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

Black lung and other ramblings...

Went for a run this morning in Nairobi.

Dumbest idea ever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Goodbye, JImbo...

Here I am!

Just in case anyone was wondering if I had died.

I haven’t. And I don’t plan to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The beautiful Indian ocean.

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

Jambo, Jimbo!

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

www.jambojimbo.blogspot.com

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

Very clever, right? ;)

Enjoy!

Back in the Saddle…

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

My Daddy is on his way!

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

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

I-L-L…

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

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

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

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

Blast from the Past…

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

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

Bum, bumbum, bum, bum bummm…

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

It was adorable, quite naturally.

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

I’ve met my match…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Baby Boy…

(Not for the kiddos.)

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

But I wasn’t. Not at all.

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

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

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

Ugh.

Lost Forever…

The baby, still unnamed, died last night.

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

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

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

Chicken Run…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mashed potatoes with chicken gravy for dinner after all.

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

It was adorable, quite naturally.

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

Photos, again...

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

Life After Death

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Fourth!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Worth a thousand words…

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

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

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



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

“Our” Kids…

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

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

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

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

Curious.

Sometimes things just don’t jive.

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

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

It’s all very curious. ;)