December 2014

Last night this happened:

This little screaming miracle came into the world after forcing her poor mama to be in painful labor for 24 hours and deciding that she wanted to come butt first.

As I was sitting trying to do office work yesterday Larissa came in and told me her friend, Maria, was in labor with a breech baby and needed to go to the hospital.  She asked if I wanted to go with her, and I said yes, of course.  I have learned quickly that adventures with Larissa are always worth having.  So she left on her bike and said she would call when they were wanting to go.  The problem was that that we had loaned our good vehicle out to another missions agency for the weekend, and White Bull (the truck used mostly for water projects) was in the shop. Larissa called Bishop, who was in a meeting and had only left his phone on accidentally, and he quickly agreed to let us use the CHE vehicle that he had.  Only one problem…the road had a lake on it.  And not having much driving experience with 4WD and mud, I asked if he would drive me across the mud and then I would pay for his boda back to the compound. He agreed, though I think he thought I was overreacting.  Ha!

When we reached the mud, he understood.

Two semi trucks were stuck, both facing us.  He jumped out and let people know how important it was for us to get through, and they went right to work on getting one truck out of the way.  Unfortunately, it was the way that was deeper and muddier than the other one.  But Bishop, being determined, decided to go.  And we almost made it.

Then this happened:

Yep.  Mud up to the top of the wheel wells.  I am in a high SUV in this picture! We were as stuck as it gets.  No amount of rocking or attempts at gunning it were getting us out.  And there was no way for people to push, because they could never have gotten traction in the water behind us.  It was up to their mid thighs!

Finally Bishop rolled up his good pants to past his knees, took off his shoes, and waded out.  You need to understand…in this culture, Bishop is a “big man.”  That means he has a high status and much respect.  To see him rolling up his pants and wading in the mud because he knew the life of this woman and child were at stake and he valued them was a humbling thing for me.  We are very grateful to have is partnership with the ECS and he and Rina.

After finding a huge UN vehicle to pull us out, he sent a driver to do the driving for him. I sat in the car the whole time texting Shawn and Larissa, keeping them updated on where we were and the progress.  The first time we started to go and then, “snap!”  The rope broke.  There was some debating on whether the car had been in gear (no) and if the emergency break was on (also no), and then they tried again.  This time I thought we were going to make it, but “snap!”  It broke again. The third time was the charm, and after getting up on dry, solid land we cheered, thanked the men, and then Bishop got in the car with his wet, muddy, bare feet and drove off.

We met Larissa on the compound of the pregnant women, and a bunch of people carried her out.  After finally getting settled in the car with her sister, her oldest daughter and the daughter’s baby, her own two year old, her midwife and her husband, we left. Carefully and slowly, so as not to cause too much pain, Larissa drove.  Let me just say, I think she’s a rock star. We had to stop several times to let Maria reposition herself as the baby was determined to come out.  Larissa and I were very happy that the midwife was along!  We held her as she moaned and cried, barely conscious at times.  I just kept thinking, “Father, help!”  A woman in labor for over 24 hours since her water broke and a breech baby coming more dangerous than you can imagine in a place like South Sudan.

Lui hospital is less than 20 miles away.  But because of the roads, the pace we had to go,  the constant stopping, and the initial mud issue, we took almost two hours to make the trip.  All the way all I could think was that this mother and baby might die simply because the roads are so atrocious.  The maternal mortality rate is among the highest in the world here, and now I know why.  But God was faithful and brought us to the hospital, which is staffed with 6 Italian doctors right now.

Maria was admitted immediately and a surgeon was called to do a c-section.  We were able to sit with her right until they took her to the next room to do the surgery.  Then we waited and talked and prayed.  When the baby was born and we heard the crying Larissa and I both looked at each other with tears in our eyes.  Now we just had to wait to find out about the mom.

In the meantime darkness had come and it was pouring.  We had not planned to stay the night, but it can be dangerous to drive after dark (not to mention there is a curfew.). And with the rain we decided not to chance it.  So we called the local bishop, whom we had just had dinner with the night before.  He set us up with a wonderful place to stay that was clean, bug free, and pleasant.  It turns out it belongs to the Italian doctors, but only a couple were currently staying there.  After we heard that Maria would be ok, we took the midwife and the three of us went to get showers and get some rest.

I woke up at 5 am to hear rain pouring still and the wind howling.  I thought, how are we going to drive home?  But then a peace poured over me as I thanked God for his provisions for just the last few hours.  Where there was no car, he provided.  No driver, he provided. When we got stuck, he brought someone along to pull us out.  He kept Maria from delivering on the road or in Mundri where she surely could have died from such a trauma. He put us just 20 miles from a hospital staffed with good doctors.  He got us to the hospital before darkness and rain hit. He allowed this little one and her mama to live though this experience in a place where the odds are terrible. He gave us shelter- and not just any shelter, but one with a shower, mosquito nets, and an indoor toilet.  He gave good rest at night.  So this rain and these muddy roads- they were no match for him.  “Ok, God.  Do your thing.  I trust you.”

We visited the hospital to see Maria and the baby and her family, then we left.  And even though there were a few precarious spots, Larissa drove with confidence and we made it back.  The plan we had worked with bishop was that we would leave his vehicle at the guesthouse of the Catholic Church, which is staffed with three Indian priests.  We had never met them before, and after an adventurous drive up their road we were happy to take a minute to have coffee with them and make plans to have some Christmas celebrations together.  Then they walked with us across the huge mud pits so we could meet bishop, who was in our truck on the other side.

After a brief stop in town for food and a quick breakfast of rolexes ( eggs in chapatis) and a quick hello to Alice, whom I hadn’t yet seen since we got back, we got home.

Home.  There’s that word again.

As we pulled in and I knew our team had been here praying and my shower was waiting for me, I was overwhelmed yet again that this is home.  God has me here for things like mud walking, hospital going, coffee drinking, language learning, baby holding, market shopping, and people loving.

And like I said, adventuring with Larissa is always fun!

(2014)

The other night we went to the ocean. I love being on the beach after the crowds have gone to dinner. Some of my most peaceful and contented times have been sitting in the sand in the evening, watching the waves come in, seeing the amazing sky, feeling the breeze that is always there.  I’m not a beach person so much during the day – too many crowds, too much direct sun. But I love it in the evenings.

That night I decided to join my family as they jumped in waves and tried to stay standing upright. It was COLD! (NJ beaches in August are not like Georgia beaches in August!) but after my feet lost all feeling, it was ok. I enjoyed feeling the power of the waves and the spray, then watching as the water ran back out into the vast ocean attempting to pull my feet with it. I was in shallow enough that I could stay in control.

Then I wandered a little deeper, challenged by the fact that Shawn was out farther than me and I wanted to experience it with him. Suddenly a big one hit me dead on! I fell into the water, which was ok, until another one hit right away and I couldn’t pull myself up. I was not in any real danger – I was already pushed back to shallow water and Shawn immediately grabbed my arm and helped pull me out of the water. But for a brief second I was terrified! I couldn’t right myself, my mind went blank, and I frantically searched to see if Shawn saw me, knowing he would grab me when he saw how scared I was.

Afterwards, a little embarrassed and still slightly panicked, I went and sat on the shore. There I was able to clear my mind and think straight. I realized that the danger had really only been in my mind. (I know that riptides are real, and I was probably thinking of that when I went under – but this was not a danger situation!) Shawn explained that the key was relaxing. I was so busy trying to right myself, or trying to stay in control and standing up, that I made it worse. Had I just relaxed for a few seconds, I would have been fine. Not one to allow my fears to made me helpless anymore, I went back in. After getting hit a few more times, I relaxed, and began to enjoy it.

Water like that makes me feel helpless and out of control.  I don’t like feeling helpless and out of control.  I know, I know…

I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this.

My life feels like this ocean experience right now. Slowly edging my way out to where the “big stuff” is, getting hit, having everything turn upside down and not being in control or knowing which way is up for a moment, then being pulled out of the water by strong arms. Catching my breath for a few moments on land, then going back in (however cautiously, but still wanting to have the adventure) and doing it all again. And like in the ocean, there no guarantees that the longer I do it, the longer or better I will stand. Sometimes the unknown hits me like a huge wave and knocks me off my feet. Other times I can ride it out, catch a little of the spray and laugh. But then a few minutes later – just when I think I have it figured out – another wave of epic proportions hits.

“You call me out upon the waters. The great unknown where feet may fail. And there I find you in the mystery, in oceans deep my faith will stand. And I will call upon your name, and keep my eyes above the waves. When oceans rise my soul will rest in your embrace, for I am yours, and you are mine.” (Oceans by Hillsong)

(Originally posted 2013)

Today, after a long week at MTI, Shawn and I went for a hike.  It was beautiful, breath-taking, and rejuvenating.  We had heard that the Reservoir Trail was gorgeous, so we decided to set out on it after lunch.  For me, it was a good hike.  We went from 7200 feet to 8200 feet.  My lungs were protesting.

As we rounded each corner, I would look at the seemingly endless path and sigh.  (OK, sigh isn’t quite the right word when you are already huffing and puffing.)  But after my experience with the beehive this summer, I knew I was going to keep going and get to the destination.  We reached a point where there were some big boulders off to the side and rested to take pictures.  Then we reached the first reservoir, and it was beautiful.  The ice was formed on most of it, and we could walk out on to big boulders that made a bridge across.  The rocks were warm from the sun and the it was relaxing.  I could have stayed there and napped, honestly.  And it was so petty, I figured I had seen the best part.

But Shawn wanted to go on to the second on, so we did.  The climb got more steep, and we had to take more breaks.  My heart was pounding, but it felt good to push myself.  There were a couple of times when I thought, “Why do we keep going?  Let’s turn around and head downhill.”  But we made it.  And wow – was it worth it!

The sun was shining across the water, there were woods with a shore lined in pine needles and clear water.  It was quiet.  Peaceful.  Breath-taking.  I was in awe of the beauty that God had made and soaked it in.

As we headed back down, I kept seeing the places that I had wanted to stop at because they were “pretty enough”, “high enough”, just “enough.”  And though they were still pretty, they didn’t compare to the beauty at the top – the place I had to push myself to.  (The place that will make me sore tonight!)

I was thinking about that in my spiritual life.  We have been pushed this month – especially this last week.  We were stretched, pulled, prodded.  One of my friends here said she felt bruised from all the poking.  Yet we all agree that this week has lead us to a place with God and within ourselves that we hadn’t known before – or at least hadn’t been to in a long time.  I want to remember this as we continue.  I want to push ahead when it feels like I can’t go any farther.  And I want to be able to do that because of the times that I have rested and been revived in the journey.  The Sabbaths I take.  The talks with my Father I have.  The times I simply listen as He sings a long song over me and my soul is satisfied.

(Originally written 2011)

Yesterday Shawn, his dad, RJ, and I went for a walk in the woods behind my in-law’s house.  Shawn was reminiscing about life there growing up, and even commented, “This is where my love of adventure started.”  RJ came along because his other option was jumping on the trampoline with his siblings, and he hates that.  So he decided to trudge along with us.  He was quite a trooper, and ended up enjoying the walk.  We saw a pond full of beavers and their dams, raccoon and deer tracks, turkey feathers that quickly became a treasure and even a brand new baby deer bedded down in the field outside the woods.  It was a wonderful walk through nature!

At one point we were walking through a path that was filled with pricker bushes.  I got stuck on a few and Shawn helped me out, then RJ was feeling intimidated to walk by them.  Shawn started tromping down the path in front of him and told RJ to follow his path.  Whenever he was nervous he would look back at me, and I would simply remind him to follow his dad’s footsteps and he would stay safe and pricker free!  When we got to the clearing and saw that the field was higher than RJ’s height, Shawn put him on his shoulders so that he could see easily and feel  safe again.

It’s an obvious parallel, but when I saw it played out in real life with RJ and his dad I was reminded again of how much my Dad loves me.  How sometimes he allows me to wander off and explore and figure things out, but he is nearby watching.  Other times he is tromping down the path in front, and as long as I am careful those prickers won’t get me – or at least not to the point of destruction.  Then there are those times (often) when I am in over my head and he carries me so I can see clearly and feel safe.  I am thankful for this relationship.  And I am thankful for a God who takes the simple, beautiful things in life to remind me of the things that should be obvious.

(Originally written in 2011)

Yesterday the kids and I were talking about scars.  It started when John pointed one out on his arm and said, “I still have this scar.”  I told him it might fade, but the scar would always be there if he looked hard enough.  This got us looking all over our arms and legs and talking about the scars and where they came from.  Some of the stories were cool, in a gross out sort of way – bones sticking through skin, cuts from an Africa adventure, and a weird burn scar on Shawn’s arm from a lawn mower that the nurse thought he had done purposely for me because it looked like a heart!  Others were more silly or embarrassing – the pencil points stuck in Anna’s head and John’s leg, or the numerous shaving scars from when I was a teenager (Seems I was always in a hurry!)  There were a few that were not shown, but talked about – the scars from C-sections or gallbladder surgeries.  Shawn also has a scar from his cleft lip surgeries all through childhood.

Scars are kind of cool how they have a story to tell.  Some are good – life giving or life saving even.  Some changed quality of life.  Some are from the everyday bumps and bruises that we get in this life.  Regardless, they all have a story, and they all are a part of us from that point on.

In the evening we were at church and we were talking about the job of the Holy Spirit.  Pastor Chris was writing on the board and putting people’s answers up to the question of, “What makes a Christ follower different?”  At the top was, “Forgiveness” and underneath was “Love your enemies.”  I was staring at those two things and it clicked in my mind that forgiveness is really the key, because if you forgive, the person is no longer your enemy.  Not if it is something from the past, anyway. (An ongoing forgiveness is a different thing.)  The consequences of the situation may still be there, but like those scars, they will fade.  And like those scars, they each have a story, and that story helps to shape us.

I was thinking about the times in my life when I have had to forgive.  There have been little situations – misunderstandings, hurtful words, etc.  They are like those little scars that we only notice if we look hard.  They are still there and have helped us be molded into who we are today.  Maybe I learned how to be a better friend because of it, or I was reminded that the only perfect in this world is God.  Whatever the outcome, it has become part of me.  The bigger things – abuse, betrayal, etc – those are the big scars that stand out and sometimes make us self conscious.  They might be the ones that we would rather have plastic surgery on and forget.  Yet even if they are covered in makeup or new skin, they are still part of our body and have affected us.  We can try to forget, ignore the repercussions, or look the other way, but ultimately their existence is still very real.  And the consequences are a permanent part of our outlook.

But – just like those scars that people see and we can’t hide – those stories of our lives are ones that need to be told and shared.  They are the ones that are used to affect people, to help them learn their own forgiveness, and to have hope in a real future.  When people with a cleft lip (or someone who has gone though it) see Shawn’s scar, they are instantly a friend-someone who understands and can bond.  When they find out he has made a life of speaking in public, it is an encouragement and hope.  The same happens with those emotional scars.  When people hear about overcoming abuse and see a life lived in freedom and fullness, they gravitate towards the one who is victorious in it and have their own hope.

Not anythings new, by any means,  Not even close to a new analogy.  But one that was sticking in my mind all day yesterday.  Thank you, Lord, for my life – the good and the bad; the scars and the new healing.

(Originally written 2012)

I am kind of a control freak.  Yes, I know – I am sure that comes as a surprise to you.  😉   Well, believe it or not, it still surprises me from time to time!  The tightness that I like to try to hold the reigns in my life is astounding to me at times.  And when things don’t happen the way I envision them, it totally throws me off.

Today was a day that I talked, yelled, cried, prayed, and finally surrendered (again) to God.  But this was a different way.  Today I realized that I had to give up my vision of what the future looks like.  I feel confident that God has a plan, but how that plays out, what it looks like, when, and the little details are things that I have come to accept (at least in this moment) that I don’t know.  And probably won’t until they are happening.  I have had so many paintings  in my head – dreams of how things will look, the time frame, reasons about why those things are “right.”  But today, for the first time, I surrendered those paintings.  My gallery, if you will, is nothing but a white wall right now.

I don’t really like white walls.

I love color – splashes of bright designs.  Patterns and warmth and designs and artsy stuff.  White walls – well, they seem so plain and boring and lifeless to me.  Clean, yes (well, they wouldn’t be in my house), but still still plain.  So to offer up my future, my dreams to God as a white washed canvas is super scary to me.  What if he leaves it that way?

Yet I know that he is the great artist.  Look at this world – the nature, the people, the colors, the vibrant life that is all around us.  Even in the brokenness that is overflowing all around us, he is there and breaking through in abundance.  And if he applies all that color to the world around me, I have to believe he will apply that to me, my hopes, and my dreams.

One brush stroke at a time.  That’s where this whole surrendering thing will remain hard.  See, I am a person who loves to cast vision and dream.  So when he makes a blue streak and then stops, I will start to jump to every possibility that could mean.  I will imagine and dream,  and then decide which of my scenarios is the most probable and which is the best according to me.  Then I will start filling in the canvas myself.  Then I’ll get angry because God is not having things play out the way I have painted them, and he will have to remind me again that he is the artist.

Don’t get me wrong – dreaming and hoping is ok.  But it is important for us – especially people like me who take an idea and run with it – to make sure that these dreams and ideas are actually coming from God.  And even more important for me to keep communicating with God and not get angry because he is not making my own picture come to fruition my way.

I am not The Artist.

I realized as I was talking with friends tonight about our time in Malawi that there are so many stories from that life that have shaped who we are, what we believe, and why we do what we do, and I have not shared too many of them.  They felt personal and overwhelming sometimes.  And the fact that we are not going back to Malawi, but rather to South Sudan made me decide not to share much about the “previous” life.  But tonight I remembered some of the reasons why we are continuing on this path, and since we have had a lot of questions like, “Why Africa, don’t we have problems here?” I decided it was time to share.

While we were in Malawi we became dear friends with the pastors that we worked with and their families.  There were a few of the wives that I particularly got to know and love, and they were a buffer for me in this new, crazy culture that I had no experience with.  They helped me communicate, understand when to speak and when to accept, and know what my role was expected to be in most situations.  Though my Chichewa was almost nonexistent (save for a few songs and greetings) and their English was rough at best, we made a friendship of sorts.

One of these women had a baby while we were there.  I had walked alongside her as she had bleeding and problems in the pregnancy.  I learned how the Malawians viewed such problems, and took issue with the solutions enough times to step in and take her to a real doctor.  But overall it seemed like things were going well.  When the baby was born 5 weeks early, we worried, but relaxed as he seemed to be tiny but healthy.

When we spent Superbowl Sunday at a friend’s house and stayed up to watch the game live, eat chili, and drink soda at 3 am, we were already awake when the call came to us that the baby had died.  No explanation.  Oh, and the mom was hemorrhaging – which was apparently a totally separate issue.

As we left our kids with our missionary friends and went to the hospital we were in shock.  We had no idea what had happened, we just knew (because we were told) that I needed to help the women in the family collect the baby and bury him and Shawn needed to be with the father.  The mom was not able to leave because she was recovering from sever blood loss, and the father was not allowed to come because it was not culturally appropriate.  We were told that because the baby was only 5 days old, the father (or any male) would not attend the funeral.  In fact, there would not even be a coffin because they did not make them for babies that young because so many died.

What?

We arrived, I checked on the mom, and then we gathered this tiny little bundle in our arms and filled three vehicles with women from the family to go to find a place to bury him.  When we got to the cemetery, my role was to talk with the guard, persuade him to find us a plot, and then pay him.  (Later I realized that this really was culturally appropriate as the “boss” of the father, though not an absolute.  At any rate, it was a few thousand kwacha as long as we did most of the digging, and I consider it one of those times that even if I got taken advantage of, it was ok.)  The guard started the grave, then the women took turns finishing it.

The thing you remember at times like that are strange.  There was line of ants going by.  You know, one of those long lines that you don’t want to step in the middle of because you will be swarmed and bitten.  We carefully avoided it.  I noticed that the women had many kitenges, or the pretty cloth wraps that they tied around their waists and used for everything from tying babies to their backs to laying on the ground for a rest in the shade.  I also had one on that day, since we had come from our friend’s superbowl party and I was not feeling as appropriately dressed as I wanted to be.  The sky was blue and the the guards were standing back respectfully, yet not having a lot of emotion.  Actually, the whole scene was emotionless – not at all what you expect from an African funeral.  But then again, this was just a baby.

The grave was dug about 3-4 feet deep, then another foot or two under the solid ground so that the body could be placed in a cave like area where animals could not dig it up easily.  The women started taking off the extra kitenges they had worn and handed them to the person holding the baby.  It became clear to me that they were wrapping this tiny little body in a soft bundle of bright, beautiful cloth.  The contradiction was absurd to me in my state of shock.  I also took mine off and realized that my last minute grab of this cloth was a gift  from God, as the women rewarded me with sad smiles.  Then the grandmother herself climbed in and placed her grandson into the hole. I had to keep reminding myself that this was her grandson, a real baby boy, a child.  The whole scene was too much for me to process. After a few handful of dirt were thrown in and I was asked to pray (which I had to do in English, and was thankful that most people could not understand because I have never felt more at a loss for words) the guards came and finished filling it in.

Grandma cried for the first time at that point.  It was a silent cry, but as I reached out and held her hand tears came freely for both of us.  We walked back to the cars and went to the hospital.  The women were abnormally silent, and it grated on my nerves.  I had never gone anywhere in Malawi with a group of women where there was silence!  There were songs for every occasion – weddings, engagements, birthdays, special feasts, bible studies – even riding in a car together!  Yet there was no song for his baby and his family, no outpouring of grief.  In some ways I longed for the typical wails and ululations that one expected from this culture.

A few days later the mother still had not been released because her paperwork had gotten lost.  The parents had been told that the reason for their baby’s death was that while the mother was in surgery the nurses had tried to feed the child.  He had thrown up and was left by himself and suffocated.  That’s what we were told.  The truth is, everything in these situations becomes so blurry and the communication is so bad that we may never know what really happened.  We don’t even know what surgery the mother had, since her paperwork was lost – though to my knowledge she has not had another child.  Now the hospital would not release her, and she was stuck in a room with 7 other mothers who were in various stages of labor and delivery.  She had text me earlier in the day to say that her eyes were swollen shut from grief, even though she “knew” she should not be so upset because he “became late” – it happened all the time.

I didn’t often use my status as a white person to my advantage in Malawi – we usually attracted enough attention wherever we went without trying.  However that day I marched into the office, demanded her charts (which they suddenly and miraculously found-though they were not complete), threw some money on the table, got a “paid in full receipt,” and took her home.  This was torture.  This was unthinkable to me in my western mind.  Yet this was not the only baby that “became late” while I was there.  And this was not the last time I dealt with corrupt people in places of influence, or the hopelessness of the common people who accepted that this was their plight.

My experience may be different from other people’s in Africa – even in Malawi.  We were basically on our own there – learning in the day by day and making a lot of mistakes in the process.  I have realized that our experiences were often different from other missionaries.  That was one of the the biggest draws we had to World Harvest Mission and their amazing team mentality, because we didn’t want to do this alone again.  But whether it is different or not, it is still real – it is still my experience.  And it is a very tangible, raw thing that made my heart African.  It is one of those things that made me know I had to be there.  South Sudan is very different from Malawi in many ways. However, there is a saying I have heard ex-pats all over the continent say:  “This is Africa.”  Some things are the same all over.    Read my teammates blogs (on the side of this page) or the Myhre’s blog about being doctors in Uganda.  The things that people on this continent face, accept as normal, and deal with each day are things that should shock us.

I have been given much indeed.  If you are reading this, then you have too – even if (like me) you do not always feel that way.  We have been blessed in ways that really make no sense to me when I compare it to so many people in other countries.  And this is just one of my answers to “Why Africa.”