Home in Heaven

Dad went home to his Saviour, Jesus yesterday. We will hold a memorial service for him at Living Saviour Lutheran Church in Asheville, NC on Saturday at 10 am, and another at Trinity Lutheran Church in Belle Plaine, MN on Monday at 11 am. Mum hopes to also have a memorial service for him in Malawi at a later date.

Mum, Tanya, Keith, Nicole, Steve, and I spent his last two earthly hours with him in the hospital room, singing him hymns, reading to him from the Bible, and telling him stories of times past. He was not able to speak, but he managed to groan a "A uv u too" when we first walked in the room. I think he knew we were there with him and we reminded him constantly of how much we love him. We also told him that Kirsten and Lori were flying down, if he could hold on. God had other plans for him.

The week before he died he was very weak, finding it difficult to walk. He complained of pain in his left lower side if he moved. His last two days at home, he spent in his chair downstairs, waiting for and then watching his last Green Bay Packers game on Christmas day. They won. When he could not move at all early Monday morning, Mum called 911. They took him to Mission Hospital in Asheville, and then to St. Joseph hospital.

Test results show that the T-cell lymphoma in his skin metastasized to his blood and bone marrow. In his skin the cancer was not fatal (just uncontrollably itchy); in his blood it attacked his liver and kidneys, shutting them down. Given his constant, full-body itch for the last two years and his back-bending load due to edema, Dad was ready to go. When I asked him last Monday how he was doing emotionally, he said, "I'm strong; like a rock."

God did bless Dad with a rock-like faith. We are certain that right now Dad is enjoying the crown of life that Jesus won for him. We look forward to seeing him in heaven some day.

Change it Up

“Daddy, are you busy?” our 5-year old asks my husband.
“No.”
“Good!” She pulls him into her room by his hand. “You can help me change my room around. I want my bed over there and maybe put those shelves in its place.”

Yup. She’s a chip off the old block. Either block – my husband or me. We both like change.

I laughed when my husband proposed we rearrange our 2-bedroom apartment within 6 months of moving into it.
“What?” he said. “I like to change things up a bit. Same old, same old gets a little stale after a while.”
I could have said those words! I could hardly believe he was serious. We’d only been married 6 months and it was a delight to discover each little thing we had in common.

Since then, we’ve been married almost 7 years. We did rearrange our apartment 2, maybe 3 times in the year we lived there. Then we decided that wasn’t enough, so we moved house. We couldn’t move down the block – that would be too ordinary. So we moved to the Caribbean. We spent 4 years in Antigua. And yes, we regularly rearranged our furniture within our house.

Now, we’ve moved houses and countries again. We’ve been here a year, and we’ve tried all sorts of furniture arrangements in our living room. It satisfies our itch to move, change, try something new. It doesn’t surprise us at all that our budding nomad wants to change her room around.

I returned from an all-day critique-a-thon to find her room completely changed. A new look. A new feel. Very satisfying.

Still learning to write...

Over the last year I’ve been “working on my craft.” I joined a writers’ society, a critique group, attend monthly Schmooze groups and the odd writers’ conference. I had to after I received multiple rejections for my manuscripts: clearly I needed help.

What an understatement! I started writing children’s books as a blindfolded mountaineer might approach an unknown peak – clueless and unprepared. Not to say I couldn’t do it, only that I didn’t have the necessary tools or information to face the challenge.

This became obvious at the first Schmooze group. The presenter talked about pit falls and bonuses in publishing contracts. I’m pretty sure she spoke English because I understood the occasional “the” or “and.” Other than that, it could have been Peace Corps language training all over again. “Lord God, what was I thinking? Why did you let me do this?” crossed my mind several times.

I’ve talked to writers, listened to more presentation, read hundreds of children’s books, and researched the publishing world a little more since then. And I still feel faintly sick, if better prepared after each writers gathering. Sometimes I wonder if climbing the mountain blind might be less overwhelming.

I brought a chapter of one of my stories to the last meeting. I knew it had problems but couldn’t define them myself. After reading it, my fellows writers said, “You have style, but you don’t know your characters. You don’t have a central problem. Without that, you have no theme, no plot, no change in the main character. It’s not a real story, just an episode and a bit boring at that. But – love the title!”

They said it pleasantly. They gave me suggestions. We discussed possible themes and plot developments. But wow! When you boil it down, after a year, I still can’t manage even the basics of writing a children’s story. I think walking blindly off a cliff is more attractive than dealing with this.

And yet I cannot quit. That critique group removed the blindfold, or at least uncovered one eye and pointed me in the general direction I need to climb. I know my problem; now I have to solve it. But man is that mountain steep! Whose idea was it to climb this anyway?

From Apples to Hungary

One moment I'm biting into an apple slice on the way to the gym (in Oklahoma City) and the next I'm standing in Budapest, looking up at a warehouse-like shopping centre. That tangy burst of apple juice on my taste buds took me back 12 years to one little forgotten incident in Hungary.

I was in Peace Corps; Sandy was a church volunteer – both in Bulgaria. One spring, we spent a week exploring Budapest and environs. Needing bread, meat, cheese, apples – meals for travellers on volunteer incomes – we went grocery shopping. Playing through these memories, I could remember the difficulty in finding the place. Its location far outside the tourism centres. That we even had to walk a ways because it was off the bus lines. I can remember our excitement upon entering and seeing aisles upon aisles of food. Sandy and I went a little crazy picking up this and that. Exclaiming how long it had been since we’d seen such a product. Forcing ourselves to buy only what we needed. Grocery shopping. Isn’t that what everyone loves about Hungary? No? Maybe it’s only special to two volunteers visiting from Bulgaria. And even then – I didn’t really remember this whole scenario until I bit into that apple.

Back in Oklahoma City, I wonder at my apple. I can’t imagine the apple is the same kind as those we ate in Hungary. But there was something about the taste because the effect on my brain was immediate. Apples as transporter devices…who knew.

Is this fair?

As I watch the insidious beast of cancer bite chunk after chunk out of my Dad, witness his decomposition before my eyes, a part of me cries, "Is this FAIR?" He served so earnestly and faithfully – look at his work in Malawi! Why is this happening to him of all people?

We like to think we have a right to health, success, the good life. Haven’t we donated our time, given to charity, served faithfully? These are like grimy fingers used to scrub ineffectually at equally grimy faces. We like to think there’s a chance we’ll eventually show some clean skin, but God knows we’re not even close. There’s no way for us to wipe away our sin – it is part of us, the very skin we’re trying to clean. We’d have to gouge it away like that cancer does to my Dad’s skin. And that’s slowly killing him.

Our only chance is to replace our dirty, disease-ridden skin with clean, uncorrupted tissue. Like that’s just lying around for the asking! And how would we transplant that organ in its entirety, may I ask? We’d definitely need a qualified physician…like God. He takes his own son’s skin – pure, uncorrupted by sin – and fits each of us in its perfection. We leave the operation room healthy, our substitute skin smooth, silky, clean.

Is this FAIR? No. It’s not fair that Jesus had to give up his skin for us, sorry lot that we are. But fortunately, God’s idea of FAIR is different from ours. It doesn’t matter to him if we’ve served 40 years or come breezing in like Johnny-come-lately. It doesn’t matter that our best service is like the questionable help of a toddler. We don’t DESERVE anything. But he gives us Jesus’ skin to cover ourselves. He attributes Jesus’ perfect works to us. He welcomes us to heaven saying, “Well done, you good and faithful servant!”

I don’t know why God allows Dad to suffer so. Maybe this is a Job-like test of his faith. Maybe this is a strengthening exercise – working Dad’s spiritual biceps. Maybe Dad’s suffering is a lesson for someone else. God knows. And, given what God has done for us, that should be enough. I must take a deep breath, close my eyes, and trust that God not only knows what he is doing, but is doing it for Dad’s good.

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.
~Romans 8:28~

Strangers in a Foreign Land

My husband and I participated in a Missionary Kid (MK) Retreat this summer - his first, my third. My husband might have been put off by the high emotion, often teary, sometimes bitter ramblings of a large group of strangers, but I loved the whole experience. Strange, huh? - who enjoys crying and feeling wrung out?

As a group, third culture kids (TCKs) are strangers...strange. We aren't like the people among whom we live. I was born and raised in Malawi, but I don't usually look, act or think like most Malawians. I am a US citizen and I look and maybe even sound (we all speak English, right?) like part of the majority in that country. But I don't always think or act like one. It can be very confusing.

When I first came to the USA as a 17-year old, I felt and acted like a 2-year old. I was overwhelmed by all the new stimuli, frustrated that I didn’t understand anything, exploring expanded freedoms, and angry that I couldn’t communicate well with anyone around me. On good days, classmates said, "You are so weird!" and I reveled in my uniqueness. On bad days, classmates said the same thing and I felt hurt, isolated. I missed my family and friends left behind. I grieved for my far-off home and all that was familiar. I had God and I clung to him, but everything else was...foreign, alien.

I attended my first MK retreat when I was 21 – almost 4 years of trying to figure things out on my own (and I hadn’t been successful). The retreat gave me a frame of reference in which to place myself in the world - I was a TCK. It gave me vocabulary with which to communicate - Malawi is my 'birth country;' the USA is my 'passport country;' neither one is really 'home.' It revealed I wasn’t alone (there are others like me? - God help us all!).

MK retreats may be tear-jerking, gut-wrenching experiences but they are cathartic. After 3 such retreats, I am aware of many TCK issues. I can look for them in myself, in my children, in friends and family members. I can categorize the differences, label them, express them, put them to good use. They don't have to be hindrances anymore. God has given us MKs a unique set of experiences and skills that can further His Kingdom here on earth. If we can learn to deal with our experiences positively, we can be more open to his purpose in our lives.

In other words, we can live, not just exist, despite being strangers in this foreign land.

The Computer is an Addiction

As I go about my chores, I keep glancing at the closed doors of my wooden secretary. If I come within reach of it, my stomach clenches in anticipation. I could open those doors. Inside is my laptop. I could lift the cover, switch it on. Inside is my blog, my pictures, my email, the Internet, my writing...Facebook! My fingers itch to tap-tap on the keys.

But there are my children, and dinner, and cleaning, and shopping... No way I can lift that cover even for one little peek; no time to lose myself. Because I surely will. I can sit down to check my email and lose a couple of hours in one blink. I can start writing and lose three hours easily. Don't even get me started on Facebook!

On busy days, the closed secretary is a disease I treat with sub-conscious fear. I give it a wide berth: if I ignore it, maybe I can resist. On school days, I open the doors and try to find myself again before 3:30.

Visiting My Parents

Visiting my parents in the mountains isn't the same this time. Maybe it doesn't feel like old times because it is hotter in August than in June, when we usually visit: mountains are not supposed to be hot! Maybe it didn't feel like the mountains at first because we spent time in town with it's bustling traffic and constant racket. I did feel more at peace when we walked down to the playground in the late evening of our second day. It was cool in the late dusk, quiet, except for the soothing music of the cicadas and frogs, the occasional bark of a dog. The great trees on their mountain sides smothered all other sounds and surrounded us in a green bubble of calm.

It is quiet at my parents' house too, but not peaceful. My father dozes, hanging off the edge of a chair in the sun room. Or he shuffles around the house slowly, like an old man. With every movement, his skin splits open a little more, flaking off and floating around him in his own personal blizzard. His shoulders fold forward, weighted by gravity and 30-40 extra pounds of retained water. His thin, grey hair points in all directions, moved by probing, stiff fingers trying to find relief from his constant itch.

This is my Dad. The man who used to enthusiastically lead his gaggle of griping daughters and his wife on all sorts of wild hikes up fire-blackened hillsides, through unbroken thorn brush, and untrodden "paths," all in pursuit of finding the highest point. This is the man who used to enjoy a killing game of squash three time a week in Malawi. This is the man who usually breaks into song as he putters around the house, who sees some humour in almost any situation, who always smiles when he sees his daughters. But he didn't smile once during my visit.

Dad says he can relate with Job from the Bible - the sores, the itch, the pain. I hope God doesn't take it so far as to allow all his children to die, and Mum says she definitely doesn't want to give birth to five more daughters! Dad doesn't even smile for this. He keeps his head bowed and rolls his eyes towards us in reprimand. He appreciates that Mum doesn't tell him to "curse God and die," as Job's wife did. And the friends who come to visit offer him encouragement through God's word, unlike Job's friends. So his situation isn't quite as bad as Job's. It just feels that way sometimes.

We try to tempt him with drives or walks in the mountains, touring the Biltmore Estate, which he usually loves. He doesn't come with us even once. He doesn't have the energy or the motivation. He does play cards with my son a few times, but you know he has to be bad if an eleven-year old beats him 2 times. Scooter crows his success - first time beating Grandpa at anything except Wii bowling; Dad doesn't say anything. My daughter is scared of Grandpa. She keeps asking him if he is dying, to which Dad replies, "Not this minute." I'm sure those conversations cheer him no end.

In the end, all I can do to help him is make some hummus and print a few recipes for his new vegan diet. It isn't much. He thanks me profusely anyway. I feel almost as defeated as he does.

Do you miss Antigua?

Do you miss Antigua? What was it like living there? I hear these questions all the time. It’s hard to come up with a pat answer on the spur of the moment. I usually say, “There were good things and bad things about living there, just like any other place.” Here is a short list of the things I miss and those I don’t, off the top of my head.

Things I Miss:
St. John’s Lutheran on Sunday mornings
Visiting with my neighbours
Parties with the mission family
Playing the Steel Pans with Genesis
My dogs
Bible class discussions
Training with the swim club
Meeting friends at the beach
Half Moon Bay on a sunny day
Sunday School with Ajah, Kazende and Dillon

Those I Don’t Miss:
Full body, constant itch
My husband’s stress
Rude, sexual comments from strange men
House problems that will probably never get fixed
Dirt all over my house
Frustration of finding parking in town or at the grocery store
No-shows for meetings
Breakage on tile floors – dishes, toys, heads…
Wishing to do something other than go to the beach
No air conditioning!!!

Monday, Monday

Monday morning.
Get up early.
Vacation Bible School starts today.
“What?
No water?
You’ve got to be kidding!”
Flashbacks to Antigua…
‘Cept - no rainwater in cisterns here.

“Can I go back to bed?”
No?
Sigh.

Pile up the dishes.
“Climb in the car – don’t forget your toothbrushes!”
Drop kids off with their Dad.
Run to the gym for a communal shower.
Talk to the women in the stalls around.
Flashbacks to Blagoevgrad…
‘Cept - no Baba to scrub my back here.

Rush back to school,
Missed registration.
Time to take pictures and help
Do WHAT?
“Keep the paint and glue to yourselves.
I like my clothes how they are.”

Monday afternoon.
Drag ourselves home.
That was 3 hours?
Seriously?
And teachers do this every day?

Start on the dishes
All piled in the sink
Angry faucets spitting.
Water pressure’s returning.
Flashbacks to Antigua…
Water’s everywhere now.

Mama lies down.
She needs a nap.
Little girl has different ideas.
“Mama, mama! Let’s ride our bikes!”
“No way!
Too hot!
It’s one hundred and twelve outside.”

Monday night.
Kids both “in bed.”
One’s sleeping.
The other’s singing.
She’ll be in and out ‘til ten
Or eleven…or twelve.

Quiet time.
Relaxation time.
Veggin’ in front of the TV time.
Can’t stay up too late,
Up early tomorrow.
Bedtime prayers:
“Lord, let there be water on Tuesday!”

Where are you from?

The dental hygienist asked me, "Where are you from?" After a habitual moment of panic, I remembered my prepared response: "All over." She laughed and asked if I was in the military. "No. The church." That segued neatly into a discussion of places to live, Oklahoma living, and working for a church. That was so painless! Why didn't I think of that response years ago?

I have spent the last 20 years dreading the question, "Where are you from?" A no-brainer for most people, this question always catches me unprepared. What do I say? Where AM I from? How long should my answer last? Does the other person really want to know, or is she making polite chit-chat?

For the first 10 years I usually answered "Malawi." Nine times out of ten I drew a blank look or a polite nod (until Madonna put Malawi on the map). Either way, I had to explain how a white, American-seeming person can claim a country in the middle of Africa as home. NOTE: this is a really good way to stick out from the crowd. I learned to use this response if I wanted attention, either good or bad.

When I wanted to be like everyone else at University, I’d try other responses. “My grandparents live in Davenport,” was often safe. NOTE: do not say, “I am from Davenport.” Too often, my classmates were actually from there and wanted to know which high school I attended. Oops!

After years of living in the US, I really didn’t know where I was from anymore. However, responding, “I have no idea,” can be a real conversation stopper. On the other hand, if I told them “I was born and raised in Malawi, went to University in Iowa, and have lived off and on in Minnesota for the last 6 years, so take your pick.” that falls outside the norm for polite, introductory small-talk. Most people don’t want my entire life history when they ask where I’m from.

When we moved to Antigua, I was stumped for a response. “Where am I from? Let’s see. Hmmm. Give me a minute…” I must have sounded like an idiot. At the end of four years, I learned to say, “I live here.” Usually, I didn’t have to explain any further. Perfect!

The best answer I’ve heard is, “I’m not!” While very pithy, this response could be considered rude. Moving around as I do, I want to make friends fast, not alienate them. Even if the person isn’t miffed at this response, I rather not try to explain why I find this response hilarious.

So I’ve come up with “All over.” It’s a safe, unassuming and accurate response. Aaah! Now I can relax and not panic at such a simple question, right?

I left my heart in Malawi

Looking through my mail, I read a pamphlet about the WELS Medical Mission in Malawi. At the end, Pastor Cox says, "I left my heart in Malawi." Reading this, I lost it and started sobbing, leaning my head against the door. Those words could be mine.

But I had myself back under control within a minute; tears dried, thought and feelings locked tightly away once more. I continued with the laundry, paying bills, organizing my house as if the episode never happened.

My adult life has been a series of tasks and routines that create walls - a facade - to hide the grief of a missing heart.

My Gram lost Grandpa over 7 years ago. They had been married over 60 years when he died and left her behind. She was so sad for the first couple of years. She just sat and thought about him, talked about him, cried because they couldn't be together anymore. Then she learned to shut it away. Now, she is mostly sad around his birthday, the anniversary of his death, or when some memory surfaces.

My symptoms are similar. The first couple of years away from Malawi were the worst. I thought about home, I talked about it, and I cried - rocking back and forth on the floor - because I couldn't be there anymore. Then I learned to shut it away. Now I only grieve when some picture, smell, sound (like an innocent-seeming pamphlet) triggers a memory.

You might think it a bit melodramatic to feel this way. After all, Malawi is still there: it's not dead like my grandpa. But the Malawi of my youth is dead, and rightly so. When I visited Malawi 7 years ago (when my grandpa died, actually), I was a stranger, an outsider. I won’t say I couldn’t live there – but it wouldn’t be the same. And, amazingly, I’m all right with that.

I still grieve, as I did when I read Pastor Cox’s quote, but not often or for long. I have other people and places to fill my heart-shaped hole. If you could see it, you’d see a stitched-together, hodge-podge affair – a bit odd, like me. But at least it’s not empty anymore. It does beg the question, however: “Can a person have more than one heart?”

Oklahoma Travels

A week without school, soccer, or piano, and my parents coming to visit: what to do, what to do? I knew we wanted to see more of Oklahoma since we live here now. We're an outdoorsy sort of family (despite the children's protests), so I looked into state parks. There are a number of them with hills, trails and caves, all of which we enjoy.

We had already explored the first - Red Rock Canyon - but felt it was worth a second visit. Unfortunately, we overlooked the spring aspect - water covered half of one of the trails and mud the other half. The children didn't seem to mind the shorter walk or slogging through water and mud. Mum and Dad were not thrilled with the latter. We did see evidence of beavers, and Mum looked at birds. We stopped at the Cherokee Trading Post on the way home for some window shopping and goofing off.






We drove in a great loop to see the next set of parks. At Boiling Spring State Park, we strolled through a winter skeleton of a woods to the river, reveling in the sunlight and checking out the various camp sites for future use. The children wished the pool was open and the adults admired the stone cabins overlooking the little man-made lake.


Next in the loop, Alabaster Caverns State Park offered a trail and a cave tour. At 9:00 AM, frigid air stung the inside of our throats and our faces as we snapped pictures at the overlook and hiked a little way down into the narrow ravine. Inside the cave, we meandered through the prescribed tour, craning our necks to spot highlighted deposits of alabaster and gypsum, and getting some shocking nose-to-nose confrontations with members of various bat species.

Driving back down to Oklahoma City, we passed Gloss (or Glass) Mountains State Park. The red, flat-topped messas have large deposits of Gypsum (or Selenite), which sparkle like pieces of glass in the sun. While researching this place, I was confused as to whether this was a state park or not. According to a sign at the park, volunteers built and maintain its facilities. Technically, it is not a state park. Either way, it is picturesque - a beautiful place to stop for a short hike and picnic.

The last stop on the loop (we had to take a small detour) was the Sod House Museum. I am not a big museum fan. In fact, my back tenses just thinking about going to a museum. However, this was small and manageable. The museum curators built a warehouse-like building around this well-preserved sod house. On the outside, the sod house looks a little like a chief's house in a small Malawian village. Not on the inside, though! It left me with a very mixed-up impression of early settler life in Oklahoma - was it basic or not? They played the piano inside mud walls... A nice touch was the one-on-one talk with a staff member about the family who lived in the house. She gave us many neat anicdotes about their way of life.

Piano Exam

Scooter had his first Guild Piano Audition yesterday. I had no idea what to expect. His teacher greeted us when we arrived. She asked if Scooter had ever sight read. Nope. She calmly told him 2 or 3 tips to help him. Scooter nodded and continued gnawing on a nail nub. I broke out in a sweat – I well remember sight reading from my own piano exams growing up. Poor kid, I thought – he has no idea what he is in for. But then again, I could tell from his antsy pacing and constant knuckle cracking that he was nervous.

In between chasing Boo around the building and nervously listening at the door to the exam room, I interrogated the teacher about this Guild thing. It turns out it’s a succession of exams offered through the American College of Musicians – somewhat like the piano exams I took through the British Piano Teachers’ Association. Scooter entered at the Elementary Level, Section E – the highest elementary level. From there, he can advance through Intermediate A-E and Preparatory A-E (I’m not sure what the preparatory level is preparing him for…). At his level, he has to play 10 pieces from memory (though it is more like 11, if you count that one of the pieces is a transposition and he has to transpose it into 2 different keys). He also had to play scales, cadences and he had to sight read another piece.

After half an hour, Scooter came out and couldn’t quite meet my eye. “I didn’t do so well,” he whispered. I could tell he was trying not to cry. He listed all the mistakes he made in his pieces, especially his transpositions (I heard those at the door and had to agree with him).

It reminded me of when I was in school. “How did you do?” my friends and I would demand of each other as soon as we left an exam room. Then we’d compare notes and guess how many questions we answered incorrectly. I’d come home and tell Mum and Dad how terribly I failed each test. Dad said, “I don’t believe it. You always moan about how awfully you failed, dear, and then you always do really well.”

Being curious, I asked Scooter about his sight reading. “That was the easiest part. I mostly had to play the same series of notes for a few measures before moving to another series of notes. No problem.” For some, maybe…

We waited about 5 minutes, and then his teacher came out with his results. She sat down with him and went through all the comments and scores. Scooter fidgeted and wiggled on his chair, his expression turning from uncomfortable to shyly pleased as he realized just how well he did. He earned a “Superior,” which is like an A. Well done, my boy!

Guns!

I didn’t know whether to be shocked or amused. I was in Ladies Bible Study listening to my fellow sisters in Christ discussing their guns. They all had at least one and they all knew how to use them. In fact, they were passionate about the right to carry guns and the need to use them in their defence. I had a really hard time picturing these church-going ladies as gun-toting Mamas.

Like my reaction to the pre-Bible study gun discussion, I am unsure how I feel about guns. I am not adverse to guns, but I have never considered owning one myself.

My Dad had two guns in our house growing up. And he had the appropriate licenses – something hard to come by in Malawi. When there was a rash of robberies in our neighbourhood, he would take out the rifle and shoot a couple shots in the air in the evening – “to discourage them from robbing us,” he said. I remember him running to get the gun when a hyena appeared in our garden. I was happy the hyena ran away before my Dad could shoot him. Another time, Dad used the rifle to shoot a rabid dog dead at his feet.

Dad showed me the guns and where to find the ammunition in case I ever needed one of them while he was away on a trip. I was a teenager by then and found the trust pleasingly chilling. I didn’t really consider what I would do if I ever heard someone in the house while I was alone. What would I have done then? Could I shoot someone?

One night my parents woke to hear movement in the office next to their room. Dad loaded the gun, threw open the office door and flicked on the light. He pointed the gun at my sister, who had decided to sleep on a cot in the office. Tanya just about peed in her pants. I’m glad he looked before he shot. I’m glad I didn’t have to ever load the gun and confront anyone.

When I was a child in Malawi, few people carried or even owned guns. That was how the president liked it. In the UK, the police don’t carry guns as a rule. They believe if they carry guns, it will just encourage criminals to do so. In the US, many people actively defend their right to bear arms. This feeling is not as predominant in Iowa or Minnesota or Wisconsin – owning guns was not an issue I discussed over the water cooler at work or over coffee in church. But in Oklahoma, and even more so in Texas I understand, guns are an issue of great importance. They are part and parcel of life here: one is more likely to live without a refrigerator than a gun. It is a big cultural difference that I have to wrap my mind around.

Spring!

March in Oklahoma was beautiful. The birds returned en mass. With the windows open, I could hear all the joyous-sounding chirps and twitters. I enjoyed watching the robins, blue birds, doves and squirrels hopping, diving and playing on the fence and the slowly greening grass. The somewhat boring trees in our back yard blossomed in soft tones of lavender, pink and that incredible fresh, new green of spring. What a relief after the depressing browns and greys of winter!

Unfortunately, with the blossoms came allergies. People sported bruise-like circles under their eyes. There was the constant ‘sniff’ of running noses, the sharp (wet) stutter of repetitive sneezing. And asthma. Not fun. I had my worst attack in years (either that, or I have a very short memory). It lasted a couple of weeks and came with a back-wrenching cough. I’m surprised I have any lungs left. I had to resort to muscle relaxants at one point – my back felt like it had a steel band across the middle that contracted periodically.

Kirsten (my doctor sister) asked me if I had been using my inhalers regularly.

“Well no. I didn’t have any problems before this week.”

She was most annoyed with me. I am supposed to take a couple puffs every day of my life. The medicine keeps my airways open and ‘prevents irreversible loss of lung capacity’ (if I remember her words correctly). It is hard to imagine I need such medicine when I have no problems breathing most of the year. It is also hard to force myself to remember when there is seemingly no problem. Even now, I am breathing normally and have forgotten to take my medicine for a week.

That’s the story of my life. It’s a cycle - like the seasons changing. When I feel no back pain, I gradually (but surely) dispense with my daily back exercises. When I breathe easily, I forget my inhalers. When I have no troubles, I don’t take time to read God’s word daily. God must sigh (like my sisters do) when I revert again and again to this careless state of being.

“Got to nudge that dumb Alex girl today. She’s slipping again.”

Once he prods me, it is like Oklahoma in March. My faith stirs. Joy returns. Good works blossom. Life is good.

At least until it starts to wither once more.

Thank God for Jesus’ love! He never tires of giving me a caring (well-deserved) kick in the butt!

I pray that I can always respond like the spring after winter – new life, growth, hope – until He takes me home and I don’t ever have to face winter again.

Expressing those feelings

Moving is hard. It is difficult to leave behind all that is familiar and start again in a strange place. As adults, we tend to bury our feelings in actions – work, unpacking, church, organizing. Children have a little more time to think about how they feel. They also have to explore how they feel because they have less experience. I have two children exploring and expressing their feelings. Unfortunately, their two sets of feelings conflict.

My daughter is 4 and she tells you exactly what she feels if she can. For example, she starts talking about Ranger (who is dead, as you might remember), or the other dogs we had in Antigua. Before you know it, Boo is sobbing about how much she misses them. Or she might talk about her friends. The other day, she was listening to a mother and daughter in a store. The mother called the girl CC. Boo turns to me and says, “You know, there was a Gigi in my class in Antigua. She was my best friend.” We talked about Gigi for a while and soon Boo was sad once more. Whatever she misses at any particular moment, the remembering leaves her sad and/or angry. She is sad that we don’t live in Antigua and angry that we won’t take her back. If she is sad, she cries. If she is angry, she shouts, slams doors and throws toys.

Our son did the angry/sad thing when we moved to Antigua. He was 6 and he complained constantly. He did not want to move from MN and he did not like Antigua. He missed sledding, snow ball fights and snow days. He missed days with his Uncle and visiting his cousins. He missed play grounds, water parks and rides. He missed Target and Wal-Mart (of all things!). He was unhappy and so he shouted, sulked, and was generally unpleasant. On the other hand, OK appears to be perfect in his opinion. He loves his soccer club, his school, his piano teacher. Everything is great (except maybe his sister). The most he complains about is “too much homework.”

So… I find myself with a son determined to live in the US and a daughter determined to live in Antigua. Neither one can understand the other’s feelings. Lord grant me patience and understanding to help them through these emotional times! And time – I pray they will sort out their feelings and deal with them better as they age. Would it be too much to ask that they develop empathy too?

The Clocks are Wrong!

The clocks are wrong. There is no way I could be consistently late by 8 to 15 minutes for everything. It must be the clocks.

Either that or my internal clock is off – maybe because I don't think of time in the same way as most Americans.

In Malawi, punctuality is a foreign concept. Literally. The British introduced it. Eight to 15 minutes means nothing in a community without clocks. Of course, I lived in Blantyre, the commercial hub for the south. And I attended a British school. Those prefects and teachers didn't do late. Still, punctuality was a veneer, a uniform we wore for school, a suit for the office. The remaining time we measured by social convenience rather than clocks. If it took longer to prepare for a party, so be it: one arrived later. If one met a friend on the way to an appointment, one chatted. You couldn’t be rude so you were delayed. As long as you arrived sometime, you were OK. This was called Malawi time.

In University, the first time I lived anywhere but Malawi, I can't remember if time was an issue. If it was, it was swamped by an ocean of other issues.

For my two full-time jobs, punctuality was optional. As long as I finished the job, it didn't matter when I did it. Church was another matter. I usually arrived in time for the sermon. It helped that I was a single mother in Minnesota. Everyone assumed it was too much for me to prepare the baby and myself on time. True, but I imagine that my internal clock didn't help. I somehow missed the lesson on time management. Fifteen minutes before nine meant I had time to sweep and write a last minute check before church. I always forgot I had to put on coats, haul the car seat and baby to the car, and drive the 10 minutes to church. I imagine many people were secretly annoyed at me all the time.

In Antigua, I fit right in. Eight to 15 minutes late is standard. In fact, one could depend on meetings starting 10-20 minutes late. I managed to be only 5 minutes late for swimming and football lessons (British teachers, you understand). Fresh from England, my friend Cindy almost gave up on me several times because I was 10 minutes late for a beach rendezvous. However, on Sunday, I actually arrived before most of the congregation most of the time. Time is a little more fluid in Antigua. This is called Antigua time.

Now I live in Oklahoma. As far as I can tell, time is not fluid here. When Scooter's piano teacher invites him to a party from 11am-1pm, she calls at 11:20 and asks if Scooter is alright. If he is alright, why isn't he at the party yet??? Oops. I thought he could arrive anytime between 11am and 1pm. If school ends at 2:30, I am supposed to be there at 2:30, not 2:45. I'm still working on that one.

I have to readjust my internal clock. It isn't a simple dial I can turn or a button I can push to compensate for daylight savings time. I have to change the way I think about time. I have to consider time a priority. I have to put everything in a time perspective. And that is where I run into trouble - it just feels wrong to give time precedence in life.

A Pain in the Back

I just returned from the physical therapist. I gave up the “push through the pain” strategy and went in hopes of returning my life to normal. By normal, I mean moving without the fear of shooting pain, exercising without pain killers, running when my daughter decides to lead me a merry chase through the parking lot.

Yes, she did that on Sunday afternoon at the football complex (oops – soccer – you know what I mean). She played with her friends, within sight for most of the game. She was wearing a bright pink sweater – easy to spot. Right at the end of the game one of her friends asked me, “Do you know where __ is?” I stood up and looked around. A few minutes before she was playing with her friends across the pitch, next to my friend Trish. Now, Boo wasn’t in sight and neither were her friends. Boo's friend and I walked around the pitch, searching. I asked Trish if she had seen Boo. Yes. She saw her and her friends wander after her oldest son towards the toilets. Trish and I walked quickly in that direction, hoping they hadn’t ventured to the toilets on their own. We separated to circle one of the pitches between us and the toilet. The next moment, I saw Trish dashing through the parking lot, waving her arms madly. I glanced behind her to see her children and Boo’s other friend on the side of the road by the parking lot. No Boo. My heart pounded faster as I imagined what Trish saw just out of my vision. My daughter under the wheels of a car. My daughter climbing into a stranger’s car. “Lord God, protect her.” But I couldn’t run. In fact, with the stress of the moment, my back tensed and I had to take shorter and shorter strides to compensate for the pain. I thought, “Thank God Trish is here.”

There was no accident, no abduction. The children left Boo at the toilet by herself. She had to cross the busy parking lot to return. Trish could see Boo hesitating at the side, poised to cross, but unsure when to go because of all the traffic. That is when Trish waved her arms. She yelled for Boo to stop and wait. What a relief to see Boo safe and walking towards me hand in hand with Trish! I would have bent down and squeezed Boo if I could. I felt like kissing Trish on both cheeks, but that isn’t done here. I had to do with thanking her (and God) repeatedly.

So I went to the PT today. I have hyper-mobility, especially on one side of my back. As I understand it, this means my facet joint moves too freely or pulls apart or something when I take too long a stride, bend without using my knees, or roll over in bed without using my abs and gluts. When this facet joint catches (or whatever it does), it causes inflammation, which tends to affect the rest of my back, neck and head. It also creates some kind of arthritis, but that, as I understand it, is either a normal part of aging, or can go away if I can control the original problem. I think. (My sisters will probably roll their eyes and groan at this explanation. It’s true - I didn’t get the medical gene in the family. I have to blunder along with a very hazy understanding of all things medical.)

What to do about the original problem? I have to constantly remind my daughter to stay by me, tell me where she is going and with whom, or haul my husband along so he can chase after her.

As to my back, I have to add a couple more stretches to my daily back exercises as well as resume other exercises. But I have to tone them down. No more rigorous laps of butterfly or breast stroke in the pool. Squats, leg lifts, lunges – these I have to do in the pool, gently! The PT also put me on a regimen of cycling, as long as the bike allows me to recline slightly, and has a back support. I think she gave me a speed limit too. At least until the inflammation is gone and I have increased the stability to that region of my back. Worst of all – no pain killers! I have to know when I’ve pushed myself too far so I can reign myself in.

May I repeat myself? Growing old sucks!

One winter weekend...

On a lovely Oklahoma winter weekend, we took advantage of the 70 degree sunshine to visit a nearby State Park. We had to prove to ourselves that there was more to Oklahoma than soccer fields, school, church and shopping. We chose Red Rock Canyon State Park because it wasn't far and it sounded promising, though small.

We drove through flat, scrub-like countryside surrounded by red dirt, then followed a road down into a canyon. The red sandstone walls glowed warmly in the sunlight. Where weather had worn the stone, outcroppings stood out from the canyon walls like natural sculptures. They were just asking to be climbed. All four of us swarmed up the rocks, finding grooves scrapped in the rock from the hundreds of hands and feet that climbed before us. I really wanted to climb on top of the main outcrop. I wormed my way to within feet of the top. Then I looked down at my children and thought, “I could fall and then they would be motherless.” Sigh. I never used to worry about such things.

There was a small fishing lake on the opposite side of the road. Sunlight glinted on the green water, though not on the red canyon wall behind it. There was a well-placed tree in front, so up the children climbed for a photo shoot (they know what is required of them, having two camera-loving parents, though they don’t always smile as we’d like).

The first trail led us on grass-lined, leaf-muffled paths by a spring-fed creek. We saw a couple of small, walled-in ponds and then climbed up onto the top of the ridge. We wished we had our picnic. It reminded me of Son’gani Point on Zomba, without the breathtaking drop-off. There were flows and wrinkles of lichen- and algae-covered rock spreading out in all directions. Most children would have a ball exploring and leaping around.

Our children were hungry and our picnic was in the car. So, with much theatrics and complaining, we returned to the car and drove down to one of the picnic sites. It was pleasant enough, given the temperature. However, I’m sure it is much prettier in spring, when there are leaves on the trees. As it was, we stared at the dead-looking brush and trees and wished for a little of the lush Antiguan green.

Before we left, we explored one of the other trails. It wasn’t as pretty as the first, but it was longer and there were more trails that we (the parents) are eager to explore further. Again, I think this area will improve in March or April when the leaves return.

In summer, the pool opens, so we might return to camp, hike and swim. We just don’t know how hot it will be – if the trees and canyon walls protect it a little from the normal Oklahoma 100+ degree temperatures, or if we’ll just roast and wish we were back in the air conditioning.

Write a picture book? No problem!

People ask me what I do. Besides raising my children and keeping our house, I write.

"What do you write?"
"Right now I am trying to write picture books for small children."
"Oh."
I can see the cogs moving in their minds - "That can't be too hard!"

You know - I had the same thought when I started over a year ago.

Reading hundreds of picture books to my children, some of them over and over, and some of them hair-pullingly tedious, I thought, "I could write one of these! How hard could it be?" That's how it all started.

One day, I followed my daughter around as she played. It was fascinating - her one-sided dialogue, her imaginary friends, her make-believe world. I decided this would form the basis for my first book. I excitedly announced this to my friends and started madly typing.

After a few weeks working on that book, friends asked, "So, have you finished the book? When can we buy it?"
"Ah, well...no. I'm not finished yet. I finished another draft, but I have a few more parts to re-work before I can submit it."
"Oh."
After several more months, they grew tired of the same response.

So just what is the hang-up? Why does it take so long to write a picture book? Come on - "Jane has a ball. Jane throws the ball." We all remember reading those stories. Any simpleton could write those.

Unfortunately, Jane's old hat and no one cares if she throws a ball anymore. You have to write something new, different.

Still, that isn't so hard. We're talking 100-500 words. Plop them down on paper and be done with it!

Those of you who know me may already see the problem. 500 words? 1000 words? Even 5000 words? No problem. But you ask me to limit myself to 100-500 words? I'm just finishing the introduction at 500 words.

Picture books are the art of writing distilled: each word a precious drip on the page. Each has to carry the weight of 10 normal words. Every one placed to make the biggest impact. And they all have to be simple.

Just shoot me now. It would be easier in the long run.

Since you asked, that first book is finished - in three different ways. One is a poem, one is a chapter book for early readers, and the third well, actually that one isn't complete yet - sort of a fairy tale-ish version of the story. The middle version I sent to be critiqued by a literary agent or editor at an upcoming writer's conference. Lord willing, I'll have some feedback on that one and maybe it will even go somewhere (hopefully to a publisher rather than the trash heap) one day.

You get the idea though. I write, then I re-write. After that, I write it differently. I send it to a fellow writer for feedback. I re-work the words, the characters, the story. I ask for more feedback. Finally, I send it to a publisher who may or may not respond.

And that is what I do (I'd say in a nut shell, but obviously, I've never written anything in a nut shell or it might be published already).

Amazonia - Day 8

(Continued from May 2010 Post)
The next morning, we left the lodge at 6am - the last group. I heard our neighbours leave at 4:30. Maybe the management didn't feel there was much point taking children out on the lake at 4:30, or maybe the other groups wished to see animals before the loud children scared them all away.
Abel steered the canoe from the back, Mili and Scooter paddled in the middle, Mili pointing to various sights. Boo alternated sitting in the prow, sitting by Mili, sitting by Daddy, sitting by Mama. In other words, she moved constantly. Amazingly, we did spot black cayman imitating logs in the water, and a few red howler monkeys. E.J. sighted them on a palm branch high above the lake - they looked like so many red bumps on a log. Mili also pointed out endless species of birds. We had a great view of the beautiful, russet-coloured stinky turkeys (Hoatzin) I heard the night before. They have two stomachs and regurgitate what they eat so they can chew it again. I guess they are like feathered cows sitting in the trees. Because they chew these half-fermented foods, they reek - both as living birds and as dead meat. As interesting as all this was to E.J., Scooter and me, it was no great shakes for a 3-year old. After an hour, none of us could justify keeping Boo enclosed any more.

We returned to the lodge to eat breakfast and then relax (or run around singing and releasing pent up energy) until 10. Mili led us on a walk through the jungle. She had a knack for finding plants Boo could touch, and trees with stories interesting to Scooter. There was dense undergrowth and only the occasional tall tree. One was the cork tree, used to make corks for wine bottles. Another was the garlic tree - not like any garlic I've ever chopped for dinner. Mili cut a small piece off the trunk and there was an overpowering stench of garlic. She put a little in her boot to deter snakes (snakes must be like vampires). A third tree, called Kapok, was huge. Local tribesmen call it El Madre de la Selba (Mother of Nature), and come for miles to worship under its branches, according to Mili. They believe the tree is so tall that their requests and souls (when thy die) will be taken up to heaven by the tree.
Mili admitted that the first time she guided a group by herself she was hopelessly lost for five hours on these same trails. The tour group kept asking what they were looking for and Mili kept putting them off with bits of information as she searched desperately for a familiar trail mark. She assured us that was six years ago. We returned to the lodge after only an hour. We almost saw another species of monkey, but we were too loud and the monkey too shy. Thank goodness plants can't run away or we wouldn't have seen anything. Having said that, we did see creeping palms, but they only move a few inches each year, so they couldn't escape fast enough.
All the other groups walked for hours, reporting numerous sightings of monkeys, birds, even cats. We mostly stayed at the lodge. E.J. didn't mind the time to relax in the hammocks. Scooter discovered the pile of Brazil nut pods in front of the lodge. He tried every way he could to open one while Boo used them to help ants build their nests. I am not sure the ants appreciated her efforts.
At 4:30pm, we took a dusk canoe ride. We really wanted to see the giant river otter, but Mili said it was unlikely. The mother had two cubs and they were being especially retiring. Sure enough, we didn't see much. Just as dark fell, we saw a troop of squirrel monkeys in some branches overhanging the lake. We enjoyed watching them as they leaped from tree to tree and chattered at one another. Mili told us that the monkeys know how to swim but don't like the water. When they fall in, they cry like babies as they swim to the nearest tree root. Scooter wished that one would fall either into his canoe or into the water nearby so he could hear it cry.
As we rowed across the lake to the lodge, I heard a loud motor boat or chain saw in the distance. I thought it strange that the Park staff allowed such an intrusion in a protected area. However, Mili identified the sound as a red howler male calling his troop in for the night. The sound intensified and echoed over the lake. I didn't know an animal could make such a racket.
As we disembarked at the lodge, we checked on the large colony of leaf-cutting ants slowly building their nest over the wooden stairs. The cutters still cut busily overhead - regardless of the dark. Long lines of leaf carriers still brought pieces 5-10 times bigger than themselves down the tree to the leaf chewers. These chewed the leaves and mixed the paste with dirt to make their homes. Mili told us the queen lays the eggs and the hatched larvae eat the chewed leaf mixture.