First Step.

A journey of a thousand miles always starts with that first step.

And my journey --of opening this clinic in Moz-- has begun.

Finally.

The first step is complete.

I have the signature! (And I did not have to pay a bribe to get it!!!!)

I can open!

As I look back over all the waiting, praying, pushing, and crying I’ve done in the process of taking this first step, I’m both horrified and relieved.

I knew starting a work in Moz would not come easily. But with God’s promises that it would (eventually) come, I held on.

I’d be lying if I said that through these long, strange months my faith was always strong.

More often than not, I was shaken.

I have been discouraged... and often frustrated.

        Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!

But now as I lift my other foot and stretch it in faith for the next step, my heart soars in gratitude.

        Praise Him! He is faithful!

He guides my steps. He goes before me and behind. He surrounds me in His love!

So what now?

Great question.

Now I have to take 4 more steps.

1. I need a document called an AVORA, which will allow me to purchase medicines for the clinic. (I started this process today!)
2. Then I need to restart my ‘equivilencia’ process which will allow me to legally practice as a midwife. (I’ll have to go back to Maputo for this... pray for the right timing.)
3. I’ll also need to start actively interviewing nurses and putting ads on the radio station for interviews. (I’m not sure when to do this. Pray for wisdom!)
4. Lastly, I’ll need to finish all the unfinished construction projects at the clinic to make it inspection worthy. (Because this takes SO LONG, I’m starting this process today. I will be interviewing a new construction crew to help me complete it faster. Pray for discernment and enough funds for the projects.)

Thank you awesome prayer warriors! Thank you faithful friends! Thank you!

Keep praying.

Labor of Love: May 2014

   Labor of Love- May 2014

Labor of Love: April 2014

   Labor of Love- April 2014.pdf

Labor of Love: March 2014

   Labor of Love March 2014

My Papers.

This week has been ... well... interesting.

To say the least.

I went to Maputo in search of answers. My papers. I needed my papers. The broken record in my head stutters over these two simple words.

My papers.

You, who have followed my adventures these last few months, know well that I’m in need of My Papers to open the clinic. But I have not explained what it means and why it’s so important.

Forgive me for that.

Now is the time to explain.

I’ll try to be brief.

Last October, it dawned me that I’d have to get my midwifery degree approved in Mozambique in order to practice. So I stumbled through the paperwork process, trying to decipher the litany of stamps, translations, and certifications needed to submit it.

My Portuguese was not as good then ( 6 months ago), and I was uncertain as to how to proceed. But I eventually mustered through them.

However as I tried to submit them locally, the Minister of Education encouraged me to instead go directly to the source --Maputo.

“Everything is done in Maputo”, he said looking highly distracted. “You’ll save months of waiting if you do it there.”

Why? Was he just too lazy to help? Or was he right?

I wasn’t sure. But I decided to believe him and so sent my documents with a friend to Maputo.

But once in Maputo, my friend was scolded for having done them wrong and was informed they’d have to be redone to include an even longer list of criteria.

So I went back to the drawing board, reworked them, and then submitted them again. But this time I went in person.

Unfortunately, I’d lost a good month in the process.

But even after re-working them like mad, I’d apparently done it wrong again. I had to stay several days running around Maputo finding even more stamps, photocopies, and signatures.

Not easy.

(Since I was at it, I decided to get both my diplomas recognized and submitted my Theology degree alongside my Midwifery degree.)

After a number of days, they finally accepted my documents, instructing me to return in a week to follow up.

-- “Really?”, I asked in excitement. “They’ll be done in a week?”

The woman behind the counter looked at me like I’d been hit with the stupid stick more than once and hissed lowly, “No. But come back anyway. We might have problems with your application and need you to fix it.”

-- “But I live 17 hours drive away,” I pleaded. “I cannot come back next week.”

Not even trying to hide her annoyance, she suggested: “Just stay in a hotel then, and come back next week.”

-- “Hotels are too expensive...” I argued on stupidly, “I’m a missionary. I cannot afford to live in Maputo for a week only to be told if my application is correct or not. Can’t you give me a number to call so I can follow up from my province?”

Sighing in a deeper annoyance than before she spat, “No!”, adding tersely, “You’ll just have to come back in a month!” Then she quickly turned her gaze to the woman standing behind me, stack of papers in hand, and asked, “Neeexxxt?”

I left a bit dismayed by her attitude, grumbling the words “Functionary!” under my breath. But I couldn’t help but feel relieved. After two months of sweating over these documents, they were finally submitted!

A month went by... and I returned to check on the papers.

The 17 hour bus ride there was not easy. Cramped. Hot. Stinky. But I made it back to this nation’s capital intact and ready for anything.

Well... almost anything.

I didn’t know I was so doggedly optimistic about getting approved, until I walked into the same small office and found the same disgruntled functionary behind the desk.

When she told me that neither of my degrees had been decided on yet and that I should come back in another month, I balked.

This was during a time of rebel activity and it had been unsafe for me to travel by bus in the first place. Rebels were bombing vehicles along one stretch of the road... and I could not keep coming back only to be told to wait... and wait some more.

-- “Can’t you, please, just give me a number to call?” I begged. Then I explained the distance and insecurities of travel for a single woman.

She seemed more inclined to help me this time. And after some deliberation, finally agreed to give me the number for their office.

I thanked her, then left that night. The 17 hours it took for me to return was starting to get a bit easier. I made friends along the way. I took in the sights. I was even able to sleep sitting up.

But once back home each time I called to follow up, no one answered the phone. This went on for weeks... a month.

Finally, frustrated and annoyed now, I returned once again to Maputo.

When I walked into the cramped office for a third time in so many months, I was deeply annoyed that the woman seemed smug. She asked a bit haughtily, “Aren’t you the one from Chimoio?”

-- “Yes. That’s me,” I said trying to keep the distain from my voice.
-- “Why are you here?” she asked pleasantly. “I thought you were going to call? Didn’t you say last time it was unsafe for you to travel?”
-- “Yes. It is unsafe to travel... but I didn’t have any choice,” I explained. “Each time I called, the phone just rang and rang. Then after some time, it said that it was not connected.”
-- “That can’t be,” she protested. “You must have been dialing the wrong number.”

I repeated the number to her and she nodded that it was correct, looking confused.

Another woman, sitting further back behind stacks of folders popped her head around to throw in her two cents. “It must be your phone,” she argued. “Try calling it now.”

I did as I was asked and my phone flashed once again that it was an invalid number. I showed it to her, not hiding my smug expression. Did she really think I didn’t know how to make a call?

Then I watched her pick up the phone, switch it on underneath, then insist I call it again. I did what she asked and found the number rang.

Sigh.

The phone of a whole department had been turned off --literally turned off!-- for a month.

Oh! Mozambique!

Okay... okay.... I know I’m taking a bit longer than I expected. I guess I have more to say than I realized.

Please bare with me. I have more... but not much.

Long story short, I was informed once again that my papers had not been done and that I’d have to return. But this time, they gave me two numbers to dial instead of one.

Dejected and more than a little frustrated, I journeyed home to once again report nothing had been done.

But by this time my relationship with local Ministry of Health official was better, and he decided to help me push this through.

So when it came time to call again for a answers, he called for me.

But would you believe it... both numbers they gave me were false! Neither worked even though his secretary called every few hours for two days.

He did not seem surprised.

-- “You’ll just have to go back again,” he told me with a sad shake of his head.
-- “Really?” I sighed. “There is no way for you to get different numbers?” I knew I was reaching, but I had to ask.
-- “Nope,” he sighed back with genuine sympathy, “Sorry...”
-- “Okay... but what can I do differently?” I asked desperately, “Can you offer any advice?”

He hesitated, rocked back on his chair, then smiled. “Yes, I can offer you some advice.”

Then he quickly explained the ‘White skin factor’ of such delays and encouraged me to get the secretaries’ boss involved. The plan was simple. Go over their heads... but do it politely.

Bus trip number four.

Still cramped. Still stinky. Still hot. But somehow easier... almost routine.

This final time was earlier this week. I managed my trip so I could walk in to the cramped office bright and early on Monday morning.

The functionaries were rushing about and obviously busier than usual. Once it was my turn, I was told to wait a bit while they searched for my file.

I waited... and waited.

And waited.

I wasn’t annoyed though as I could see they were systematically flipping through a long wall of file cabinets, and asking others to help search.

An hour went by and she finally called me up to the desk.
-- “Your file is lost,” she almost whispered.
-- “Lost?” I asked incredulously, cocking my eyebrow up for emphasis.
-- “Please give us today to keep searching,” she pleaded in hushed tones. “If you give me your number, I’ll call you once it’s found.”

I gave her my number out of curtesy never once believing she’d call. Then I added, “But either way, I’ll be here tomorrow morning for my file.” The warning in my voice was clear.
She nodded gravely and I left.

The next morning, I arrived to find that they had not even searched again. Asked to take a seat and wait, I watched two men slowly make their way through folders stacked in clumsy piles amid battered boxes.

Another hour went by.

And I prayed and prayed....

Sometimes I prayed that my files would be found.... but mostly I prayed that I would not reach over the desk and gouge out the functionary’s dark eyes.

Yes. I know. Not very kind of me. But true.

I didn’t want to shame Jesus by even using a harsh tone in my voice.... so I guess it’s a good thing I had an hour to pray!

Eventually, I heard her call for ‘Stephan’ (most Mozambicans forget to add the last syllable) and I jerked my head up in response. Our eyes met and she called me over.

-- “This is one response,” she said dryly, handing me a stamped paper. “You’ll have to sign here,” she added, pointing to the top of the page, “to say that you’ve received it.”

My heart jumped. Was this it? Had I finally done it?!

My eyes scanned the paper.... something didn’t seem right. So I read it quickly, my heart sinking as the bold script screamed denied.

Denied?

I read it again. And again...

It was my Theology degree results. They refused to recognize it, claiming my school was not accredited.

“Hogwash!” I thought to myself but I didn’t say that. Instead, I nodded that I understood and signed where she had indicated.

I had been sure my Theology degree would be approved. Sure! The fact it hadn’t honestly frightened me. Could this be? Would they really deny my education? Not possible!

Once I calmed down a bit, I stared at her with determination until she met my eyes again. She looked uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable.

I think she expected some kind of argument.

But I didn’t argue. I didn’t really care about my Theology degree. What mattered was my midwifery degree. What were the results there?

-- “What about my other degree?” I asked flatly.
-- “They are not done yet.”
-- “Not done?” I asked incredulously. “But it has been over four months!”

She looked dejected but somehow also sorry for me, then said, “I don’t know, Senhora.”

A long pregnant pause.

She made no effort to explain or apologize further so I leaned in closer.

-- “Very well,” I said calmly, “In that case, I’ll need to speak with your boss.” This is what my minister friend had instructed me to do.

She didn’t even bat an eyelash. Instead she nodded gravely, called an office assistant over, and instructed him to take me to the boss immediately.

Ten minutes later I was sitting at the boss’ desk, appealing for help. At first he seemed irritated with my requests for aid, but with time his frosty demeanor warmed.

-- “Please, Senhor,” I pleaded. “I really need your help... four months for an answer seems too long. Something is wrong.”

He hesitated, seemingly puzzled as to what to do, so I waited for him to think it through. But even then, he flipped it back on to me.

-- “What should I do?” he asked innocently. I honestly wanted to laugh in response. Was he really asking me how to do his job?

Seriously?

Sigh.

I told him what I thought was to be done. He listened kindly. I continued on, detailing possibilities and options. He thought about them, distractedly shuffling papers about his desk.

Then I sat silently and waited.

A few minutes later, a decision was made and he enthusiastically went about getting it done.

First it started with curt orders to the secretaries. “Write this and that! Sign it there!”

Then it was fruitless phone calls to the other departments. “Why don’t they answer? Call again!”

Then it was long explanations of detailed plans to make it happen, all his secretaries listening intently and nodding deferentially.

Finally, he turned to me and promised answers the following day.

I thanked him and left.

But the following day, the secretaries barely looked at me entering before they called for another office assistant to take me to the Boss.

This was not looking good. The dread in my stomach ate acidly up my throat.

Gulp.

Was this going to be another denial? Would I have nothing to show for this 6 months of labor but a bad story? Really?

Once in his office, I tried to smile but failed. I could only coax my lips to press in a tight straight line -- the dread barely caged behind my teeth.

Before he spoke, he shook his head in disgust almost as if in warning. A full minute passed while he busied himself with a stack of papers needing signatures.

I waited silently, not trusting my teeth to hold back the dread.

But when he spoke, I was relieved to learn that I was not denied --not yet at least. No.... in fact, it was more a matter of incompetence. And he was not happy to admit one of his departments had dropped the ball.

-- “Senhora Stephanie,” he started, “The paper was sent to the medical university for approval.” I nodded. He continued, “They didn’t know what to do with it and refused to decide.” I nodded on but a look of confusion clouded my eyes and furrowed my brow.

-- “What do you mean?” I asked.

-- “They referred your degree to the specialist department of the medical university for review. But they never actually took it there. So... it’s been sitting on someone’s desk for over a month and a half. Just sitting there!”

I was flattered by the indignant tone in his voice. He seemed as upset about it as I was. They had obviously dropped the ball.

-- “I’ve managed to get it sent to the right department yesterday, but you’re going to need to push it from Chimoio.”

I listened, nodding periodically. He spoke so quickly and used such high Portuguese that I was at a loss several times. Fortunately, his irritation caused him to repeat himself often. Eventually, I got it.

He instructed me on the best way to proceed, but it requires lots of favor. Lots. This is where you all come in. I need your prayers.

I am now back in Chimoio, and tomorrow I head in to speak with my friend at the Ministry of Health. I have to ask him to get involved again, but this time I need him to do more than make phone calls.

I’m not sure what he’ll say. Frankly, I’m worried. We have a good relationship, but I now have to ask him to send a delegate from the Min. of Health in Maputo to lean on the Min. of Education medical department in Maputo.

This apparently is the only way it’ll happen. Sigh.

But more than that... the hang up seems to be more about me being “Just” a midwife. I need his delegate to explain what an expert midwife is. They don’t have a category for one here it would seem. And I need to ask them to make a new category.

I might as well be asking for the moon.

If not, the likelihood of me being denied is high. Too high for my comfort.

My heart doesn’t know what to think. My brain just turns circles. My body would like to scream... or maybe run away screaming.

Yeah. That.

I want to run away screaming while my head turns and my heart bursts silently.

Okay... that might be a bit much. Actually, I’m mostly at peace... with periodic bouts of panic.

If you would... if you would only please, pray for:
-- My relationship with the Min. of Health to be strong enough for me to ask for the moon.
-- My diploma to be approved as is... or a new category to be made for me if need be.
-- For this labyrinth of paperwork to finally come to a close. I’m dizzy from all the blind alleys and dead ends.

Thanks.

I love you awesome prayer warriors!

Urgent Prayer.

Tonight I take a bus to Maputo. The goal? My papers (equivalencia) needed to open the clinic. They are still not ready and the secretaries at the ministry of education have quite literally turned off their phone. There is no way to check up on them, except in person.

I'm sick of waiting and waiting...

While discussing this long delay with our local minister of health recently, he clearly explained they were waiting for a bribe.

-- "They see your white skin and think, 'If I hold on to her papers, she'll have to pay up!'", adding with clear disappointment in his voice, "It should take no longer than 15 day."

-- "Fifteen days? Really?" I asked with incredulity, remembering how the secretaries were adamant it could take a few months. I've been waiting for four months already.

-- "Yes," he went on to explain. "By law, it should be only 2 weeks."

-- "What should I do? They aren't answering the phone... even for you?" I pleaded.

-- "You must go in person, ask to see their director, and not leave until it is arranged. I'm sure it's sitting in their desk drawer."  He then detailed the kind of formal request needed to follow up on such incompetence. He was clear and specific -- so much so that I feel encouraged.

So tonight I start my journey South. Please pray with me for favor... much favor. Please ask God to release these papers and allow me to open the clinic. Please pray for my words and my body language to be kind when I know it's just corruption and greed I face.

We fight not against flesh and blood, right?

Please fight with me in prayer. Much prayer.

I'll keep you posted.

City Market...

The murky puddled road forced the crowd to line up and slowly hop --ginger footed-- from muddy patch of squishiness to oozing mound of trash.

Peaking up now and again to take in the mass of bright bins and bobbles tucked tightly under rickety stands still dripping from the morning rains, I marched on with them passing neatly stacked Chinese soap atop cigarettes and phone chargers.

Pushing past the young boy selling plastic bags and the woman underfoot selling piles of peanuts from bamboo baskets, I found myself in ‘Tennis Shoe’ plaza.

Used sneakers and Keds, scrubbed and polished until painfully bright under the noon sun, sat high on wooden pallets waiting for the next shoeless Joe to come ‘buy’.

Three large women with highly oiled mocha skin, watched me with interest from the alley over.
-- “Come and buy from us... blankets? Baby clothes?” one called over the din. 
-- “Ya! Come sista!” another offered, “Look!”

I tried to ignore them, sneaking my sunglasses higher on the bridge of my nose, as if this would hide me. But hiding is not so easy; this pale, freckled face cannot be hid by glasses.

Instead, I hopped over to the third alley, turning instinctively left into the shade. The afternoon heat chased me deeper in until the open-air alleys morphed into concrete stands, sporting poorly painted bars pushed back for business.

Each over-stuffed stand pedaled more wares, but I couldn’t see much until my pupils adjusted. I was evidently now in ‘Electronic alley’.

Old VCRs stacked precariously upon dated T.V.s, each blared out competing channels at the highest volumes possible. I sped past the yelling boxes only to find myself assaulted by more.

Deftly hidden radios screamed from blown speakers under a table of pirated movies, carefully sandwiched in individual clear pochettes.

Despite the crackled screaming urging me on, I hesitated to inspect the wares. Dozens of faded photos of obscure ‘B’ movies compiled in multi-movie deals waited my approval. Only 3 dollars.

I smiled and turn quickly away before the vendor made eye contact. I didn’t want to have to scream my disinterest over the neighboring stalls.

The angry noise chased me on... and on. Speeding forward as fast as my soaked sandals would take me, I suddenly found myself free.

Whoo-shh!

I stood for a moment --squinting again in the glaring light and concentrating on quieting my heart. It raced chaotically in my chest.

I had to take two deep breaths before I could move on... and before the blood racing in my ears finally slowed.

Leaving the broken speakers around a bend, I zigzagged backwards down another alley.

Bottles of badly stored white wines and suspicious looking brandies lined the whole right side. So, I trained my eyes on the left.

Sadly, there was not much to see. More neatly stacked pallets, selling hair bands, tooth paste, and hair extensions.

I walked on half-heartedly focusing on the state of my shoes more than the shops until two large, neatly polished pool tables caught my eye.

They seemed somehow out of place.

A handful of young men --pool sticks mid-shot-- stopped to silently survey my passing. As I finally turned the corner, I could hear them snickering loudly.

Perhaps, I was the one out of place. 

This new alley was immediately different. Narrower than the rest, it forced me to line up in a slow moving conveyor belt of flesh. On mass, we weaved down it slowly, trying not to knock anything over.

Just over the shoulder of the woman in front of me, I could see a heavy set woman washed rice off plates in two sudsy buckets. Further on, another woman grilled chicken wings over low glowing coals. She had to fan them with cardboard to keep them hot.

More puddles. More holes.

I inched on to come face to face with a man, his face unmasked with surprise, scrubbing pots. Another man, crouched low on his heels, eyes downcast, looked to be sleeping... or passed out. He didn’t move at all when I stepped gingerly over his outstretched legs.

The noon-day grumble in my belly begged me to stay --to enjoy the chicken-- but no one welcomed me with their eyes. So, I walked on, immediately missing the delicious aromas as a slight breeze carried them off.

I hesitated at the end of the alley. I wasn’t sure if I had already passed this way. But as I stood dully at the alley exit, the conveyor belt continued to spit out person after person behind me.

They excused themselves politely as they passed, even though I was the one being rude.

Sigh.

I looked left but it didn’t seem promising. Boarded up and empty, it seemed ominous for some reason. I looked right and noticed that the human flow of flesh seemed to be moving that way.

I followed.

But the crowd emptied me back into ‘Tennis Shoe’ plaza and so I stopped again. I didn’t want it to end. I wasn’t ready to leave.

So I turned around, searching the cul-de-sac carefully for something. Anything.

A capulana (traditional cloth) shop, tucked off to one side, caught my eye. I’d missed it on my first pass.

Sauntering up, I searched the hanging fabrics for turquoise material. I had clinic curtains to make.

A lovely turquoise and white capulana jumped out and beckoned me to speak.

-- “The blue and white one... Can I see it?” I asked the expectant face in the shade.

He pulled it free from the shelf and unfolded it carefully. A smile on his face. The pattern was inviting, accented with a swerving splash of brown. I loved it immediately but twisted my lower lip in hesitation.

-- “Do you have any rolls of this material... ones that are not already cut?” I asked, feigning disinterest. 

At the prospect of selling so much, he eagerly patted the stacks of fabric but did not find what he needed.

-- “Wait one second...” he gently instructed with another smile, then disappeared into the back.

Returning quickly, clearly pleased with his efforts, he held out a neatly folded pile of brown, turquoise, and white.

Perfect.

I smiled my delight, pulling out my wallet. The deal was sealed.

Material now stuffed in the oversized purse I carried, I ventured slowly back out of the market. I was sad it was at its end.... I missed the buzz and the smells. I missed the bright bobbles and muddy alleys. And my stomach sadly missed the chicken.

But mostly, I was sad because I’d left my camera at home.

I’d be back. And next time, I’d be ready.

Labor of Love: Feb 2014

   Labor of Love- Feb 2014 by Stephanie Williams

These days...

These past few weeks have flown by in a flash. The workers I hired are indeed working out well and as a result the clinic... and most importantly the chicken project... is well under way.

On that topic, I'm happy to say the chickens should arrive in a week and a half. I confess, I'm a bit nervous; I'm told they are a bit temperamental to raise. I guess we'll see if this is true. In time.

The clinic was making leaps and bounds... but now it's inching forward. This is due in no small part to the fact the electricity has been out for days.

It's surprising how many activities require electricity to complete!
The ceiling tiles can't be hung, because we need the drill.
The wood for the ceiling can't be cut, because the saw needs juice. 
The curtains for the clinic can't be sown, since the sowing machine is electric.
The curtain rods... also need the drill... etc. etc.
You get the idea. 

The worst part for me is the pump can't run, which means we have no clean water. Plus, the open well was left uncovered and a bunch of frogs died in it.

Yep. Dead frogs floating in it.

Fortunately, the same storm that knocked out the electrical transformer in the region, has been sitting over us for four days. So this means we have rain water... it's just full of leaves and the like.

That means my dishes and clothes have been washed in rain water. The toilets are flushed with rain water. And soon, once I get stinky enough, I'm going to wash this mud-crusted body as well. I just hate the thought of being so cold!

Truly, I'm starting to think I'm allergic to the cold!

Pray the electricity gets sorted soon. Thanks!

Labor of Love January 2014

   Labor of Love Jan 2014

Maforga Christmas Play

Christmas is quite the tradition here at Maforga! Each year a Christmas play is written and produced by someone new... and this year Jose, one of the older orphans, chose to do it. (You can see Jose holding the papers behind the red chair in the photo above. He was narrator to this year's play.)

Above you see the angels singing before the creation of the world, then there was the story of Adam and Eve's fall in the garden... and how sin entered the world.

 Afterwards, Isaiah (as seen in blue above) prophesied of the coming Messiah.

Then the story of Mary's visit from Gabriel, the journey of Joseph and Mary to Bethlehem, and Jesus' birth! When He was born (someone handed our youngest orphan, Abraham, through the back of the curtain and a huge cheer rippled through the spectators. So fun!)

Then Joseph and Mary presented Jesus in the temple. Aren't they adorable? During this dedication of Jesus, they hear the prophesies and worship of Simeon and Anna in the temple. (Don't mind the fact this is out of order. :- )

Next the shepherds come to worship and they do so to rap music and break dancing! Oh, how I love watching little boys flip through the air and do robot jerks! Too fun!

 After the shepherds worship and the angles sing (above), Jesus is visited by another group. Yep... the Star(s) of Bethlehem (below).

 As the stars entered the scene, they twirled and danced in a shining line... much like a streak.

 Following the stars were three very lavishly dressed Wise Men holding telescopes to their eyes.

 First the Wise Men go to the King in Jerusalem. Then they head to Bethlehem and offer the gifts to Jesus and this parents... who then run off to Egypt to flee the coming massacre.

Once safely away, the whole production came to dance and dance... and dance some more in celebration of the Lowly King's birth!

 

This year.... baby Abraham played Jesus. Surprisingly, he slept through it all. All the cheers. All the dancing. All the waving him about. It was so fun to see him so clueless... and so peaceful! 

 The next day, for Christmas, we all (meaning staff, over 100 orphans, and various friends) gathered to celebrate the day with a huge feast, futbol, and more dancing at Maforga's annual "Maforga's Got Talent" show.

 Futbol galore!

 For the talent show we had poetry reading, dancing, and more dancing! So fun!

 We also started dinner (like most African feasts) with dessert first! Ha ha! Yummy!

 

Some of the missionary kids growing up at the orphanage. 

 

Many of the orphans enjoying Christmas dinner. Wow was the roasted lamb good!

I pray all of you had a wonderful Christmas! Love from all of us at Maforga!

Labor of Love: December 2013

   Labor of Love December 2013

Insecurities.

During my road trip last week, I started reading Trish’s book, In Rebel Hands.

For those who don’t know, Trish and her husband Roy (my directors) were taken hostage by the RENAMO rebels some 20 years ago during the Mozambican civil war and a few years back, she wrote a book about it.

This book recalls the fears of nightly attacks, their raid and capture, and then their 3 month trek through the Gorangoso mountains as prisoners, until their eventual release.

It’s moving and insightful and I’m honestly wondering what took me so long to read it. But more than that... It has helped me to understand both Roy and Trish a bit better and has given me a clearer view of what the RENAMO are after and why they fight.

So... last Friday with these ideas still bouncing through my head as I de-bused from my ridiculously long ride back from Maputo, Roy was there to pick me up.

As we drove up the short drive towards Maforga, we chatted about nothing in particular. Maputo. The Bus. My exhaustion, etc. But eventually, the mundane topics petered out.

Silence.

As I looked over at Roy driving, I could see he had something to say... but wasn’t sure how to begin.

Finally, he spoke.

-- “So we had a strange thing happen today that I think you need to be aware of.”
-- “Oh, yeah?” I said flatly. I was too tired to put any more effort into my response.

He waited a few moments then added, “We had a visitor today that nobody recognized. Long beard. Muscular. A maluco that no one paid much attention to at first...”

I nodded in the dark for him to continue but... he couldn’t see me. So he turned his body slightly to see if I got the full impact of what he was saying. I didn’t.

So he continued. “This maluco (or madman) was wearing bad clothes and looking through all the windows. He seemed particularly interested in the clinic.”

By this point he’d got my attention. So I prodded for more: “What do you mean?”

-- “Once he had carefully looked at everything, he said some troubling things to the guards which made them think he was RENAMO military in disguise. So we called the police to report it.”

-- “Oh, Okay.” I stated coolly but my mind was racing with Trish’s book. Then I asked, “So you think they might cause problems here?”

-- “It’s hard to say,” he said softly, than paused. “I just need you to be aware that if they come to attack us... you and the Bells (another American missionary family on the farm) are the most attractive hostages.” He paused a moment, then added, “I worry about those little kids.”

Instantly my mind raced back to the book. In it, I’d learned that Roy and Trish were not the only ones captured during that raid. There were seven adults and three kids, but only one American.

The American hostage gave the RENAMO greater negotiating power as it forced the US government to officially recognize them at a political power.

-- “I see,” I said a bit absentmindedly, my mind racing ahead to the news I heard in Maputo the night before. Another medical clinic in Tika (a few hours drive from here) was attacked and raided. No one was hurt, but everything that could be stolen was.

Linens. Medicines. Buckets.

By this time we had reached our destination, but neither of us got out of the car.

More questions. More confirmations.

In the end, he explained the details of the day once again and I thanked him as I opened my car door to go. 

-- “There’s one more thing...” he added. “If you hear anyone outside your window or door trying to force their way in, please just try to sneak out the back and hide in the bushes.”

This was what they had done during the war. They escaped more than one raid that way. Trish talks of it now and again, sometimes pointing out to various bushed or trees on the farm and saying, “Oh.. see there? That is where we hid from the RENAMO during the attack which killed four rebels. When we woke the next morning, a dead man was lying just there,” she said pointing to a grassy knoll.

That night, I confess I had moments of halting fear and plenty of “What ifs”. But then I prayed and God gave me peace. I also asked you all to pray and now the fear has gone completely.

If they attack, then... well... they attack. I can’t control that. If they decide to take me hostage... not sure I’ll have much say in that either. So why worry about it now?

The next day, however, I spoke to another team member about it. He reminded me that only government clinics are being attacked. “It’s unlikely that any private clinics will be bothered”, he assured me.

So there you have it.

Malucos. Rumors of raids. Wars. Etc.

I don’t now if we’ll have any troubles... all I know is that God fights for us. I feel His presence; I breathe in His peace.

Nevertheless, please be in prayer for this country and the many skirmishes that are fought in it every week. The government won’t allow most of it to be reported. Many are in the dark about it all --including me.

Please pray.

Thanks.

Life as I know it.

I’ve been asked more than once in the last few weeks what I do all day. Am I catching babies? Am I studying? Working? What?

The answer to that is simple; I do whatever needs to be done.

Some days it requires action with meetings, shopping, working, and such. On other days it requires less action and more prayer and a pulling aside to seek His face.

What do I mean? Well... let’s look at this week for example. It has been an unusual week in some regards, but not so unusual as you might guess.

Here goes:

Sunday: Wake early for housework and Bible study, then scoot off to church. Church is a loud, happy ruckus and we find ourselves sharing testimonies of Thanksgiving in honor of the Oh-so-American holiday a few days before. Lunch is a quick sandwich which I eat over my computer, trying to catch up on emails and back-logged everything. But the heat of the day makes much of the afternoon impossible. I find myself planting seeds on used egg trays and praying something will grow.

Monday: Wake early to talk with Jesus. So much to do. Today is a shopping day in Chimoio (a 45 min drive away) for construction supplies. I’m supposed to get the sheets of wood (if I can find them), paint, and concrete to complete some of the clinic repairs coming up next week. By mid-morning, I’ve completed the shopping but am disappointed to find out that the truck we rented to carry our supplies back to Maforga fell through. Something about a strike of bus drivers keeping all the major trucks out of circulation for fear of police retaliation, etc.

Disappointed but unfazed, I move on. The truck will pick up my supplies the next day. But I have something else in mind for this week. I have to go to Maputo to follow up on my clinic papers. So I buy a bus ticket to Maputo which leaves in the wee hours of the morning. I take the bus since it’s so much cheaper than flying, and since the highway is open again. Finally. Ticket in hand, I return home to pack and close up my house for the week. Later that night (achem at 2 am actually), I return to Chimoio to catch the bus.

Tuesday: Travel from 3:30am to 10pm on a cramped, swaying bus which has been modified to fit more travelers than the manufacturer ever intended by squeezing them in makeshift seats in the aisle. Elbows rub ribs, knees knock against seats, butt cheeks cramp continually. Every inch of it is crammed with boxes, backpacks, and people. We inch painfully toward our destination but with the periodic stops (to pee alongside the road) and the massive potholes the advance is slow. Achingly slow. Finally we arrive in Maputo. I step out of the bus into torrential rain, find a cab, and make it to the youth hostel in time to find it still awake and bustling. I fall asleep in a dorm room with backpackers and vagabonds from all over the world. Sleep fitfully.

Wednesday: Rise early to prepare for the day. I have to return to the Ministry of Education to follow up on my application for my degrees to be approved. I tried for two weeks to follow up by phone but the number they gave me was ‘offline’ or ‘out of service’ each time I called. Thus the need to go to Maputo in the first place. I catch the bus to bounce through the capital’s streets, it’s glaringly clear not many foreigners take the bus. I’m conspicuously white but happy not to pay the outrageous fees for a cab ride there.

The office staff remember me well and ask if I was able to drive down. When I told them I had to come by bus they are surprised the highway is open again... but more surprised I took the cross-country bus in the first place. When the clerk asks why I didn’t call first, I informed them the number never worked and I had no choice but to follow up in person. Then I’m quickly informed that my papers are still being processed. However, on closer review only one was sent to be done. I ask that my second degree be processed and it is submitted immediately... but it still won’t be completed for another week.

The rest of the day is spent trying to stretch out my cramped legs in a street cafe full of smoking Portuguese and the occasional street vendor. I buy a newspaper off one of them and learn that the Ministry of health is inviting all NGOs working in the health sector to a planning and cooperation meeting the next morning. Do I stay and attend? A few phone calls to my team back at Maforga and it’s unanimous; they all think I should attend. I decide to postpone my return a day and attend it. I return to the backpacker hostel I’m staying in with a can of tuna and a piece of bread for dinner. I sleep well but the guy in my dorm room is too chatty for deep rest. I fall asleep late and wake up the next morning exhausted.

Thursday: I breakfast early and freshen up quickly to make it to the 8:30 am meeting in time. But when I get there, only three men in suits are waiting with me. The meeting room is set up for at least 60 people... and in the adjoining room movement for some kind of lunch is being prepared. But where are all the people? An hour goes by and only one more person arrives. I decide more coffee is needed for this kind of rigamarole but when I return, only one more person has arrived. I leave to get my book back at the hostel, ready to wait it out. But when I return, I find none of the original crew there. In their place, two new men with stacks of papers are shuffling around the room, looking rushed. Finally, I ask someone when this is suppose to start indicating that the notice on the wall said it started at 9am. She tells me it isn’t supposed to start until 11 am and smiles. Ugh! I leave.

Frustrated. I go have an early lunch in disgust and wait another hour or so. When I return, the room is full and everyone’s introducing themselves. The meeting is okay... but not what I expected. By 1:30 pm, I’ve had enough and head home. Feels like a complete waste of time. I finished up a few emails, then rush off to get my bus ticket home.

I’m not sure where I’m going so I go early to scope it out and buy my ticket. Two hours later, I have my bus ticket in hand and am feeling quite accomplished. I return to the backpackers to pick up my bags, eat a quick dinner, and head out again. But this time the traffic isn’t as bad and I make it to the station in only a half hour. It’s 9pm and I’m ready for bed. But with the constant comings and goings on the bus, more fitful sleep on stone hard seats awaits me. At 3:30 am we take off in a rumble of engines and diesel fumes.

Friday: Basically, the reverse of Tuesday. More cramped seats. More potholes. More street vendors through the cracked bus window. Fitful and cramped sleep. But when we get to the spot in the highway that has been under attack by the RENAMO forces, there are more delays than usual. This is the stretch of road that has the periodic rebel attacks and therefore must be patrolled by the military.

As we arrive, we are told there had been some shooting around noon and we might have to wait until morning to pass through. Discouraged but with nothing left to do but wait. We sit curbside and chat. I meet a darling granny named Teresa Maria with a unique story (which I might tell another time) and we look for water together. The water we find is salty, but still wet. She drinks it. I don’t.

After 2 hours of waiting, the convoy arrives and we are allowed to cross into the heavily guarded stretch of brush, but we must wait another hour or so before the escort is ready. The soldiers usher us through the 100 km stretch, stopping now and again to walk --guns at their shoulders-- ready for combat. Because of these delays, we arrive in two hours instead of one.

Once safely passed, our bus driver starts praising the Lord over and over again marking his praise with progressively louder “Hallelujahs”. More driving. More stopping. I make it back by 9:30 pm and am thoroughly worn out. I’m welcomed back to news of a possibility that RENAMO has been suspected of scoping us out in hopes of attacking the clinic for our outdated meds and linens. (More about that later.) I go to sleep --once again-- fitfully.

Saturday (today): I wake rested, but late. I spend my morning in my pajamas since the on and off rain storms have cooled my cabin to a slight chill. The lush and low clouds of mist invade my house and I feel protected. But in the distance, I can hear the sounds of preparations. Today is Maria’s wedding. (More about that later.) Maria is one of the orphans who has grown up at Maforga. She married a man named Manual, a widower almost twice her age and with four kids at home. A beautiful bride. A happy groom. A church full of dancing, food, and deafening keyboard music with the occasional (painful) speaker feedback. Ouch! Food was fabulous. Everyone leaves by 5pm with high spirits and full bellies.

This is what life looks like for me these days. This is what life is like... as I know it. 

I share it with you so you might pray. Please pray for perseverance and a drive to move forward in all He asks --day after day. Pray also that I would not grow weary in doing good, and that I’d have more wisdom and patience in the details... and not get distracted along the way. Also pray, that I’d find a way to avoid those silly buses in the future. Ha!

Thanks!

Screeching Halt.

Over the last few months, I’ve really felt the urgency to write. But I just didn’t trust myself.

The words I had to share were anything but up lifting. The troubles racing through my heart and mind sounded too much like the piercing screech of metal against concrete, right before impact.

The question was not “if” but “when” it would collide.

     What would it look like when the flames hissed out?

I talk about it each time I enter a new field. I talk about the stresses and strains, the chaos and calamity, and the eventual ear piercing screech of culture shock. But each time, it hits a little different. Some times the bumper is scratched, and on others the back window is shattered.

     Cosmetic stuff, really. Nothing more.

But the way those silly brakes lock and skid me about always gives me a shock.

    Yes. A shock.

There is no better way to describe it.

So there you have it. It’s no excuse. Just an honest observation.

This time the hardest impact hit around 6 months in... (September 2013) and has lasted until today. Even now, I’m still reeling from the force of it, like tremors. And as I move about, my body aches and my soul whimpers.

“What has been so hard?”

Nothing and everything at once. That is why it’s so sneaky.

One minute I’m driving along just fine, and the next... BAM! The airbag is inflated and the front left tire is in a ditch.

Sigh. And all I can think is... “Oh, No! Culture shock has struck again!”

I’m happy to report, however, that I’ve missed writing. I’ve missed reaching out into the great chasm of words and spaces, of dots and dashes, of blogs and bloggers and grabbing hold of an eye... and hopefully a heart.

    Have you missed me?

So, I’m back. Or at least I intend to be. Only time will tell if I am truly able to see straight enough to type.

But like before, I promise... not to hold any of it back --mangled chassis and souls alike.


Photos thanks to 123RF Royalty Free stock photos @ http://www.123rf.com/photo_12398003_cartoon-car.html

Labor of Love: November 2013

   Labor of Love Nov 2013

Labor of Love: October 2013

   Labor of Love- Oct 2013.pdf

Caterpillars?

Months and months ago... yes, it's been impossible to blog about it before now because the internet would NEVER allow me to load the pictures... I went to Zimbabwe for my long-term visa. While I was there, I took advantage of the opportunity to shop for things that are just not found in Moz.

Bag of bugs! Yum!

The aisles and aisles of goodies in the local supermarket were startlingly cheap and I confess I went all out.

The thing is... they had things I'd never seen before. The most surprising of these options were caterpillars.

Hard.    Spiky.    Crusty.    Dried up caterpillars in a bag.

I picked it up to make sure my eyes were not playing games with my mind. Peering through the plastic, I inspected one black creepy crawly after the other until I was convinced.

The crawlers before they were cooked

A black man stocking the shelf beside me caught my eye and I turned to him for help.
-- "Is this really what I think it is?" I asked innocently. "Are these caterpillars?"
He smiled, nodded his head, then said, "Yes. They are really tasty."
-- "Tasty huh?" I said with a smile. "But how do you eat them? Do you just eat them like chips... out of the bag?"
-- "No, no, no," he laughed, taking the bag of critters from my hands, "You cook them first. They are delicious. I always have a bag full in my car for snacks."
-- "Really?" I said with excitement (I'm always looking for new, crazy foods), "Can you tell me how?"
He smiled wider, assuring me it was simple and taking me through the steps one by one.

Caterpillar Recipe: 

Step One~
Soak, then boil the caterpillars until they are soft.

Step Two~
Boil them so they get cleaned out and turn rubbery. 

Step Three~
Dice onions and tomatoes and whatever else you think will be tasty. 

Step Four~
Strain the softened caterpillars and toss out the water.

Step Five~
Sautee onions and caterpillars in a saucepan, seasoning with salt and pepper. 

Step Six~
Add the tomatoes, keeping heat low so it does not burn.

Step Seven~
Dish them up and enjoy! 

Fun note: I found them to be wetter (and chewier) than I expected from the store clerks recipe. So I asked a Zimbabwean friend what I did wrong. His reply was that it was perfect, but if I wanted snacks for the road, I'd have to fry them longer.

(Optional) Step Eight~
Fry in more oil, until crispy.














Note: So I did what I was told... but I fried them too long and got this.

Step Nine~
Enjoy with gusto! 

Side Note: As I'm sure you can see... they look exactly like they did out of the bag. So I can only assume that I overcooked them.

However, my Zimbabwean friends didn't mind at all. Nor did I. Honestly, I found them better when crispy. They are easier to chew.

So there you have it. Once again, I'm convinced that any bug is yummy if deep fried long enough!       

Moral of the story: Some people eat chicken. Some people eat steak. And some people eat... caterpillars?  
             ---Yum!

Swimming with Sharks!

Much can be said about birthdays. The more you have... the longer you live!
        --- Personally, I like them.

This year's birthday was extra special though; I got to cross off another long life dream from my bucket list.

I went swimming with Great White Sharks!

For anyone who knows me even a little, you aren't surprised by my thrill seeking decisions.
        --- Life is an adventure and is worth living well! 

So when I realized that I'd be in South Africa again on my birthday this year, (attending the wonderful and amazing Calvary Chapel African Conference near Cape Town!) I immediately started planning how and when I might swim with the fishes (aka: the Great White overgrown guppies with teeth!)

As it would turn out, the cost was much less than I expected and all was arranged pretty quickly. My missionary friends were not interested in joining me but they were willing to get me to the boat on time. This was no easy task however, as we had to be out the door by five a.m. to make it!

Fortunately the day was warm and beautiful for this time of year and the sea was calm. Since it is still late winter in South Africa, the waters were chilly --a startling 53 degrees Fahrenheit (or 11 degrees Celsius).

As I waited my turn, five to six sharks turned circles about our boat, nibbling at our fish-head bait before moving on. I was surprised to learn that although they come to investigate the bait, sharks are not scavengers by nature. They much prefer fresh meals. Who knew?!

I also learned that they are not at all interested in human blood. (It does not register as 'food' to them.) And shark attacks are usually as a result of them confusing humans for seals --especially those humans on surf boards.
      ---What a crunchy surprise they must have at first chomp!

Convincing myself to get into the water was hard, however. It was not the sharks but the cold that worried me. Even with my full body wet suit, I'd knew I'd freeze. But in the end, the desire to see the slick beasts up close won out, and I jumped in.

The visibility was fair but the viewing was best from the boat by the time my turn at the cage came around. Fortunately, I was able to see at least one of the sharks underwater before we had to close up shop and head home.

Since my camera was unable to capture the overgrown guppies when they surfaced, I purchased a video of the day from the boat photographer. Enjoy!



Video filmed by the unknown boat photographer at Shark Lady Adventures.

Not All Storm Clouds Rain...

In August, I made a purchase of a deep freezer. It's small and fits in the corner of my kitchen, allowing me the privilege of buying meat once a week --rather than having to buy it day after day.

After pricing things out, I discovered it was heaps cheaper to buy an animal and have it dressed than to buy it in the supermarket.

(I'm not ready to buy it from the outdoor market yet... the flies and blood stained wooden counters somehow throw me off.)

So I asked around and found someone who was selling pigs... and went to meet him.

Chris is a Catholic friar from Louisiana with a background in agriculture. He's been working in Mozambique for about two years and was disappointed to find out that very few Mozambicans are willing to eat pork.

However, I was not upset by this news because it meant that he had an excess of pork... and was more than willing to off load it for cheap.

How to buy a pig in Mozambique ~

Day one: Meet Chris and select the white beast for execution. Ask one of his workers to butcher it in exchange for all the offal and feet.     ---What a bargain! 

Day two: Go pick up my shaved and slaughtered pig, then notice a number of goats for sale... ask about the price of goats and a broken container. Take home my pig in nice happy sections and pile it neatly in my freezer --with the head on top staring through the zip lock bag! 



Day three: Go back for a (live) goat and the broken water container (which Chris was willing to part with for free and will be used, God willing, in an aquaponics project).

Easy. Peasy.

After buying my goat, I asked the Chris and the other Mozambican staff for name suggestions (since she was intended as a pet rather than dinner) but no one was willing to name her. But as I was about to leave another friar showed up, Andres from Spain, and he suggested I call her "Storm Cloud" since her white and grey coat resembled the stormy evening quick approaching.

I agreed that would be a good name for her... and quickly dubbed her Nebulada (or Storm Cloud in Portuguese).



We piled her on the trailer, tying her to the inside of the broken container and off we went. But instead of raining... this Storm Cloud bleated.
         ---She bleated all the way home!

Clearly... not all Storm Clouds rain.

Bonus: I'm happy to announce Nebulada is pregnant! I watch her belly expand with interest wondering if she'll be my first Mozambican delivery!
  
He he he... We'll just have to wait and see. Won't we?

Labor of Love: September 2013

   Labor of Love Sept 2013

Labor of Love: July and Aug 2013

   Labor of Love July & August

School Days...

I’ve been in language school for a month now... and loving it. There is just something deeply rewarding about opening my mouth, jabbering a bit, and having people actually understand.

In fact, my Portuguese is coming rather quickly.

This is due in part to the other languages I speak (French and Spanish), but I also think it has a lot to do with the fact my classes are catered to my particular needs. Meaning... I can go as quickly as I want.

There have been a few delays however.

For instance, at first my language director and various teachers were confused at my insistence on homework. (They don’t seem to give homework here?!)

What is more... when I told them they could not teach me out of a textbook, they looked absolutely lost.

“How can we teach you if we don’t follow a book?” they complained.
“I don’t like these books,” I explained, “They go too slow.”
“Too slow?”
“Yes. If we follow this book, I won’t be speaking for ages. I don’t have ages. We have to go quickly.
“Hum... okay,” they finally agreed. “Let’s try....”

Well. I can honestly say that they made lots of adjustments for me and have tried to keep up with me. And now, they are convinced my way of learning is far better.

They are absolutely amazed that I’m as conversant as I am after only a month. And you know what... so am I!

What a blessing to have this time to focus on language! What a blessing to be able to converse with people in the streets and learn about this fabulous culture through friendships. I feel absolutely humbled and blessed!

I only hope and pray that learning Chitewe will be so simple.

I guess we’ll see. Won’t we?

Please pray that I’m able to finish strong. I have another month of language instruction before I complete my Portuguese lessons. Then I’ll have a bit of a break as I receive a missions team from my home church and then go to a missions conference in S. Africa.

Thanks!

New Car.

About the time I had given up all hope of finding a car in my price range and on the very day I was determined to purchase a shiny red motorcycle, God moved.

And I got a text.

God seems to like taking me to the very end of my patience and then surprising me with something great. But in this case, I’m convinced He moved, in part, so I would not be dodging goats and semi-trucks on a 50cc bike.

Even with the helmet I bought in S. Africa... it would have been sketchy.

But I digress.

The text was a quick message with a number saying there was a Brazilian selling a Toyota Surf (sold in the States as a 4runner) at a price that seemed more than fair.

When I called him about it --even though my portuguese was limited-- we arranged to meet and discussed the finer details of the car.

So that afternoon instead of buying a bike, I found myself test driving a dark grey Surf.

Since there were a few things we could still not discuss (as my lessons had not included car parts vocabulary), we drove to a mutual friend for translation help.

And in no time, I learned the words for brake pads, shocks, and springs.

As we spoke, I prayed asking God to direct me as the last thing I needed was a lemon. And in response, He flooded me with peace.

Not wanting to be hasty, I asked if he’d mind if my director had a look the next day. He agreed and by 9 the next morning we were back again, looking under the hood and kicking tires.

The car is an older model but one that has low milage. It’s not pretty to look at but... it works.

Roy heartily approved of the purchase and we made arrangements to buy it then and there.

Two days later the money was in his account and I got the keys!

It has its quirks --as any older car might-- but it has been treating me well. I pray it will continue to be a blessing to this ministry for years to come.

Thank you all who prayed and gave generously to make this vehicle a reality! I am deeply grateful.... and blessed.