A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
O, Christ Child, how can we ever hope to understand? Your birth brings a thrill of hope, though it is not a feeling we could explain. We are too old, the world is too tired for hope, and yet you come and it is as joy to us. We hardly know why. A baby cannot save us from the agonies of living. The weakness of a baby is not the mighty to save that we pinned our hopes on. Didn’t your birth look like a failure, even for those with eyes to see? God has chosen the weak things of the world to shame the strong. Well, I used to think I was.
Truly, he taught us to love one another
His law is love and his gospel is peace…
And in his name all oppression shall cease
If only I could understand, perhaps I could have peace. Not that that’s what I’ve ever asked for, that measure of gentility and self-restraint. Submission is an ugly word in my mouth. I’ve always wondered if to you peace means silence, as it does to me. I’ve wondered if you could love the wild ones, the ones who thrash under the weight of your hand, the ones who claw at the restraints of mortality so desperately, aching to touch you, but only on their own terms, only insofar as such an encounter does not entail humility or, its synonym, humiliation. Yet here is a mystery that we cannot lash out at, because He has a very fragile soft spot on the back of his head. He is all fragility, really, nearly transparent skin, soft, still forming bones. Christ, did you choose this form of vulnerability so that the wild ones like me would not grow frightened, cut and run, like so many startled horses? If you came to proclaim the peace of God, you did it not as a conqueror proclaiming servility to a trampled people. You came as one we could not fear or fight, and therefore you have won us all.
Fall on your knees!
O hear the angel voices!
O night divine!
O yes, fall down on your knees before this great mystery! Two thousand years later, we are wondering still. We come to find our Lord in a cradle, the apparently bastard son of two peasant parents. I said we could not be afraid of you, and yet I tremble to approach. Because, wee God-baby, I know what’s coming. I know what you will say and do, and what will someday far away be demanded of me. How what you will ask is what I feel I could never give, not even to the baby, because I know within him is the wild man from Galilee who brings earthquakes, eruptions, and tremors to my otherwise quiet life.
Trust.
You want my trust.
But here at the cradle I grow forgetful of all else, remembering that the only true understanding I ever had was that I do not understand, that I am not wise or good, that it is utter impertinence for me to even speak of this mystery with my unclean lips and my dirty heart.
But here I am. And here you are.
And for this moment in time I find myself able to fall on my knees before you and still the wildness in my heart. Not knowing what tomorrow will bring, I surrender, at least for tonight. And so we call this night “divine.”
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Santa Stories
Okay, so, a quick anecdote from the world of the working woman:
So, the place that I work is complicated, trying to do so many things at once. We sell baked goods, we sell pastries, we sell muffins. We sell breakfast, lunch, and dinner, sometimes all at the same time. We sell decorated cakes and pastries and specially ordered giftbaskets. And we sell many other things that fall under the heading of "giftware." This is all the stuff that is set up all around the store: mugs, platters, little figurines, nutcrackers, teapots, all kinds of high priced brick-a-brac that people browse through and buy. It is unbelievable to me how people can come in and just start spending hundreds of dollars on such things at the drop of a hat. For example, today a woman came and bought over 800 dollars worth of giftware, threw in a couple of decorated cakes and then to top it all off bought a boxed lunch. But one of the items she bought was this doll-like figurine that we had had sitting near the cash register for quite some time. I think it was supposed to portray Santa Claus, but it was the ugliest, most wizened looking, spindly-legged little troll of a Santa that mortal eyes had ever beheld. It was as if you took Santa out of the North Pole and forced him to live in the mines of Moria for a few hundred years, this is what he would look like when he came out. The doll thing must have cost over a hundred dollars, but this lady bought it, for whatever reason. But then, it's up to good old Shannon, the lowly drudge, to find some way to box this monstrosity up. So one of the managers hands me a full sheet cake box, which is probably almost three feet long on the long side. I try to roll troll Santa every which way and find that the only way he comes close to fitting, which isn't very close, is lying flat on his back in this brown cardboard box. Both of his hands are still reaching out, kind of suspended in mid-air, gasping for life. I am struck by the humor of troll Santa lying in his little cardboard casket as I seal him in with crushed up newspaper. It makes me think of Edgar Allan Poe meets Nietzche, Cask of Amontialldo meets Twilight of the Idols. "Santa is dead! And we have killed him!"
Here's another story I didn't plan to tell when I started, but is really quite...well, quite something. We were listening to the Christian station on the radio in the car with my family the other night, and this woman starts going on about how Santa Claus is "exalting himself against Christ." He's claiming to be omniscient because he claims to see when you're sleeping, to know when you're awake. And he's trying to take the focus of Christmas away from Christ and get children to worship commercialism. I would like to be able to believe that this was some kind of parody, but this is not that kind of radio station. So my response was, "What is this woman smoking?" This is one of the things that I don't enjoy about evangelicalism. What kind of religion says, "You know, I think what we need to decry, I think the true poison in our culture, is the presence of this big jolly guy who gives presents to little kids. That's what we need to get rid of! And to hell with childhood hunger and the destruction of the environment! We really need to resolve this Santa issue!" Awesome.
And don't even get me started on Halloween...
So, the place that I work is complicated, trying to do so many things at once. We sell baked goods, we sell pastries, we sell muffins. We sell breakfast, lunch, and dinner, sometimes all at the same time. We sell decorated cakes and pastries and specially ordered giftbaskets. And we sell many other things that fall under the heading of "giftware." This is all the stuff that is set up all around the store: mugs, platters, little figurines, nutcrackers, teapots, all kinds of high priced brick-a-brac that people browse through and buy. It is unbelievable to me how people can come in and just start spending hundreds of dollars on such things at the drop of a hat. For example, today a woman came and bought over 800 dollars worth of giftware, threw in a couple of decorated cakes and then to top it all off bought a boxed lunch. But one of the items she bought was this doll-like figurine that we had had sitting near the cash register for quite some time. I think it was supposed to portray Santa Claus, but it was the ugliest, most wizened looking, spindly-legged little troll of a Santa that mortal eyes had ever beheld. It was as if you took Santa out of the North Pole and forced him to live in the mines of Moria for a few hundred years, this is what he would look like when he came out. The doll thing must have cost over a hundred dollars, but this lady bought it, for whatever reason. But then, it's up to good old Shannon, the lowly drudge, to find some way to box this monstrosity up. So one of the managers hands me a full sheet cake box, which is probably almost three feet long on the long side. I try to roll troll Santa every which way and find that the only way he comes close to fitting, which isn't very close, is lying flat on his back in this brown cardboard box. Both of his hands are still reaching out, kind of suspended in mid-air, gasping for life. I am struck by the humor of troll Santa lying in his little cardboard casket as I seal him in with crushed up newspaper. It makes me think of Edgar Allan Poe meets Nietzche, Cask of Amontialldo meets Twilight of the Idols. "Santa is dead! And we have killed him!"
Here's another story I didn't plan to tell when I started, but is really quite...well, quite something. We were listening to the Christian station on the radio in the car with my family the other night, and this woman starts going on about how Santa Claus is "exalting himself against Christ." He's claiming to be omniscient because he claims to see when you're sleeping, to know when you're awake. And he's trying to take the focus of Christmas away from Christ and get children to worship commercialism. I would like to be able to believe that this was some kind of parody, but this is not that kind of radio station. So my response was, "What is this woman smoking?" This is one of the things that I don't enjoy about evangelicalism. What kind of religion says, "You know, I think what we need to decry, I think the true poison in our culture, is the presence of this big jolly guy who gives presents to little kids. That's what we need to get rid of! And to hell with childhood hunger and the destruction of the environment! We really need to resolve this Santa issue!" Awesome.
And don't even get me started on Halloween...
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Ave Maria
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the time of our death. Amen.
I have been thinking about you lately, Mary. I can’t think of God, or scarcely of Jesus, but I have been thinking about you. I think you have spent a long time reaping that promise, that all generations will call you blessed, but I’m not so sure. Have we overestimated your serenity? The sweet, somber Madonna faces on a thousand crystalline icons, is that really you? Maybe in the angel’s presence you were shy and sweet, but I have seen your way as a way of shaking fists, of tears and groanings, of weary questioning. Did you rage against God in your secret heart while the baby grew, wondering what all of this must be for and why you of all people couldn’t be told? Of course you were honored, as much as you could understand yourself to be, but you couldn’t have really understood who the child was that you were bearing in your weary body, who added sighs to your days and aches to your young back. Your cheeks still burned with shame to hear them whisper about your supposed indiscretion, to see the questions in your wounded fiancé’s eyes. Didn’t you question, why me? Why do I have to carry this without you?
Did you cry at night when you thought no one else could hear you, wondering why God’s blessings made you cursed in the eyes of everyone else you had ever loved? Were you overwhelmed by the mysteries, the thousand questions that you wanted to ask but had no voice for? But perhaps you were brave and you railed against the stars and the Presence and the Absence and the sky, and it is only our memory that has made you docile and silent. “Be it unto me as you have said.” Did you regret those words as the moment of complicity, a quick concession that put the heart-piercing sword in his hand?
But your sorrow made you holy, and you grew with him, fierce and strong and as hard as the packed-dirt roads you walked along with him, rediscovering every day with growing amazement that you had birthed no ordinary baby. Once you were transformed by a long, dusty road of hardship you led them all, for centuries you have been adored by thousands who want to learn what you learned, learn what you would have given your eye-teeth to know all the way back on that joyful-dark night when you held fearfully in your arms this one that you and God had brought into the world.
O, pray for me, Mary. Pray that I could stay the course, that I would not regret my moment of complicity with the will of God. Pray that at the end of all this travailing, I too will be able to bring to life something wonderful.
I have been thinking about you lately, Mary. I can’t think of God, or scarcely of Jesus, but I have been thinking about you. I think you have spent a long time reaping that promise, that all generations will call you blessed, but I’m not so sure. Have we overestimated your serenity? The sweet, somber Madonna faces on a thousand crystalline icons, is that really you? Maybe in the angel’s presence you were shy and sweet, but I have seen your way as a way of shaking fists, of tears and groanings, of weary questioning. Did you rage against God in your secret heart while the baby grew, wondering what all of this must be for and why you of all people couldn’t be told? Of course you were honored, as much as you could understand yourself to be, but you couldn’t have really understood who the child was that you were bearing in your weary body, who added sighs to your days and aches to your young back. Your cheeks still burned with shame to hear them whisper about your supposed indiscretion, to see the questions in your wounded fiancé’s eyes. Didn’t you question, why me? Why do I have to carry this without you?
Did you cry at night when you thought no one else could hear you, wondering why God’s blessings made you cursed in the eyes of everyone else you had ever loved? Were you overwhelmed by the mysteries, the thousand questions that you wanted to ask but had no voice for? But perhaps you were brave and you railed against the stars and the Presence and the Absence and the sky, and it is only our memory that has made you docile and silent. “Be it unto me as you have said.” Did you regret those words as the moment of complicity, a quick concession that put the heart-piercing sword in his hand?
But your sorrow made you holy, and you grew with him, fierce and strong and as hard as the packed-dirt roads you walked along with him, rediscovering every day with growing amazement that you had birthed no ordinary baby. Once you were transformed by a long, dusty road of hardship you led them all, for centuries you have been adored by thousands who want to learn what you learned, learn what you would have given your eye-teeth to know all the way back on that joyful-dark night when you held fearfully in your arms this one that you and God had brought into the world.
O, pray for me, Mary. Pray that I could stay the course, that I would not regret my moment of complicity with the will of God. Pray that at the end of all this travailing, I too will be able to bring to life something wonderful.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Trying to Catch Up
Wow. I need to catch y'all up on recent happenings. I can't believe that it's been a whole month since my last post. There's a whole bunch of people that I want to invite to come check this blog out, but I feel hesitant because I can't seem to consistently post good material, in spite of the fact that this is pretty much my only good outlet for intellectual/spiritual/meditative outlet. Hmmm...oh well. Newsy update is clearly the order of the day.
So, since Thanksgiving, I had a great visit up to the Houghton/Buffalo area to see a whole slew of friends, which was superlative. Then I returned to glorious Houston, after some air travel gymnastics, and started my awesome, awesome job. Currently I am working at a bakery/coffee shop/cafe which is less than fantastic. Basically, I was hired to be trained as a barista, and there has been absolutely no such training taking place. Pretty much I fold boxes, move muffins around from one place to another, and grill sandwiches for six hours a day. Believe it or not, it's not really a picnic. Nor is it really where I pictured myself at this point in my life. I feel like I never have any time to do what I want and I’m generally exhausted. Too exhausted for much deep thought or life revision. Which is regrettable because I feel like that’s what I most deeply need right now. It’s too bad because in many ways I don’t want to engage in any kind of introspection, it’s so much easier to just live on the surface. I was recently talking to a friend who was saying that she struggled with not doing anything terribly significant like working or earning money or anything for a couple of months and feeling guilty until she realized that that’s exactly what she needed. I wish that I was brave enough to do something like that. I think I’m too afraid to not be working anymore, now that I don’t have something super significant like a big missions trip to look forward to. I feel like I want to consider and restructure my entire spiritual life, but I don’t even have time to think, most days. I don’t think I can handle this whole adult thing. There’s a woman that I work with who has four kids and at dinner the other night my mom was saying, “I don’t know how she could do that with four kids, what a day that would be!” And I was like, “Yeah, she would have to put in a shift at work, six hours on your feet, go and pick up the kids, go home and make dinner…oh wait, that’s what I do.” Which is true, that’s pretty much my day. Sometimes I shower. It’s awesome. I feel like what I want right now most of all is guidance. Should I quit this job and find somewhere else to work? If so, where? Maybe I should just quit everything for a while and try to pull my life together. Should I be working in this state or one of like three others where I’d rather be? Should I get teacher certified or try to find something really awesome to do to give me money for seminary? How in God’s name can I feel like I’m getting enough sleep?
On the other hand, baking. Lots and lots of baking going on here in the privacy of my own home. Pretty much I have been cooking amazing meals lately because grocery shopping and cooking has been taking up the bulk of my outside of work time. Therefore, shells stuffed with pancetta, spinach and ricotta in asiago cream sauce. Turkey pot pie with cheddar biscuit crust. Kofta kebabs with tzatziki. Superlative. Kind of makes all you folks wish you could drop by for dinner, doesn’t it? You should. There’s always an extra place at my table for a friend.
So, since Thanksgiving, I had a great visit up to the Houghton/Buffalo area to see a whole slew of friends, which was superlative. Then I returned to glorious Houston, after some air travel gymnastics, and started my awesome, awesome job. Currently I am working at a bakery/coffee shop/cafe which is less than fantastic. Basically, I was hired to be trained as a barista, and there has been absolutely no such training taking place. Pretty much I fold boxes, move muffins around from one place to another, and grill sandwiches for six hours a day. Believe it or not, it's not really a picnic. Nor is it really where I pictured myself at this point in my life. I feel like I never have any time to do what I want and I’m generally exhausted. Too exhausted for much deep thought or life revision. Which is regrettable because I feel like that’s what I most deeply need right now. It’s too bad because in many ways I don’t want to engage in any kind of introspection, it’s so much easier to just live on the surface. I was recently talking to a friend who was saying that she struggled with not doing anything terribly significant like working or earning money or anything for a couple of months and feeling guilty until she realized that that’s exactly what she needed. I wish that I was brave enough to do something like that. I think I’m too afraid to not be working anymore, now that I don’t have something super significant like a big missions trip to look forward to. I feel like I want to consider and restructure my entire spiritual life, but I don’t even have time to think, most days. I don’t think I can handle this whole adult thing. There’s a woman that I work with who has four kids and at dinner the other night my mom was saying, “I don’t know how she could do that with four kids, what a day that would be!” And I was like, “Yeah, she would have to put in a shift at work, six hours on your feet, go and pick up the kids, go home and make dinner…oh wait, that’s what I do.” Which is true, that’s pretty much my day. Sometimes I shower. It’s awesome. I feel like what I want right now most of all is guidance. Should I quit this job and find somewhere else to work? If so, where? Maybe I should just quit everything for a while and try to pull my life together. Should I be working in this state or one of like three others where I’d rather be? Should I get teacher certified or try to find something really awesome to do to give me money for seminary? How in God’s name can I feel like I’m getting enough sleep?
On the other hand, baking. Lots and lots of baking going on here in the privacy of my own home. Pretty much I have been cooking amazing meals lately because grocery shopping and cooking has been taking up the bulk of my outside of work time. Therefore, shells stuffed with pancetta, spinach and ricotta in asiago cream sauce. Turkey pot pie with cheddar biscuit crust. Kofta kebabs with tzatziki. Superlative. Kind of makes all you folks wish you could drop by for dinner, doesn’t it? You should. There’s always an extra place at my table for a friend.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Soiree
This year you are exceedingly, abundantly fortunate, because you are privileged to at least view, if not partake of, my beautiful, succulent Thanksgiving bird. Here it be.
Unfortunately the picture cannot do sufficient justice. This, my friends, is a brined turkey. This simply means that it was soaked overnight in a very strong salt solution before we roasted it. The brining doesn't make the turkey taste salty, it just makes it incredibly juicy and gives delicious flavor. The cavity was not filled with evil, soggy stuffing, but with gently cooked apple, onion, cinnamon sticks, fresh rosemary, sage, and fresh cranberries. It is the essence of Turkey, the philosophical form of what turkey was meant to be. The whole meal was delightful, but none of the other food pictures turned out except for the beautiful pumpkin pie which I made from scratch, the first ever such pie. The edges got slightly overdone, but the pie and the crust were both delicious!
But this is a happy one of the centerpiece that I arranged. I stole the idea of putting the cranberries in the vase from a grocery store arrangement, which cost over fifty dollars. I made this one for a little over eight dollars. I'm rather proud of that.
Hope you all had a most joyous and delightful holiday!
S.
Unfortunately the picture cannot do sufficient justice. This, my friends, is a brined turkey. This simply means that it was soaked overnight in a very strong salt solution before we roasted it. The brining doesn't make the turkey taste salty, it just makes it incredibly juicy and gives delicious flavor. The cavity was not filled with evil, soggy stuffing, but with gently cooked apple, onion, cinnamon sticks, fresh rosemary, sage, and fresh cranberries. It is the essence of Turkey, the philosophical form of what turkey was meant to be. The whole meal was delightful, but none of the other food pictures turned out except for the beautiful pumpkin pie which I made from scratch, the first ever such pie. The edges got slightly overdone, but the pie and the crust were both delicious!
But this is a happy one of the centerpiece that I arranged. I stole the idea of putting the cranberries in the vase from a grocery store arrangement, which cost over fifty dollars. I made this one for a little over eight dollars. I'm rather proud of that.
Hope you all had a most joyous and delightful holiday!
S.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Estro-fest, or, a Whole Lotta Man-Hate
So, the atmosphere here in Houston is once again cloudy with the rankest of Man-Hate. This is no unusual occurence, and this time it was inspired by the recent travesties taking place on the season finale of The Bachelor. In case you haven't seen it, then what happened was this. The eligible man in question ended his run on the show by chosing not one, not two, but NONE of the ladies that he had so carefully whittled his choices down to. Emotions ran thick and fast on the after-show interviews as the pretty much entirely female audience looked ready to eat him alive. If they'd have had some kind of power failure and the cameras had just turned off for a second I'm sure they would have been after him like lions on Christians.
In our humble abode, the atmosphere was similarly chilly. My mom has asked all of us approximately 15 million and four times, "Why couldn't he have just continued dating one of the girls? There's no rule that he has to propose!" Then, there was the tragical attempts that the poor man was making to smooth things over, which pretty much just came out sounding like he was trying to be glib. My aunt, who is here visiting us and likewise witnessed the crash-and-burn, cautioned my sister and me, "Isn't that just like a man? They say these sweet things and they make you fall in love with them, but they're all LIES!!!"
I think the most amusing part to me is that the commercial that played immediately after the chat time for the bachelor and his rejected ladies was over, was the beautiful one for somebody like Kay Jeweler's where a couple is driving home at night, through the snow, and they're holding hands as they drive along, and the man slips a diamond necklace into the woman's hand. Isn't it beyoootiful?
Oh, wait, LIES, it's all LIES, everything that a man does that's sweet, ever, is all LIES.
[Let me just note right now that I am speaking about men in general and as they are stereotyped, not about any particular men. Actually, I have to recognize that I definitely know some guys who are really great, and really impress me. But, at the same time, it also seems like for every awesome guy I know, I know five who are incredibly immature or just downright jerks. Also, while we're in parenthesis, let me just say that I think the whole Bachelor thing was totally and completely unfair. To me, what doesn't make sense is how anyone could possible end up with any kind of lasting commitment from that show. I mean think about the whole premise and the way that show is run, go, right now, do it. Now just try and explain to me how a normal relationship, let alone a good marital relationship, could be formed in that kind of environment. Why can't all you vipers just leave the poor guy alone! Okay, I'm moving on.]
The thing is, isn't it true? How many girls and women do I know who have had their hearts broken by liars? How many divorcees do I know who have been left bitter, broke, and bereft? Do I know of any really beautiful and romantic things that any guys have done, outside of a commercial or movie? Let alone romantic, how about any kind things that a guy has done for some girl that he didn't just want to end up in bed with?
Oh, I know, I'm being totally unfair, blah blah blah. Here's another case. I started watching Everybody Loves Raymond while I was in Nigeria because, well, it was there. But, honestly, I cringe sometimes when I watch that show, and other sitcoms as well. Is every romantic thing a man does for his wife out of a sense of obligation and, dare I say it, fear of something or other? Does life for all men really revolve around sports and the Victoria's Secret catalog? Can they really not make it through life without some kind of act of infidelity? Are they so utterly emotionally stunted and mindlessly shallow as they are portrayed to be? Sometimes it just makes me sick to think about everything that I have been told, and not just for my sake, but for the guys who are also being fed this garbage and told, "This is your expectation. Now live down to it."
Unfortunately, Christianity has not done much to help me with this complex. Thanks to Focus on the Family and those of their ilk, and the ubiquitous Prov. 31, it seems like the Great American Christian man is only looking for a workhorse, someone to support their ministry, raise their kids, and all the while remain thin and beautiful and chaste, but also sexy. A woman who only exists to add value to the life of her man. Yeah, that's every woman's dream. A life long balancing act lived for someone else. O yes, sign us all up for that one.
Sigh. Maybe I need to check myself into some kind of clinic. I don't want to think this way. I feel like the atmosphere around me is always toxic, full of angry women and silly sitcoms that are trying to make me believe something that I really, really don't want to believe. I'm sorry, guys. I'm pulling for you, I really am. What can I do to change my mind? I wish I knew. If I knew what to do, I would do it. At least I hope I would. I want to be fair and balanced and positive and open-minded. No, I want more than that, I want to be able to respect you as a group. I want the sterotypes proved wrong so many times that they can no longer exist. I want to expect good things from you instead of bad. I want to be amazed. I think, maybe, we all do. And the more we complain, the more we long to be proved wrong.
So go ahead. Be awesome. I dare you.
In our humble abode, the atmosphere was similarly chilly. My mom has asked all of us approximately 15 million and four times, "Why couldn't he have just continued dating one of the girls? There's no rule that he has to propose!" Then, there was the tragical attempts that the poor man was making to smooth things over, which pretty much just came out sounding like he was trying to be glib. My aunt, who is here visiting us and likewise witnessed the crash-and-burn, cautioned my sister and me, "Isn't that just like a man? They say these sweet things and they make you fall in love with them, but they're all LIES!!!"
I think the most amusing part to me is that the commercial that played immediately after the chat time for the bachelor and his rejected ladies was over, was the beautiful one for somebody like Kay Jeweler's where a couple is driving home at night, through the snow, and they're holding hands as they drive along, and the man slips a diamond necklace into the woman's hand. Isn't it beyoootiful?
Oh, wait, LIES, it's all LIES, everything that a man does that's sweet, ever, is all LIES.
[Let me just note right now that I am speaking about men in general and as they are stereotyped, not about any particular men. Actually, I have to recognize that I definitely know some guys who are really great, and really impress me. But, at the same time, it also seems like for every awesome guy I know, I know five who are incredibly immature or just downright jerks. Also, while we're in parenthesis, let me just say that I think the whole Bachelor thing was totally and completely unfair. To me, what doesn't make sense is how anyone could possible end up with any kind of lasting commitment from that show. I mean think about the whole premise and the way that show is run, go, right now, do it. Now just try and explain to me how a normal relationship, let alone a good marital relationship, could be formed in that kind of environment. Why can't all you vipers just leave the poor guy alone! Okay, I'm moving on.]
The thing is, isn't it true? How many girls and women do I know who have had their hearts broken by liars? How many divorcees do I know who have been left bitter, broke, and bereft? Do I know of any really beautiful and romantic things that any guys have done, outside of a commercial or movie? Let alone romantic, how about any kind things that a guy has done for some girl that he didn't just want to end up in bed with?
Oh, I know, I'm being totally unfair, blah blah blah. Here's another case. I started watching Everybody Loves Raymond while I was in Nigeria because, well, it was there. But, honestly, I cringe sometimes when I watch that show, and other sitcoms as well. Is every romantic thing a man does for his wife out of a sense of obligation and, dare I say it, fear of something or other? Does life for all men really revolve around sports and the Victoria's Secret catalog? Can they really not make it through life without some kind of act of infidelity? Are they so utterly emotionally stunted and mindlessly shallow as they are portrayed to be? Sometimes it just makes me sick to think about everything that I have been told, and not just for my sake, but for the guys who are also being fed this garbage and told, "This is your expectation. Now live down to it."
Unfortunately, Christianity has not done much to help me with this complex. Thanks to Focus on the Family and those of their ilk, and the ubiquitous Prov. 31, it seems like the Great American Christian man is only looking for a workhorse, someone to support their ministry, raise their kids, and all the while remain thin and beautiful and chaste, but also sexy. A woman who only exists to add value to the life of her man. Yeah, that's every woman's dream. A life long balancing act lived for someone else. O yes, sign us all up for that one.
Sigh. Maybe I need to check myself into some kind of clinic. I don't want to think this way. I feel like the atmosphere around me is always toxic, full of angry women and silly sitcoms that are trying to make me believe something that I really, really don't want to believe. I'm sorry, guys. I'm pulling for you, I really am. What can I do to change my mind? I wish I knew. If I knew what to do, I would do it. At least I hope I would. I want to be fair and balanced and positive and open-minded. No, I want more than that, I want to be able to respect you as a group. I want the sterotypes proved wrong so many times that they can no longer exist. I want to expect good things from you instead of bad. I want to be amazed. I think, maybe, we all do. And the more we complain, the more we long to be proved wrong.
So go ahead. Be awesome. I dare you.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
List Maker
Hmmm...so October 14 was the last time I posted? Coming up on a month ago? Kai, that's not doing so hot. So perhaps you're sitting out there in Internet-land thinkin, "Hey, stupid, you better toss up some more of your mindless dribble on this sorry excuse for a blog, my attention is wandering!" To which I must cordially reply, "You're a jerk! This blog isn't for you anyway, if that's all the nicer you can be, Mr. Doody-Head!"
And now, Mr. Doody-Head, you're going to feel really guilty when I tell you that the reason that I haven't really been able to post for my last few weeks in Africa is because me and a couple of friends were the victims of an armed robbery and, tho my laptop was fortunately not stolen, we were moved out of that compound with its luxurious amenities such as wireless internet, into a number of other places where the access was not quite so accessible. Almost like what you'd imagine Africa to be. But not really. Now perhaps you are all curious about said robbery and wanting all sorts of explanations and details. But I am currently in Charlotte, debriefing from the whole missions experience and the robbery in particular and I pretty much feel like I've talked about the whole damn thing until I'm quite blue in the face. So giving all you anonymous masses who surely devotedly read this blog the details is the last thing I feel like doing right now. That you know that it happened is enough.
I OWE YOU NOTHING!!!!
Okay, now I need to muster up something else of interest to talk about. Well, currently, as I said, I am in Charlotte, where the leaves have postponed their beautiful fall peak colors for my arrival in order for God to vindicate his existence to me and where the coffee is abundant and delicious and where I have finally caved and am listening to Jack Johnson of my own volition, crooning from my very own computer, for the first time and he is unfortunately making me fall in love with him already, or at least wish I was in love with someone. I'll banana your pancakes, Jack, O yes. And now I present this:
Things that are nice about America:
--Fall Leaves
--Coffee
--Power that doesn't go out periodically and, therefore,
--Food in the fridge not going bad
--Mexican food
--Ready-made clothes
--Ready-made lots of thing, for that matter, like granola bars
--Television (it's evil, but I love it)
--Coffee (also those fancy creamers that go in coffee)
--Grocery stores
--Cheese
--Smooth roads
--Water pressure in the shower
--Being able to drink alcohol moderately without having others think you're a sinner (well, most of the time), which brings me to,
--Margaritas!
--Public libraries so you don't have to depend on other people's collection of Francine Rivers novels for reading material
--Dancing with the Stars!!!
--Being able to rinse your mouth with water straight from the tap (you have no idea how huge this is)
--No more mosquito bites (until next summer)
--Not having to be afraid to swim in bodies of water that aren't swimming pools
--Missing dry season and Harmattan
This list is not exhaustive, just my first impressions on being back in the States and feeling like I should be grateful for what I have here. I could make another list about all that I miss about being in Nigeria, but that would make me sad. In other news, Hatian church this morning, which was really cool. Went out to a West African restaurant the other night (misleadingly named "Kilimanjaro"...get it, because Kilimanjaro is in...never mind) and an Ethiopian restaurant the night before that. Other than that, just hanging out, freezing my butt off because Charlotte in November is a lot colder than Nigeria in November and because all the clothes I have with me are for Nigeria in November.
Big question now is what to do when I get back to Houston. Anyone?
And now, Mr. Doody-Head, you're going to feel really guilty when I tell you that the reason that I haven't really been able to post for my last few weeks in Africa is because me and a couple of friends were the victims of an armed robbery and, tho my laptop was fortunately not stolen, we were moved out of that compound with its luxurious amenities such as wireless internet, into a number of other places where the access was not quite so accessible. Almost like what you'd imagine Africa to be. But not really. Now perhaps you are all curious about said robbery and wanting all sorts of explanations and details. But I am currently in Charlotte, debriefing from the whole missions experience and the robbery in particular and I pretty much feel like I've talked about the whole damn thing until I'm quite blue in the face. So giving all you anonymous masses who surely devotedly read this blog the details is the last thing I feel like doing right now. That you know that it happened is enough.
I OWE YOU NOTHING!!!!
Okay, now I need to muster up something else of interest to talk about. Well, currently, as I said, I am in Charlotte, where the leaves have postponed their beautiful fall peak colors for my arrival in order for God to vindicate his existence to me and where the coffee is abundant and delicious and where I have finally caved and am listening to Jack Johnson of my own volition, crooning from my very own computer, for the first time and he is unfortunately making me fall in love with him already, or at least wish I was in love with someone. I'll banana your pancakes, Jack, O yes. And now I present this:
Things that are nice about America:
--Fall Leaves
--Coffee
--Power that doesn't go out periodically and, therefore,
--Food in the fridge not going bad
--Mexican food
--Ready-made clothes
--Ready-made lots of thing, for that matter, like granola bars
--Television (it's evil, but I love it)
--Coffee (also those fancy creamers that go in coffee)
--Grocery stores
--Cheese
--Smooth roads
--Water pressure in the shower
--Being able to drink alcohol moderately without having others think you're a sinner (well, most of the time), which brings me to,
--Margaritas!
--Public libraries so you don't have to depend on other people's collection of Francine Rivers novels for reading material
--Dancing with the Stars!!!
--Being able to rinse your mouth with water straight from the tap (you have no idea how huge this is)
--No more mosquito bites (until next summer)
--Not having to be afraid to swim in bodies of water that aren't swimming pools
--Missing dry season and Harmattan
This list is not exhaustive, just my first impressions on being back in the States and feeling like I should be grateful for what I have here. I could make another list about all that I miss about being in Nigeria, but that would make me sad. In other news, Hatian church this morning, which was really cool. Went out to a West African restaurant the other night (misleadingly named "Kilimanjaro"...get it, because Kilimanjaro is in...never mind) and an Ethiopian restaurant the night before that. Other than that, just hanging out, freezing my butt off because Charlotte in November is a lot colder than Nigeria in November and because all the clothes I have with me are for Nigeria in November.
Big question now is what to do when I get back to Houston. Anyone?
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Inmates, Wrasslers, and Pentecostals
Well, good friends, I must admit that I nearly committed the unforgivable faux pas of sending out a mass e-mail without posting it. Not that I suspect there's much of an audience around here that isn't recieving it straight to their inboxes already, but I confess that I cherish secrets hopes of anonymous millions that stumble across and are enthralled by this blog, but that is not something that I ever want to peer too deeply into, in case I should ever discover the truth of the matter. So here, ravenously impatient and anonymous millions, I have not forgotten you!
Dear erudite, enviable, and ergonomic friends, supporters, and deep thinkers of every persuasion,
Well, I am feeling rather at a loss of what to say, due in large part to the sheer number of things which have happened since I last wrote. The most notable thing which happened this week is that we had a large team of over 25 arrive from, of all places, Dallas Texas, and they have kept us so busy this week that I did not even have the chance to write even a small e-mail until tonight. I have been tagging along with them this week on a number of their outreaches because this gives me the chance to make it out to a number of SIM’s different ministries that I otherwise wouldn’t have a chance to see. For example, this week I got to see the ECWA run hospital and visit the inmates of a Nigerian prison and attend their church service. I could write entire e-mails on these experiences alone, but I don’t think time will permit tonight.
But one of the things the Texas team has come to do besides drag around STA’s who can’t afford/drive a car is put on a number of wrestling shows. That’s right, I said wrestling. They basically do a WWF style show with a Christian spin in which all the bad characters kind of represent evil forces and all the good guys are fighting with God on their side. So, for example, they have stage names like “Jesus Freak,” and “Tim Storm” as well as the only pair of pleather pants I have seen in Nigeria, or perhaps in my entire life, come to think. So the different contestants battle it out in the ring, the good guys win, the bad guys are driven off, and they give an evangelistic message. They made a very entertaining spectacle, I have to say, and I especially enjoyed hearing all the Nigerians chanting “Jesus Freak! Jesus Freak!” But, topping that to win as my absolute favorite moment of the evening was when Tim Storm, one of the “bad guys” who is really incredibly huge, came out and started tearing around the perimeter where people were standing and the little kids who were standing in front actually ran away to avoid being stomped on by this massive Bature.
I have to confess, however, that I have some misgivings about the effectiveness of this kind of ministry in Nigeria because, although the audience was composed mostly of children who all streamed forward to accept Christ at the end, I have to wonder how many of them wanted to accept Christ and how many simply wanted to touch the hands of these big men who had looked so impressive wrestling each other on the bright stage. There were plenty of tracts passed out, but I’m not sure that anyone was really directed to a local church where they could be discipled and taught the meaning of the profession of faith that they had made. That’s been a difficult trend that has emerged in my travels with the Texas team, they are really outstanding at achieving those high numbers of conversions, but I don’t know that there’s necessarily a support structure that they’ve tapped into to build on that foundation. I’ve really struggled a lot this week trying to decide what to think about this kind of evangelism. I was writing to a friend and I said that I think that kind of proclamation is like handing some stranger on the street a million dollars and then just walking away. You don’t have any idea what happens to that money after you leave. Did they use it well, did it change their life and the lives of those around them? Did they use it for evil, to rocket down a bad road they were already traveling? Or did they just stick the money in an empty coffee can and bury it at the back of their closet, never to think about it again? You have no idea, you have no control, and you accept no responsibility for the consequences of a huge change you’ve brought to that person’s life. And that’s the question that I’ve really been hit hardest by, is whether this kind of evangelism is fundamentally irresponsible, like asking someone to change trains when you haven’t committed yourself to travel with them. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve really enjoyed the members of the Texas team as individuals and I respect their willingness to give up time and money to do something as difficult as drop themselves into a foreign culture for three weeks. I just wonder if there aren’t ways their ministry could be more effective.
Another really bizarre experience I had this week was attending an African Pentecostal church, which was called, ahem, Church of God Mission International Inc. Solution House. The name “Solution House” gives you an idea of what kind of church it was, the whole sermon was a litany of prosperity theology, the preacher loudly proclaiming that if you can just earn “divine approval” you will achieve “open heaven” and you won’t have to pursue miracles, your miracles will pursue you! Amen, hallelujah, praise the Lord. Basically, the gist of it was that if you can just situate yourself properly with God, he will give you anything you want, whether it’s a promotion, a good marriage, a child, a new car, a boat, a cell phone network that actually works, whatever it is, God is all about giving it to you. But the fundamental problem with that kind of message is that no anointing is going to force God’s hand into giving us what we want. The whole point of Christianity, from my perspective is “Thy will be done,” not “MY will be done.” But part of the reason that the Pentecostal church is one of the fastest growing denominations in the Southern church is because many of them preach exactly that.
But even if the sermon wasn’t problematic enough, I was also disturbed by the degree of control that the preacher had over the congregation. The volume and demonstrativeness of their response was basically directly proportioned to his shouting and vehemence on the stage. After the sermon he actually had us all standing with our hands folded on top of our heads and our mouths open! I’m sure if he asked everyone in the church to stand on their heads they all would have been bottom up in a blink. He actually said if you don’t do it exactly the way the “man of God” tells you, you will not get “the result.” But it was by these bizarre poses that he was trying to spread his anointing to as many in the church as possible. Not satisfied with the number that were slain in the Spirit on their own, he actually went through the church knocking people over himself. Then, to ice this cake, he actually had every one who had been brought to the altar stand to their feet and a little clump while all the ushers stood around them like a human barricade. Then he waved his suit jacket over them and made a popping noise into his microphone and every last one of them went down. But just when I really thought that I had fallen completely off the map of sense and comprehension, he told us that he was trying to raise money for a plane ticket and if those in the congregation would come to the front and give him money, they could step in the anointing oil that he had poured on the floor and he would pray for them to receive the same anointing that he had. I am telling you, I have never before witnessed the kinds of things that I saw at that church. Which, for me, begs the question, how many more are there even just in this city that are just like it? I really honestly shudder to think.
But now to lighten the mood somewhat, I present to you the highlight of my week. I was going to Gyero, the CARE center about 40 minutes outside of Jos, early this week with another girl to do a craft with the boys and the woman that we were going to drive with got sick. So what one does without one’s own car is taxi down to the turnoff of Bukuru express, which is where one abandons the wide, paved main road for the small, extremely rutted unpaved road out to the village. No taxi will really go down that road, so one has no choice but to take the dreaded achaba! An achaba is really just a particular type of motorcycle that many people here use as a taxi service, hopping on the back and holding whatever they were carrying in their lap or on their heads. The thing is that SIM missionaries are absolutely forbidden to ride achabas in town because traffic here is already so dangerous and a lot of the achaba drivers are really quite reckless with the kind of stunts they pull in these horrifically busy intersections. But out on this rutted country road, there is very little other traffic to speak of, which means that we are A-OK. So we hopped on the backs of our achabas and off we went. I have to say, I’m sure that there have been things that I have done in my life that were more fun than that ride, but nothing really came to mind at the time. It was utterly fantastic to speed along that winding road with nothing to inhibit my view of the rocky hills and mountains and buttes that dot the top of our fair plateau. We winded past fields of corn and millet, past Fulani men with their sticks and humpbacked cows, past tall cacti and those elusive, bright red birds that like to sit and sing at the top of the cornstalks. It was so much fun to wave to the children who would come running up to the road and to the long train of women who laughed and laughed to see such a silly sight as Batures on the backs of their motor bikes. I had the wind in my hair and above was the sky still swirling with clouds after the morning rain, and who could ask for more than that?
So before I close, I want to say a hearty and much belated THANKS! to all of those who have replied in any fashion to my e-mails. I am so blessed to hear from each and every one of you, including those who just wrote a few lines to say that you enjoy my e-mails. I enjoy you enjoying my e-mails! Each reply really does make my day. I have felt so supported throughout this entire process that I can’t say enough thanks to each one of you who is willing to be on my little e-mail list and listen to my rantings.
That being said, I realize that I’m speaking to a very diverse audience and that some of the stuff I’ve brought up in this e-mail is a little bit more contested than what I’ve stuck to in the past. We can all agree that teaching little kids to read is a good thing, but when a sister starts going after the Sinner’s Prayer I guess she can start to ruffle a few feathers. So if you wanted me to clarify anything or continue to dialog about anything or just tell me “I couldn’t disagree with you more if your name were Arius, you degenerate apostate heretic scum!” then I invite you to write me an e-mail. I think I can promise to reply, though I make no guarantees about the timeline. You might have to wait until I’m back in the States and have had time to process this madness, but one day I will give you a reply that is as reasonable and thoughtful as I can make it.
Oh, yes, prayer requests! Well, for myself, if you haven’t gathered from the course of this e-mail, I am feeling rather exhausted after this week, not just physically, but also in my ability to take in and process all these new experiences. Please pray that I will be refreshed over the weekend, in spite of limited opportunities for rest. Please also pray that I would be able to maintain a consistent devotional life, which has always been a challenge for me, but I see a lot of opportunities for growth here simply because the nature of being in this place really does seem to demand it. Please pray that I would be able to utilize those opportunities fully and really grow in discipline in this time. Please also pray for the peace of Nigeria, there were a number of riots in Kano states of couple of weeks ago with Muslim-Christian violence and a number of robberies recently. We don’t have any particular reason to be worried, but we also don’t take our safety for granted here and want to rely on God to protect us.
Until next time, dear friends, I hope you are well and joyful and enjoying the fall!
Grace and Peace,
Shannon
Dear erudite, enviable, and ergonomic friends, supporters, and deep thinkers of every persuasion,
Well, I am feeling rather at a loss of what to say, due in large part to the sheer number of things which have happened since I last wrote. The most notable thing which happened this week is that we had a large team of over 25 arrive from, of all places, Dallas Texas, and they have kept us so busy this week that I did not even have the chance to write even a small e-mail until tonight. I have been tagging along with them this week on a number of their outreaches because this gives me the chance to make it out to a number of SIM’s different ministries that I otherwise wouldn’t have a chance to see. For example, this week I got to see the ECWA run hospital and visit the inmates of a Nigerian prison and attend their church service. I could write entire e-mails on these experiences alone, but I don’t think time will permit tonight.
But one of the things the Texas team has come to do besides drag around STA’s who can’t afford/drive a car is put on a number of wrestling shows. That’s right, I said wrestling. They basically do a WWF style show with a Christian spin in which all the bad characters kind of represent evil forces and all the good guys are fighting with God on their side. So, for example, they have stage names like “Jesus Freak,” and “Tim Storm” as well as the only pair of pleather pants I have seen in Nigeria, or perhaps in my entire life, come to think. So the different contestants battle it out in the ring, the good guys win, the bad guys are driven off, and they give an evangelistic message. They made a very entertaining spectacle, I have to say, and I especially enjoyed hearing all the Nigerians chanting “Jesus Freak! Jesus Freak!” But, topping that to win as my absolute favorite moment of the evening was when Tim Storm, one of the “bad guys” who is really incredibly huge, came out and started tearing around the perimeter where people were standing and the little kids who were standing in front actually ran away to avoid being stomped on by this massive Bature.
I have to confess, however, that I have some misgivings about the effectiveness of this kind of ministry in Nigeria because, although the audience was composed mostly of children who all streamed forward to accept Christ at the end, I have to wonder how many of them wanted to accept Christ and how many simply wanted to touch the hands of these big men who had looked so impressive wrestling each other on the bright stage. There were plenty of tracts passed out, but I’m not sure that anyone was really directed to a local church where they could be discipled and taught the meaning of the profession of faith that they had made. That’s been a difficult trend that has emerged in my travels with the Texas team, they are really outstanding at achieving those high numbers of conversions, but I don’t know that there’s necessarily a support structure that they’ve tapped into to build on that foundation. I’ve really struggled a lot this week trying to decide what to think about this kind of evangelism. I was writing to a friend and I said that I think that kind of proclamation is like handing some stranger on the street a million dollars and then just walking away. You don’t have any idea what happens to that money after you leave. Did they use it well, did it change their life and the lives of those around them? Did they use it for evil, to rocket down a bad road they were already traveling? Or did they just stick the money in an empty coffee can and bury it at the back of their closet, never to think about it again? You have no idea, you have no control, and you accept no responsibility for the consequences of a huge change you’ve brought to that person’s life. And that’s the question that I’ve really been hit hardest by, is whether this kind of evangelism is fundamentally irresponsible, like asking someone to change trains when you haven’t committed yourself to travel with them. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve really enjoyed the members of the Texas team as individuals and I respect their willingness to give up time and money to do something as difficult as drop themselves into a foreign culture for three weeks. I just wonder if there aren’t ways their ministry could be more effective.
Another really bizarre experience I had this week was attending an African Pentecostal church, which was called, ahem, Church of God Mission International Inc. Solution House. The name “Solution House” gives you an idea of what kind of church it was, the whole sermon was a litany of prosperity theology, the preacher loudly proclaiming that if you can just earn “divine approval” you will achieve “open heaven” and you won’t have to pursue miracles, your miracles will pursue you! Amen, hallelujah, praise the Lord. Basically, the gist of it was that if you can just situate yourself properly with God, he will give you anything you want, whether it’s a promotion, a good marriage, a child, a new car, a boat, a cell phone network that actually works, whatever it is, God is all about giving it to you. But the fundamental problem with that kind of message is that no anointing is going to force God’s hand into giving us what we want. The whole point of Christianity, from my perspective is “Thy will be done,” not “MY will be done.” But part of the reason that the Pentecostal church is one of the fastest growing denominations in the Southern church is because many of them preach exactly that.
But even if the sermon wasn’t problematic enough, I was also disturbed by the degree of control that the preacher had over the congregation. The volume and demonstrativeness of their response was basically directly proportioned to his shouting and vehemence on the stage. After the sermon he actually had us all standing with our hands folded on top of our heads and our mouths open! I’m sure if he asked everyone in the church to stand on their heads they all would have been bottom up in a blink. He actually said if you don’t do it exactly the way the “man of God” tells you, you will not get “the result.” But it was by these bizarre poses that he was trying to spread his anointing to as many in the church as possible. Not satisfied with the number that were slain in the Spirit on their own, he actually went through the church knocking people over himself. Then, to ice this cake, he actually had every one who had been brought to the altar stand to their feet and a little clump while all the ushers stood around them like a human barricade. Then he waved his suit jacket over them and made a popping noise into his microphone and every last one of them went down. But just when I really thought that I had fallen completely off the map of sense and comprehension, he told us that he was trying to raise money for a plane ticket and if those in the congregation would come to the front and give him money, they could step in the anointing oil that he had poured on the floor and he would pray for them to receive the same anointing that he had. I am telling you, I have never before witnessed the kinds of things that I saw at that church. Which, for me, begs the question, how many more are there even just in this city that are just like it? I really honestly shudder to think.
But now to lighten the mood somewhat, I present to you the highlight of my week. I was going to Gyero, the CARE center about 40 minutes outside of Jos, early this week with another girl to do a craft with the boys and the woman that we were going to drive with got sick. So what one does without one’s own car is taxi down to the turnoff of Bukuru express, which is where one abandons the wide, paved main road for the small, extremely rutted unpaved road out to the village. No taxi will really go down that road, so one has no choice but to take the dreaded achaba! An achaba is really just a particular type of motorcycle that many people here use as a taxi service, hopping on the back and holding whatever they were carrying in their lap or on their heads. The thing is that SIM missionaries are absolutely forbidden to ride achabas in town because traffic here is already so dangerous and a lot of the achaba drivers are really quite reckless with the kind of stunts they pull in these horrifically busy intersections. But out on this rutted country road, there is very little other traffic to speak of, which means that we are A-OK. So we hopped on the backs of our achabas and off we went. I have to say, I’m sure that there have been things that I have done in my life that were more fun than that ride, but nothing really came to mind at the time. It was utterly fantastic to speed along that winding road with nothing to inhibit my view of the rocky hills and mountains and buttes that dot the top of our fair plateau. We winded past fields of corn and millet, past Fulani men with their sticks and humpbacked cows, past tall cacti and those elusive, bright red birds that like to sit and sing at the top of the cornstalks. It was so much fun to wave to the children who would come running up to the road and to the long train of women who laughed and laughed to see such a silly sight as Batures on the backs of their motor bikes. I had the wind in my hair and above was the sky still swirling with clouds after the morning rain, and who could ask for more than that?
So before I close, I want to say a hearty and much belated THANKS! to all of those who have replied in any fashion to my e-mails. I am so blessed to hear from each and every one of you, including those who just wrote a few lines to say that you enjoy my e-mails. I enjoy you enjoying my e-mails! Each reply really does make my day. I have felt so supported throughout this entire process that I can’t say enough thanks to each one of you who is willing to be on my little e-mail list and listen to my rantings.
That being said, I realize that I’m speaking to a very diverse audience and that some of the stuff I’ve brought up in this e-mail is a little bit more contested than what I’ve stuck to in the past. We can all agree that teaching little kids to read is a good thing, but when a sister starts going after the Sinner’s Prayer I guess she can start to ruffle a few feathers. So if you wanted me to clarify anything or continue to dialog about anything or just tell me “I couldn’t disagree with you more if your name were Arius, you degenerate apostate heretic scum!” then I invite you to write me an e-mail. I think I can promise to reply, though I make no guarantees about the timeline. You might have to wait until I’m back in the States and have had time to process this madness, but one day I will give you a reply that is as reasonable and thoughtful as I can make it.
Oh, yes, prayer requests! Well, for myself, if you haven’t gathered from the course of this e-mail, I am feeling rather exhausted after this week, not just physically, but also in my ability to take in and process all these new experiences. Please pray that I will be refreshed over the weekend, in spite of limited opportunities for rest. Please also pray that I would be able to maintain a consistent devotional life, which has always been a challenge for me, but I see a lot of opportunities for growth here simply because the nature of being in this place really does seem to demand it. Please pray that I would be able to utilize those opportunities fully and really grow in discipline in this time. Please also pray for the peace of Nigeria, there were a number of riots in Kano states of couple of weeks ago with Muslim-Christian violence and a number of robberies recently. We don’t have any particular reason to be worried, but we also don’t take our safety for granted here and want to rely on God to protect us.
Until next time, dear friends, I hope you are well and joyful and enjoying the fall!
Grace and Peace,
Shannon
Saturday, October 6, 2007
Bature and the Creep
Kids, I think this could be the wallop that Fate was waiting to dole out. So tonight, a bunch of us Batures went out tonight to support the wrestling show (yes, wrestling show, but that's a story for the support e-mail if ever there was one) and we were all standing around the ring and the sun was going down and suddenly there was a man beside me who tapped me on the elbow and asked me if I was enjoying the show. Now, we were also there with a number of boys from our various CARE centers, and I am far from memorizing every one of their faces, and this guy looked young enough that he could have been one of our boys. So I answered that I was enjoying it and went back to the show. Then he started asking me all kinds of questions about where I was staying and where I was staying exactly, which I answered as obtusely as possible. Now by this time about five of our boys who were all standing around me were tugging at my sleeves and telling me not to talk to this goodly gentleman, a course of action which I had already deduced for myself, but as soon as I would turn back from listening to their whispered admonitions he would be tapping at my elbow again and trying to ask me something else. Finally John, one of our boys, grabbed my arm and said, "Would you like to go talk to Uncle Elisha?" to which I had no idea what to say and he very competently continued, "Let's go talk to Uncle Elisha." And off we went through the crowd. Now, we were not going to see Uncle Elisha, but we did succeed for the moment in getting away from my new friend.
So I continued watching the show for a while and then John said he had to go for a second but he would be right back. No sooner did he leave than the man was back, keeping up a one-sided conversation which I couldn't hear over the noise of the crowd. Finally he starts in with this "Oh, baby girl, baby girl" crap and I wanted to turn around and say "Buddy, I ain't your baby" and give him a good knee to the groin but instead I elbowed my way to stand in front of Jesse, who was standing just in front of me. Jesse is the husband of one of the missionaries and I don't think we'd ever had a single exchange of words directly, so I didn't quite feel like saying, "Excuse me, but there's a creepy man following me and I am just going to take shelter in the shadow of your biceps." But Jesse is in actual fact a rather tall and broad man and I did feel a great deal better putting him between myself and the creep, especially as he was the only male of our party within eyeshot.
So this creepy guy moves on to bother some of the other girls in our group, who keep trying to give him the brush off, but he doesn't take the hint and lingers. Finally another one of the guys, who I think works at Hillcrest but I had never laid eyes on before this evening, taps her on the shoulder and says, classically, "Dana, is this man bothering you?" To which the gentleman starts replying in rapid fire Hausa and even more surprisingly the new guy starts answering in the same quick Hausa and then, downright shockingly, the older gentleman in front of me, a Nigerian with no affiliation to our group whatsoever, jumps right into the fray, thoroughly and vocally irritated with the creep, and starts to chew him out. No language comprehension necessary to understand that part of it, although I would have given a great deal to know what old Baba was saying to the jerk. Soon other Nigerians are starting to join in and the boys are laughing now at the poor old creep, who is literally being driven out of the crowd with many shouts. I thought briefly that the situation was going to come to blows, but no such luck.
But the crowning glory on the whole scene, that which really gilds the lily, was that the wrestling show was an evangelistic wrestling show (which is a lily in itself), so all of this is happening as about 200 youngsters are being led in the Sinner's Prayer. Now, our crowd was small enough and their crowd was large enough that nothing was really interrupted, but come on, that is one for the books, almost starting a brawl during the Sinner's Prayer.
So, I guess I try to be lighthearted about the whole thing, as everyone else was, but I have to say I really didn't appreciate the whole situation so much. There's something about knowing that there's nothing you can really do, on your own, to stop somebody, that just makes you feel obnoxiously helpless. Not fun. And then when something like that happens, the feeling of suspicion just lingers and grows. I have to say, the perpetual celebrity of the white person in Africa is hard enough to deal with in the daytime, but at night it becomes downright unbearable. I was talking to a couple of our boys from TH tonight, just answering some of their questions about my glasses, and I looked up and realized that about 20 other kids had formed this little knot around me. And I couldn't see any of their faces because the light was behind them. It's true that they're just kids, but when every single one of them wants to touch your hands and say bye before you can get in your car and in the midst of them people are asking for your e-mail address and phone number and everything else, and you can't see any of them and you don't know what they're really asking for, you reach this breaking point when all you want to do is turn around and scream "Leave me alone! Get the hell away from me, for God's sake!" Bad moment.
But can I just say how touched I was that all of our boys, none of whom are even as old as I am, all wanted to help get Auntie away from the bad man? They are so gloriously dear that it is ridiculous. I would put up with a hundred creepy men for the chance to help them actualize their oodles of potential. But I think my nerves would force me to start carrying mace if that should be the case...
So I continued watching the show for a while and then John said he had to go for a second but he would be right back. No sooner did he leave than the man was back, keeping up a one-sided conversation which I couldn't hear over the noise of the crowd. Finally he starts in with this "Oh, baby girl, baby girl" crap and I wanted to turn around and say "Buddy, I ain't your baby" and give him a good knee to the groin but instead I elbowed my way to stand in front of Jesse, who was standing just in front of me. Jesse is the husband of one of the missionaries and I don't think we'd ever had a single exchange of words directly, so I didn't quite feel like saying, "Excuse me, but there's a creepy man following me and I am just going to take shelter in the shadow of your biceps." But Jesse is in actual fact a rather tall and broad man and I did feel a great deal better putting him between myself and the creep, especially as he was the only male of our party within eyeshot.
So this creepy guy moves on to bother some of the other girls in our group, who keep trying to give him the brush off, but he doesn't take the hint and lingers. Finally another one of the guys, who I think works at Hillcrest but I had never laid eyes on before this evening, taps her on the shoulder and says, classically, "Dana, is this man bothering you?" To which the gentleman starts replying in rapid fire Hausa and even more surprisingly the new guy starts answering in the same quick Hausa and then, downright shockingly, the older gentleman in front of me, a Nigerian with no affiliation to our group whatsoever, jumps right into the fray, thoroughly and vocally irritated with the creep, and starts to chew him out. No language comprehension necessary to understand that part of it, although I would have given a great deal to know what old Baba was saying to the jerk. Soon other Nigerians are starting to join in and the boys are laughing now at the poor old creep, who is literally being driven out of the crowd with many shouts. I thought briefly that the situation was going to come to blows, but no such luck.
But the crowning glory on the whole scene, that which really gilds the lily, was that the wrestling show was an evangelistic wrestling show (which is a lily in itself), so all of this is happening as about 200 youngsters are being led in the Sinner's Prayer. Now, our crowd was small enough and their crowd was large enough that nothing was really interrupted, but come on, that is one for the books, almost starting a brawl during the Sinner's Prayer.
So, I guess I try to be lighthearted about the whole thing, as everyone else was, but I have to say I really didn't appreciate the whole situation so much. There's something about knowing that there's nothing you can really do, on your own, to stop somebody, that just makes you feel obnoxiously helpless. Not fun. And then when something like that happens, the feeling of suspicion just lingers and grows. I have to say, the perpetual celebrity of the white person in Africa is hard enough to deal with in the daytime, but at night it becomes downright unbearable. I was talking to a couple of our boys from TH tonight, just answering some of their questions about my glasses, and I looked up and realized that about 20 other kids had formed this little knot around me. And I couldn't see any of their faces because the light was behind them. It's true that they're just kids, but when every single one of them wants to touch your hands and say bye before you can get in your car and in the midst of them people are asking for your e-mail address and phone number and everything else, and you can't see any of them and you don't know what they're really asking for, you reach this breaking point when all you want to do is turn around and scream "Leave me alone! Get the hell away from me, for God's sake!" Bad moment.
But can I just say how touched I was that all of our boys, none of whom are even as old as I am, all wanted to help get Auntie away from the bad man? They are so gloriously dear that it is ridiculous. I would put up with a hundred creepy men for the chance to help them actualize their oodles of potential. But I think my nerves would force me to start carrying mace if that should be the case...
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Long Weekend=Long E-mail
You know, I was thinking that there hasn't really been anything extra curricular to post on here in a while (except for the pastor in church saying that a dear sister had been attacked by a margarine (instead of migraine) headache during the service). Either I'm doing something wrong, or the universe is holding back on serendipitous and gut-busting misadventures because it plans to give me a wallop in the very near future. Only time will tell. In the meantime, another support e-mail for the general internet's viewing pleasure:
Dear endlessly patient and perpetually gorgeous supporters, friends, and peeps,
Well, approximately 57 million things have, I think, happened since I last wrote. So, in summation, I offer this medly: hiking, rocks, dust, Thai food, weddings, grammar, peanut butter and jelly, taxis, clever dogs, Independence Day, airborne money, red stew, basketball and electric mayhem. I don’t know that I will be able to thoroughly cover all that ground in the course of one e-mail, but for the record, all of those things did happen in just the past few days.
One of the most glorious things that has happened was also one of the seemingly smallest. I was in the CARE center out in the village of Gyero playing cards with a couple boys when someone else brought out a couple of small drums. I asked the boys if they could play and one told me that he did. After very, very little cajoling, I find myself aptly learning to play this small but difficult drum through the tutelage of a remarkably able teacher. The style of this particular drum was the typical hourglass-ish shape, but connecting the top and bottom skins of the drum was a bunch of twisted leather cords. The drum is worn over the shoulder like a purse and when you squeeze the cords with your elbow, it changes the sound of the drum beat, which definitely added an additional layer of difficulty. So Jonathan, my teacher, would begin to play a pattern and I would watch a couple of times and then join in and we would play the pattern together until he would stop and let me see if I could play it alone. Keep in mind I have had no formal drum training whatsoever, so it was really fun to be able to pick it up so fast. Sometimes I would mess up just because I would start laughing because I enjoyed the sound of us playing together so much! And what a great way to connect with the kids, they all love to crowd around and gawk at the Bature on the drum! (Bature is the Hausa word for a white person, and one that you grow accustomed to hearing quite often.) Of course, even the little ones can already play better than me, but they are gracious enough to let me have a try.
Then on Sunday, I was privileged to witness a very Nigerian celebration called a send forth. A send forth is kind of the Nigerian equivalent of a bridal shower, in which the bride-to-be is the guest of honor and all of her family and friends gather to send her forth into her married life. This particular send forth was for a girl who had worked with a lot of the missionaries in Jos, so the festivities also had much of the flavor of a church service, with prayers and a short homily and two sung performances, one in English and one in Hausa, of Prov. 31. But the centerpiece of the celebration was definitely what was simply called “dancing time.” Something like the “Dollar a Dance” tradition at American weddings, various groups of relatives were called up to dance with the bride-to-be, but instead of paying for the honor, all the other relatives and friends would come up and give the bride or the dancers money by touching it to their faces and then dropping it to the ground. Then the various bridesmaids would scramble around picking up all the money off the ground. They had by far the most difficult job in the bunch, as it was a windy day and sometimes the money would go sailing off and kids and bridesmaids would have to run chasing after it! But the kicker was when the MC called out all the Batures in attendance for a dance of their own! So out we all came, and I have to say I don’t know when I’ve seen such a stiff group of dancers. But I must, unfortunately, include myself in that description, because for me at least it was hard to balance between not wanting to seem like a stick in the mud and not having any idea what kind of dancing would seem provocative to the Nigerians and sully the good name of SIM. But we all made it through in more or less one piece and the effort was much appreciated by the Nigerians. Another very African feature of the experience was that, even though we had to leave early for another engagement, they insisted that we take our food with us. Fried chicken and puff-puff anyone?
Monday was a holiday for us because we were celebrating Nigerian Independence Day! I’ve been told that in the past there have been parades and festivities in town, but this year there’s a new governor who, for whatever reason, did not see fit to host anything this year, to the irritation of many Nigerians, some of who talked about ousting him for this one grievous social sin. But, in lieu of parades, me and a few friends and fellow missionaries drove out of town for a little hike in an area known as Golf Ball Rock, so called because of the rock formation that looks strikingly like a golf ball set up on a tee. We had a nice climb up to where we could sit in the shade of the golf ball itself and look out over the landscape. It was a gorgeous day, and so nice to be out of the city for a while. I have to confess that the piles of trash and endless dust get old after a while, so it was nice to be reminded by soft-sided green mountains and quiet corn fields cradling grass-roofed huts what a beautiful country Nigeria actually is. And climbing on rocks is pretty much always fun no matter where you are.
However, it hasn’t been all fun and games, though because of the long weekend that’s mostly what it’s been. :-) I am continuing my glorious library work and had a great opportunity to have a long chat with one of the boys’ Nigerian teachers and hear his views on educational changes that need to take place at T.H., the educational system in Nigeria and where Plateau state fits into that, life, the universe, and everything in general. People here really love to talk! But I’ve also started another one of my projects, which is working with Abigail, a young Nigerian woman, on the biographies of boys at T.H.
SIM has set up a sponsorship program for the different CARE centers which is similar to Compassion or World Vision. Right now some of the SIM team are hard at work trying to get out annual reports to the boys’ sponsors, but although Abigail’s English is pretty stellar, it’s not quite to the point where American sponsors could understand what she writes. So I am trying to work with her on her English skills and computer skills as well so she can take over the biography project more completely someday. Yet again, this was not something I had any idea that I would be asked to do when I came and definitely presents its own unique challenges. It has been interesting though, to see the way this project dovetails with work in the library because many of the written mistakes Abigail makes are the same as the ones the boys make when reading out loud. There is the additional difficulty that spoken Nigerian English is very different from American written English. For example, there are a number of words (like live and leave or bird and birth) which sound exactly the same in Nigerian spoken English, but come across very differently on paper. And once again, I am in no way trained in teaching ESL, but we continue to slog through. Fortunately Abigail is a good student and lots of fun to work with and continues to teach me lots about Nigerian thinking and ways of life.
The other thing (and this could really use intense, miraculous breakthrough kinds of prayer) is that the technology we are trying to work with here is not the best. The mouse on the computer Abigail has been should have been marketed as a tool of spiritual formation because it absolutely requires the patience of a saint to operate the stupid thing! You push it right, it goes left, or else it absolutely refuses to move, and everything takes three times as long, which is really frustrating considering how much work there is to get through in the first place. But what can you expect from a machine that was manufactured when cell phones were the size of bricks?
As far as actual prayer requests go, please pray that I could continue to build and strengthen relationships with Nigerians and with individual boys at the center. I am starting to feel that a foundation has been laid, but I hope that God will show me who specifically to focus on for the next few weeks. And please pray for grace in learning names! There are at least 85 boys who I’m trying to keep straight, not to mention house uncles and aunties, other missionaries, tailors, cooks, vendors in the market…every relationship in Nigeria is a personal one. And please pray for the boys for help in their studies. I feel like a number of circumstances in the center right now are coming together to push them towards more enthusiasm and discipline in learning to read. Please pray that they would not be discouraged and that they would be captured by the power of the written word and their potential to master it!
Thanks for sticking with me through another tome, friends. Just remember, as I said at the beginning, I didn’t even cover the half of it! And, as always, if you no longer wish to receive these e-mails, make like a fisherman and drop me a line. (Yes, I did make that up just now.)
Embracing the adventure,
Shannon
Dear endlessly patient and perpetually gorgeous supporters, friends, and peeps,
Well, approximately 57 million things have, I think, happened since I last wrote. So, in summation, I offer this medly: hiking, rocks, dust, Thai food, weddings, grammar, peanut butter and jelly, taxis, clever dogs, Independence Day, airborne money, red stew, basketball and electric mayhem. I don’t know that I will be able to thoroughly cover all that ground in the course of one e-mail, but for the record, all of those things did happen in just the past few days.
One of the most glorious things that has happened was also one of the seemingly smallest. I was in the CARE center out in the village of Gyero playing cards with a couple boys when someone else brought out a couple of small drums. I asked the boys if they could play and one told me that he did. After very, very little cajoling, I find myself aptly learning to play this small but difficult drum through the tutelage of a remarkably able teacher. The style of this particular drum was the typical hourglass-ish shape, but connecting the top and bottom skins of the drum was a bunch of twisted leather cords. The drum is worn over the shoulder like a purse and when you squeeze the cords with your elbow, it changes the sound of the drum beat, which definitely added an additional layer of difficulty. So Jonathan, my teacher, would begin to play a pattern and I would watch a couple of times and then join in and we would play the pattern together until he would stop and let me see if I could play it alone. Keep in mind I have had no formal drum training whatsoever, so it was really fun to be able to pick it up so fast. Sometimes I would mess up just because I would start laughing because I enjoyed the sound of us playing together so much! And what a great way to connect with the kids, they all love to crowd around and gawk at the Bature on the drum! (Bature is the Hausa word for a white person, and one that you grow accustomed to hearing quite often.) Of course, even the little ones can already play better than me, but they are gracious enough to let me have a try.
Then on Sunday, I was privileged to witness a very Nigerian celebration called a send forth. A send forth is kind of the Nigerian equivalent of a bridal shower, in which the bride-to-be is the guest of honor and all of her family and friends gather to send her forth into her married life. This particular send forth was for a girl who had worked with a lot of the missionaries in Jos, so the festivities also had much of the flavor of a church service, with prayers and a short homily and two sung performances, one in English and one in Hausa, of Prov. 31. But the centerpiece of the celebration was definitely what was simply called “dancing time.” Something like the “Dollar a Dance” tradition at American weddings, various groups of relatives were called up to dance with the bride-to-be, but instead of paying for the honor, all the other relatives and friends would come up and give the bride or the dancers money by touching it to their faces and then dropping it to the ground. Then the various bridesmaids would scramble around picking up all the money off the ground. They had by far the most difficult job in the bunch, as it was a windy day and sometimes the money would go sailing off and kids and bridesmaids would have to run chasing after it! But the kicker was when the MC called out all the Batures in attendance for a dance of their own! So out we all came, and I have to say I don’t know when I’ve seen such a stiff group of dancers. But I must, unfortunately, include myself in that description, because for me at least it was hard to balance between not wanting to seem like a stick in the mud and not having any idea what kind of dancing would seem provocative to the Nigerians and sully the good name of SIM. But we all made it through in more or less one piece and the effort was much appreciated by the Nigerians. Another very African feature of the experience was that, even though we had to leave early for another engagement, they insisted that we take our food with us. Fried chicken and puff-puff anyone?
Monday was a holiday for us because we were celebrating Nigerian Independence Day! I’ve been told that in the past there have been parades and festivities in town, but this year there’s a new governor who, for whatever reason, did not see fit to host anything this year, to the irritation of many Nigerians, some of who talked about ousting him for this one grievous social sin. But, in lieu of parades, me and a few friends and fellow missionaries drove out of town for a little hike in an area known as Golf Ball Rock, so called because of the rock formation that looks strikingly like a golf ball set up on a tee. We had a nice climb up to where we could sit in the shade of the golf ball itself and look out over the landscape. It was a gorgeous day, and so nice to be out of the city for a while. I have to confess that the piles of trash and endless dust get old after a while, so it was nice to be reminded by soft-sided green mountains and quiet corn fields cradling grass-roofed huts what a beautiful country Nigeria actually is. And climbing on rocks is pretty much always fun no matter where you are.
However, it hasn’t been all fun and games, though because of the long weekend that’s mostly what it’s been. :-) I am continuing my glorious library work and had a great opportunity to have a long chat with one of the boys’ Nigerian teachers and hear his views on educational changes that need to take place at T.H., the educational system in Nigeria and where Plateau state fits into that, life, the universe, and everything in general. People here really love to talk! But I’ve also started another one of my projects, which is working with Abigail, a young Nigerian woman, on the biographies of boys at T.H.
SIM has set up a sponsorship program for the different CARE centers which is similar to Compassion or World Vision. Right now some of the SIM team are hard at work trying to get out annual reports to the boys’ sponsors, but although Abigail’s English is pretty stellar, it’s not quite to the point where American sponsors could understand what she writes. So I am trying to work with her on her English skills and computer skills as well so she can take over the biography project more completely someday. Yet again, this was not something I had any idea that I would be asked to do when I came and definitely presents its own unique challenges. It has been interesting though, to see the way this project dovetails with work in the library because many of the written mistakes Abigail makes are the same as the ones the boys make when reading out loud. There is the additional difficulty that spoken Nigerian English is very different from American written English. For example, there are a number of words (like live and leave or bird and birth) which sound exactly the same in Nigerian spoken English, but come across very differently on paper. And once again, I am in no way trained in teaching ESL, but we continue to slog through. Fortunately Abigail is a good student and lots of fun to work with and continues to teach me lots about Nigerian thinking and ways of life.
The other thing (and this could really use intense, miraculous breakthrough kinds of prayer) is that the technology we are trying to work with here is not the best. The mouse on the computer Abigail has been should have been marketed as a tool of spiritual formation because it absolutely requires the patience of a saint to operate the stupid thing! You push it right, it goes left, or else it absolutely refuses to move, and everything takes three times as long, which is really frustrating considering how much work there is to get through in the first place. But what can you expect from a machine that was manufactured when cell phones were the size of bricks?
As far as actual prayer requests go, please pray that I could continue to build and strengthen relationships with Nigerians and with individual boys at the center. I am starting to feel that a foundation has been laid, but I hope that God will show me who specifically to focus on for the next few weeks. And please pray for grace in learning names! There are at least 85 boys who I’m trying to keep straight, not to mention house uncles and aunties, other missionaries, tailors, cooks, vendors in the market…every relationship in Nigeria is a personal one. And please pray for the boys for help in their studies. I feel like a number of circumstances in the center right now are coming together to push them towards more enthusiasm and discipline in learning to read. Please pray that they would not be discouraged and that they would be captured by the power of the written word and their potential to master it!
Thanks for sticking with me through another tome, friends. Just remember, as I said at the beginning, I didn’t even cover the half of it! And, as always, if you no longer wish to receive these e-mails, make like a fisherman and drop me a line. (Yes, I did make that up just now.)
Embracing the adventure,
Shannon
Sunday, September 30, 2007
In Upende
Well, as I promised, I will now divulge the story of my first romantic encounter here in Nigeria. I was in the care center at Gyero, which is a little village about 40 minutes outside of Jos, spending time with the boys and learning how to play the drum when a couple 15 passenger vans pull up and out pour a stream of folks, and they get the boys to start unloading sacks of food. As it turned out, the army was making a large donation of food to Gyero, and they had sent their army chaplains as emissaries with the gift. So while these good folks were being addressed by one of the uncles of the center, one of their number wandered away to where I was merrily booming away on my little drum and engaged me in conversation. He introduced himself as the pastor of a village church not too far away and complimented me on my musical ability and asked me where I was from and what I was doing in Nigeria and how long I was going to be staying here and how often did I come to this orphans’ home? He then politely enquired if my husband was also working in Nigeria, to which I told him I was not married. This was not really the first time that Nigerians assumed that I must already be married or even have children stashed away somewhere, so I was hardly surprised by this. Then he asked me why I was not married, if it was because I felt called not to be, and I told him (fool that I am) that I didn’t feel especially called to singleness, but that I would wait for God’s timing to bring circumstances together. He assured me that this was a wonderfully wise course of action and asked me what kind of person I was going to marry, like perhaps, I don’t know, a pastor? To which I had to shrug and say that I didn’t have anyone particular in mind. “Oh yes, you are staying open to the will of God, that is good, God bless you, hallelujah. Do you have a phone number here in Nigeria?” To which I replied, scrambling for plausibility in the face of my shock, that I didn’t have a phone number I could give out, and that the only way people from home could contact me was through the SIM office line. “That is very good, I should very much like to have that number.” To which I think I nodded and smiled and looked distracted, because he then went on to ask me how long I had been a Christian and when I told him since I was ten years old, he (with many praise God’s and hallelujah’s) gave me quite a sermonette about how we had to press on in our faith and keep maturing and the importance of prayer (praise the Lord!) and the importance of spiritual warfare and are you filled with the Holy Spirit? then you must speak and pray in tongues because the Spirit will intercede for us with groans the words cannot express, hallelujah! And he quoted a great deal of Scripture to me and concluded by asking me how old was I? (Praise the Lord) and he hoped that we would meet again. And then someone came to tell him that Reverend wanted everyone to come together and so he excused himself and that was that.
I have to say that I found the whole experience rather amusing. Apparently many of the young Nigerian gentlemen are very interested in romantic relationships with Western expats solely for the reason of getting out of Nigeria, so this experience is hardly uncommon, but when you’ve been warned and counseled about it so much it’s kind of like going to a gypsy fortune teller and having your fortune told and then actually seeing it come to fruition. At such times, one can hardly respond with anything besides the chortling disbelief of “Oh my gosh, it’s really happening.” So there you go, it really happened.
I have to say that I found the whole experience rather amusing. Apparently many of the young Nigerian gentlemen are very interested in romantic relationships with Western expats solely for the reason of getting out of Nigeria, so this experience is hardly uncommon, but when you’ve been warned and counseled about it so much it’s kind of like going to a gypsy fortune teller and having your fortune told and then actually seeing it come to fruition. At such times, one can hardly respond with anything besides the chortling disbelief of “Oh my gosh, it’s really happening.” So there you go, it really happened.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Literacy Under the Mango Tree
Latest news from the supporter e-mail scene...but I should have some new stuff up soon!
Dear worthy and inestimable supporters and beloved folk of all descriptions,
There is much to love about the African style of life. Nobody gets bent out of shape when you're not quite ready to go, because odds are wherever you're going isn't starting on time anyway. People enjoy the value of a good chat and recognize that a conversation, even with someone you never meet again, will last forever. And, even when you think you've got a lot on your plate, the pace of life remains slow and easy.
This is one of the things that I have appreciated most about Africa as a training ground for future ministry. How tempting it is to fill each hour of each day with appointments, errands, and even the busyness of recreation! But the pace of life here simply does not allow for it, every day cannot be filled, every moment cannot be scheduled and there are many hours, in which you look back on each week, in which no one really expected you to do anything in particular. And if that makes you feel insufficient or less than worthwhile, that is something that must be dealt with, rather than shoved aside with more doing. I wish I could ship boatloads of American pastors over here so that they could be forced to realize that you cannot serve others every minute of the day, not least of all because at times those others are napping, and there is nothing you can do but wait for them to wake up! So even though at times I have been frustrated that I'm just not doing enough ministry to justify my time here, I have felt so blessed by the grace of slowness, of rest, and of peace.
All of that, understand, was to qualify my next statement that I've been getting more and more on my plate lately as ministry starts to fall into a more predictable schedule. Now you can see that I say that as a relative statement, compared to my first couple of weeks here. But I think that I am finally beginning to find my niche in Jos. About three afternoons a week, I am down in Transition House, opening up the library. The most amazing thing I've discovered since beginning this is the kinds of books that the boys are interested in: when I open the doors, every one runs in and most go for either a dictionary or an encyclopedia!!! This is something I am going to have to ask some questions about, because I know for a fact that most of the boys are not at a high enough reading level to slog through an encyclopedia, and our set is not particularly well-illustrated either. Maybe this is a mystery I can get to the bottom of in the coming weeks.
I never really realized how passionate I was about literacy until I started doing this work. It is one thing to think about it in abstract terms, but to sit in this room with some really stellar books and see these boys stuck reading the simplest picture books just because no one has been able to spend the time to help them really breaks my heart. There is so much more for them to discover than the pictures in the big book of Reptiles! Having said that, it is an incredibly difficult task because reading level does not correspond with age here at all, so each boy is very much learning at their own pace and beginning in different places and I am in no way trained to do this kind of work, so mostly what it involves for me is sitting down with each individual boy and working through, page by painstaking page, a simple story book, trying to demonstrate things like "sounding it out" and compound words and the like. Part of the problem is that I don't think they've learned any kind of phonetics and are simply going on a word recognition basis. Anyway, it is slow work, but I really enjoy it.
I just have to say that this is the first time since graduating college that I've been doing something that I could see myself doing, if not for the rest of my life, for a very long time. Not that I necessarily having to be teaching ex-street kids in Nigeria to read for the rest of my life (start breathing again, Mom), but I so appreciate doing something that is meaningful to me, that meets my passions, and that I really feel is making a difference in the world. (This is so much better than temping!!!) I don't know how much I'll be able to do in the rest of my time, but I feel confident that by the time I leave, some of these boys will be better readers than when I got here, and that's something that they'll have for the rest of their lives. How cool is that!
In other news, in exploring other activities and opportunities to bless the kids, I was given a great gift to empower my ministry, a mighty tool by which all Nigeria might be saved. None other than the illustrious…duh da duh dum! flannel graph!!!! Now, those of you who grew up with these may be less than enthused, but words can scarcely express my excitement over finding this treasure. Though somewhat out of vogue in the States, everyone assures me that, because of the lack of televisions and the like here, flannel graphs are still a big deal for the kids. This particular flannel graph is extra special because I think it was made sometime back in the 1950's, so all of the illustrations look like they sprang from the pages of Fun with Dick and Jane. Furthermore, initially I was missing a few critical pieces, like all of my biblical felt men and women, but the set did include lots of "modern" looking people, so for awhile I thought I was going to have to put on, say, the story of Noah and cast this extremely Aryan man in his Sunday suit in the title role. How's that for enculturation? And that's not all, in addition to the 'graph itself, I was also given an explanatory book entitled…wait for it…Through the Bible in Felt. I love my work!
On that cheery note, I should probably toss out a few prayer requests, other than the one you've probably already made note of for my sanity. I have had my first touch of sickness this week, nothing that was even serious enough to keep me from work, but healing would be appreciated. Also, I think I've already mentioned this in previous e-mails, but it is really difficult to be here for the amount of time that I am when everyone else is staying for at least two years, especially as I begin to near the halfway point of my time here (eeeeeee!!!!). Please pray that I would have a long-term mindset, no matter how much calendar time I actually have, and that God would be able to use me to make a big impact in a short amount of time.
Yours with joy,
Shannon
Dear worthy and inestimable supporters and beloved folk of all descriptions,
There is much to love about the African style of life. Nobody gets bent out of shape when you're not quite ready to go, because odds are wherever you're going isn't starting on time anyway. People enjoy the value of a good chat and recognize that a conversation, even with someone you never meet again, will last forever. And, even when you think you've got a lot on your plate, the pace of life remains slow and easy.
This is one of the things that I have appreciated most about Africa as a training ground for future ministry. How tempting it is to fill each hour of each day with appointments, errands, and even the busyness of recreation! But the pace of life here simply does not allow for it, every day cannot be filled, every moment cannot be scheduled and there are many hours, in which you look back on each week, in which no one really expected you to do anything in particular. And if that makes you feel insufficient or less than worthwhile, that is something that must be dealt with, rather than shoved aside with more doing. I wish I could ship boatloads of American pastors over here so that they could be forced to realize that you cannot serve others every minute of the day, not least of all because at times those others are napping, and there is nothing you can do but wait for them to wake up! So even though at times I have been frustrated that I'm just not doing enough ministry to justify my time here, I have felt so blessed by the grace of slowness, of rest, and of peace.
All of that, understand, was to qualify my next statement that I've been getting more and more on my plate lately as ministry starts to fall into a more predictable schedule. Now you can see that I say that as a relative statement, compared to my first couple of weeks here. But I think that I am finally beginning to find my niche in Jos. About three afternoons a week, I am down in Transition House, opening up the library. The most amazing thing I've discovered since beginning this is the kinds of books that the boys are interested in: when I open the doors, every one runs in and most go for either a dictionary or an encyclopedia!!! This is something I am going to have to ask some questions about, because I know for a fact that most of the boys are not at a high enough reading level to slog through an encyclopedia, and our set is not particularly well-illustrated either. Maybe this is a mystery I can get to the bottom of in the coming weeks.
I never really realized how passionate I was about literacy until I started doing this work. It is one thing to think about it in abstract terms, but to sit in this room with some really stellar books and see these boys stuck reading the simplest picture books just because no one has been able to spend the time to help them really breaks my heart. There is so much more for them to discover than the pictures in the big book of Reptiles! Having said that, it is an incredibly difficult task because reading level does not correspond with age here at all, so each boy is very much learning at their own pace and beginning in different places and I am in no way trained to do this kind of work, so mostly what it involves for me is sitting down with each individual boy and working through, page by painstaking page, a simple story book, trying to demonstrate things like "sounding it out" and compound words and the like. Part of the problem is that I don't think they've learned any kind of phonetics and are simply going on a word recognition basis. Anyway, it is slow work, but I really enjoy it.
I just have to say that this is the first time since graduating college that I've been doing something that I could see myself doing, if not for the rest of my life, for a very long time. Not that I necessarily having to be teaching ex-street kids in Nigeria to read for the rest of my life (start breathing again, Mom), but I so appreciate doing something that is meaningful to me, that meets my passions, and that I really feel is making a difference in the world. (This is so much better than temping!!!) I don't know how much I'll be able to do in the rest of my time, but I feel confident that by the time I leave, some of these boys will be better readers than when I got here, and that's something that they'll have for the rest of their lives. How cool is that!
In other news, in exploring other activities and opportunities to bless the kids, I was given a great gift to empower my ministry, a mighty tool by which all Nigeria might be saved. None other than the illustrious…duh da duh dum! flannel graph!!!! Now, those of you who grew up with these may be less than enthused, but words can scarcely express my excitement over finding this treasure. Though somewhat out of vogue in the States, everyone assures me that, because of the lack of televisions and the like here, flannel graphs are still a big deal for the kids. This particular flannel graph is extra special because I think it was made sometime back in the 1950's, so all of the illustrations look like they sprang from the pages of Fun with Dick and Jane. Furthermore, initially I was missing a few critical pieces, like all of my biblical felt men and women, but the set did include lots of "modern" looking people, so for awhile I thought I was going to have to put on, say, the story of Noah and cast this extremely Aryan man in his Sunday suit in the title role. How's that for enculturation? And that's not all, in addition to the 'graph itself, I was also given an explanatory book entitled…wait for it…Through the Bible in Felt. I love my work!
On that cheery note, I should probably toss out a few prayer requests, other than the one you've probably already made note of for my sanity. I have had my first touch of sickness this week, nothing that was even serious enough to keep me from work, but healing would be appreciated. Also, I think I've already mentioned this in previous e-mails, but it is really difficult to be here for the amount of time that I am when everyone else is staying for at least two years, especially as I begin to near the halfway point of my time here (eeeeeee!!!!). Please pray that I would have a long-term mindset, no matter how much calendar time I actually have, and that God would be able to use me to make a big impact in a short amount of time.
Yours with joy,
Shannon
Friday, September 21, 2007
Epic
So, I think when many people think of traveling to Africa, they picture bugs. Giant blood sucking mosquitoes, brilliantly colored spiders, and huge roaches. Fortunately, living in an urban apartment, there have been, for the most part less bugs here even than in our dear old Ortlip House. But last night, I noticed in the gap between the carpet and the wall a large, black thing. I left it alone for a while, feeling like I might be better off not knowing what it was, but when I saw the twitching of antennas, I knew it was a roach. This, in itself, was no great problem. We have had many a roach in our house in Texas, tho none quite this big, but tho a bit uneasy, I felt like I could leave him alone and he would gradually either find his way out or expire quietly somewhere. So, I went to sleep, leaving him in his quiet gap in peace, woke up the next morning to no very apparent sign of roachiness, and went about my day. But tonight, after I got home after our Friday Feast, there he was again, not so much lying quietly in the gap as buzzing about the room in a rather distracting manner. I am okay with stationary roaches, but when they become that mobile, I start to get a little more resentful. Then he did some complicated aerial maneuvers in the corner, landed on the floor about four feet away and started crawling toward me and hid under the little table directly to me right. Well, that was the last straw, this act of aggression clearly ending our former peaceful accord. There was nothing to do but go for the spray. There is a bottle of some kind of chlorine syrup under my sink that I am supposed to use for disinfecting vegetables, but chlorine really sounded like a ghastly way to die and I didn’t know how to administer it without getting too close or bleaching my lovely bright blue and yellow carpet. Fortunately, there right next to my chlorine goo was my trusty can of Baygon, which had a picture on it of what could have been my roach’s twin brother, so I figured that I had the right stuff. I read the directions on how to harness the can’s “Instant Killing Power” and fired away underneath the little cabinet. For a few moments, silence, then suddenly, I heard certain bumping and tapping sounds as the roach struggled beneath the cabinet. Then, in a last ditch effort to take me out with him, he lunged from underneath the cabinet towards me, antenna wiggling, fangs and claws bared, driving for my jugular. With another blast of killing spray and a mighty cry, I drove him under the couch. He began to writhe and struggle, and cried out threats of everlasting vengeance, but now the death throes were upon him. In mercy, I shot him a couple more times to speed his demise. He didn’t stand a chance against the Baygon, but I shall be sure to inform his survivors that he died well, no bribe attempts or blubbering. [I am so freaking Wild at Heart]
But, I have to say, it was something of a Pyrrhic victory, as now my apartment holds a somewhat lingering aroma of rancid cornbread that will be hard, I think, to ignore.
(Yes, that was for you, Thryn. You better read this now.)
But, I have to say, it was something of a Pyrrhic victory, as now my apartment holds a somewhat lingering aroma of rancid cornbread that will be hard, I think, to ignore.
(Yes, that was for you, Thryn. You better read this now.)
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Living and Learning
Another reprint of a support e-mail...hey, what do you want from me, I'm here to minister!
So, I ponder over my empty pasta bowl, what are the latest thoughts from Nigeria? So many things have happened since last I wrote, but I’ll try to limit myself to the highlights. Cultural interactions continue to exhaust me, and at times I wonder why I was ever so foolish as to sign up to stay for only two months. What can possibly be learned in so short a time? Certainly not bargaining like a born Nigerian, at least when you are as poorly suited for it as I am. Assertive, street-wise, persistent and LOUD? That’s not me. And though it may seem like a small thing, virtually everything is bought in the market and not only is bargaining the only culturally appropriate way to shop, it’s also necessary to avoid getting ripped off and burning through your per diem without acquiring the essentials of life, like food. Right now in my larders I have the aforementioned pasta, some cabbage, carrots, onion and potatoes, tomato paste, some peanut butter and jelly and…that’s about it. Anyone who knows me at all will know that my inner foodie is desperate to transform these ‘umble beginnings into magnificent meals, but so far, no dice. I must also have felt in need of some particularly severe penance tonight, since I have just spent the better part of the past hour looking at my favorite food blogs. Man alive, I think I’d have been better off walking to Canterbury on my knees! But it is a very good and refreshing discipline to eat somewhat like a Nigerian, and it won’t do any harm to keep it up for two months.
Well, as far as actual ministry is concerned, this week has been fairly packed. This week I have visited a number of the different ministries SIM is involved with here in Nigeria. For those of you who were concerned that there might not be an established group waiting for me when I got here, we could not have been more wrong! Right now there are about 5 different branches of SIM ministries operating in Nigeria, with each branch consisting of up to 4 different specializations. The entire network is made up of about 60 foreign missionaries and over 200 Nigerians!
The whole process of this week is supposed to be helping me decide which ministry of my branch, City Ministries, I would like to focus on, but I feel pulled in many different directions, both emotionally and vocationally. This week I visited the boys’ homes at Gidan Bege and the CARE center, Transition House. These houses have essentially the same purpose, to care for orphaned or unwanted boys and give them a home, education, and Christian discipleship. The only difference is that Gidan Bege is the first step for street boys, whereas they don’t go to Transition House until they’ve been at Gidan Bege for about six months.
Sometimes at the houses I feel as though I’ve shed an old identity and become this new person, “Auntie Shannon,” (auntie being an African title of respect) who is surprisingly good at volleyball and always ready to offer a silly face or snap a photo and be tackled by 10 boys who all want to see their picture. With the boys at G.B. especially, language can be a barrier, but all that they boys really want is someone to listen to them, kick a ball around, or just hold their hand. And I have to say, getting a smile from one of those boys makes you feel like this was the reason God let you keep breathing today.
You might be wondering why I keep referring to the boys of City Ministries. Well, most of the kids living on the street in Jos are boys, though there are some girls at another CARE center, Gyero, where I’ll visit later this week. Some of the boys end up on the street because their parents have died, but in other cases only the father has died and when the mother remarries her new husband will drive the children away. Others are driven away by abusive parents. In other cases, boys are suspected of having joined a “secret society” (Nigerian blanket term for occult groups) whose first requirements of initiation are often to injure or kill a member of one’s own family. A family who suspects a boy of having joined a secret society will usually try to kill him before he can hurt the family. Sometimes what these boys have been through before coming to this ministry is scarcely believable.
I had another very humbling experience today with our trip with other Nigerian Christians and medical missionaries to Blind Town, one of the poorest areas of the city. It is so called because in African Muslim society, the blind and deformed are no longer accepted and are forced to live apart from the community. So this shanty town was filled with the blind, the crippled, lepers, and other very poor families. I am still processing and feel that I scarcely have words to describe this experience. To put anything down on paper seems glib. And yet my first impression was that the whole place seemed absolutely surreal. I kept trying to force into my mind that these people aren’t just playing house in these patched together boxes of corrugated tin. This is where they live. The children get their only playthings from these garbage piles. They walk among these shards of broken glass with only skimpy sandals or with bare feet. And yet the women can laugh and chatter with each other as they wait in line to see the doctor. The children love to imitate everything you do and chorus through their English repertoire, “Hello,” “Thank you,” and “Bye-bye” to catch your attention. What can I say? This is their lives, and it is a privilege to be welcomed into it, even for one afternoon.
Well, thanks for sticking with me through this marathon update. Please pray for Nigerian Muslims through this month of Ramadan, and especially for SIM outreaches to Blind Town and the Muslim women’s ministry at Gidan Bege. Pray also for God’s guidance for me as I try to discern what exactly to do with my time here. And as always, if you’d like to opt out of receiving these novellas, just drop me a line!
Blessings, grace, and peace, dear friends,
Shannon
So, I ponder over my empty pasta bowl, what are the latest thoughts from Nigeria? So many things have happened since last I wrote, but I’ll try to limit myself to the highlights. Cultural interactions continue to exhaust me, and at times I wonder why I was ever so foolish as to sign up to stay for only two months. What can possibly be learned in so short a time? Certainly not bargaining like a born Nigerian, at least when you are as poorly suited for it as I am. Assertive, street-wise, persistent and LOUD? That’s not me. And though it may seem like a small thing, virtually everything is bought in the market and not only is bargaining the only culturally appropriate way to shop, it’s also necessary to avoid getting ripped off and burning through your per diem without acquiring the essentials of life, like food. Right now in my larders I have the aforementioned pasta, some cabbage, carrots, onion and potatoes, tomato paste, some peanut butter and jelly and…that’s about it. Anyone who knows me at all will know that my inner foodie is desperate to transform these ‘umble beginnings into magnificent meals, but so far, no dice. I must also have felt in need of some particularly severe penance tonight, since I have just spent the better part of the past hour looking at my favorite food blogs. Man alive, I think I’d have been better off walking to Canterbury on my knees! But it is a very good and refreshing discipline to eat somewhat like a Nigerian, and it won’t do any harm to keep it up for two months.
Well, as far as actual ministry is concerned, this week has been fairly packed. This week I have visited a number of the different ministries SIM is involved with here in Nigeria. For those of you who were concerned that there might not be an established group waiting for me when I got here, we could not have been more wrong! Right now there are about 5 different branches of SIM ministries operating in Nigeria, with each branch consisting of up to 4 different specializations. The entire network is made up of about 60 foreign missionaries and over 200 Nigerians!
The whole process of this week is supposed to be helping me decide which ministry of my branch, City Ministries, I would like to focus on, but I feel pulled in many different directions, both emotionally and vocationally. This week I visited the boys’ homes at Gidan Bege and the CARE center, Transition House. These houses have essentially the same purpose, to care for orphaned or unwanted boys and give them a home, education, and Christian discipleship. The only difference is that Gidan Bege is the first step for street boys, whereas they don’t go to Transition House until they’ve been at Gidan Bege for about six months.
Sometimes at the houses I feel as though I’ve shed an old identity and become this new person, “Auntie Shannon,” (auntie being an African title of respect) who is surprisingly good at volleyball and always ready to offer a silly face or snap a photo and be tackled by 10 boys who all want to see their picture. With the boys at G.B. especially, language can be a barrier, but all that they boys really want is someone to listen to them, kick a ball around, or just hold their hand. And I have to say, getting a smile from one of those boys makes you feel like this was the reason God let you keep breathing today.
You might be wondering why I keep referring to the boys of City Ministries. Well, most of the kids living on the street in Jos are boys, though there are some girls at another CARE center, Gyero, where I’ll visit later this week. Some of the boys end up on the street because their parents have died, but in other cases only the father has died and when the mother remarries her new husband will drive the children away. Others are driven away by abusive parents. In other cases, boys are suspected of having joined a “secret society” (Nigerian blanket term for occult groups) whose first requirements of initiation are often to injure or kill a member of one’s own family. A family who suspects a boy of having joined a secret society will usually try to kill him before he can hurt the family. Sometimes what these boys have been through before coming to this ministry is scarcely believable.
I had another very humbling experience today with our trip with other Nigerian Christians and medical missionaries to Blind Town, one of the poorest areas of the city. It is so called because in African Muslim society, the blind and deformed are no longer accepted and are forced to live apart from the community. So this shanty town was filled with the blind, the crippled, lepers, and other very poor families. I am still processing and feel that I scarcely have words to describe this experience. To put anything down on paper seems glib. And yet my first impression was that the whole place seemed absolutely surreal. I kept trying to force into my mind that these people aren’t just playing house in these patched together boxes of corrugated tin. This is where they live. The children get their only playthings from these garbage piles. They walk among these shards of broken glass with only skimpy sandals or with bare feet. And yet the women can laugh and chatter with each other as they wait in line to see the doctor. The children love to imitate everything you do and chorus through their English repertoire, “Hello,” “Thank you,” and “Bye-bye” to catch your attention. What can I say? This is their lives, and it is a privilege to be welcomed into it, even for one afternoon.
Well, thanks for sticking with me through this marathon update. Please pray for Nigerian Muslims through this month of Ramadan, and especially for SIM outreaches to Blind Town and the Muslim women’s ministry at Gidan Bege. Pray also for God’s guidance for me as I try to discern what exactly to do with my time here. And as always, if you’d like to opt out of receiving these novellas, just drop me a line!
Blessings, grace, and peace, dear friends,
Shannon
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Big Fish
*Warning: The contents of this post are not for those of faint heart, those nursing, pregnant, or who may become pregnant. If you have kidney or liver problems, talk to your doctor before reading this post.*
So, two funny stories “off the record” from Nigeria, those I am not sure the general audience would be terribly interested in hearing. First story: I was over in the compound across the street the other night, having dinner with another missionary and some friends. Night fell and as there was no NEPA (Nigerian for electricity) that evening, we made our way back across the compound with a flashlight, held out in front by my gallant companion. We were walking across a basketball court, wide and level and to all appearances completely free from debris, when I had the very good fortune to stub my toe, hard, on a rock in my path that was a little bit larger than a brick. “Ouch,” I said, or some such thing, for my companion stopped and came back to check. I assured her that I was fine, having only clumsily stubbed my toe, and onward we went. But by the time we were at the gate of our friends’ compound, I could already feel a suspicious wetness growing in my shoe. We made our way back up to our flats in our compound, and my friend came back up to my flat to see if there were any battery run lights for me to use (there weren’t). I came in and immediately went to check out my foot with my flashlight, which I had foolishly left in my flat. Sure enough, the top half of my poor sandal was soaked with blood and my toe looked somewhat worse for wear. My friend noticed and kindly offered me the use of a bandaid, and then off she went for the evening. So there I was at 10:00 on a pitch black night, bleeding into the bathtub and trying to clean off my toe with a little cup of purified water, since I wasn’t really sure what the water here would do to it, and doing all this by the light of my little flashlight. (The toe is, by the by, more or less fine, as when I finally got a look at it, it was just a small cut on the end of my big toe that caused all the trouble).
Second story, happened only today at lunchtime. Now, the thing that you have to understand about this story is that NEPA goes off fairly frequently here, usually only for 15 minutes to an hour, but sometimes as long as a day or so. And when it does, there is no power in my fridge. So, today, having no NEPA and little food in the house, I decide to use the goodly can of tuna fish that had already been purchased for me upon my arrival to make myself a tasty tuna melt sandwich. (Yes, we can get cheese here, but it is rather costly). So I open up my wee can of tuna and what a sight did assault my eyes. This was the strangest tuna I had ever seen. First of all it was packed in oil, but it was so, so dark, like a grey-pink-black combination that looked fairly vile. I wondered what might be in the can besides just tuna, but poked around and managed to spoon out a few spoonfuls that looked okay. Then, the mayonnaise. Now, I know that mayo is a rather common ingredient in tuna salad, but I have never been that big of a fan so I am not sure what possessed me to try to put it in in the first place. But I opened up the jar, which still had its plastic ring, mind you, but had been in my fridge for a full day while there was no NEPA. And yet, mysteriously, there was a thin layer on the top that looked and smelled suspicious. So I spooned out that top layer and threw it away and proceeded with the making of my sandwich, adding lots and lots of garlic powder to the mix in the hope that I might taste nothing else. I cut the bread and added some thin little slices of cheese. Into the frying pan it went, where it shortly became even more of a fiasco because I had cut the bread too thin, so it started to fall apart and stick to the pan and very soon, I had a mangled mess of dark tuna and crumbling bread on my plate. This whole time I had been cooking, I had been growing more and more anxious as I looked upon what I very soon planned to force upon my digestive tract. But I was desperately trying some very positive self-talk to psych myself up to eat this hideous sandwich, and failing miserably. A first bite: Fishy, very, very fishy, with a little bit of raunchy mayo flavor and soggy bread thrown in. No, I said to myself, this is delicious. This is the best tuna fish sandwich I have ever tasted. More bites. More anguish. More positivity. I was strongly reminded of the hideous can of coleslaw that Jer tried to force himself to eat in good old Eire, and felt strongly tempted to go lie on the couch or perhaps pack the beast up for some hungrier day. No, I thought, if you can’t eat it now, think how much worse it will be cold.
Another bite, and another. Halfway through the sandwich. I stall when I find something of a foreign nature (i.e.—not native to the fish, or perhaps too native?). This is the final straw. My eating stalls, waves of nausea pass over me. I feel a strong urge to vomit. Shannon girl, I tell myself firmly, it’s less than two dollars worth of fish. It’s not worth it. The sandwich, however, cannot be altogether abandoned, my Scotch-Irish sensibilities keep screaming. So, the fish is duly scraped away, trying to retain as much of the precious cheese as is possible. The last bites are successfully down, my frugality is satisfied, but now I have to come face to face with the full horror of what I have done. Surely, surely, I said, I am gripped by the throes of death. No one could eat such foulsomeness and yet live. Is this to be my tragic, untimely end? Woe to me, to have sailed across seven seas and battled giants and ogres only to be brought down on the shores darkest Afrika by a foul fish! Panic and emptiness. Panic and emptiness.
To make matter worse, not only is my mind still reeling with the thought of the black death inside that can that I actually freely chose to put inside my body, then I have to contend with the heavy weight of guilt that comes of actually having disposed of the filthy creature, rather than eating it. Mayhaps it would not have been so bad if not so many things had been going rotten of late. There was the couple of tablespoons of mayo earlier that day, but not only that, there was the half a melon that turned to translucent goo in the fridge while the NEPA was gone, as well as the leftovers of the salad that I had for lunch that wept strange juices in its sad Styrofoam container and had to be pitched. Wicked, wicked girl to waste such food! It should have been eaten, rot and all! It’s not like I have much food to begin with, without pitching half of it into the garbage. I was very angry that I was so weak, then, as to not be able to stomach the corpulent tuna. Who dares to go to Africa when they are too sissified to eat a tuna fish sandwich? I made many dire threats to myself about being sent home to eat chocolate bon bons on couches of indolence and slowly be crushed by the guilty weight of inaction. But I writhed in my very marrow to think of eating it, and so, alas, I lost the day. Kai! I suck at this game.
So, two funny stories “off the record” from Nigeria, those I am not sure the general audience would be terribly interested in hearing. First story: I was over in the compound across the street the other night, having dinner with another missionary and some friends. Night fell and as there was no NEPA (Nigerian for electricity) that evening, we made our way back across the compound with a flashlight, held out in front by my gallant companion. We were walking across a basketball court, wide and level and to all appearances completely free from debris, when I had the very good fortune to stub my toe, hard, on a rock in my path that was a little bit larger than a brick. “Ouch,” I said, or some such thing, for my companion stopped and came back to check. I assured her that I was fine, having only clumsily stubbed my toe, and onward we went. But by the time we were at the gate of our friends’ compound, I could already feel a suspicious wetness growing in my shoe. We made our way back up to our flats in our compound, and my friend came back up to my flat to see if there were any battery run lights for me to use (there weren’t). I came in and immediately went to check out my foot with my flashlight, which I had foolishly left in my flat. Sure enough, the top half of my poor sandal was soaked with blood and my toe looked somewhat worse for wear. My friend noticed and kindly offered me the use of a bandaid, and then off she went for the evening. So there I was at 10:00 on a pitch black night, bleeding into the bathtub and trying to clean off my toe with a little cup of purified water, since I wasn’t really sure what the water here would do to it, and doing all this by the light of my little flashlight. (The toe is, by the by, more or less fine, as when I finally got a look at it, it was just a small cut on the end of my big toe that caused all the trouble).
Second story, happened only today at lunchtime. Now, the thing that you have to understand about this story is that NEPA goes off fairly frequently here, usually only for 15 minutes to an hour, but sometimes as long as a day or so. And when it does, there is no power in my fridge. So, today, having no NEPA and little food in the house, I decide to use the goodly can of tuna fish that had already been purchased for me upon my arrival to make myself a tasty tuna melt sandwich. (Yes, we can get cheese here, but it is rather costly). So I open up my wee can of tuna and what a sight did assault my eyes. This was the strangest tuna I had ever seen. First of all it was packed in oil, but it was so, so dark, like a grey-pink-black combination that looked fairly vile. I wondered what might be in the can besides just tuna, but poked around and managed to spoon out a few spoonfuls that looked okay. Then, the mayonnaise. Now, I know that mayo is a rather common ingredient in tuna salad, but I have never been that big of a fan so I am not sure what possessed me to try to put it in in the first place. But I opened up the jar, which still had its plastic ring, mind you, but had been in my fridge for a full day while there was no NEPA. And yet, mysteriously, there was a thin layer on the top that looked and smelled suspicious. So I spooned out that top layer and threw it away and proceeded with the making of my sandwich, adding lots and lots of garlic powder to the mix in the hope that I might taste nothing else. I cut the bread and added some thin little slices of cheese. Into the frying pan it went, where it shortly became even more of a fiasco because I had cut the bread too thin, so it started to fall apart and stick to the pan and very soon, I had a mangled mess of dark tuna and crumbling bread on my plate. This whole time I had been cooking, I had been growing more and more anxious as I looked upon what I very soon planned to force upon my digestive tract. But I was desperately trying some very positive self-talk to psych myself up to eat this hideous sandwich, and failing miserably. A first bite: Fishy, very, very fishy, with a little bit of raunchy mayo flavor and soggy bread thrown in. No, I said to myself, this is delicious. This is the best tuna fish sandwich I have ever tasted. More bites. More anguish. More positivity. I was strongly reminded of the hideous can of coleslaw that Jer tried to force himself to eat in good old Eire, and felt strongly tempted to go lie on the couch or perhaps pack the beast up for some hungrier day. No, I thought, if you can’t eat it now, think how much worse it will be cold.
Another bite, and another. Halfway through the sandwich. I stall when I find something of a foreign nature (i.e.—not native to the fish, or perhaps too native?). This is the final straw. My eating stalls, waves of nausea pass over me. I feel a strong urge to vomit. Shannon girl, I tell myself firmly, it’s less than two dollars worth of fish. It’s not worth it. The sandwich, however, cannot be altogether abandoned, my Scotch-Irish sensibilities keep screaming. So, the fish is duly scraped away, trying to retain as much of the precious cheese as is possible. The last bites are successfully down, my frugality is satisfied, but now I have to come face to face with the full horror of what I have done. Surely, surely, I said, I am gripped by the throes of death. No one could eat such foulsomeness and yet live. Is this to be my tragic, untimely end? Woe to me, to have sailed across seven seas and battled giants and ogres only to be brought down on the shores darkest Afrika by a foul fish! Panic and emptiness. Panic and emptiness.
To make matter worse, not only is my mind still reeling with the thought of the black death inside that can that I actually freely chose to put inside my body, then I have to contend with the heavy weight of guilt that comes of actually having disposed of the filthy creature, rather than eating it. Mayhaps it would not have been so bad if not so many things had been going rotten of late. There was the couple of tablespoons of mayo earlier that day, but not only that, there was the half a melon that turned to translucent goo in the fridge while the NEPA was gone, as well as the leftovers of the salad that I had for lunch that wept strange juices in its sad Styrofoam container and had to be pitched. Wicked, wicked girl to waste such food! It should have been eaten, rot and all! It’s not like I have much food to begin with, without pitching half of it into the garbage. I was very angry that I was so weak, then, as to not be able to stomach the corpulent tuna. Who dares to go to Africa when they are too sissified to eat a tuna fish sandwich? I made many dire threats to myself about being sent home to eat chocolate bon bons on couches of indolence and slowly be crushed by the guilty weight of inaction. But I writhed in my very marrow to think of eating it, and so, alas, I lost the day. Kai! I suck at this game.
Friday, September 14, 2007
First Things
Sorry for the repeat to those of you who are also on the e-mail list, as this is basically a reprint of my first e-mail. To those who may not be on the list and would like to be, just drop me an e-mail and include your address. Peace!
My dear, dear friends,
This morning, I was awakened at 4:00 by the combined effects of jet lag and the Muslim call to prayer that was sounding across the little city of Jos. I lay in bed and listened as the quiet of the street was gradually filled with the rumble of traffic, the chatter of voices, the calls of vendors and always, always the honking of the cars that is apparently a necessity for anyone to drive anywhere without crashing.
It is my first full day in the city of Jos, tho I have been away from home for about a week, first in Charlotte for orientation with SIM, and then spending a full three days travelling to finally make it to the Challenge Apartments in the compound where I am staying. The travelling was a bit of an ordeal that I feel fortunate to have survived, but I made it at last and am savoring my first encounters with Nigeria and its people.
It is so beautiful here and I loved my extended ride from Abuja, where my plane landed, all the way up to Jos. Everywhere people are hiking along the side of the road or trying to hitch rides, women are laying out corn to try on the concrete and my very kind driver, Audu, is doing his best to dodge the potholes in the road. I feel very fortunate to be here at this time of year because rainy season is just ending, so everything is beautiful and green, but the dry season will not start until the end of November, after I am gone. The weather right now is gorgeous. The past two days have been sunny and beautiful and the high elevation keeps us nice and cool. I am already discovering that so many of the bad things I was told about Nigeria were no more than stereotypes and I hope this trip will be the beginning of a lifetime love affair with this place.
I think the most stressful things so far have been the constant feeling of sensory overload and being overwhelmed by the differences in doing life here. It's like waking up one morning and suddenly everything that is part of your daily routine is so much more difficult. Making tea, grocery shopping, and even crossing the street are challenging, so I suppose it is little surprise that I feel overwhelmed. Furthermore, everything is new, and because I am so curious I often feel like I am trying to take in everything at once. Unfortunately, "everything" usually turns out to be quite a bit! I am trying to tell myself that adjustment will come in time and to accept it as part of the experience, but it is not always easy to be patient.
The other thing that can be a burden at times is a nagging sense of inadequacy I have developed since landing. It is hard not to feel like a lesser missionary because I will only be here for two months, or to feel like there is nothing that I could accomplish in such a short space of time. In addition, I seem to be consistently trying to sidestep a mountain of "can'ts," like: I can't be bold enough to use the language, I can't relate to people, I can't adjust to life here, I can't be effective in ministry. I want to have a spirit of humility, but also one of boldness, to be willing to be daring in trying what might seem difficult and to be optimistic about my time here. Please pray especially that I will be bold in forming the relationships that are SO important here in Nigeria.
But, on the positive side, everyone I have met here at the mission so far has been great, so friendly and welcoming and excited for me and my time here. And the long-termers seem really close too, so I have high hopes for developing good relationships.
Phew, and to think I wanted this to be a "short" update to let everyone know that I had safely arrived! Please keep in mind that if you think these updates will add to your already overflowing inbox, just drop me a line to opt out. And if you know someone who would be interested in hearing about what I'm doing, feel free to pass it along.
Until next time,
Grace and Peace,
S.
My dear, dear friends,
This morning, I was awakened at 4:00 by the combined effects of jet lag and the Muslim call to prayer that was sounding across the little city of Jos. I lay in bed and listened as the quiet of the street was gradually filled with the rumble of traffic, the chatter of voices, the calls of vendors and always, always the honking of the cars that is apparently a necessity for anyone to drive anywhere without crashing.
It is my first full day in the city of Jos, tho I have been away from home for about a week, first in Charlotte for orientation with SIM, and then spending a full three days travelling to finally make it to the Challenge Apartments in the compound where I am staying. The travelling was a bit of an ordeal that I feel fortunate to have survived, but I made it at last and am savoring my first encounters with Nigeria and its people.
It is so beautiful here and I loved my extended ride from Abuja, where my plane landed, all the way up to Jos. Everywhere people are hiking along the side of the road or trying to hitch rides, women are laying out corn to try on the concrete and my very kind driver, Audu, is doing his best to dodge the potholes in the road. I feel very fortunate to be here at this time of year because rainy season is just ending, so everything is beautiful and green, but the dry season will not start until the end of November, after I am gone. The weather right now is gorgeous. The past two days have been sunny and beautiful and the high elevation keeps us nice and cool. I am already discovering that so many of the bad things I was told about Nigeria were no more than stereotypes and I hope this trip will be the beginning of a lifetime love affair with this place.
I think the most stressful things so far have been the constant feeling of sensory overload and being overwhelmed by the differences in doing life here. It's like waking up one morning and suddenly everything that is part of your daily routine is so much more difficult. Making tea, grocery shopping, and even crossing the street are challenging, so I suppose it is little surprise that I feel overwhelmed. Furthermore, everything is new, and because I am so curious I often feel like I am trying to take in everything at once. Unfortunately, "everything" usually turns out to be quite a bit! I am trying to tell myself that adjustment will come in time and to accept it as part of the experience, but it is not always easy to be patient.
The other thing that can be a burden at times is a nagging sense of inadequacy I have developed since landing. It is hard not to feel like a lesser missionary because I will only be here for two months, or to feel like there is nothing that I could accomplish in such a short space of time. In addition, I seem to be consistently trying to sidestep a mountain of "can'ts," like: I can't be bold enough to use the language, I can't relate to people, I can't adjust to life here, I can't be effective in ministry. I want to have a spirit of humility, but also one of boldness, to be willing to be daring in trying what might seem difficult and to be optimistic about my time here. Please pray especially that I will be bold in forming the relationships that are SO important here in Nigeria.
But, on the positive side, everyone I have met here at the mission so far has been great, so friendly and welcoming and excited for me and my time here. And the long-termers seem really close too, so I have high hopes for developing good relationships.
Phew, and to think I wanted this to be a "short" update to let everyone know that I had safely arrived! Please keep in mind that if you think these updates will add to your already overflowing inbox, just drop me a line to opt out. And if you know someone who would be interested in hearing about what I'm doing, feel free to pass it along.
Until next time,
Grace and Peace,
S.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
This is my letter to the world...
Dear world,
I am going to Africa. If anyone needs to find me, e-mail. And, if you pray, please pray like thunder for the next couple of days. I want to be in one piece when I get there. If I get there. I'll get there. It'll be fine. It'll be fine. Just fine. Fine.
S.
I am going to Africa. If anyone needs to find me, e-mail. And, if you pray, please pray like thunder for the next couple of days. I want to be in one piece when I get there. If I get there. I'll get there. It'll be fine. It'll be fine. Just fine. Fine.
S.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Wee Shannon's Stirring Idealism
The sunset tonight was absolutely unreal. It’s like if I had a dream, a decision to make of what a sunset should absolutely, Platonically look like, and there it was, appearing in the sky. A perfect, rosy mountain of Zion, with brilliant, apocalyptic rays shooting out from behind. And the zealous red heat of the sky god himself, showing the back side of his glory. I only saw it for a few seconds because the sun was already so low and the sky is always transitory. I had no camera to capture it with, and I’m so thankful. God forbid I should try to steal that sunset’s soul. I also found this flower with an intoxicating aroma, it was bright yellow and made up of these brassy little trumpets and I felt like we had met somewhere before. The campus of SIM has this row of rose bushes right along the side of the main building that I deeply covet. They remind me of the roses that grew in our neighborhood in Australia and of the ones that grew outside our dear old house in California. And I got spider webs in my hair, walking down by the creek. I continue to try to be fully alive to the world, wherever I find myself. And I do think it pisses God off when you walk by the color purple and don’t see it.
Today was a very full day, full of orienting type speeches and head-spinning information and too much to take in. It was a good day, though, and I ended it by walking out to where there were, inexplicably except perhaps by glacier or very expensive landscaping, these big boulders at the edge of this little copse. And I climbed up on one of the boulders and I read the Princess Bride for awhile, because of course you have the Princess Bride with you if you’re going to Nigeria for two months, and then I lay back on the boulder for a goodly long while under the oaken tree and I watched the sky through the leaves. I had this sense, finally, that I was exactly where I was supposed to be, doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing, laying on a boulder, watching the sky and breathing quietly. And I felt absolutely no fear.
Today I also learned that it is harder to climb boulders when you’re wearing a skirt. At least modestly; that’s what makes it hard.
It has been good for me to be here right now. It is good to be in a place where people do not think you are crazy for wanting to go to a “third world” country and deal with “primitive” living conditions because you want to do good in the world. They are, in fact, crazier than you are, because they want to do it for years at a time. I didn’t realize how illegitimate what I wanted to do seemed to be in the eyes of everybody until I came to a place where it was the norm. Where, in fact, I am not radical, but just a short-termer, a person of lesser commitment than many. This is good in my life, I need to go to more places where I am the least radical person. That would be very refreshing, but it mean that I would have to spend a lot of time in places that are a little bit strange and scary.
I have many, many more thoughts resulting from today’s reflection, but tonight I will give only one more. Not that it is getting late, it is tragically only about 10:30. But through some bizarre combination of Jet Lag Lite and not getting enough sleep last night through being silly, I am already very tired. So: the thing that I have already discovered about this particular group of people is that they seem to share a passionate belief that the world is very screwed up and very dark, and the only way things are going to improve is through people hearing the gospel.
At first pass, this seems almost incendiary. What, the people are starving and sick and the governments are corrupt, and you say give them Jesus and everything will get better? You jerks! But, perhaps even more curiously, I find myself in agreement with this strange belief. I guess it all depends on what you mean when you say “give them Jesus.” I guess if the goal were to simple present the ABC’s of salvation and get people to say their majick evangelical Jesus prayer and win their ticket to heaven and then pack up and go home, white man, this would be an extremely incendiary thing to say. I do believe I would start throwing things around the room, and I would not be at all comfortable with going to the mini-mart with such folk, let alone all the way to Africa.
But I think, I hope, I believe that they mean much more than what I have outlined above when they talk about bringing “the gospel.” I will share with you what I comprehend in this term, and we can all hope and pray that they have the same sorts of things in mind. The gospel isn’t just the gospel as we have so often presented it: accept some legal fiction that you’ve paid for all the bad stuff you’ve done because somebody else paid for it and then wait till swing-low-sweet-chariot to hit paydirt. (I suppose I should not be so flippant about atonement. It has been way over emphasized, but it’s not like atonement isn’t important. I think I can denigrate it because I don’t think I quite understand or appreciate atonement. Someday I will and then I will repent of such flippant speeches.) When I talk about sharing the gospel, I mean drawing people into the kingdom of God. It is a curious place, this kingdom, and it is the place we are called to try and be building as Christians. It is a kingdom in which everyone is striving to behave and think and believe and want and love in the same way as the king as much as they possibly can. And that ought to change things, not just in the ways that people talk and think, but in the way they live. Husbands who follow the king will not go to the cities and be unfaithful, contract AIDS and come home and spread it to their wives. Governments who follow the king will not act in corrupt and violent ways. They will not persecute minority people groups and with hold food from their people. In the kingdom, children will not grow up not knowing their parents and feeling worthless. Young people who follow the king will not rebel and refuse to follow the traditional ways of their elders and drift into lives of dissipation, drugs, and alcohol. Genocide and chasms of class difference will no longer exist. People will not be put in prison because of their political views or killed because of their religion.
This is, obviously, extremely simplistic, and I don’t really think that this kind of utopian achievement will happen this side of the apocalypse. Working towards the kingdom is complicated and difficult and frustrating for pretty much every one involved. But that doesn’t mean that it isn’t worth the pursuit. Africa needs to be moving closer to what I have described, and not much else seems to be helping this battered continent to get there. Someone made the very observant point that money is obviously not the answer because a number of nations have been pouring money into Africa for at least a couple of decades and problems do not seem to have improved greatly. And let me say this, if I did not believe that this scenario was not the eventual outworking of the message of Jesus, that the purpose of the gospel was not holistic life change, that Jesus was not the wisest person who ever lived and taught a way of life that was simply for the sake of moral purity, not for the fulfillment and restoration of everything that a human was meant to be, body, mind, and spirit, then I would be looking for something else to follow.
Instead I’m spending two months serving the gospel in Nigeria. You do the math.
Oh, and if you think I’m full of crap, you can always check back here in two months to see if my resolves and outlook have been shattered. I expect they will have been. Several times. But they have this way of coming back together...
Today was a very full day, full of orienting type speeches and head-spinning information and too much to take in. It was a good day, though, and I ended it by walking out to where there were, inexplicably except perhaps by glacier or very expensive landscaping, these big boulders at the edge of this little copse. And I climbed up on one of the boulders and I read the Princess Bride for awhile, because of course you have the Princess Bride with you if you’re going to Nigeria for two months, and then I lay back on the boulder for a goodly long while under the oaken tree and I watched the sky through the leaves. I had this sense, finally, that I was exactly where I was supposed to be, doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing, laying on a boulder, watching the sky and breathing quietly. And I felt absolutely no fear.
Today I also learned that it is harder to climb boulders when you’re wearing a skirt. At least modestly; that’s what makes it hard.
It has been good for me to be here right now. It is good to be in a place where people do not think you are crazy for wanting to go to a “third world” country and deal with “primitive” living conditions because you want to do good in the world. They are, in fact, crazier than you are, because they want to do it for years at a time. I didn’t realize how illegitimate what I wanted to do seemed to be in the eyes of everybody until I came to a place where it was the norm. Where, in fact, I am not radical, but just a short-termer, a person of lesser commitment than many. This is good in my life, I need to go to more places where I am the least radical person. That would be very refreshing, but it mean that I would have to spend a lot of time in places that are a little bit strange and scary.
I have many, many more thoughts resulting from today’s reflection, but tonight I will give only one more. Not that it is getting late, it is tragically only about 10:30. But through some bizarre combination of Jet Lag Lite and not getting enough sleep last night through being silly, I am already very tired. So: the thing that I have already discovered about this particular group of people is that they seem to share a passionate belief that the world is very screwed up and very dark, and the only way things are going to improve is through people hearing the gospel.
At first pass, this seems almost incendiary. What, the people are starving and sick and the governments are corrupt, and you say give them Jesus and everything will get better? You jerks! But, perhaps even more curiously, I find myself in agreement with this strange belief. I guess it all depends on what you mean when you say “give them Jesus.” I guess if the goal were to simple present the ABC’s of salvation and get people to say their majick evangelical Jesus prayer and win their ticket to heaven and then pack up and go home, white man, this would be an extremely incendiary thing to say. I do believe I would start throwing things around the room, and I would not be at all comfortable with going to the mini-mart with such folk, let alone all the way to Africa.
But I think, I hope, I believe that they mean much more than what I have outlined above when they talk about bringing “the gospel.” I will share with you what I comprehend in this term, and we can all hope and pray that they have the same sorts of things in mind. The gospel isn’t just the gospel as we have so often presented it: accept some legal fiction that you’ve paid for all the bad stuff you’ve done because somebody else paid for it and then wait till swing-low-sweet-chariot to hit paydirt. (I suppose I should not be so flippant about atonement. It has been way over emphasized, but it’s not like atonement isn’t important. I think I can denigrate it because I don’t think I quite understand or appreciate atonement. Someday I will and then I will repent of such flippant speeches.) When I talk about sharing the gospel, I mean drawing people into the kingdom of God. It is a curious place, this kingdom, and it is the place we are called to try and be building as Christians. It is a kingdom in which everyone is striving to behave and think and believe and want and love in the same way as the king as much as they possibly can. And that ought to change things, not just in the ways that people talk and think, but in the way they live. Husbands who follow the king will not go to the cities and be unfaithful, contract AIDS and come home and spread it to their wives. Governments who follow the king will not act in corrupt and violent ways. They will not persecute minority people groups and with hold food from their people. In the kingdom, children will not grow up not knowing their parents and feeling worthless. Young people who follow the king will not rebel and refuse to follow the traditional ways of their elders and drift into lives of dissipation, drugs, and alcohol. Genocide and chasms of class difference will no longer exist. People will not be put in prison because of their political views or killed because of their religion.
This is, obviously, extremely simplistic, and I don’t really think that this kind of utopian achievement will happen this side of the apocalypse. Working towards the kingdom is complicated and difficult and frustrating for pretty much every one involved. But that doesn’t mean that it isn’t worth the pursuit. Africa needs to be moving closer to what I have described, and not much else seems to be helping this battered continent to get there. Someone made the very observant point that money is obviously not the answer because a number of nations have been pouring money into Africa for at least a couple of decades and problems do not seem to have improved greatly. And let me say this, if I did not believe that this scenario was not the eventual outworking of the message of Jesus, that the purpose of the gospel was not holistic life change, that Jesus was not the wisest person who ever lived and taught a way of life that was simply for the sake of moral purity, not for the fulfillment and restoration of everything that a human was meant to be, body, mind, and spirit, then I would be looking for something else to follow.
Instead I’m spending two months serving the gospel in Nigeria. You do the math.
Oh, and if you think I’m full of crap, you can always check back here in two months to see if my resolves and outlook have been shattered. I expect they will have been. Several times. But they have this way of coming back together...
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Arrived!...Well, sort of.
I'm here!!! No, no, not here in Nigeria, here in Charlotte. What? You didn't think they were just going to toss me out into the wilds of Africa without even a word of advice, did you? No, no, I am here until the 10th being oriented. Actually, from the sound of it, I'll just be oriented for one day, and then have 2 days to hang out, and then leave for Africa. Which means that it would be a truly superb thing if I could get my wireless connection to work. I suppose that I ought to be grateful that I can get any kind of internet at all, but it is so maddening to know that the wireless network is there, right there, at my veritable fingertips, and my stupid *%#$ computer won't connect to it! It would also be a lot less frustrating if this didn't happen to my stupid computer every time I try to set up a new wireless network that it would feel this incredible need to freak out and drag the entire computer down with it. Ugh. Jeff, why are you not perpetually on call? Probably because other people do not exist for the service of me.
So, today was overall a good day. This morning, although I am a seasoned flyer, I did have another first, parking at a park-n'-ride-type-leave-your-car-and-come-get-when-you-get-back-I-can't-remember-the-name type place. That, however, was basically uneventful. Actually the whole flying experience was pretty uneventful, which in itself is an event nowadays. Then I made it Charlotte and got picked up and headed over to the SIM campus, which is in fact a campus, which is larger than I was expecting. Then I no sooner dropped off my luggage than it was time for my first meeting, which was like more of a devotional time than a meeting, thinking about missions and why missions and what God's purposes for missions might be. Then we went out to dinner at this great Ethiopian restaurant where we got this flat bread stuff that we got to use to eat with our fingers. And we had beef and lamb and chicken and it was cool because the SIM people know the owners and so after the meal the owner's wife came out and chatted with us and we talked about religious persecution in Eritrea and that was cool too. So that was day one and I guess just as much as I wanted to tell you about my day, I also wanted to let everyone know that you can still more or less get ahold of me and that this will not be the last time you hear from me. In fact, I may still be able to continue posting while in Africa, which would be sweet. And also, if you had expected a personal type letter from me for a reasonable reason, there is yet time for me to write it before I head off. If you did expect one, you might want to drop me a line and let me know, because you might not be one of the people I have in mind.
And now, as my batteries are running out (both physically and technologically) and my eyes are doing fuzzy things and rolling around in my head, so I need to go to bed. O yes, I do.
Yours gratefully,
S.
So, today was overall a good day. This morning, although I am a seasoned flyer, I did have another first, parking at a park-n'-ride-type-leave-your-car-and-come-get-when-you-get-back-I-can't-remember-the-name type place. That, however, was basically uneventful. Actually the whole flying experience was pretty uneventful, which in itself is an event nowadays. Then I made it Charlotte and got picked up and headed over to the SIM campus, which is in fact a campus, which is larger than I was expecting. Then I no sooner dropped off my luggage than it was time for my first meeting, which was like more of a devotional time than a meeting, thinking about missions and why missions and what God's purposes for missions might be. Then we went out to dinner at this great Ethiopian restaurant where we got this flat bread stuff that we got to use to eat with our fingers. And we had beef and lamb and chicken and it was cool because the SIM people know the owners and so after the meal the owner's wife came out and chatted with us and we talked about religious persecution in Eritrea and that was cool too. So that was day one and I guess just as much as I wanted to tell you about my day, I also wanted to let everyone know that you can still more or less get ahold of me and that this will not be the last time you hear from me. In fact, I may still be able to continue posting while in Africa, which would be sweet. And also, if you had expected a personal type letter from me for a reasonable reason, there is yet time for me to write it before I head off. If you did expect one, you might want to drop me a line and let me know, because you might not be one of the people I have in mind.
And now, as my batteries are running out (both physically and technologically) and my eyes are doing fuzzy things and rolling around in my head, so I need to go to bed. O yes, I do.
Yours gratefully,
S.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Waffles tomorrow?
Now I am ready for Africa. It didn't take much to get me to the zen state of perfect preparedness. I was at a used bookstore today and I bought four new books to take with me. I am excited. If nothing else good happens, I will have good thing to read. They are as follows:
Rabbit, Run: John Updike
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings: Maya Angelou
Watership Down: Richard Adams
Cat's Cradle: Kurt Vonnegut (this one was for you, Hope)
Seriously, I can't shake the feeling that there are many, many things left for me to do, but I don't think there actually are any. I seem to have everything I need. Right about now, I would really like to just go. Stop all this waiting around and just go.
Speaking of going, I really can't write anymore tonight because I have to go all the way out to where my car's parked on the street to get my book and read the last chapter of Harry Potter book...and I'm not even sure if I can make that.
S.
Rabbit, Run: John Updike
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings: Maya Angelou
Watership Down: Richard Adams
Cat's Cradle: Kurt Vonnegut (this one was for you, Hope)
Seriously, I can't shake the feeling that there are many, many things left for me to do, but I don't think there actually are any. I seem to have everything I need. Right about now, I would really like to just go. Stop all this waiting around and just go.
Speaking of going, I really can't write anymore tonight because I have to go all the way out to where my car's parked on the street to get my book and read the last chapter of Harry Potter book...and I'm not even sure if I can make that.
S.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
O M G
I have all of my support money.
I am leaving for Charlotte on September 6. That's 8 days from now. I am leaving for Nigeria on September 10. For two months.
How is she going to manage this, you wonder? I have no idea. I don't even know yet what I'm packing, let alone have it anywhere near a suitcase. Advice, anyone? Please!?!?! I just happened to realize that I have no idea what I'm doing. I don't...okay, whatever. I'm doing this, it's gonna happen. Might as well just fasten the safety belt and go. Okay, no, this is fine. We can do this.
Right?
I am leaving for Charlotte on September 6. That's 8 days from now. I am leaving for Nigeria on September 10. For two months.
How is she going to manage this, you wonder? I have no idea. I don't even know yet what I'm packing, let alone have it anywhere near a suitcase. Advice, anyone? Please!?!?! I just happened to realize that I have no idea what I'm doing. I don't...okay, whatever. I'm doing this, it's gonna happen. Might as well just fasten the safety belt and go. Okay, no, this is fine. We can do this.
Right?
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Oh yeah...
I realized recently that I never really concluded the story of my support raising financial woes. I think, ironically enough, I am going to be okay. I recently got an e-mail saying my administrators had calculated the cost of my domestic travel twice, so there's that much less that I needed, as well as the money I've already paid out of pocket for vaccinations. I think I'm going to be okay. I don't have to write a follow-up support letter, thank God. I might even be leaving on time. Communications bogged down again somewhat due to jury duty and other adventures at the end of last week, but, yes. I think it's going to be okay.
I have to laugh at myself. Life seems big and scary until things start to fall into place, and even then you're terrified thinking, "Dear God, I'm so far gone that I've deluded myself into thinking things are going to be okay so easily. I need some Robitussin and a long nap." But you don't need either Robitussin or the long nap, you just need to take a few deep breaths and believe in the goodness of God, which leads very naturally into the goodness of life. Will this sustain me in the long haul? I have no freakin' idea. I surely, surely hope so, though. But for now. All I have is today to think of. And possibly tomorrow. And the next day, if I'm feeling ambitious.
Also, I bought many books of a theological nature today. I was quite, quite giddy. I felt more woozy than I did after last night's Merlot. Books go straight to my head.
But the real reason that all financial woes are behind me: My check from serving jury duty came today. I shall never go hungry again! That's right, people. Six big ones. Six, count em, six portraits of the original President George. Try not to turn green with envy. My dollar bills will already have that covered.
Sweet,
S.
I have to laugh at myself. Life seems big and scary until things start to fall into place, and even then you're terrified thinking, "Dear God, I'm so far gone that I've deluded myself into thinking things are going to be okay so easily. I need some Robitussin and a long nap." But you don't need either Robitussin or the long nap, you just need to take a few deep breaths and believe in the goodness of God, which leads very naturally into the goodness of life. Will this sustain me in the long haul? I have no freakin' idea. I surely, surely hope so, though. But for now. All I have is today to think of. And possibly tomorrow. And the next day, if I'm feeling ambitious.
Also, I bought many books of a theological nature today. I was quite, quite giddy. I felt more woozy than I did after last night's Merlot. Books go straight to my head.
But the real reason that all financial woes are behind me: My check from serving jury duty came today. I shall never go hungry again! That's right, people. Six big ones. Six, count em, six portraits of the original President George. Try not to turn green with envy. My dollar bills will already have that covered.
Sweet,
S.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Life Lately
So, it has been a while since I have posted. Quite a while. Many things have happened. They are as follows:
1.) Many people have all of a sudden started trying to get in touch with me. I think it is because the time of my departure is drawing nigh.
2.) God has been talking to me again. This is a good thing.
3.) I have gone to Kansas and back, crossing four states and spending six days abroad, so to speak, visiting friends.
4.) I am about halfway through the fifth Harry Potter book.
5.) I have served my first round of jury duty.
All of this is very exciting, and I hardly know where to begin talking. There is more to say than can be held in one little post. I, it must be said, am in a much better frame of mind these days than I have been for most of the summer. My trip to Kansas City was so, so good. I think even just the change of scenery and perhaps, ahem, company, might have had something to do with this. I think I am coming to discover that I am a person who thrives on change. Change and conversation. It was really, really good to have actual, tangible real-life people who were willing to listen to me chatter and whinge and laugh and philosophize and say all of the true things I can say when my spirit is uncaged. That was glorious. I didn't realize how little I had laughed this summer until I got back in the habit. Also, fajitas and also impressionism and also tea and also dancing. O yes. I have so much hope for the future right now. It will be good someday. I will always believe this and I will work to make it so until I drop. I will not always be alone.
Also, jury duty. Everybody kind of gave me to expect that the whole experience would be generally purgatorial. It was so not the case. First of all, I found out about the most amazing Kuykendahl park and ride where you take about a 20 minute ride to Kuykendahl Rd. and then park and take a bus downtown and the whole thing takes about an hour. That is a remarkably short time for the morning rush downtown. And it only costs three dollars, tho it was free for me because of the jury duty. Then I just got to sit around for half the morning reading Harry Potter, answer some questions to a lawyer, then I was dismissed and sent home. The trial itself sounded really interesting, and, though I was really nervous about the possibility of getting picked and screwing over someone's life by making a bad decision, I would have been able to maintain interest in the case, at least I think so. So really, I don't know what everyone's complaining about. I mean, finding out some Houston public transport that's actually functional alone was worth the trip and I can't wait to take the bus back downtown and do some more exploring when I'm wearing less painful shoes. I always thought downtown Houston was kind of a dud place, but maybe that's because I've never gone through it on foot.
That's all I have to say about such things as have been happening. Well, not really, I have a lot more to say, but I have been so tired lately and Harry Potter is calling before bed...
G'night,
S.
1.) Many people have all of a sudden started trying to get in touch with me. I think it is because the time of my departure is drawing nigh.
2.) God has been talking to me again. This is a good thing.
3.) I have gone to Kansas and back, crossing four states and spending six days abroad, so to speak, visiting friends.
4.) I am about halfway through the fifth Harry Potter book.
5.) I have served my first round of jury duty.
All of this is very exciting, and I hardly know where to begin talking. There is more to say than can be held in one little post. I, it must be said, am in a much better frame of mind these days than I have been for most of the summer. My trip to Kansas City was so, so good. I think even just the change of scenery and perhaps, ahem, company, might have had something to do with this. I think I am coming to discover that I am a person who thrives on change. Change and conversation. It was really, really good to have actual, tangible real-life people who were willing to listen to me chatter and whinge and laugh and philosophize and say all of the true things I can say when my spirit is uncaged. That was glorious. I didn't realize how little I had laughed this summer until I got back in the habit. Also, fajitas and also impressionism and also tea and also dancing. O yes. I have so much hope for the future right now. It will be good someday. I will always believe this and I will work to make it so until I drop. I will not always be alone.
Also, jury duty. Everybody kind of gave me to expect that the whole experience would be generally purgatorial. It was so not the case. First of all, I found out about the most amazing Kuykendahl park and ride where you take about a 20 minute ride to Kuykendahl Rd. and then park and take a bus downtown and the whole thing takes about an hour. That is a remarkably short time for the morning rush downtown. And it only costs three dollars, tho it was free for me because of the jury duty. Then I just got to sit around for half the morning reading Harry Potter, answer some questions to a lawyer, then I was dismissed and sent home. The trial itself sounded really interesting, and, though I was really nervous about the possibility of getting picked and screwing over someone's life by making a bad decision, I would have been able to maintain interest in the case, at least I think so. So really, I don't know what everyone's complaining about. I mean, finding out some Houston public transport that's actually functional alone was worth the trip and I can't wait to take the bus back downtown and do some more exploring when I'm wearing less painful shoes. I always thought downtown Houston was kind of a dud place, but maybe that's because I've never gone through it on foot.
That's all I have to say about such things as have been happening. Well, not really, I have a lot more to say, but I have been so tired lately and Harry Potter is calling before bed...
G'night,
S.
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