Weekends in the Ministry

"Being married to a minister just ruins your weekends!"

I was a bit shocked to hear this, but then the woman qualified: "Saturday he's anxiously pulling apart his service, praying it is just right, and Sunday he's either preaching, teaching or laid out flat, trying to recover." I could sympathize - my father is a pastor.

As far back as I can remember, Dad packed his cracked-leather, duct-taped bottom, faded brown bag every day and left for "the Village." During the week, he left right after he dropped us off at school (7am), and visited 2 or 3 congregations. If they were near town, he would be home in time to pick us up from school at 3 or 4pm. I remember being so excited the few times Dad came home and had enough energy to come outside and play Frisbee with us in the cool of the evening before the mosquitoes descended. However, much of the time, he didn't return until dark, or sometimes he spent the night and returned the next day. Whatever his schedule during the week, it was a given that he would leave earlier and return later on the weekends - that he was never home when my friends' fathers spent time with their children. And when he did come home, he would open a cold beer and slump in a chair, covered in dried sweat and dust, and completely spent. Then Mum whispered not to disturb him and we gave him a wide berth.

In Primary school, we had to write "News" first thing every day. On Monday, friends would write about their family trips to the lake (Lake Malawi), to the game park, to Lilongwe... My news never varied and it took 2 sentences:

"On Saturday, I went to the pool with my sisters and my Mum. On Sunday, we went to church and then we went to the pool."

I remember coming home and asking Mum,

"Why can't we go to the lake on the weekend like so-and-so?"

The answer was always the same:

"Dad has to work and we don't have a car when Dad works."

In my early years, we rarely had a second car, so we didn't take day trips or go anywhere. Or, rather, we couldn't go anywhere we couldn't walk. It took half an hour to walk between home and the swimming pool...that was acceptable. I think we must have found a ride to church - I don't remember ever walking to or from church.

During those earlier years, we expressed much the same sentiments as that minister's wife, except we moaned and groaned more, and weren't quite so understanding of my Dad's work. "It's not fair!" "I'm bored!" Mum heard her share of those. It is all well and good for Dad to make sacrifices in the service of the LORD, but we never chose this life! And when faced with 4 or 5 bickering daughters, Mum sometimes gave up on uncomplaining service to the LORD too. Then it was probably just as well Dad wasn't home.

Thinking back, we lived through all those weekends without Dad. After all, we were able to spend time in a beautiful pool in hot weather while he was out sweating and working. Besides, Dad made it up to us in other ways when he could. Now, we are all proud of the work he did, and thankful for the opportunity to live in Malawi because of his work.

I just hope my children come to the same realization when they are older. Right now, they say their share of "I'm bored!" and "It's not fair!" It's their turn to wonder why we don't do things like so-and-so. And my husband and I even spend every weekend with them! What was I saying in my last post about the grass always seeming greener on the other side?

The grass is always greener on the other side, isn't it?

Five months ago, my family and I moved from Antigua,
to Oklahoma City, OK.
"A bit strange..."
"Why on earth..."
"That's a change!"
Yes - we've heard.
And our replies?
"Yes."
"Don't ask."
And "Yes!"

Forget the places - in some ways, they are immaterial. Just moving across town can be a difficult change - new church, new neighbours, new schools if you have children, new routes to ...everything. And don't forget the expense of replacing everything that broke during the move (including the backs hauling the upstairs dresser - who wanted solid oak anyway?). Moving is hard.

I miss the challenge of working with the swim team and the bond we were developing. I miss taking religion classes - the instruction from Paul or Josh, and the insights of my classmates. I miss talking with Cindy, or Rhonda, or Michelle, or Donnette (the list goes on) after church. I miss the hugs of Miss Clarke; the kisses on the cheek from Mac. I miss Mrs. Titus' no-nonsense humour. I miss the laughter and teasing from Ron or Karim or Donique or Kazende. I miss banging away on the steel pans with Genesis (yes - sorry, Kristin, that it was too often banging on my part!). I miss meeting friends at the beach and talking as the children play. I miss my dogs' greeting when I come home. I miss get-togethers with the other mission families. I miss games of Catan with Paul and Betsy. I miss the comfortable familiarity of people and places I know.

But I understand why we left. I helped plan every detail of the move. I even drove first 17 hours and then 15 hours to arrive in Oklahoma City (yes, it was a very round-about route). My husband and my son also understand the move. My daughter does not.

Boo is four years old. I thought that she would be fine since she is so young. I was wrong. There isn't a day when she doesn't say something about Antigua.
"You have to pack everything when we go, Mama," she says, indicating the toys in her room.
"Go where, dear?"
"Back to Antigua."
"We aren't moving back to Antigua."
"We aren't?"
"No. This is our home now."
"But if we don't move back, then someone else will live in our house."

"What are we going to do with this car when we leave?" she asked as we were driving in the mid-west this summer, having bought a car.
"We'll drive the car, dear."
"The car can't go on the airplane, Mama."
"We aren't going on an airplane anymore, dear. We live in the USA now."
"We aren't going back to Antigua? But Rachel might forget me then."

"Will the people let us have our dogs back, Mama?"
"Our dogs have new homes now."
"But when we go back, we'll want our dogs."
"We aren't going back to Antigua; that is why our dogs have new homes."
"You mean we'll never see our dogs again?"

Each day, there is something else to remind her of Antigua. Each time it is a new perspective of what it means to move. And her mind cannot grasp that the only home she knows is gone. She can't believe it. She doesn't understand no matter how much we explain. She ends up crying each time.

It is heart breaking.

Often, I envy those people who live in one place for their whole lives. They develop their friendships for years and years - they discover dimensions I can't imagine. Those of us who move constantly have a few short years to form bonds and then have to start over again.

I have lived on three different continents and two islands. I wouldn't mind living on three more continents (ya - not Antarctica - never had any desire to live there) and I'd be up for another island (in the Pacific, maybe - could Australia count as both?). After all I just wrote against moving, why on earth would I want to do this?

I have the seven-year itch disorder. After 5 or 6 or 7 years, I itch to move, to experience a new place. I am beginning to understand that this is just another manifestation of the "grass looks greener on the other side" condition.Please, next time I start itching, remind me that the grass isn't necessarily greener. It's just more of the same, in a different flavour. And it may not be worth the difficulty of crossing the road called moving.

Dealing with Death

We heard of Ranger's death last week. Perhaps we were a touch hasty, but we told the children the next time they asked about our dogs (about once a day).

"We heard that Ranger was poisoned. She's dead."

They wanted details - "Who poisoned her? When did she die?" But when we couldn't answer their questions, they moved on. We shrugged and moved on ourselves.

Last night, my daughter started crying at the dinner table. "Is Ranger really dead? I miss her."
She sat on her daddy's lap and sobbed. She cried as she brushed her teeth and dressed for bed. She lay on the floor and wailed.

I knew how my daughter felt. I remembered how I cried all afternoon after Mum told me that Rudolph died. So I told Boo stories of Rudolph when he was alive - the fastest dachshund in the world with a taste for the females of his species. He would even climb chicken wire to get to the ladies when they were in heat. Unfortunately, he was a bit overeager and didn't quite manage to jump over the top. Instead, he stuck his head through a hole and let go with his paws. He dangled there making strangling noises until we ran out and rescued him. Boo almost laughed.

We moved on to memories of Ranger.
"Remember how she liked to deliver dead rats to my kitchen door?"
"Remember how she liked to eat grapes off the vine?"
"Remember how tiny she was when she arrived?"
"She always knocked we over. She liked to chew on me. She didn't even like me!"

This last was from my daughter. She sounded slightly outraged. She didn't cry anymore.

There's no place like Home

Doing a puzzle with my daughter this morning (meaning she dumped it out and I finished it), I had one of those homesick moments. The puzzle was a deteriorating wooden picture of an African elephant amongst thorny scrub land - one my little sister did when she was young. In the background, Phil Collins sang, "Take me home, cause I don't remember..." - a song I listened to as a teenager. It was a concerted attack on my defenses.

I never know what will trigger these moments - a song, a smell, a book, a picture - small things maybe, but piercing. Once inside, the memories of 'home' are insidious, a kind of masochistic torture. I know it is pointless to dwell on them: that home is gone.

I left home in 1991. I went to University in the USA and missed Malawi every day. I lived for the months I could go back. The first few years, I went back every year. I easily slipped back into old routine - play with my dogs, go out with friends, travel with my parents, visit favourite haunts, pop by school and talk to various acquaintances. All too soon years passed between visits. I didn't know as many people, places were transformed: life there moved on without me.

Before my parents left Malawi in 2004, I went to visit them one last time. They lived in the same house and, in some ways, much was the same. The dogs greeting me were the same, though grey-muzzled and slow-moving. The scraggly hedge still made an attempt to hide us from the road. I still woke to the raucous teasing of crows and the mournful crooning of morning doves. Mum still flip-flapped down the hall in her slippers early every morning. Dad still spent a couple of hours eating his breakfast then went out all day to visit his churches. But the servant quarters were empty, the swing set gone, high walls closed out most of our neighbours, the little dirt road outside was nicely paved, the words, "Long Live Kamuzu" no longer spanned the hill across the valley from our house. The changes weren't all bad, just shocking because I didn't see the years of small steps in between.

In 2007, mission friends from Antigua visited Malawi and stayed in our old house. Pictures of the house showed big burglar bars on all the windows, 7-foot high brick walls with razor wire replacing the hedge, metal gates, a re-arranged garden and an unrecognizable interior. I felt like crying. It looked fine, but it wasn't home - not mine anyway.

The house is gone. My parents are gone. Stella is dead. Our dogs are dead. I am grown up.

My childhood home is gone. And yet the memories persist. This must be what it is like to grow old.

Right>View from the house in the 1970s. Soche and "Long Live Kamuzu."