Mozambican Birthday.

 

(This post comes almost two weeks late because of my pitiful luck with electrical gremlins and pathetic internet access. Sorry for the delay...  :- ) 

Don’t laugh... but I spent my birthday this year reading.

            --Yep. Reading.

Not having any meetings to attend or local officials to meet (as I’m still waiting to hear back from the director of the ministry of health), I decided to dig into the Natural Medicine in the Tropics book by Dr. Hans Martin Hirt and Bindanda M’Pia. (Check out their amazing work with this link.)

All I can say is... I’m inspired. All I want to do is plant things and watch them grow.

Already I’ve had the chance to see some of these natural remedies in action... and they work! The cough syrup you already know about... but do you know that you can use garlic as a natural antibiotic?!

A boy was brought to me with a severely infected and pus-filled wound recently. It was so nasty, there was quite a bit of debate as to whether or not he should start antibiotics immediately. But having just read this book, I suggest he bind it first overnight with a garlic compress then re-evaluate in the morning.

Well... one night of the garlic compress however was all it took. The next morning, the pain was gone along with the pus-filled infection. Antibiotics were not needed after all!

Oh how I love garlic!

Oh, but I digress... I meant to share about my birthday.

To be brief... my day was filled with books; my night was filled with cake --delicious, strawberry cake.

The middle school aged orphan girls baked me a two layered white cake and filled it with strawberry jam and topped it with butter frosting.

Although not the prettiest cake I’ve ever seen, it certainly rivaled some the finest of bakeries in taste! It was delicious!

Plus the girls honored me in song, singing Happy Birthday in harmonized sopranos and altos. Believe me, having a dozen well-trained voices serenade you for your birthday is delightful!

(Mavis, the woman who runs the girl’s home used to teach music and voice back in here native land of England. She has taught the girls well!)

My new capulana (aka: African print).

As a gift, the high school girls bought me a capulana --a traditional African print which is worn as a skirt. It’s green, blue, black, and white. I absolutely love it!

The beautiful S. African Milk Tart.

But my birthday celebration didn’t end there; the following day a fellow missionary introduced me to Dutch Milk Tart --a South African specialty. It took her all day, as you have to make it all from scratch. But boy was it worth it!

            --Absolutely delicious... and unlike any tart I’ve ever tasted before.

I have to say, I’ve really enjoyed my birthday this year thanks to all my dear friends across the world and here locally. Thank you all for helping me mark the day!

May the next 35 years be equally blessed and full of friends!

Widows and Orphans~

Carlos (pronounced Kar-lo-sh in Portuguese) is a highly trained Mozambican nurse who was raised at Maforga’s boy’s home when he was a kid.

God opened the door for him to go to Bible college, then nursing school. Once he graduated, he returned to his home and started Rubitano, a non-profit designed to help HIV/AIDS patients get access to and stay on their retrovirals.

Married now with four playful children, he and his family live at Maforga, but his work takes him into the heart of the community.

God has used him to start a community-based work, involving more than 900 volunteers. After a training process, the volunteers (usually drawn from the various churches within the community) come together three times a week to visit HIV/AIDS patients from house to house.

Sometimes they come to clean and cook for those unable to care for themselves. Other times they come to make sure the medicines are being taken and no other infections have begun. Sometimes to come to make sure the patient is still alive. But always they come to pray.

I had the privilege of going on a few house calls with them last week to learn what kind of obstacles this country faces in terms of HIV/AIDS.

It is well established that Mozambique is dying of AIDS. Conservative estimates state that one in four people are HIV positive; those most effected are in the 20’s and 30s. As a result, half of the population is under the age of 16 or over the age of 50.

It’s a nation of widows and orphans.

The first family we visited, the grandmother greeted us with her three week grandchild in her arms. The mother of the little girl was the HIV patient, but she was nowhere to be found. Mental illness has kept her in a manic state that has only worsened since the birth.

They were unsure yet if her child is HIV positive but they assured us that the mother was taking the retrovirals regularly. So we talked about how to get them a front door on their mud hut then prayed and moved on.

The next patient we visited was in her seventies. Her eyes clouded with cataracts allowed only the shape of our faces to shine through --not the details. So naturally, she did not bother to turn her face toward ours in greeting. Instead she lifted her calloused hands upward to shake our hands one by one.

She complained of an ulcerated infection on her foot that was refusing to heal, but was otherwise in good health. I suggested she make a garlic compress for it, but she worried out loud that she did not have any garlic... nor did she know how to get some.

       -- Lord... is she so poor as to not to be able to afford the pennies needed for garlic?
       -- Yes, my child.
       -- Lord... can I give her the money?
       -- No, my child. I am doing a work here.
       -- Oh, Lord. First they need a front door. Now they need simple medicines.
       -- Yes. I know. But you are not their Provider, nor are you their Healer. I am. Trust me and pray.
       -- Yes, Lord. I will trust... and I will obey.

So we prayed for her, then walked on.

As we walked to the next house we traveled down the main street in town where children waved and called repeatedly “How-ou are you-ou?” at me while I passed. When I answered them, they giggled loudly then ran off.

The next house we visited had a small garden attached. It is cared for by two sisters living together. They have both been widowed due to AIDS. And they too are infected with the virus.

One is much worse off than the other and struggled to stand long enough to greet us. Her thin frame jarred out at knobby angles underneath yards of printed fabrics. Her head hung low. Her eyes down cast.

We spent lots of time learning about her retroviral regiment and the frequency of her doctor visits. We discussed which foods might help make her stronger and how she might get them. But eventually, the best thing we could do for them was pray.

So we prayed, then moved on.

The next family we met was muslim. The patient we went to visit is not only HIV positive, she is blind. Her medicines are working, and as a result she was vigorous and strong despite her HIV status.

Thrilled to have so many visitors, she had her family gather all the stools in the house and we sat down in a circle around her. As we spoke, children and chickens milled about.

She was happy to have us pray for her... even though she was Muslim, explaining that she had only recently converted to Islam after her local pastor started charging her to go to church.

She was told that if she wanted to attend the Assembly of God church near her house, she would have to pay the pastor 500 meticais a month (roughly $20.00 USD). This is a fortune!

Unable to afford such extortion, she decided to follow Islam instead. But she assured us she still loved Jesus very much and that she’d be happy to have us pray for her if we liked.

Sigh.

I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or cry. So we all bowed our heads and prayed instead.

      -- Lord, chasten that pastor for his greed and continue to care for this child of Yours. Amen.

The last house we visited belonged to a mother of many. I do not recall how many kids she had... but I do remember that her husband had abandoned them long ago.

We talked about her medicines, her health, and her roof. Apparently, she is unable to live in her house at the moment and fears the coming rains. Daily the holes in the roof get worse and worse, allowing in both rain and shine. She is having to sleep at a neighbor’s house until something can be done.

As we spoke and eventually prayed, a large group of children gathered to listen in. Perched on an exposed tree root just above where we sat, they strained their ears to hear what we had to say and stayed curiously still in the process. Only slight giggles could be heard.

But as I lifted my camera to capture their sweet faces, the giggles bubbled up into contagious laughter. And God reminded me once again... children are the same the world over. Whether in the misty mountain of the Philippines or the sun-baked sands of Mozambique, if given the chance to have their picture taken... children will jump for joy and start making faces!

In time we said our goodbyes and slowly made our way back to the Rubitano headquarters where I met up with Carlos again.

He then explained to me how the ministry relies on some small grants, but is mostly funded by a chicken project they started a few years back. The chicken project pays some of the staff salaries and provides revenue for community food projects and outreaches.

I love seeing what God is doing in and through this program. I love seeing how it provides a need for the community while using the resources within that community. I love seeing God’s people being the hands and feet to the lost and hurting.

"Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this:

to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself

 from being polluted by the world." James 1:27

Lord bless this work. Provide for your children. Touch these hurting and needy. Use Your people to do it. May we be Your hands and feet. Amen.

The Waterfall~

 The mission compound, Maforga, sits on roughly 900 hectares of land which includes more than a few hills and valleys, massive trees, and a river. There is even a waterfall.

During the dry season (meaning now), the river is shallow but clear; during the wet season (Nov-March), it rages and will sometimes knock out the stone bridge on the short access road.

When I first go here, I was told about the waterfall... but not which path I needed to take to get to it. So this week, I decided it was time I found out. I figured it would be dryer than usual due to the current drought, but I was hopeful nevertheless.

A short-term American missionary named Natalie joined me on this adventure. And together we strapped on our shoes... and marched off on this new adventure.

The hike out there took quite some time, but the late afternoon haze offered a easy relief from the heat. The sandy road we followed narrowed to a one-man path in short order, leaving us wondering as to whether or not we were headed in the right direction.

Perhaps we were lost. Perhaps we were on the wrong path.

We discussed it briefly then realized we didn’t care and walked on, happily discussing politics and missions work as we marched.

Beneath each step, brittle stocks of yellowed straw lined the paths and poked through my flip-flops. To our backs a wall of eucalyptus held back the smokey blasts of winter wind, allowing us to walk on undisturbed.

Clumps of dirt, broken up like a scab, lay interspersed with browned weeds and parched shrubs. Hills blended into valleys before us --each equally blighted and crusted with drought. A few large trees haphazardly dotted the slopes, but many of them were unnaturally yellowed on one side. Only when we approached could we see the reason why.

Forest fires which had recently raged about their roots had sent waves of heat toward their branches. The leaves which were fortunate enough not to burn, baked to a dark yellow but tenaciously refused to fall from their limbs.

However as the hilltop we walked sloped down toward the valley, the shrubs turned greener and more dense. By the time we reached the valley floor, the ground was moist and the leaves lush.

I could hear the river long before I could see it.

The rushing currents sounded like applause in a distant stadium. As we passed a dry tributary to the river, stepping over dry moss coated stones in the process, I could feel the river as well. Its moist breath caressed my cheek. Its slick fingers curled my hair.

Water. Lovely water!

As I approached the river, I had to crouch down to keep from hitting my head on the low hanging branches, but I also had to watch my step. The terrain quickly turned rocky... and wet.

Let me just say... hopping from one slime-covered boulder to the next was not easy in flip-flops, but it was fun.

There was a felled tree which bridged the waterfalls’ rocky ravine, its wide trunk still sported all its bark, and a few of its roots were still grounded. I could not help but wonder if someone helped this tree to fall, or if it were just a happy coincidence.

I could not resist rushing out to the middle for a picture. Easily two and a half feet in diameter, it didn’t seem to notice my presence. But once out there, vertigo set in and my mind quickly reminded me that I was no longer a kid.

Worse yet, the 25 foot drop to the stoney river bed would most likely cause more than one broken bone! Normally, my brain does not worry about silly little things like heights. So I figured it was the Lord screaming at me instead, and quickly obeyed.

We had come too late in the day to dilly-dally; we could not afford to get lost on our way back. So my friend and I stayed only long enough to get some nice pictures, then we slowly hiked back.

All in all, it was a lovely hike.

Since it is still so green and lush in the midst of a drought... I cannot help but wonder what it must look like in the rainy season.

Homemade Cough Syrup



Squeeze the lemons. Need 1 cup.

The other day someone complained that there was a lot of coughing going around the orphanage and it was too expensive to buy cough syrup in town. So I suggested we make a batch of our own instead.

I started by looking into some of the tropical medincine books hanging around the compound to see if someone had already figured out a recipe. I was thrilled to find the following recipe almost immediately. Plus all the ingredients were easy and (more or less) cheap to find.

I just finished my first batch today and it turned out great. Good luck on your own batch! 

Stir sugar into boiling water.



First you have to make Honey Wine, then you make the Cough Elixir. I'm very pleased with the taste. 

Honey Wine:
Honey Wine is used as a basic liquid for medicinal wines and syrups. If prepared well it contains 12-14% alcohol.

Honey** 2.5 liters


Stir for 15 mins at a high boil.

Water 2.25 liters

Fruit juice* 0.25 liters (or 1/4 bottle or 1 cup)

Yeast ½ teaspoon (brewers yeast or normal baking yeast)

 
**If you do not have honey, use sugar (2 kg) with 2.75 liters of water, 0.25 juice, and ½ teaspoon of yeast.

* You can use the juice for any fruit (i.e. mango, orange, lemon). It’s needed to supply the eyast with the minerals needed.

Boil the honey or sugar, water and fruit jice mixture for 15 minutes. Filter and pour into a 5 liter container (preferably glass, otherwise plastic). Leave to cool. Add the yeast.

Yeast is added once wine is cool.

Drill a little hole in the lid of the container adn insert a thin tube (i.e. a tube used for medical infusions). The other end of the tube is inserted into a mug filled with water. This has the effect that the surplus carbon dioxide can escape but no atmospheric oxygen can enter the container and spoil the wine.  

Keep the container in a warm place and shake it gently every day. After 2-3 weeks th efermeneting process is finished. Filter the wine through a clean cloth. Store teh wine in an airtight bottle in a cool, dark place.  

Pound out Eucalyptus leaves.



Cough Elixir:

Honey wine 5 liters

Eucalyptus leaves 250 grams --(dried and pounded)


Mix and keep in a warm place, covered but not tightly closed, for 5 days. Filter and store in airtight bottles in a cool, dark place.   

Dosage:

Adults 1 teaspoon, 3 times daily

Add eucalyptus only when wine is done.

Children 20-40 drops, 3 times daily

Recipe reproduced with permission.

“Natural Medicine in the Tropics” by Dr. Hans Martin Hirt and Bindanda M’pia. Published: by anamed (Action for Natural Medicine), Schafweide 77, 71364 Winnenden, Germany

Website: www.anamed.net 

Baby Maria

Baby Maria is sitting on the bed next to Trish Perkins.

Baby Maria wasn’t an orphan when she came to Maforga --not exactly. Her father is still living, but he’s old. Very old.

A month ago, he brought her swollen body to Roy and Trish and begged them to help. Her mother had just died of AIDS in the village and she was not far behind.

Afflicted with a severe case of kwashiorikor --a form of malnutrition due to protein deficency—she barely moved from the pain in her joints and the swelling in her limbs. It didn’t help any that she was also HIV positive.

When I first met her, she was sitting up and considerably improved. But even though the swelling from the kwashiorikor had subsided, she still struggled to gain weight.

But we were hopeful.

It was hard to tell her age by looking at her though. Had I gone by the look in her eyes, I would have guessed her to be well passed a hundred. But in actuality, she was about 10 months old. The thing was... she weighed little more than a newborn.

Only time would tell if she would improve.

We prayed for her daily while her caregivers pestered her hourly to eat even the smallest of morsels.

I checked on her from time to time. But when I did, I usually found her sleeping. Her eyes closed, her chin tucked, and her twig-like frame lay listlessly on the cot. When I stroked her face, she wouldn’t flinch. When I pressed her hand, she would not make the slightest acknowledgement.

Once she opened her glassy black eyes to look upon her aggressor, but quickly unimpressed she closed them again to rest. What little energy remained was focused on keeping her heart beating... and her lungs full of air.

Day after day, her caregivers spent hours getting her to swallow a few bites of fortified porrige, but even the will to swallow had passed.

She had clearly given up.

Life clung only to the frayed edges of her soul and stirred softly in the ever darkening expression in her eyes. It was clear she was trying to say goodbye.

Everyday she fought a little less. Everyday she drifted a little further away.

Yesterday she died.

Finaly.

Is it wrong of me to feel relieved? Do you think me heartless for it? I’m heartbroken she passed away, but I’m thankful her suffering has ended.

She is the very reason I want to work here –she and her nameless mother.

Why do we have orphans dying of AIDS in Africa? There is no trite and simple answer to that question. There just isn’t.

But roll back the calendar a year and a half to when Maria’s mother first conceived. How much different could her pregnancy and birth have been had she had a midwife to help her in the village? How much healthier could she have been had she taken the retrovirals... or had access to them in the first place?

What if during her birth, her midwife could have reduced the risk of transmission of HIV and Maria had been born free of this corrosive blood sucking virus?

What if... what if...

I’m not saying I have the solution to all the woes of Mozambique. And I’m certainly not saying that I can save them all.

But seriously what is the alternative... to do nothing? –to watch them die slow, emaciated deaths? --to plant their brittle bones in the ground and walk on?

Is that really an alternative?

Please pray with me today. I seriously need your prayers. Right now all the doors seems to be curiously closed to me and what I want to do. Please plead for God to open the doors and grant favor for me to discuss my ideas with the local powers that be.

I need to start somewhere. Why not here?

Chameleon~

When I first caught a glimse of his lime-green cureled tail, I thought he was a lizard pure and simple. But then I saw him move.
Instead of speeding off in a huff, he reach one tentative paw forward and danced it about slowly before he chose where it would land. Every move he made looked as if he were swiming in molasses.

Seeing that I could catch him with ease, I picked him up and placed him on my arm. But he didn’t like that much, and subsequently let out a menacing puff of air meant to deter me.
        --but he failed.

Immediately, his lime-green facade burned browner and large camelflage speckles broke out on his back like a rash.
        --He was mad.

With time, his green hue faded completely and he stayed a steady brown which matched my skin tone expertly. He climped my arm, then dangled precariously on my earring, and eventually landed in my hair.

When the kids saw I had a chameleon peaking out from behind my brouwn curls, they freaked. Only the bravest got close enough to touch him.

Several of the older girls preferred to squeek and squeal at the thought, dancing excitedly about in an effort to shake the germ-infested image from their minds. All I could do was laugh.

Only later would I learn that chameleons hold a special place of fear in Mozambican culture. They are universally feared and hated because of their use in witchcraft. Apparently, witchdoctors use them in ceremonies, placing demon spirits on them.

When I learned this, I prayed for my sweet chameleon to be set free from any curses and I’ve not had any problems with him yet.

He doesn’t seem to want to eat anything though. I brought him a few ants and he just let them walk off. So I brought him a cricket (which I’m told they love), but he has been ignoring it for days.

Anybody know how often a chameleon eats?

Mountain of Confusion.

Saturday I joined some of the Maforga staff for a quick jaunt up the Mountain of Confusion (or in the local tongue Nharo-Nharo). This curiously named mountain is believed to be a spiritual place, and as such is used by witchdoctors to perform ceremonies.

(In fact, due to this spiritual side to the mountain, I’m told many of the locals who have lived here all their lives and never been to its peak; it’s just too scary.)

In addition to its spiritual fear, it also has a very real physical one as well –land mines.

Years ago during the war, Nharo-Nharos’s high elevation made for an ideal look-out spot for rebels. To keep their enemies away, land mines were generously peppered along its slopes. However today, that means there is still the very real danger that unexploded land mines still await anyone foolish enough to tread off the beaten path.

Well, oddly enough witchcraft and land mines didn’t seem to deter our motley crew. There were fourteen of us in all –two Americans, an Aussie, a Brit, a Dutchman, and a medley of missionary kids and orphans.



We made a bit of a scene when we arrived at the mountain’s base. It’s not everyday, I suppose, that 14 people jump out of one truck and march up the steepest slope.

Had I known that we’d be taking the hardest route up the mountain, I would have submitted an official protest, but my one vote would not have mattered much; I am sure.

And had they all known that they’d invited the world’s least fit American up the mountain, they may have pushed me from the truck long before we ever arrived at our destination.
               --But I guess a surprises never hurt anyone, right?

More than once did I see doubt in their eyes as they watched me huff and puff my miserable way up the mountain. I sounded like a winded tea kettle and was equally as hot.

The kids didn’t seem to even notice the near vertical incline; and rarely did the (ridiculously fit and) seasoned missionaries stop in their upward climb; I was the only straggler.

At one point, one of the kids decided to try and walk with me, but I could see she was bored rather quickly. I’d take three steps than stop, huff and puff, turn three shades of red, then take three more steps.
             -- Slow and steady wins the race, right?

It didn’t take us long to reach the top, however, and in the end all my huffing and puffing was worth it. The view was spectacular.

Yellowed under the smoky haze and sparsely planted with trees, the Mozambican landscape stretched out for miles. It vibrated with potential.

It’s a land rich in beauty just begging to burst in green lush-ness… if only the rains would come.



At the top, we had a quick devotion then lunched on egg sandwiches and bananas. Afterward we took pictures and enjoyed the view. But we were not the only ones on top of the mountain; there was a Zionist group there as well.

I am told that the Zionists practice a synchronized religion of Christianity and traditional witchcraft. And naturally, since they believe the ‘high grounds’ get one closer to God, they often go to the Mountain of Confusion to worship.



Coming down the mountain was faster but just as hard as going up. The steep incline made balancing difficult, and many of our group chose to scoot down on their butts. But since the mountain has been scorched (much like the rest of the nation), this meant we arrived soot covered but safe.

All in all, it was a good day. I’m so glad I went.

Missionary Time.

There is a running joke among the staff here that things start and stop on missionary time. The best example of that would be bedtime.

When I first got here, my cruel jet lag insisted I wake at 2:30 a.m., but within a few days I was waking up a the more reasonable hour of 4 a.m. And since naps are often out of the question with all there is to do, that means I’m dead to the world by 8 p.m.

For anyone who knows me well, this reversal in my sleep schedule is massive. I’m a night owl if there ever was one. To think that I’m up with the songbirds and off to bed with the chickens would first make my mother laugh… then (hopefully) make her proud.

My mother is one of those ‘early to bed, early to rise’ kinds, and I’ve always been the opposite. But Mozambique has reset my internal clock, and I’m on Missionary Time now.

Don’t tell my mother… but I kind of like it.

Mozambican Welcome.

As the plane touched ground then bounced down the runway, I soaked up the sights of this new land. From my plexiglass window, the first thing that struck me was the massive amounts of concrete coating everything.

Strange, I know. But there you have it.

This airport had an honest to goodness tarmac! I’m so used to the half-paved and pot-holed messes often found in South Sudan, that I was deeply impressed with this hardened, grey facade.

Once the seatbelt sign switched off, I scrambled out of my seat, grabbed my back-pack, and bumped down the airplane aisle, pushing past the deep blue seats and scattered newspapers on my way.

As I deplaned, my first breath of Mozambique was curiously cold. At a whopping 8 degrees Celsius, I immediately knew I’d packed optimistically light.

I fished my (one and only) sweater from my bag and hugged it tightly around my shoulders. This surprising drop in temperature was welcomed, however, as it has been ages since I’ve been cold.

As I walked to the main terminal the wind picked up, carrying whiffs of petrol, bon fires, and dirt. Later I would learn that even though Mozambique is just finishing up with its winter months (June, July, and August -which are supposed to be wet), the rains never came.

These unusually dry months have yellowed the grass and stripped the trees, leaving the land wind swept and parched. Plus the water table has dropped dangerously low, much like the gloomy smoke-filled haze that sits just above the horizon.

It’s not good --not good at all.

I’m also told this is the ‘Season of Burning’ which is when the locals torch their fields to clear the land for planting. Often these fires take on a life of their own. And sometimes more than the fields are destroyed.

Day after day, I’ve watched Roy our director get calls to inspect reports of fires heading our way. It’s a constant battle. And today, I learned one of our guard’s homes was burned to the ground.

They burn to clear the lands, but they also burn to hunt for rats. At first I thought the rat hunting was to keep them off their lands and out of their food storages, but I was wrong. Apparently, they like to eat them.

Roughly the size of a kitten, these rats dig tunnels underground, and as a result they must be coaxed out of the ground to be caught.

I’ve yet to see one, but I’m not looking forward to the day. Rats of all shapes and sizes have the honor of being the lone item on my phobia list. Frankly, the idea that they are hunted and eaten here locally makes me cringe deep in my gut.

Lord, please. May I never be asked to eat one. Ever. Amen.

Wait... wait.. How did I get on the subject of rats? Forgive me. I’ve digressed in my tale. Let’s see. Where was I? Yes. My arrival in Mozambique. That was my point.

I landed (on tarmac), slipped on my sweater (for the cold), then stood in line for my visa.

The airport official, a short coffee-colored man with smiling eyes, took my index fingerprints, sixty-six dollars, and my picture before he handed me back my passport. In it he’d pasted an elaborate visa (which included my mug shot!) and the words “Visto Republica de Mocambique”.

Passport in hand, I walked excitedly up to the only Muzungus (white people) waiting outside of customs. They were hard to miss.

A taller than average blond with soulful eyes and a pleasant smile wrung her hands as I approached. So I smiled back and asked, “Are you Trish?”

-- “Oh.Yes. I’m Trish,” she started, then signaled for her husband to join her. “This is Roy.”

-- “Great to meet you both! I’m Stephanie.”

-- “Stephanie! Oh good. For the life of us, we couldn’t remember your name. So it’s “Steph-an-ie”?” she asked slowly, stressing my name into three long syllables.

Surprised I blinked a few times, then nodded.

I couldn’t help but wonder at our odd greeting. This couldn’t be a good sign, could it?

As we shook hands and politely chatted about the flight, my mind raced with questions. Had I really just flown half-way around the world to meet up with people who didn’t even know my name? What had I signed up for?

Nevertheless, Roy took my bag and we headed for the truck; we had to get on the road quickly, or we’d run out of daylight. As we drove the 3 hours back to Maforga, Trish regaled me with stories of Mozambique and asked me questions about my work in South Sudan. Roy, being more of the meditative listener, was happy to drive and listen to us talk.

Roy and Trish are celebrities of sorts in these parts. They started the work at Maforga 27 years ago and have seen more than their share of adventures. In the past few days, I’ve watched them juggle so much that it’s easy to see how they could forget silly things like names.

This week they’ve introduced me to the various government and social welfare offices to see about opening a birthing clinic. And if things go well, we’ll meet with the Ministry of Health in the coming weeks. There is even talk of gathering a number of midwives together for a meet and greet.

Please pray for these meetings as they are essential to any future medical work in this country. Naturally, I want God’s perfect will for my future, so I’m asking God to grant me extraordinary favor with the Ministry of Health if I’m to start a work here. But if He wants me to move on, then to close these doors tightly and show me where to go next.

Will you please join me in this prayer?

Also pray for me to meet up with and interview the midwives of the area, as well as a group of women and several of the village pastors. Thanks.

Gracio the Second!

As I write these words, Gracio the Second*, a small bull stomps outside my window. Every now and again, he knocks the wall in his effort to get the blighted grass, chews it slowly, then stomps on.

Brown with crusty splotches on his legs, he is not the prettiest of beasts, but he’s alive.

I’m told that 2 months ago he lay down sick, and the local tongues started wagging. Everyone had something to say, and none of it was good.

“He’s cursed!” “It’s a sign.” “He’ll never recover.”

But instead of growing thinner and breathing his last, he rallied. Five whole weeks after he was supposed to die, he stood up and ate again. And now, he stomps, chomps, and knocks his horns about.

Somehow, I can relate.

It’s been five months since I left South Sudan. At the time, my heart was broken and my nerves were frayed. All I wanted to do was lie down and cry.

Numb and half-crazed, I did not look like much, and I’m sure more than one tongue wagged on my behalf.

“Maybe she should just leave the field.” “Why does she keep going to these awful places?” “Can’t she just get married and settled down like a normal girl?”

But despite the disapproving crowds, God stirred life back in me, and I was able to stand --then walk --and now dance!

Mozambique is far from what I expected. It feels like what you’d get if you mixed Mexico with Uzbekistan... and then planted it in a modern South Sudan.

Let’s just say, it’s not easy to describe. Suffice it to say, that I’m happy to be here. Very happy.

And much like Gracio the Second --the splotchy bull in my back yard-- I’m alive again... by His grace.

I promise to write of the many things I’m seeing, feeling, and experiencing. (Believe me it’s intense!) But for now, let me just sign off with a happy thank you.

Thank you for praying for safe travels and rest. God has been answering your prayers in beautiful ways.

* Gracio means Grace, so his name actually means Second Grace, or Grace the Second.

Labor of Love --Aug 2012

Labor of Love August

Catching Up!

 

In my efforts to catch everyone up on the last few months--yet somehow not bore you with the minutia of my life-- let me just say, this summer has been busy!

When I landed that first day in Pennsylvania --exhausted yet thrilled to be attending my first Midwifery Today conference-- it felt a bit like a dream.

There I was at 2:30 am, trying not to wake my room-mates with my rustling, but no longer able to sleep. The jet lag was still at full force. The desk clerk in the lobby was kind enough to fill me with high-octane coffee while I grappled with the never ending changes about me.

Plush carpets, down comforters, and a neurotically stubborn room-mate who insisted that 79 degrees was WAY too hot to bare, made for a cold (but remarkably comfortable) first week back in the States.

The Midwifery conference classes were insightful --as most were taught by highly skilled midwives and doctors around the globe. I relished the joy of being around other birth-geeks and frankly was on cloud nine.

But like all good things must do, the conference ended. And I returned to the great state of Nevada to be with my church family again.

Time flew by in a blur of hugs, kisses, and manic catching-up time. There was two years worth of chatting to do in a little less than two weeks!

What a blessing to be loved on so well by so many! I absolutely LOVE my church!

However, there is good reason that furlough is referred to as whir-lough by most missionaries. Tornadoes would cause less emotional havoc! (Okay... maybe not. But it’s got to be close!)

After Nevada, my travels took me far --farther than I expected.

In the last few months, I road-tripped out to central and southern California; I rushed off to Utah for a wedding; I trekked to New Mexico to catch up with old friends and make new ones; I flew off to Washington state to soak up some much needed time with friends (but missed out on seeing several others); And then, just as I finished my time in Washington and was planning on another road trip through Oregon, California, and Idaho... my tooth decided to take my mouth hostage by inflicting massive amounts of pain and torture.

I had to capitulate.

This sent me on an emergency visit to Mexico (as I was not about to pay $3000.00 dollars for a root canal in the States!). 

While I was there God moved in so many wonderful ways. My tooth was fixed in record time (and at a fraction of the price), my Mexican citizenship paperwork finally came through, and my Mexican family had a delightful reunion. I was able to see so many people that I haven’t seen in ages... all at the same time!

What a blessing!

Plus, my mother and her husband are church planting in Mexico (in her home town). It was such a beautiful blessing to see how God has built His church over the last few years.

I’m in awe. Truly.

After my stay at my mom’s, God sent me even more south to Oaxaca, Mexico to meet missionary friends working among the indigenes tribes in the mountains and at a birthing clinic in the city.

However the 36 hour bus ride there (coupled with my previous 2 month mad-furlough-dash) left me fried. I needed time to sit and pray and that is exactly what they gave me! I spent the first week resting, praying, eating, and hiding out in a mountain top retreat next to a lake.

What a tremendous blessing!

By the second week, I felt new again so I joined my missionary friends in doing ministry stuff (teaching midwifery classes, assisting at the birthing clinic, and teaching emergency birthing classes in the mountains). My hosts were delightful --to say the least! And I thoroughly fell in love with Oaxaca (pronounced: WA-hock-A for those who (like me) are unfamiliar with the word).

(Plus, I have many funny Mexican stories to tell... those will come shortly.)

Now I’m back in Vegas, preparing to head out to Mozambique in less than two weeks. Each day, I’m more excited about this opportunity than the one before. I do not know yet what God might have me do next... but I am confident that it will be great --for our God is GREAT!

• Please be in prayer with me as I prepare for Mozambique and my upcoming travels (they are long, extended, and a bit hectic).

• Pray for closed doors if I’m not to walk through them (for I’m too stupid to know otherwise!).

• Pray for favor with the government and missionary staff in Mozambique (if I’m to start a work there). 

• I only want to know His will --pray that this season of silence would end.

To hear is to obey.

Mini-Devo:
“And Jehovah came, and stood, and called as at the other times, Samuel, Samuel! And Samuel said, Speak, for thy servant hears” ~ 1 Sam 3:10 NKJV

Oh that I might be like Samuel, “Speak Lord for your servant hears”!

Did you know that the word ‘hears’ in this passage is ‘Qal’ and is an active participle of the verb. It can be translated; to hear, listen to, or obey.

Are you actively hearing, listening, and obeying? I hope so. It is my prayer. May it be yours as well.

Arrested?

(I’m going to hop back in time to the end of March, just as I was leaving Sudan. Forgive me the lapse in time, but hopefully the story will be worth the wait. It's a bit long, so grab a cup of tea first!)

Leaving Sudan that last day was hard, but I had already shed all my tears. So my face was dry.

Our flight left early that morning carrying our pilot, me, two other staff members (Dennis and Margaret), and a handful of Kenyan pastors who had been visiting to teach.

Our first stop was Rumbek --a forty-five minute flight from Tonj and our official exit site for Sudan. With the laws changing we needed to get our visas stamped properly to leave the country. But more than that, it was the perfect occasion to meet up with my Rumbukian friends for one final goodbye and to pick up a necklace that was on back-order.

This necklace was a mixture of plastic rods, Sudanese beads, and bullet shell casings. It epitomized the essence of S. Sudan for me, and I wanted it as one last memento.

Since it was finally ready, my friends met me at the airport with the necklace during my lay-over. I was so pleased with how the necklace had turned out, that I put it on immediately.

Touching it lightly with the tips of my fingers, I smiled to think of this last token of  Sudan, then boarded my flight for Loki --the next stop on our flight home.

After Loki, we boarded another puddle-hopper for Nairobi. As we bounced our way back to Kenya, I noted the even weight of the shells on my neck and smiled. The turbulence was particularly difficult that day, but I didn’t notice it much. My heart was already in too much upheaval from my recent goodbyes.

Since our plane was small it took us longer to get to our destination and we landed late in the evening; the hustle of unloading bags and jostling boxes took my full attention and I didn’t pay attention to the guard motioning to my neck. I just walked on past him to the taxi stand.

Initially I thought he was just admiring my prize and so I nodded my thanks and moved on. But as I waited for my ride to show up, the airport guard brought a policeman up to me and pointed accusatorially at my neck.

Finally the blue-suited officer spoke:
-- “This necklace is offensive. Come with me,” he barked, signaling for me to follow.
-- “Huh?”

Confused how a necklace could be ‘offensive’, I wrinkled my brow and asked him to repeat himself.

And he did just that.

-- “This is offensive. This is very offensive. Come with me,” he continued on. Initially I followed him as he marched with irritated purpose... until he took me behind barred gates.

-- “What is the meaning of this? I’m not going to go with you... my friends are there,” I protested politely, signally to my friends standing by the curb. “I don’t understand the problem.” 

Thin-lipped to begin with, he proceeded to pinch his lips into even tighter lines until they all but disappeared. Then he pointed at my necklace with disdain and said, “This is offensive. This is offensive!” He was starting to sound like a broken record.

“This is absurd,” I laughed. “I’ll take it off if it is offensive,” I said, turning my back to him and walking back to my friends. By the time I reached them, the ‘offensive’ object was removed and in my pocket.

I figured that I’d committed some kind of social gaff, and was trying to politely cover up my blunder. But by the time I got back to my portion of the curb, Mr. Thin Lips was at my heels.

-- “You have to go to the police station!” he insisted, pointing to a concrete building around the corner.
-- “What?” I sputtered. “Why?”

It’s at this point my driver, then Dennis, then two of the pastors on my flight all chimed in on my behalf. As they warbled in Kiswalhili, I tuned them out. All I could think of was how ridiculous Kenya was... yet again.

I mean... come on. I’d taken off the ‘offensive’ article. What was the big deal?

By this time the thinned-lipped officer was now red --as red as his charcoal complexion permitted. And as time lapsed, his color deepened.

With more annoyance than fear, I watched my friends banter and beg. They seemed scared for me, but for the life of me I couldn’t understand why.

Eventually, Mr. Thin Lips climbed into our taxi --AK47 cradled in his arms-- and escorted us to the police station. Everyone around me looked stressed, but all I felt was annoyed. This was too much pompous chicken scratching in the dirt for one day. I mean, come on. I’d already taken off the necklace. What else did they want?

The station was literally around the corner and we got there in no time. As we piled out of the taxi, I still couldn’t figure out the hubbub. And... I was too tired to care.

Three steps and we entered the police station only to be greeted by three more thin-lipped Blue Suits. My accuser then confiscated my necklace and handed it to his comrades.
    --Seriously, what was his deal?

He held it high like a prized medallion for all his friends to see. Five copper bullet casings interspersed with plastic and ceramic bobbles hung accusatorially... but I still couldn’t figure out why.

First my friends spoke in my defense. But they switched so quickly between Kiswalhili and English that I could not follow the conversation. But what I did grasp was that they wanted to fine me... no... they wanted to put me in jail.

It’s at this point, I took a step back and watched. What was I missing?

All the while, my heart was calm. I didn’t feel the slightest bit stressed by it all. If they wanted to put me in jail, I’d go. Seriously, what did I care? As best as I could see, this was just another shake down for a bribe.

My necklace exchanged hands a few more times, while the story starting shifting. Only when they started threatening my Kenyan friends with culpability did I perk up. One officer kept insisting that Dennis was Kenyan and therefore should have know about my offensive act. Perhaps he should be fined instead.

It’s at this point things finally clicked in my brain, and I started reinterpreting the conversation in my head.

“Offensive must mean something else in Kenya,” I thought to myself. But the only definition that I could conclude by the circumstances was “Illegal”.

So I inserted “illegal” where they said “offensive”, and it all fell together. They wanted to arrest me, put me in jail, then fine me for bringing in illegal contraband into their country.

Duh!

How could I be so dense? No wonder they were all stressed and I was not!
    -- Ignorance truly is bliss!

Once I realized I was smuggling in contraband, I was even more willing to go to jail. Honestly, part of me was curious what it’d be like. I’ve never been to jail in the States before... why not go to one in Kenya!

But I didn’t tell them I wanted to go to jail. Instead, I interrupted the long discussion with a slight raise of my hand.

-- “Excuse me. May I speak now?” I asked as humbly as I could. The room quieted down to hear what I had to say, and the main Blue Suit motioned for me to speak.

-- “I am so sorry. I am not from here, and I am just now starting to understand,” I began. “I realize now that I’ve done something illegal, is that right?” I stressed the word ‘illegal’ and locked eyes with my accusers. They nodded, a bit relieved that this silly American was finally clueing in to the severity of the situation. 

-- “Also, I must sincerely apologize to you, Sir,” I said motioning to Mr. Thin Lips. “I am so very sorry I did not understand that ‘offensive’ meant ‘illegal’. Had I known I would never have disobeyed you.”

I meant every word.

-- “Sirs, please tell me. What do I need to do to fix this?” This one question settled the room instantly and they switched back to Kiswalhili.

Although we’d already wasted over an hour in discussion by this point, it looked as if I had not yet spoken to everyone; I still needed to speak to the head hancho. It’s at this point I was ushered into the back office to meet their chief.

The room was large but crowded with an oversized conference table, a dozen metal chairs, and a clunky desk. Behind the desk sat a opened-faced man in his forties. He greeted me kindly, indicating the chair before him. And I sat down. 

-- “You know this is very offensive in our country,” he explained with a slight smile. I nodded then apologized again.
-- “Yes. I understand that now. I would never have brought it here if I had known. Please forgive me.” I felt complete peace while we spoke.
-- “Even having one of these shells gives me permission to fine you 10,000 shillings and put you in jail,” he explained clearly. “You have five of them!”
-- “Yes. I do. I am so sorry.”
-- “If I put you in jail, you will have to be here all weekend,” he explained, watching my face while he spoke. “The judge must see your case,” he continued, “and he does not appear until next Monday.”

It was Friday evening. That meant I’d be spending the weekend in jail. I didn’t love the idea... but again. I didn’t mind if I had to go. God would work it out. I had utter peace.

Then he hesitated a bit, so I spoke.
-- “Is that what you want to do?” I asked him kindly. “You tell me. I am a foreigner here. I will do whatever you say. How do I fix this?”

He laughed out loud at this point, and sat back in his chair. As we studied each other, he continued to explain that if he put me in jail, I’d be there all weekend. I think he wanted me to understand the severity of the situation. I assured him that I did.

I listened intently, willing and ready to serve the time for my crime. I told him that if he thought that was necessary, then that was necessary. Then I smiled.

I wasn’t interested in losing my necklace... but I figured that it was long gone by this time. Instead I focused on whether or not I’d be spending the weekend in jail.

I couldn’t tell if he was waiting for a bribe or not. So I continued to smile and waited.

He just looked at me again, laughed, then changed the conversation.
-- “Why would you wear a necklace like this?” he joked, holding the necklace up for us both to admire.
-- “I find it very beautiful. I paid a lot of money for it,” I said sweetly.
That just made him laugh harder.
-- “Why would you pay money for this?” he said with mock surprise.
-- “It’s a beautiful reminder of Sudan. Don’t you see how beautiful it is?”

He laughed whole-heartily by this point, looking back and forth between me and the necklace. I could see he was still not convinced, but there was no denying... he was thoroughly entertained.

He hesitated a few seconds then finally said: “I will not arrest you. Instead I will take all your bullet shells and you will take your beads.”

I nodded that such an agreement was more than fair... then he proceeded to pull my necklace apart.

I was sad to lose my necklace within hours of buying it.... but I was more relieved not to spend the weekend in jail.

With string, beads and plastic bobbles in hand, I stood and thanked him for his kindness, shook his hand briefly, then turned to leave.

With my hand on the doorknob, I turned to tease him one last time. “Make sure you don’t make a necklace with those shells!” I joked “Your wife will not appreciate it!” 

Our eyes met and I held my breath for his response. 

We locked eyes a moment and then he laughed so loud it echoed down the hall and into the lobby. On my way out his officers asked what happened and I explained, “He took my shells and gave me my beads. I can go now.”

I walked toward the door confidently, but my friends hesitated to follow.

Once we were back in the car, Margaret asked, “Did you have to pay a bribe?”
-- “No. He did not ask me for one.”
-- “But...” she hesitated again, “they cannot ask. You have to just offer.”
-- “Well then, no. I did not offer. I was willing to go to jail.” She looked at me in disbelief, so I continued. “I was NOT willing to pay any bribes. I think he realized that and just let me go.”

Only once we were well on our way, did it occur to me how annoyed my friend had been. Apparently, my stubborn refusal to go with the officer, my initial denial of all guilt, and my insistence that he not take my necklace away... had put them in quite the bind. So I apologized.

I really was sorry I’d upset them... but I wasn’t sorry for the experience.

One thing’s for sure... the next time a Kenyan accuses me of being ‘offensive’, I’ll know what he means!

Gnarly-faced Second Cousin.

So as strange as this might seem to read... I’m baaa-aack!

Yes. It’s been ages since I’ve had something to say.

Yes. I’ve been terribly negligent of all things written and read.

Yes. Many of you have probably moved on to better and more interesting places.
    --And if so, that’s great.

But for those die-hards out there just waiting for me to find my voice again.

Achemmm. Mi-mi-mi-mi... Counting. One. Two.... Counting. Three.

It’s found!

Before I start rambling about the amazing things I’ve seen, tasted, heard, and done in the last few weeks --achem.. I mean months-- let me explain my silence.

One: Purpose.

This blog was created for my prayer warriors and supporters to know where I am, what I’m doing, and how to be in prayer. Thus explaining the many stories of my adventures and need for prayer over the years.

But for reasons I’ll get into shortly, this summer has been different. Although there have been many adventures, I didn't know how to share them. Plus, I was unable to write about them while huddled in a fetal position moaning --thus leading me to my second reason.

Two: PTSD

I’m a missionary, but I’m far from perfect. I struggle like you. I fail like you. I hurt like you. And the chaos of leaving Sudan, coming back to the States, and having to change missions organizations was in many ways too much for me to bear.

“Why is it so hard this time?” I kept asking myself. But no answers came. Just silence.

It was only by the second month of my return that it occur to me that the reason I struggled to unfurl from the fetal position was because of PTSD (otherwise known as: Post-traumatic stress disorder). But even after knowing the cause, how could I fix it?

Was I broken forever? Would I have to leave the field? Why couldn’t I make a decision? Why couldn’t I feel anything anymore? Why did I hate talking about Sudan?

I didn’t have any answers. Nor did I find many who could help.

Plus there was the shame factor.

How could I suggest that I was dealing with the same kind of stress of our honored soldiers did? I never walked through war? I didn’t suffer bombings; I didn’t struggle against insurgents. In fact, most of my time in S. Sudan was uneventful and even... peaceful. Nothing horrible happened, so why would I struggle so much? How could it be PTSD?

It was a mystery to me.

Nevertheless, what I experienced this summer was far from culture shock. It was culture shock on speed. It left culture shock in the dust. This gnarly-faced, steroid-infused, toothless, inbred, back-woods, second cousin of culture shock took me for a ride and left me reeling.

But by His grace...  the ride finally ended.

I can think again; I can feel again; I can write again. So here I am, writing to say Thank You.

Thank you for praying for me. Thank you for caring for me. Thank you for allowing me the time to send this ‘back-woods second cousin’ packing.

And with him gone... I’ve found my voice again.

So expect more stories soon. Very soon.

Labor of Love July 2012 Newsletter

Labor of Love July 2012

Labor of Love: June 2012

Labor of Love -June 2012 1

"Missing" --Video on Maternal Mortality

“Missing” A message about maternal mortality from Big Yellow Taxi on Vimeo.

Labor of Love -- May 2012

Labor of Love May 2012

Home?

For those of you who think I've fallen off the edge of the earth... be reassured. I'm alive and well. I'm currently soaking up two years worth of hugs in my old stomping grounds of Mesquite, Nevada.

It's good to be back in the States, but I honestly can't call it "Home". I laugh to myself when someone asks how it feels to finally be "home".

Home?

I'm baffled by the question, really. I tend to hesitate a bit before answering, almost as if I don't trust myself to speak. 

"Home? Here? Oh, you mean how does it feel to be back in the States?" I clarify.

They nod excitedly, often expecting me to tell them all the wonderful things I missed.
But I can't lie. I've missed nothing. Nothing that the States has to offer... except my family and friends.

Usually, I answer their question with a smile and say, "I'm so happy to see you again. I missed you. Being with you feels like home!"

It's the truth. I no longer feel at home in America. My friends and family are what draw me here. America can keep its cushy couches, air conditioned cars, and fancy fandangled coffee makers. I can happily do without.

Yes. I'm American by birth, but my citizenship is in heaven. My passport may say USA... but I still find Sudanese sand in my shoes.

Even as I write these words, I'm reminded that my lack of connection is just another symptom of my reverse-culture shock.

I confess, it's much worse this time.

Please pray that I'm able to enjoy my time in the States, and reconnect with what really matters --family and friends. Thanks.