On this mountain Yahweh Almighty will prepare a feast of rich food for all peoples,
a banquet of aged wine–
the best of meats and the finest of wines.
on this mountain he will destroy
the shroud that enfolds all peoples,
the sheet that covers all nations.
He will swallow up death forever.
The Sovereign Lord will wipe away tears from all faces.
He will remove his people’s disgracefrom.all the earth.
Yahweh has spoken.
In that day they shall say, “Surely this is our God, we trusted in Him and He saved us.”
This is Yahweh and we trusted in Him.
Let us rejoice and be glad in His salvation.
Isaiah 25:6-9 NIV
This week marked seven years since our dear brother Peter passed into glory on that beautiful lake.
Another more fresh and poignant sorrow presses on our hearts. Tears, so many tears have been shed this week.
Amy Carmichael writes, “sorrow is one of the things that are lent, not given. A thing that is lent may be taken away, a thing that is given will not be taken away. Joy is given, sorrow is lent. We are not our own and we are bought with a price and ‘our sorrow is not our own’ (Samuel Rutherford said this a long time ago) it is lent to us for just a little while so we may use it for eternal purposes. Then it will be taken away and everlasting joy will be our Father’s gift to us and the Lord God will wipe all tears from all faces.
So let us use this ‘lent’ thing to draw us nearer to the heart of Him who was once a Man of Sorrows (He is not that now, but he does not forget the feeling of sorrow). Let us use to make us more tender of others, as He was while on earth, and is still, for He is touched with the feeling of our infirmities.”
-Amy Carmichael, Edges of His ways, 193
“And He shall wipe all tears from our eyes.” That’s all the words I have today.
The other day Tim asked me if I’m ever afraid of settling in too much on this side of the ocean. Enjoying a sense of normalcy and all the delights a bit too much, maybe?
No, simply because I haven’t felt normal yet. If I do have that sense anytime in the next year, cheers! We also bought a house and the sense of settling in won’t come till we can move. While driving by one day, Jeshua exclaimed, “Oh, look at that gross mustard house! That is the most awful-looking house I’ve ever seen!” We laughed so hard when it was actually the one Tim wanted to look at that day. And we liked the layout and the fact that it was a stand-alone house and the price….so we decided this was our house.
Someday we will paint it, but for now we have a Mustard House. (the car is the neighbor’s)
I’m waiting to share pictures of the inside till I have “after” pictures to balance out the rather awful “before” pictures. Yes, it was rather dreadful and I felt sorry for the people who were living in that filth. But weeks of painting, pulling out old carpet, and tearing out kitchen cabinets is slowly being rewarded with beautiful new cabinets, fresh walls in peaceful colors, and new flooring. We are blessed and thankful. I am not as young and adventurous as I used to be. I am tired, so I will be looking for that (illusion) of being settled one of these days.
In between painting, we’ve been enjoying Fall. The children were fascinated with the falling leaves, the first frost, and then the first flakes of snow, especially Kasia, who had never seen anything like it before.
The Fall sunsets were so beautiful.
And the frost…exquisite. Photography causes me to lean in close to the small forgotten things. It’s a beautiful world.
“The Lord your God is in your midst, a Mighty One who will save, He will rejoice over you with gladness, He will quiet you with His love. He will exult over you with loud singing.” (Zephaniah 3:17)
Isn’t that beautiful? Often my mind is full of all the heavy things: should we get The Vaccine or should we not? Grim predictions about the economy, the pandemic, and everyone’s varied opinions feel like sludge in my brain.
But today our God is here. He will save. He is singing and rejoicing over us with gladness. He will quiet us with His love.
“For His dominion is an everlasting dominion.. the inhabitants of the earth (and all the opinions) are accounted as nothing.” (Daniel 4: 34b-35a)
His kingdom is a forever kingdom. The only solid one there is.
And perhaps… we shouldn’t expect to feel settled till we’re There. With Him. Forever.
Settled for millions of years and then even more millions.
I am learning that through a season of transition, it is wise to be quiet. I am relearning a culture and good learners are quiet while others teach them. It is a place of peace.
I am learning that the decisions I make today are part of the woman I will be in 30 years. Peevish or loving, sullen or joyful, I am building that woman I will see in the mirror. I want to see a sweet one.
I am learning my heart can hold both joy and sorrow. If I try to carry all the sadness first in one arm, I stagger and lose my balance. A full bucket of joy on the other side balances it out nicely and makes the weight of life easier to manage. I used to think I had to get rid of the sorrow bucket before picking up the joy bucket and now I am comforted to know that life is healthier with a bucket full of each.
I am learning that walking with God doesn’t mean carrying the world’s problems on my shoulders. I am not necessarily responsible. I am learning to relax as a child in my Father’s arms. Where I need nothing (no work, no identity) but Him and the love between us. He is not looking for my A+ effort before holding me as His daughter.
I am learning that I was addicted to action. Life wasn’t fulfilling unless it was full of what I deemed as “fulfilling”. I am learning that God is often not in the fire or the earthquake or the whirlwind, but He is in the quiet. His voice is a whisper and if I want to hear it, I must quiet down too. And oh….the riches there.
I am learning that home can truly be in two places. The ache and missing are still there. I can hear the doors open there and feel my sister’s dark cheek against mine. But I also have a home here, and the light glows warm. What used to feel like a painful war in my heart is now a privilege. My heart speaks the language of two homes. And ultimately the language of only One.
I am learning to be patient. Life is a long, slow process. Instead of perpetually wishing myself to be in the next stage I can squeeze the sweetness out of this stage. There’s a miracle happening in the yeast rising slowly and the seed germinating underground. But it happens so slowly that nature itself doesn’t have the patience to sit there and watch it happen. The slowness doesn’t mean there’s no miracle.
I am learning to notice this steady, slow, but powerful force at work in my own life. And I don’t want to miss it by looking for identity in all the wrong places.
I am learning to see profound beauty in this Pennsylvania landscape and culture. The corn is a green sea, then brown and heavy with ears. In one roaring afternoon, the fields are empty. The next week the rows of dry stubble are covered up with the fresh green of new growth. Who are these farmers and how do they learn to partner with God and nature like this?
I see a beaming grandma (the one I want to be like in 30 years) standing beside the road, with her strong, tall son. In his arms is a small son– three generations– and they are all laughing and happy. A picture of the strength of family…all living together and passing down their values generation after generation. Tears rush to my eyes. Is it true that things I hardly noticed or dubbed ‘unspiritual’ are actually vital parts of God’s value system?
I am learning….
“But we all, with open face beholding as in a glass the glory of the Lord, are changed into the same image from glory to glory, even as by the Spirit of the Lord.” 2 Cor. 3:18
A few weeks ago we had a family debriefing session with a couple who specializes in helping families successfully reorient themselves after a major change. I think that is a long way of saying “families in transition” but I’m tired of that word. Transition. They drew a picture of a bridge; on one side we were settled and on the other side we were settled again. In the middle was a chaotic muddle. I thought we would be considered settled, we’ve been here over two months, after all. But they seemed to know that we are still in the middle–in the chaos. I think they were right.
I like to be in control of my world. To unpack as quickly as possible and make the first scary trip to the grocery store. The empty totes are stacked, the cupboards scrubbed, and a place found for all the shoes. So…we’re settled, right? I’m learning that is not the case. It is like being 40 years old with five children starting from scratch. We hunker down in a small rental waiting till house prices drop. But they don’t drop. The bank account creaks as we buy vehicles and school books and everything in between.
I have not yet found my writing equilibrium in the chaos. I wonder if I lost it altogether somewhere over the Atlantic ocean. I am still dizzy, trying to reclaim a sense of belonging and purpose. Before moving those ten-thousand miles, I read, “You should never compare the beginning of a new thing to the end of the last thing. It took time in the first place. You had to figure it out, you had to meet the people…you had to set things in motion and find the rhythm. None of that is in motion when you move into a new thing.” -Jerry Jones
Yes, he is right.
“Transition changes personality. It attacks normalcy. It assaults identity.”
I complain about the too-small house and about the musty basement and the sagging clothesline. The weather is blistering hot. This transition feels every bit as hard as the initial one into a village in Tanzania. It’s not really about the actual circumstances, because we all know life in East Africa can be tough, too, but it’s all about CHANGE. My whole person doesn’t like change. I can live in a mud hut just fine…as long as I’ve been there for a few months. I think I can also live in PA. (after the first few months are past)
I miss the busy Isyesye compound with its people and personality. The roads teeming with people and voices. There I stayed at home and homeschooled my children, but there were endless people to greet, to talk with, to reach out to. Here I stay at home and homeschool my children, but I see no one. I think America’s people must be hiding. There’s lots of people at the grocery store, but everyone silently passes each other, each in their own world. I don’t know what is rude and what isn’t rude in this culture, so I’m quiet too. I peer into cars as they pass mine, hoping to see people. (Am I complaining?)
Instead of finding a practical solution, I grieve the loss of compound life and the daily interactions. I cry a lot and feel altogether dysfunctional. I can tomatoes, and peaches, and green beans. ( because there’s an unbelievable amount of food around). I get a ridiculous amount of joy out of my five children and their school books and I pray a lot that God would help me find one needy soul here in this Garden of Eden. Statistics tell me they are around, but I can’t seem to find them. I just see perfection…perfectly manicured gardens and well-oiled communities of smiling people. I know this is just the bubble that I see, but I don’t know how to break out of or into the bubble.
Maybe my friend is right. She just looked at me and said, “Sheryl, you’re way too intense! Just relax for awhile.” I haven’t figured out if that was helpful advice or not.
Then I hear stories about women in danger, terrified of the control of evil men. They are leaving their homes, their jobs, giving away their babies, facing brutal abuse and atrocities. Some are dying or watching their loved ones die. This is not just a far away story that we can safely tuck away and forget about. This is actually happening to real women who are every bit as human as I. They love their husbands and children as much as I. They are screaming in terror, enduring things I cannot imagine.
According to statistics there are 12,000-15,000 children in foster care in the state of Pennsylvania. That’s a lot of grieving parents and an unfathomable amount of disoriented children. There’s a constant need for people willing to invest in these children.
These are only two places is a groaning world. And my heart kinda breaks.
But I am like the widow with her two mites or the young lad with his small basket of food. My energy and resources are limited.
Perhaps I need to wait till this chaos season is past and we’ve stepped gratefully off the bridge into settledness. More likely, I have lessons to learn about worship in the quiet, people-less places. Where the being is more than the doing and awe is more than work. Where contentment in the ‘here’ is more than enough.
“Yes, we must not fret about not doing God those supposed services which He in fact does not allow us to do. Very often I expect the service He really demands is that of not being used, or not in the way we expected, or not in a way we can perceive.” C. S. Lewis
How have your exercised awe in your quiet chaotic places?
I knew Michigan was beautiful. Even the license plates declare it as “pure Michigan”. But I had never come from a dry season in Africa and gone to a Michigan summer. It felt like a piece of heaven itself. These two weeks were a cushion, softening the harshness of adjustments and homesickness.
Now we are back in Myerstown. Tim and Judson are roofing through some blistering hot weather (or so it feels to us southern highlanders). They come home exhausted and drenched in sweat, but happy because men are made for hard work. The children run next door to grandma’s house and help her in the garden or splash in the creek. It’s a gift to be so close to one set of grandparents. I finally feel like this little house is home since we moved things around and arranged and cleaned.
I light candles and nibble on chocolate covered coffee beans. I place my favorite books in a basket (there’s such comfort in books) and bake sour dough bread. I run in the rain till cool drops fall off my eyelashes. Slowly I feel like myself again. Which is a mercy as intense homesickness becomes quite debilitating after a while.
I also learn about homeschooling in Pennsylvania and do all the required things. I learn how to do grocery shopping and how to spend dollars, many more of them then shillings. I’m grateful for organic limes and anything healthy that manages to survive beside the aisle after aisle of junk food. I am intensely intimidated by doors. Every place we go has a door or many doors, most of them automatic, and oh, the panic of figuring out which one is in and which one is out, or if I have to wait, or push, or pull. Do people just memorize every door in every store? Doors are important, I remind myself. Winter is coming. Outdoor markets and small shops with doors flung wide open in welcome wouldn’t do here.
I drive in the long Amish lane for fresh jersey milk and find a new friend in the energetic little woman who fills my jugs. We eat green beans, sweet corn, peaches, blueberries, nectarines and apricots are in abundance. I tell Kasia she will get a tummy ache from eating nectarines, but she just grins. We see friends and family till we feel like social gluttens and yet feel lonely in our house, because there’s no hodis (the swahili knock) at the door. We blink back tears, the ones that come suddenly in the middle of prayer meeting, and wonder how to live with two worlds so alive inside. Maybe we will learn eventually.
And we say, God is good, all the time. Because He really is.
“He inhabits the praise of His people.” This verse was my verse as we winged our way across the ocean. The only home we truly have is HIM and He lives in our praise. This stabilized my soul.
“Expect delays. Expect challenges. Expect frustration. Expect hiccups and speed bumps and problems along the way to a fully functional thriving life where you are not only enjoying life, but also pouring out on the people around you…. Plant the seed, set the right environment. Put the right things in and keep the wrong things out. Start with some tiny roots, then give yourself space and time and grace to emerge in due time. You’ll get there–even if you haven’t yet.”
“Transition (and reentry) challenges personality. It attacks normalcy. It assaults identity. But when you know who you are in your core (and who you belong to) you can go anywhere with confidence. When you don’t you will be stuck in the anxiety of a missing identity because you’re relying on the outside stuff to define you.” -Jerry Jones
We said goodbye to Tanzania to the ring of pastor Korosso’s words, “Taabu yetu haitakuwa bure.” (your work and challenge will not be in vain). His eyes were full of tears and he kept making the small exclamations and sighs that Tanzanians do so well when emotion overwhelms them. Trying their very best to hide it all. Mama Korosso refused to “sindizia” us but hid away in her room as we left. Kim and I procrastinated for as long as we could, stared at each other not believing that we had to say goodbye…then sobbed our hearts out. We haven’t recovered yet and don’t dare make any phone calls yet due to overmuch emotion.
The last of a string of goodbyes. And my heart felt ragged and raw and ached so intensely it took my breath away.
There’s nothing like the dazed body and emotions of traveling 10,000 miles in 24 hours. The children fell into a deep slumber the whole three hours from the airport and they slept all night through all week long. So no jet lag, which was a first for us. We arrived at the familiar little house on Williams Road and set to work settling in. Kasia soberly sat on the top of the basement stairs that first morning, staring down into the basement. “Mom, a SHOP in the HOUSE. That is gross.” She had never seen a basement before. She still doesn’t “take baths” but rather “goes swimming” as the bathtub is so huge and wonderfully fun. The first week she had no tolerance for people and almost stopped eating. When we asked her what she wants to eat, “just rice and beans, and maybe some porridge.” She lost weight, but thankfully since has learned how to enjoy a bigger variety of food.
In ‘our’ house and in our storage, we found bits and pieces of ourselves. Memories and reminders that this, too, is our life and a place we have belonged. And will belong again. We unpacked and shopped…and are still in the process of making it home. But it will come.
When Jesus sent out the 72 disciples to heal the sick and declare the kingdom of God, they returned amazed at their exploits. But Jesus immediately silenced them by saying, “I have given you authority to trample on snakes and scorpions and to overcome all the power of the enemy and nothing will harm you. However do not rejoice that the spirits submit to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven.” (Luke 10:17-20)
Perhaps Jesus discerned that these zealous disciples were focusing on the wrong thing. The work they did. Perhaps they were attaching their identity and worth to their success and the thrill of seeing God at work. And Jesus was jealous of their focus. He simply said, “rejoice that your names are written in heaven.
In the ache of letting go, the shock of change, the groping for identity, I am comforted and chastened by a whisper from God. “Rejoice that your name is written in heaven. That is enough.”
According to a survey done with various pastors, (Reentry by Peter Jordan) cross cultural workers often return to their passport country with a tinge of restless criticism. The materialism and problems in the church are like burrs under their collar and many set out to change things. Hmmm. Many of the pastors surveyed said “returned missionaries” are hard to work with. They become learners in another culture, go through agonizing months of language learning, and often a host of disappointments and set-backs. They grow a lot of spiritual muscle. But then seem clueless on how to gracefully become a part of their own culture again. The better-than-thou spirit and criticism only further alienate them from their church, often making the reentry stage harder then any of the cultural learning they waded through in their host culture. Reading this book helped me identity problem points in my own heart. I learned a foreign language and culture, often working through misunderstandings and frustrations because that is what I was supposed to do in order to thrive there. Perhaps taking on the same learner mindset in the church and culture stateside would aid in the adjustment between two worlds and help me thrive here as well. That is really exciting to me. I don’t need to compare cultures, love one and react to the other. In each there’s beautiful expressions of God’s church and His people. In each place there’s beautiful people doing his work. To be a part of two diverse cultures, two places where God is at work, is a gift. And I am so thankful for both of our worlds.
“The universe is Thine. I am at home… to Thee this land is well-loved and known.” -Marilyn F. Martin
“Transition: Movement from one highly functional place to another with a completely dysfunctional dip in the middle.” -Jerry Jones
I smiled when I read this. It feels all too true. We are in that “dip in the middle” when the goodbyes and losses echo in our hearts like the empty hollow rooms of our house. One child sobs into his pillow as his loyal heart tries to let go. The tiniest person in the house needs to be rocked more than usual and wails in distress over empty clothing drawers and bookshelves.
But I’m remembering something this morning as I sit with suitcases all around me and my pantry shelves empty. I’m remembering that we deliberately chose this life. We could have chosen to stay in Pennsylvania forever and be surrounded by all things comfortable and dependable. But we didn’t. Our dreams were undoubtedly rose-tinted, but we are living the life we chose. So no complaining, I remind myself.
We chose, but our children didn’t. They were born into this kaleidoscope of culture and language. Compared to my small world as a child, they have had an enviable and colorful childhood. But they also have a lot of challenges to work through that I never had to.
During the inevitable transitions of this life overseas, there are also inevitable losses. Especially for our children. All quotations in the following paragraphs are from TCK-Growing up Among Worlds. (I do not usually call my children kids, but TCK is the commonly used expression for third culture kids)
“Loss of their world. With one plane a TCK’s whole world can die. Every place that is important. Every tree they’ve climbed, every pet they’ve had, and virtually every close friend they’ve made are gone with the quiet closing of the airplane door. TCK’s don’t lose one thing at a time, they lose everything, and there’s no funeral. In fact, there’s no time or space to grieve, because tomorrow they’ll be in ——-to see the sights, then fly to other exciting places before getting to Grandma’s house to see the relatives who are eagerly awaiting their return. And everyone says, “Welcome Home!” Not realizing that the United States is not home anymore for these children.”
“With that one plane ride also comes a loss of status. Many TCKs have settled in enough to establish a place of belonging for themselves. They know where they belong in the current scene and are recognized for who they are and what they can contribute. All at once, not only their world but their place in it is gone.”
“Loss of lifestyle. All the patterns of daily living are gone with it the sense of security and competency that are so vital to us all.” (No more running next door for sugar, salt, or candy. No more going to “Mama Maziwas” for milk with the plastic jug. No more bike rides up and down the dirt roads and trails outside our house. No more lugging a large basket of produce from the produce market down the road. No more…..a lot of things.)
“Loss of possessions. Because of weight limits on airplanes, favorite toys are sold. Treehouses remain nestled in the foliage. If a move is made within-country everything is loaded up and taken along. But TCKs say goodbye to bikes, dogs, familiar and loved bedding, dishes that hold a host of family memories and history, and all the furniture. There is very little sense of connectedness to the past as they resettle.” (this is why there are ratty teddy bears and an antiquated quilt in our luggage)
“And the most unsettling thing of all is that reentry back to their passport country is usually the hardest of all transitions. TCKs expect to be like their peers at ‘home’ and finally fit in. After all, this is their home country. If they were true immigrants no one would be surprised at the teen’s ignorance of common practices, but because they look like everyone else, they are expected to think like everyone else. And they don’t. They are hidden immigrants. “
“Instead of assuming it’s everyone’s task to understand them, TCKs need to make an effort to understand the world view of their home peers. Thoughtful questions and listening more actively (instead of only talking about their life) helps them to understand that the TCK story is simply one of many.”
All these things apply to adults too, but these issues are most intense in children and teens as they struggle to have the maturity to handle the difficulties well.
And now as I sit at my kitchen table, aching for my children, I also thank the Lord for the difficulty of transition. Because it is showing me how small I am in God’s whole scheme of things. Seeing God at work in two culturally diverse places is a gift. It is showing me how little worth these earthly things really have. Our true home is coming. And that entry will have no culture shock–our hearts will be at home.
The other evening at the supper table Winston commented, “I think it’s strange how some people think all children in Africa are poor.”
They read sentences in their school books like: We must remember to pray for the poor children in Africa. And they ask, “Mom, who are they talking about?” They look around and all they see are children, not necessarily poor children, in their minds. A mud hut is normal, it is not poor. What does poor actually mean?
In this town they also see affluent families with their beautiful houses, new vehicles, and western clothes. The 27 children coming into Korosso’s school every morning with their chubby, well-oiled cheeks, clean clothes, and sparkling eyes are a picture of some of Africa’s children. Some of them are brought to school in private vehicles. Some of them have lovely parents who care about them.
The run-down, tiny, mud house neighboring us with the five neglected, hungry children is also a picture of some of Africa’s children. But it is not the mud hut that makes them poor. It is the desperate lack of attentive parents and emotional care. Neither do the private vehicles make these school children rich. Affluent children can be completely bereft of the things which matter most.
No matter if a child lives in a mud hut and eats ugali and greens every day, if the basic needs of parental presence, hygiene, and emotional care are there, that child is rich. He belongs to a community and his community belongs to him. If a child peeps out of a mud hut with a sparkle in his eyes, his parents are home or working instead spending thier days in the village pub and thus have money to buy the corn and fish they need, that child is rich. The “poorest” people are sometimes the happiest people. The poorest children here in Tanzania are the most unselfish children I have ever met. If one child gets a biscuit, he will share it with a whole group of his fellows. This makes them rich in some really important values. Values in which the rich are often poor.
Tanzania, like the United States and probably every other country in the world, is a complex mixture of rich and poor, the lines not always falling where we think they are. We tend to think of poverty as anything less than the American dream and it’s consumerism lifestyle, but true poverty is the lack of belonging to family, church, and community, and the care that provides. True poverty is a life taken over with sin and selfishness.
The eradication of poverty is not to get rid of the mud huts. It is to see people’s hearts being opened to the truth of Jesus and thier lives being changed, bringing love, joy, and purpose into their lives. Pombe (local drink) and its devastating effects will be replaced with purpose and a work ethic that will enable them to provide for their children. Anger will be replaced with compassion.
I stood outside our neighbor’s house the other day. We had just notified Social Services of the neglect these little ones were experiencing, being left at home all alone some days, while the mother takes classes somewhere and the bibi sells greens at the market. “Oh yes,” she said uneasily, “we are planning on moving over to the new house soon. I know this place is a mess.” I assured her that the house was not the issue. “You have three rooms here with a good tin roof and you can live well here. It is the way you do not care about your children, by leaving them with with their bibi and running off with no concern for them. That is the problem.”
From my kitchen I can hear their front door creak open. I watched the comings and goings all week. The Social workers who visited, the tiny ones as they went about their day, the one little boy limping badly from a burn on his leg from falling into the cooking fire. And the fact that their mother was there all week. “I decided to stay around this week, instead of going back to class, because I agree that this situation is not a good one for my children.”
One tiny step. Her face is a picture of incredible sadness and I suspect she is only mirroring the neglect she experienced as a child. She needs Jesus to open her heart to the things that matter most. Not the new house down the road–that will not change much of anything for those children. But Jesus and His transforming power is what they need.
A few weeks ago the Social Services put us in touch with a desperate situation only a few miles from our house. The mother is far away from any extended family and mentally ill. Suzi, the 4 year old is healthy as the neighbors have been kind to her, but she is emotionally neglected and much too independent for a child. Yosufu, the three year old has not been weaned from his mother and spends his days on her back, as some sort of comfort for her, I assume. His communication skills are mostly limited to screaming, biting, kicking, and hitting. His occasional smiles are beautiful on his thin, pinched face. Suzi and Yosufu are poor in almost every way, and their needs so intense that there is very little we can do at this point to make a difference. But the Social Services is actively working on the case and trying to find suitable family members.
Africa’s children are not all ‘poor.’ But some of them are. We need to drop our own definition of ‘poor’ and ‘rich’ in order to properly evaluate how we can help. Helping the poor children is not always adoption, but helping these strong and beautiful people help their own children in their own country. It is arrogant to assume that we are the only ones who have what it takes. It is not giving them an affluent lifestyle, but showing them Jesus. It is rarely in big things, but in cups of water and bandages and kindness. The ‘rich’ need help to understand the lowly Jesus of the Bible and the real riches.
Rich or poor, African or American, these little ones matter to Jesus. They are all precious and beautiful. And they all need to see the hands and feet of Jesus being put to action.
…just a few ragged-edged splinters from the log I have kept of life. That is all this will be. It seems life mainly consists of collecting as many memories as possible, at this stage of winding down and saying goodbye to a country and people we deeply love. It is the season of rain, which is East Africa at it’s finest. Every day I tuck the beauty into my heart–the endless beauty of green, growing things, and children catching bugs and picking guava. The throb of music, the scent of eucalyptus, the sing-song call of vendors selling greens, and ‘my’ patchwork mountain. The array of personalities and people and God’s wonderful workings in the children of men. Open air markets where I buy mounds of fresh food, the Strange Long House we live in, and the flow of KiSwahili. I might even miss dry season, who knows?
I’m packing. I try to pack the ache deep into one of the totes, but it never stays there, insisting on watering my eyes and twisting my heart at random times. I have decided it is okay to ache and to cry. It is all good for the soul. C. S. Lewis once said, “By the way, don’t weep inwardly and get a sore throat. If you must weep, weep a good, honest howl.” I like that advice.
Before the howling truly begins, though, we have nine more weeks of beautiful living here in Isyesye. We are trying to capture it, mostly in our hearts and a little with the camera. Only a little because the best moments are impossible to capture with a piece of technology.
A passion flower bloom–a small hidden marvel.
Before the packing (and the howling) begins in earnest the Kiwria, Ivuna, and Isyesye churches came together for an Easter seminar. The group was small, but so precious. Definitely my favorite moment of the three days was after communion, singing “Wana Baraka.” All the hearts in the room were nearly bursting with joy. It will be a precious memory tucked away in my heart forever. Those are the moments when i wonder how we will ever say goodbye, till I remember that God is the hub. What God owns is safe and cared for. I have discovered that the perceived loss of letting go is not a loss at all. The ‘grasped’ is a selfish poison whereas the ‘ungrasped’ becomes a gift to be fully enjoyed. Our work is meant to give us joy but it is never meant to fill our souls.
This past week the new Water of Life office and library was finished and opened! We had a few days of uncertainty as the day Tim was planning on opening it, the newly renovated building was marked with a red X, which means it will need to be torn down to make way for a new market road. After all the building and fixing up, that was disconcerting. They tore the roof off a neighboring building, but that is as far as they got. And Tim was told to move in…”it could be a few years till they actually do it.” So that is what we did, hoping that perhaps they will come up with a better idea for a road eventually.
And that is the end of the splinters I gathered. The hustle and the bustle of the past few weeks was inspiring and beautiful… but now I’m enjoying the quiet. I’m glad that life is a combination of rest and work, because I really need the rest when it comes. Time to gather my thoughts and fluff my feathers, kiss my babies and weave words.