver. Or Paddie, to suggest that wonderful product which makes up the larger part of said invention. Yes, maxi-pads.
Imagine the confusion of the supermarket staff when Kim and I burst in, in a giggle of a rush, and began taking up the packages of maxis and squeezing them against our heads or wedging them between our foreheads and the shelves, trying to find our best option. Or when we found, in a moment of glory, “tie pants”—which appear to be decorated slips of plastic folks tie around a baby’s cloth-swathed bottom—and tied them over our heads like shower caps. (Only KSH49!!!)
I can’t even begin to imagine what they were thinking, but we had a goal in mind, and it was these helmets. And later that night, Kim’s yearlong dream was realized. Jen even hit us over the heads with a book—quite hard, actually—so we could demonstrate how we didn’t notice one bit.
And as we bounced along through the desert, you can bet that Kim and I would have been quite smug, were we not conked out with our heads banging painlessly off the windows.
The finest moment in the Paddie Helmet’s short history? While we were still in Kenya, we pulled up to a police check. I was only half awake, but I’ve heard the story enough times to know it well. An officer greeted Pattie, then looked back at Kim and me and exclaimed, “What is THAT?” As we pulled away, he was showing his fellow officers a picture of us he’d taken on his phone.
Paddie Helmets. Patent pending. 
We’ve been traveling in the back of the UNIMOG or bumping around in the Cruiser for more than a year now, which has given us plenty of time to think about ways to prevent clanging our heads together or against the sides of the automobile.
What we have here are the fruits of these many long car rides of meditation—Paddie Helmets. Many ideas have come and gone—including a rather solid one for a super-sized toe separator like you use for a pedicure, to thread between our necks—but this is the one that Kim and I finally moved on, in a moment of desperation, at a Nakumatt in Eldoret.
Paddie Helmets. Paddie, which rings of “Pattie,” our housemate and driver. Or Paddie, to suggest that wonderful product which makes up the larger part of said invention. Yes, maxi-pads.
Imagine the confusion of the supermarket staff when Kim and I burst in, in a giggle of a rush, and began taking up the packages of maxis and squeezing them against our heads or wedging them between our foreheads and the shelves, trying to find our best option. Or when we found, in a moment of glory, “tie pants”—which appear to be decorated slips of plastic folks tie around a baby’s cloth-swathed bottom—and tied them over our heads like shower caps. (Only KSH49!!!)
I can’t even begin to imagine what they were thinking, but we had a goal in mind, and it was these helmets. And later that night, Kim’s yearlong dream was realized. Jen even hit us over the heads with a book—quite hard, actually—so we could demonstrate how we didn’t notice one bit.
And as we bounced along through the desert, you can bet that Kim and I would have been quite smug, were we not conked out with our heads banging painlessly off the windows.
The finest moment in the Paddie Helmet’s short history? While we were still in Kenya, we pulled up to a police check. I was only half awake, but I’ve heard the story enough times to know it well. An officer greeted Pattie, then looked back at Kim and me and exclaimed, “What is THAT?” As we pulled away, he was showing his fellow officers a picture of us he’d taken on his phone.
Paddie Helmets. Patent pending.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
On the road again...
Crazy Landcruiser pictures always mean we’re traveling. Where are we exactly? If I told you, I’d be forced to kill you.
Would you believe we found Pringles (or a generic equivalent) in Nairobi? Talk about wonderful. I’m pretty sure Kim invented this “looks like a beak” move. At least… she thinks she did. (And would probably prefer if you didn’t tell her anything to the contrary.) We look so good.
Camel crossing sign. Jen’s been wanting this picture for a year now. Also pictured—our Cruiser. Said evil machine only died eight times on our first day of travel. Woohoo. :)
Would you believe we found Pringles (or a generic equivalent) in Nairobi? Talk about wonderful. I’m pretty sure Kim invented this “looks like a beak” move. At least… she thinks she did. (And would probably prefer if you didn’t tell her anything to the contrary.) We look so good.
Camel crossing sign. Jen’s been wanting this picture for a year now. Also pictured—our Cruiser. Said evil machine only died eight times on our first day of travel. Woohoo. :)
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Rain, rain... go away...
Rain delay. How absolutely cruel.
The Cubs will find a way to break your heart, even if it takes nature intervening.
A lazy rain delay wouldn’t normally be so traumatic, ‘cept that every minute they delay is another minute of sleep that I lose. Whimper. How cruel. They’re even talking about calling it. I think you’re witnessing a complete flip-flop of emotions. Sigh.
Anyway, my daddy promised to message me if they go back on the field. Until then, it’s back to sleep.
Either way, I got to watch some baseball—even if it was only a few innings and certainly no web gem moments.
Go Cubs, go! :)
The Cubs will find a way to break your heart, even if it takes nature intervening.
A lazy rain delay wouldn’t normally be so traumatic, ‘cept that every minute they delay is another minute of sleep that I lose. Whimper. How cruel. They’re even talking about calling it. I think you’re witnessing a complete flip-flop of emotions. Sigh.
Anyway, my daddy promised to message me if they go back on the field. Until then, it’s back to sleep.
Either way, I got to watch some baseball—even if it was only a few innings and certainly no web gem moments.
Go Cubs, go! :)
Take me out to the ballgame...
It’s 3 a.m. in Africa. I’m probably the only one awake here at Mayfield Guesthouse, but I can guarantee you I’m the happiest woman here. Or in all of Africa. Or… just a live. Yeah, that sounds about right—the happiest woman alive.
I woke up to watch the Cubs/Cards game on ESPN. I haven’t seen a baseball game in more than 14 months. Chicago Cubs. St. Louis Cardinals. Wrigley Field. A night game in late August. The wildly emotional Carlos Zambrano vs. Cardinals’ stupid-head Kip Wells. Oh, America!
All day, I invited people to join me. Problem was, most of them were Australians or people like Kimmie, whose main concern in the matter was that I would still be ready to go do some last-minute supply shopping with her at 9.
So, yeah, I’m here alone. Which isn’t quite the same as watching the game at Murphy’s with Lauren or over steaks at Kirk’s or with my equally fanatic friends or even in the newsroom, for that matter. And then I messaged Daniel, who I know to be on a night bus back from Lamu with Jen. His lackluster reply: “I’m glad for you. I’m very tired.” He grew up behind the Iron Curtain in Germany and hadn’t touched a baseball until I met him, so I guess he’s forgiven. I guess.
Go Cubs, go!
Little prayer request...
Oh, and a small prayer request. I've had some stomach thing for about three weeks.
The tropical medicine doc says it's bacteria or something and gave me antibiotics. But I'm on day three of five days of meds and it only seems to be getting worse.
Soooo, pray that I can get this figured out before we leave back for home. I've been sick while traveling before and it was absolutely miserable!
The tropical medicine doc says it's bacteria or something and gave me antibiotics. But I'm on day three of five days of meds and it only seems to be getting worse.
Soooo, pray that I can get this figured out before we leave back for home. I've been sick while traveling before and it was absolutely miserable!
The Mayfield...
So I'm an introvert.
Yes, yes, some people have a hard time believing this, but it's true: In my heart of hearts, I defintely get my energy from spending time alone. Now, consider that I live in Africa and serve on a team of 24-26 people. Now, imagine that I haven't had more than a six-hour span of time of being absolutely alone for the last 14 months or so. It's a wonder--to me--that I've survived.
So I came to Mayfield--AIM's guesthouse in Nairobi--to be alone and relax. Bad idea. A good idea would just be to finally realize there is no possible way to be absolutely alone in Africa, serving in Missions, haha. Anyway, Mayfield is a great place. It's full of missionaries and you eat all your meals family-style, so you spend nearly every meal answering the same questions from different people--Where are you from? Where do you work? And, wow, what do you think of working THERE?! It's actually nice to get to know new people and hear about what God is doing and make connections, but--like I said--I'm an introvert gasping for breath, so it's a bit of a challenge. :)
It can be sort of funny, though. Sometimes, especially with young missionaries or people going through culture shock, there starts a competition--real or imagined, conscious or unconscious--to discover whose situation is actually worse. Haha. It makes me laugh, to sit back and listen. Yes, missionaries are people, too. Pride can sneak in the weirdest places. I'm certainly not immune!
Now, talking with our friends J and E from the Horn team is a completely different animal. We're both on TIMO teams in very different but *perhaps* similarly challenging places. They love the Horn. We love Sudan. So normally it turns into more of a "Wow, YOUve got it so bad!" conversation--quite antithetical of the aforementioned race to the bottom. Since they can make no answer to my blog, I will simply say it now and you'll have to take my word for it: They have it much worse! :)
Anyway, despite my introvertedness, it's been good to talk to folks here at Mayfield. We've come across folks from different TIMO teams at varying stages of the two-year term (which has been really good for our perspective), a couple who plans to lead another team in the So Sud who we've heard about a lot but never met, and a whole bunch of folks from all over. I even traded blogs with a missionary/photojournalist. (Hi Adel!)
Only a few more days until we get to go home!!!
Yes, yes, some people have a hard time believing this, but it's true: In my heart of hearts, I defintely get my energy from spending time alone. Now, consider that I live in Africa and serve on a team of 24-26 people. Now, imagine that I haven't had more than a six-hour span of time of being absolutely alone for the last 14 months or so. It's a wonder--to me--that I've survived.
So I came to Mayfield--AIM's guesthouse in Nairobi--to be alone and relax. Bad idea. A good idea would just be to finally realize there is no possible way to be absolutely alone in Africa, serving in Missions, haha. Anyway, Mayfield is a great place. It's full of missionaries and you eat all your meals family-style, so you spend nearly every meal answering the same questions from different people--Where are you from? Where do you work? And, wow, what do you think of working THERE?! It's actually nice to get to know new people and hear about what God is doing and make connections, but--like I said--I'm an introvert gasping for breath, so it's a bit of a challenge. :)
It can be sort of funny, though. Sometimes, especially with young missionaries or people going through culture shock, there starts a competition--real or imagined, conscious or unconscious--to discover whose situation is actually worse. Haha. It makes me laugh, to sit back and listen. Yes, missionaries are people, too. Pride can sneak in the weirdest places. I'm certainly not immune!
Now, talking with our friends J and E from the Horn team is a completely different animal. We're both on TIMO teams in very different but *perhaps* similarly challenging places. They love the Horn. We love Sudan. So normally it turns into more of a "Wow, YOUve got it so bad!" conversation--quite antithetical of the aforementioned race to the bottom. Since they can make no answer to my blog, I will simply say it now and you'll have to take my word for it: They have it much worse! :)
Anyway, despite my introvertedness, it's been good to talk to folks here at Mayfield. We've come across folks from different TIMO teams at varying stages of the two-year term (which has been really good for our perspective), a couple who plans to lead another team in the So Sud who we've heard about a lot but never met, and a whole bunch of folks from all over. I even traded blogs with a missionary/photojournalist. (Hi Adel!)
Only a few more days until we get to go home!!!
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Monday, Monday...
This is Monday.Monday is all business, all the time. She's an efficient hand shaker, and she rarely smiles. Here, I think she was a bit miffed that I dared to stand in her way on the path. Alllllll business.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Baby Kimmie...
How adorable is she? She used to look a bit more like an alien. We actually called her the alien baby. I'm not sure if she's actually grown cuter in reality, or just in our minds.
She really didn't know what to think of the baby powder action...
Happy Birthday, Cath!
Craigers, Kimmers and I(ers), at the Italian place for Cath's birthday. (Cath, regrettably, isn't pictured.)Those are napkins on our head.
I really have no explanation.
Old Glory...
I told you about the Fourth of July, but here’s a picture, to really bring it home. Unfortunately, this is the second-best picture of the event. The best one—where Laudina is giving this hilarious, quizzical look at me—is too blurry. So you get No. 2. By this point, she’d grown weary of the national anthem and was quite ready to be done, I do believe. But, being the real friend she is, she stuck it out, for our sake.These boots are made for...
We’ve always joked with Mark that he gets a bit sassy when he puts his gumboots on. Well, he came over the other day—while we were preparing the cars to leave—and he was more sassy than ever. And a bit drunk. But, that’s not the story. The story is, Kimmie donned the sassy boots. And she was more sassy than ever. Hilarious.
In a related story, Mark is in general a huge ham. You should have seen him posing this day as we were working the Rebel to its max. Click, click, click. This is just one of many great Mark shots.
Maritime Merry-time
So, we’re back from Malindi.
Some highlights?
Craig, Kim and I went out into the Indian Ocean in these canoe/kayak things one day—Craig in his own boat, us in a double. The waves were a little rough. Daniel quite enjoyed the show from the shore, of Kimmie and I trying to pull that stupid kayak past the breaker so we could get in it and paddle. The problem was, we were just laughing too hard. The hotel water sports guy eventually informed us that we shouldn’t laugh, that this wasn’t a joke, and that the waves certainly weren’t laughing. Duly noted. (No one died in said seafaring adventure.)
Otherwise, the majority of our time we spent eating ice cream and drinking Diet Coke (curious combination) and basking in the sun’s rays. Daniel ridiculed me when I told him I always feel healthier when I have a tan (this pale body hadn’t seen the sun in 14 months!). I suppose he reacted this way because I was actually sick the whole time, writhing after every meal. But, still, it stands: I feel healthier when I have a tan.
And I'm doing my darnedest to get some posts up here with some pictures. But the internet situation is sketchy, so I'll do what I can, when I can!
Some highlights?
Craig, Kim and I went out into the Indian Ocean in these canoe/kayak things one day—Craig in his own boat, us in a double. The waves were a little rough. Daniel quite enjoyed the show from the shore, of Kimmie and I trying to pull that stupid kayak past the breaker so we could get in it and paddle. The problem was, we were just laughing too hard. The hotel water sports guy eventually informed us that we shouldn’t laugh, that this wasn’t a joke, and that the waves certainly weren’t laughing. Duly noted. (No one died in said seafaring adventure.)
Otherwise, the majority of our time we spent eating ice cream and drinking Diet Coke (curious combination) and basking in the sun’s rays. Daniel ridiculed me when I told him I always feel healthier when I have a tan (this pale body hadn’t seen the sun in 14 months!). I suppose he reacted this way because I was actually sick the whole time, writhing after every meal. But, still, it stands: I feel healthier when I have a tan.
And I'm doing my darnedest to get some posts up here with some pictures. But the internet situation is sketchy, so I'll do what I can, when I can!
I wear my sunglasses...
More sunglasses pictures. This is probably one of my favorite days in Lopit. I do believe this is Franco’s “I’m wearing sunglasses” dance, because it’s basically all he did the whole time he had them on. He’s really grown up since we came last year. He used to go quietly about and look at us warily all the time. Now, he’s becoming a little firecracker, like his brother, though he still does that bit where he shadows him around and repeats everything Francis says, only with an extra dash of jubilee or sass.
Monica's Throne...
Little Monica, on her equally little stool. This day she teetered up the rocky path to our house with this little chair in tow and made herself comfortable in our doorway. This picture certainly doesn’t do justice to how adorable she looked. (On a side note, I cannot confirm that she hadn’t been drinking.) KP and I are convinced that Monica is a bit in love with her neighbor, Odek. He’s about the same age, and they go everywhere together. And if they’re not together, they always seem to be searching for one another. We sometimes narrate from afar their lovers’ quarrels and lengthy Lopit professions of devotion. (You’ve gotta keep yourself entertained somehow.) We eventually invited Monica and her stool inside, and Odek was quick to follow. Monica would look up at him from her stool with her big brown eyes and scoot over to the side, so he could sit with her. And he would. But I guess he’s a restless little fellow, because he kept getting back up. And that would throw the teeny loveseat’s balance all out of whack and nearly tip her to the floor, save that she would scoot back just in time. But then he’d come back. And she’d scoot over again. And he’d sit down. Pause. Get up. Monica again saves herself from toppling to the floor. (This might be some evidence for her sobriety, come to think of it.) Anyway, it was quite the spectacle.
During rain storms, the Abuba kids joy in coming over stark naked and dancing around our yard and in the overflow of our rainwater tank. They giggle like mad. This is Paula, after one such episode. She’s smirking under that cloth, I can assure you. I guess you have to know her to appreciate this picture like I do. It’s one of my all-time favorites.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Black lung and other ramblings...
Went for a run this morning in Nairobi.
Dumbest idea ever.
My lungs might explode, on account of all the smog. Oh, how I'm missing home in the mountains!
I think there's a certain point in a missionary's career at which the missionary isn't quite sure where "home" is--on the field or back in the States. I won't claim to be at that point yet, but I certainly have mixed emotions.
I wake up in the mornings and miss Francis at my window, or Ebiong on the path, or any one of our friends stopping by to say hello. I want to sit and play with Abuba and Laudina. The noises aren't quite right; the people and places and culture, unfamiliar. I just miss home: Lopit.
Then again, Nairobi culture is closer to Western living, so it almost puts more of an ache for America in me, for the places and activities that are wholy American and familiar. Imagine, baseball and a barbecue... And the longer we're in Nairobi, the more chance I have of being in contact with people from home. And that's good, catching up. But I also have to realize how far away they are, and how life goes on rather swimmingly and rather quickly without me there. My friends are getting new jobs, new lives. They are engaged, married... basically just different. It's hard to hear about how they're all doing this and this together, and having all this fun. And so in that way, I miss my friends and I miss home: Illinois.
Guess this is just one of those things you've got to go through when you're a missionary. And I've only been out here for a year. Ugh!
Alright, I'm out. There are minutes to be counted until this extended break is over...
Dumbest idea ever.
My lungs might explode, on account of all the smog. Oh, how I'm missing home in the mountains!
I think there's a certain point in a missionary's career at which the missionary isn't quite sure where "home" is--on the field or back in the States. I won't claim to be at that point yet, but I certainly have mixed emotions.
I wake up in the mornings and miss Francis at my window, or Ebiong on the path, or any one of our friends stopping by to say hello. I want to sit and play with Abuba and Laudina. The noises aren't quite right; the people and places and culture, unfamiliar. I just miss home: Lopit.
Then again, Nairobi culture is closer to Western living, so it almost puts more of an ache for America in me, for the places and activities that are wholy American and familiar. Imagine, baseball and a barbecue... And the longer we're in Nairobi, the more chance I have of being in contact with people from home. And that's good, catching up. But I also have to realize how far away they are, and how life goes on rather swimmingly and rather quickly without me there. My friends are getting new jobs, new lives. They are engaged, married... basically just different. It's hard to hear about how they're all doing this and this together, and having all this fun. And so in that way, I miss my friends and I miss home: Illinois.
Guess this is just one of those things you've got to go through when you're a missionary. And I've only been out here for a year. Ugh!
Alright, I'm out. There are minutes to be counted until this extended break is over...
Saturday, August 04, 2007
Goodbye, JImbo...
Here I am!
Just in case anyone was wondering if I had died.
I haven’t. And I don’t plan to.
My father left yesterday morning—his crazy African vacation came to a rather uneventful end, as far as I know. (And, honestly, I don’ t know much; I haven’t heard from him.)
((Calling now, to fulfill my daughterly duties.))
(((No answer. No news is good news. I know the plane landed. We’ll assume everything is fine. Anyway…)))
It was sad to see him go, but I think we were both ready. He missed his wife (and his television?); I was worn out from a week of “hosting,” so to speak. His visit itself was a bit bittersweet—it’s hard for me to swallow that my father was so close to where I actually minister, so close to the people I love and live with, and he didn’t see the place or meet my friends. On a whim, I checked into going in the Sudan, and God worked out all the details. It was all set, but a late-night email derailed the whole glorious thing.
Mom tells people it was “common sense” that prevailed in the situation, that my dad’s smarts outweighed the attempts of his “persuasive—but not always bright—daughter.” I think we all know it was age and rank that triumphed; experience (mine, since I live and work in Sudan) was disregarded. Oh, well… maybe someday. Or never. I suppose I have to be fine with it either way.
Anyway, I think we enjoyed some of the finest that Euro-Africa had to offer, and I think my dad had fun. I did. We spent a week on safari, then a few days down on the coast. Dad was surprisingly positive and patient; I couldn’t believe it. He really prepared himself for things well. He even pulled the “This is Africa” line on me once.
Here’s some pictures. I’m sure he’ll put more up on JamboJimbo when he gets home.
The classic Jimbo-on-Safari look. Well done. 
This lion was ginormous. A male—I suppose we were lucky. He was more interesting when he put his head up, but still very ginormous even when he was chillaxing. 
Here’s us, at the coast. We asked Kim to come along a while back—I foresaw that a week alone with just my dad would be long enough—but she declined. But then I think she took pity on me because of the crushed Sudan dream, so she came along. She and my dad got along really well, sparing all the time. It was fun. 
The beautiful Indian ocean. 
On the last day, we rented two quads and had a guide take us through some of the surrounding village area. The guide’s motorbike pooped out soon after we started our ride, so he had to hop on my dad’s single four-wheeler. Oh, gosh, it was funny, watching Dad get off that thing. He was quite the trooper—he and KP both. They both were quite sore. Good times.Monday, July 23, 2007
Jambo, Jimbo!
OK, I moved the stuff from my Dad's visit to its own site, so this one doesn't get bogged down with safari craziness. :)
www.jambojimbo.blogspot.com
Jambo--Hello in KiSwahili.
Jimbo--my dad.
Very clever, right? ;)
Enjoy!
www.jambojimbo.blogspot.com
Jambo--Hello in KiSwahili.
Jimbo--my dad.
Very clever, right? ;)
Enjoy!
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Back in the Saddle…
Alright, friends, it’s been a while—for reasons completely beyond my control. But I’m going to try to pound out some blogs here in Nairobi before things get absolutely nuts. We got into Nairobi on Wednesday evening, after a long journey filled with many interesting twists. We’ve since had our one-year evaluations with Steve and Rod (TIMO rep) and welcomed the two families, who were delayed longer than us for reasons I’ll explain later. And, now, this tired TIMO team is officially on vacation… and this Daddy’s girl is eagerly awaiting the arrival of her Daddy. Sooooo… Let me spin few out before I crash for the night. I pray you’re all well and enjoying the love of Jesus.
My Daddy is on his way!
I just got a message from my dad that he’s through security in Chicago and somehow rearranged things so he wouldn’t be a day late getting here (and thereby ruining his big safari plans). :) I’m really, really, really, really, (really x 1000) excited about him coming. And rumor has it, he’s just as giddy.
Thanks to the ladies at work for the party for him. And he says I’m spoiled rotten. (OK, yes, fine; I am spoiled rotten, but that doesn’t mean we’re not both spoiled rotten.) We’ll see if my mom can survive without her other half. :)
Thanks to the ladies at work for the party for him. And he says I’m spoiled rotten. (OK, yes, fine; I am spoiled rotten, but that doesn’t mean we’re not both spoiled rotten.) We’ll see if my mom can survive without her other half. :)
I-L-L…
I keep forgetting to write this, but I know at least a handful of people out there will appreciate it.
The last couple weeks, I got to play the drums in church. (You know, like the handmade skin ones, not some Pearl five-piece set.)
I will fully—yea, even eagerly—admit that I worked in the Illini beat whenever possible. :)
I know my parents will be proud of me. Oskee-wow-wow!
The last couple weeks, I got to play the drums in church. (You know, like the handmade skin ones, not some Pearl five-piece set.)
I will fully—yea, even eagerly—admit that I worked in the Illini beat whenever possible. :)
I know my parents will be proud of me. Oskee-wow-wow!
Blast from the Past…
I wrote these blogs a week and a half ago or so, but then I lost them, so I’m going to go ahead and send them to Mark, with the hope that he’ll humor me and put them up, along with the other slew of blogs I’m about to type up.
I plead innocence, as it’s been difficult to write blogs—what, with my computer being confiscated and all. Try not to let the 731 blogs all at once overwhelm you. And say a prayer of thanks for Mark, ‘cause he’s the one who really suffers because of my love of writing…
I plead innocence, as it’s been difficult to write blogs—what, with my computer being confiscated and all. Try not to let the 731 blogs all at once overwhelm you. And say a prayer of thanks for Mark, ‘cause he’s the one who really suffers because of my love of writing…
Bum, bumbum, bum, bum bummm…
This morning, Francis was at my window, trying his best to reproduce the melody of the Star Spangled Banner, for my enjoyment and his ever-expanding place in my heart.
It was adorable, quite naturally.
Pattie tells me Francis could throw up and I would think it was adorable. She’s likely not far off.
It was adorable, quite naturally.
Pattie tells me Francis could throw up and I would think it was adorable. She’s likely not far off.
I’ve met my match…
There’s this new little, two-year-old girl who’s been coming around to our place, a one Miss Cassia SomethingOrOther. Every time she comes, she leaves me in such shame, such a blubbering mess I really don’t know what to do with myself.
It’s customary in Lopit to shotgun any passerby with questions of “Where are you coming from?” and “Where are you going?”
Well, said Cassia has thrice come to my door, demanded my attention and—upon me giving it to her by coming to the doorway—completely befuddled me.
I come to the door, and am hit with an authoritative, “Where’d you come from?”
Um. For whatever reason, I’m tongue-tied. Surely, she knows I’ve come from the very kitchen stool or stove she’s called me from. All I can do is point weakly.
Trickier yet, before I can recover, comes the second of the blows: “Where are you going?”
Errr. I’m just… I don’t know…. You called me here… I’m not going anywhere. (No idea how to say that in Lopit.)
Never in Lopit have I been so intellectually outmatched. And this, by a toddler. A master of conversation, of manipulation.
I’ll never cease to be amazed by the fact that, though the children carry with them rarely even clothes, they’re quite abundantly outfitted with personality—which often presents me with precious little Lopit moments that I’m sure only I find so very amusing…
It’s customary in Lopit to shotgun any passerby with questions of “Where are you coming from?” and “Where are you going?”
Well, said Cassia has thrice come to my door, demanded my attention and—upon me giving it to her by coming to the doorway—completely befuddled me.
I come to the door, and am hit with an authoritative, “Where’d you come from?”
Um. For whatever reason, I’m tongue-tied. Surely, she knows I’ve come from the very kitchen stool or stove she’s called me from. All I can do is point weakly.
Trickier yet, before I can recover, comes the second of the blows: “Where are you going?”
Errr. I’m just… I don’t know…. You called me here… I’m not going anywhere. (No idea how to say that in Lopit.)
Never in Lopit have I been so intellectually outmatched. And this, by a toddler. A master of conversation, of manipulation.
I’ll never cease to be amazed by the fact that, though the children carry with them rarely even clothes, they’re quite abundantly outfitted with personality—which often presents me with precious little Lopit moments that I’m sure only I find so very amusing…
A Baby Boy…
(Not for the kiddos.)
I suppose when you live in Africa, you should somehow be prepared for the day when you hold a dying baby in your arms—that day, and all the feelings of utter helplessness and confusion that come with it.
But I wasn’t. Not at all.
One of our schoolteacher friend’s (A.) wives had a baby seven days ago, and I came upon him today to find that the baby was sick. I came upon his house at a most unfortunate time, because the compound was filled with monyemiji who had reportedly just tried their luck at healing him traditionally, by trying to counter the curse that was allegedly put on the little boy. Something about an uncle taking an unfair amount of cows and rousing up the ancestors’ wrath.
I was allowed inside and saw the grieving mother and the frail, twisted frame of a yet unnamed baby boy. And I, even now, some of me wishes I’d never had that moment and the pain, but more of me hopes I never forget it and such times never cease to be so affected. (I’ve talked before about my fear of becoming callous.)
I sat there and held him for a long time and found it hard to pray—an uncertainty of what exactly to pray for. And I looked at the mother, so clearly hurting. I saw her unable to look at him. And I saw her later at first refuse to sit up to put him to her breast. And I saw the tears, though not entirely acceptable in the Lopit culture, and I heard A. shortly tell her again and again, “Don’t cry.”
Ugh.
I suppose when you live in Africa, you should somehow be prepared for the day when you hold a dying baby in your arms—that day, and all the feelings of utter helplessness and confusion that come with it.
But I wasn’t. Not at all.
One of our schoolteacher friend’s (A.) wives had a baby seven days ago, and I came upon him today to find that the baby was sick. I came upon his house at a most unfortunate time, because the compound was filled with monyemiji who had reportedly just tried their luck at healing him traditionally, by trying to counter the curse that was allegedly put on the little boy. Something about an uncle taking an unfair amount of cows and rousing up the ancestors’ wrath.
I was allowed inside and saw the grieving mother and the frail, twisted frame of a yet unnamed baby boy. And I, even now, some of me wishes I’d never had that moment and the pain, but more of me hopes I never forget it and such times never cease to be so affected. (I’ve talked before about my fear of becoming callous.)
I sat there and held him for a long time and found it hard to pray—an uncertainty of what exactly to pray for. And I looked at the mother, so clearly hurting. I saw her unable to look at him. And I saw her later at first refuse to sit up to put him to her breast. And I saw the tears, though not entirely acceptable in the Lopit culture, and I heard A. shortly tell her again and again, “Don’t cry.”
Ugh.
Lost Forever…
The baby, still unnamed, died last night.
This little guy’s death still sharpens a fear in my heart.
You see, I left at home six ultimately precious children—and many other precious ones besides. My fear used to simply be that something would happen to even one of those precious six, and my whole world would fall apart. Now, as we get ready to leave for an extended break from this place, my fears have increased. Now it is not only the dear six at home who I carry in my mind and heart, but also another ultimately precious six, of the Lopit variety (and many other precious ones besides). And what of me, if but one of these precious six falls to some ill, especially in this, the wet, malaria season? Could my heart—our hearts—withstand it? I confess this fear moves to centrality as the day of departure gets nearer and my memory turns to the last two returns, when each time we’ve found another neighbor child dead.
I just keep asking the Lord to protect these children and our friends, to let them live to hear and accept the Gospel, for His glory.
This little guy’s death still sharpens a fear in my heart.
You see, I left at home six ultimately precious children—and many other precious ones besides. My fear used to simply be that something would happen to even one of those precious six, and my whole world would fall apart. Now, as we get ready to leave for an extended break from this place, my fears have increased. Now it is not only the dear six at home who I carry in my mind and heart, but also another ultimately precious six, of the Lopit variety (and many other precious ones besides). And what of me, if but one of these precious six falls to some ill, especially in this, the wet, malaria season? Could my heart—our hearts—withstand it? I confess this fear moves to centrality as the day of departure gets nearer and my memory turns to the last two returns, when each time we’ve found another neighbor child dead.
I just keep asking the Lord to protect these children and our friends, to let them live to hear and accept the Gospel, for His glory.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)