Greener grass

It's interesting how time manipulates the mind. For the most part, I'm in favor of this. The days after my beloved dog Clyde died, I thought the world was cruel for going on. How could it ignore the passing of such a sweet creature? One that had selflessly seen me through the rigors of middle school, the angst of high school, and the loneliness of undergrad! I hated the world for that. But time passed and now, years later, I barely smart at Clyde's memory. It's sweet, but it's not painful anymore.

Snuggly Clyde just a few months before he died.

The healing time brings is a gift, but it's passage does one thing I do not appreciate. As I flip flop from living in PNG to living in the US, I only remember the wonderful things about the place I'm not currently living. It's "the grass is greener" effect and it drives me batty. A few months ago I hit my wall. I was ready to go back to PNG and ever since it's been hard to be here. I'm thoroughly enjoying time with family, but my life is there and it's perfect there... right? I mean, I only remember it being amazing! Then I start to think...

When we go back, cooking will become a challenge again. We never know what staple is going to suddenly go missing from the country. It could be oats. Or it could be sugar. Or it could be flour. Not that any of these are necessities, but I do like a good oatmeal cookie. 

When I use flour (which is fairly often) I choose to sift. Many missionaries will scoff at me for this, but if I can get rid of bugs, I'll do it. I haven't sifted a bag of Flame Flour yet that hasn't had some wriggly worms or black boll weevils in it. Wriggly as in "still alive." Gross. Again, this is a time-consuming and frustrating process that I choose to put on myself. However, it is really nice to be in the States where I can both choose to not sift and know that my flour is relatively protein-free.

When we return, I'm going to sweat in places I forgot existed... in the middle of the night. It's hard to remember what it's like to sit in sweltering heat 24/7 when you're enjoying the wonders of temperature controlled housing. I do remember sitting and staring at Brian while we wallowed in our shared misery on a Saturday afternoon, but it's such a distant memory. I have to really think hard and, even then, surely it wasn't as bad as all that!

When I go to do laundry that first time, it's going to hurt. There's just something about being able to do your laundry whenever you want to, day or night. Doing load after load of diapers in our quasi-outdoor washing machine and then hanging them on the line, hoping for sun, is going to wear on me. 

Let's keep on the theme of machines: the dishwasher. I do remember nights where the cares of the day and the heat of the night combined to create combustible stand-offs between Brian and myself. Only one could stand at the sink, so who would it be? Sometimes we were gracious and volunteered…. and sometimes not so much. 

I could easily continue this list and do the same of living stateside. There are lots of hard things about being here that I totally forget about once I'm in PNG grunting through the incomplete list above. And in reality, it's not time manipulating me, but one of those fallen humanity things that causes the "grass is greener" effect. Living with a foot in two worlds is hard, but it gives me the opportunity to embrace an attitude of being discontent or embrace an attitude of acceptance. I wish I always took the easy road and chose to gracefully accept what God has put directly ahead of me, but alas. I'm Hannah and will always battle Hannah. Fortunately for me, His grace is greater.  

Finding my way

Sometimes I wonder if I missed my calling in life. What was I really supposed to be when I grew up? A writer? A dog trainer? Working my way through the ranks of a therapeutic horseback riding stable? A teacher (eek!)? If I opened the door of unchosen professions wider, we'd start seeing wisps of Hannah on exotic archaeological digs, or Hannah as a stodgy old museum curator wandering dusty halls, or Hannah the college professor publishing historical papers as a hobby (I particularly like her stylish yet professional glasses). 

I talked myself out of every single one of those occupations, mostly because I didn't think I could cut it. I couldn't cut it, and about a million other more qualified, passionate, brilliant people were doing the same thing. So why should I even try? It's a horrible way to go through life and I almost missed out on one of the most fulfilling jobs I could have encountered by being that way. The first time I went to PNG I met (and secretly longed to be) the PNG survey team. They were all gifted, intelligent, and doing something that certainly qualified as the perfect job, in my estimation. They were writers completing reports after each survey that detailed the people group they visited. This involved analyzing lots of language data, but it also involved simply sharing about the people and their history. They were museum curators, occasionally collecting data on dying languages and archiving the data for future generations. They were a strange new breed of researcher that embodied my admittedly faulty view of a high-level archeologist, traveling from remote location to remote location discovering hidden bits of the world. They were teachers, using their skills during furlough to raise up new surveyors. They were not dog trainers or stable managers, but I could forgive that because I imagined these superpeople took up such activities as hobbies. They were language surveyors and what they did was an inviting mystery to me. But there was no way I could do it.

I'll never forget the day I was bouncing along the Highlands Highway after a weekend trip to a coastal town. We were heading back to Ukarumpa after a delightful time away, stuffed into a small van. I was sitting in the very back between two single people just beginning to learn of their attraction to one another. It was fun to people-watch their interactions as they danced around touchy topics, but I also rather wished they had just sat next to one another instead of talking over my lap. Directly in front of me was the head of the survey team. He asked how teaching was going and various other distracting questions about my history. He then asked about my long-term plans and whether PNG was included in them. I thought rapidly about talking to him of my interest in survey, but I was scared he would make it clear that my kind wasn't welcome in survey (I can have some pretty crazy thinking occasionally... just occasionally). Of course he didn't say I was too dull a crayon for survey, or even remotely indicate the idea was meritless. Instead, he asked for some details of my plan and then nonchalantly stated that it was sound.  

Here we were using a visual tool to ask people what langauges they use in various church activities.

The unlooked for encouragement was all I needed to push me over the edge. His casual response to what I'd been thinking about for weeks is what finally started the snowball that landed me back in PNG doing my dream job. I've found something else now that's even more delightful and fulfilling, but I plan to always be part of the survey process in PNG with Brian. Ray is certainly a consuming boss, but when we get back we'll work out a balance between my new life as Mom and my old life as surveyor. And when those wondering thoughts enter my head, I'll just look at the little girl and remember the path that, by God's grace, brought Brian and her into my life. Nope, self, you didn't miss your calling. 

Oh, Wilma

When we first met her, Wilma was a spunky 3 year-old fully representative of the Papua New Guinean ideal of a toddler. She sassed everything, whether animate or inanimate. She took what she wanted and did what she wanted. She never accepted "no" as the final answer. If "no" became the final answer, she ignored the adults and forged ahead with her plans. Everyone in the village knew where Wilma was located at any time, because not even the jungle could squelch her enthusiasm. I watched her epic meltdowns and displays of domestic dominance in horror, never sure how to react.

Raising children is one of those cultural things I erroneously viewed as universal. I used to believe that there are certain behaviors no one could possibly tolerate, no matter how your life experiences have shaped you. After experiencing Wilma (because she is an experience), I realized that my preconceptions about universal parenting are false and based on my cultural lens. Though we all have vastly different levels of acceptable behavior for children, our culture defines the parameters for those levels. So when I witnessed PNG's base level of acceptable behavior through the community's reaction to Wilma, I was taken back.

Not only were her dramatic tantrums and misdeeds accepted, they were encouraged. In PNG many groups believe that up to a certain age children have no ability to see outside of themselves. They are selfish beings concerned only with their own wants and needs without the capability of seeing the needs of those around them. It varies, but this stage of life can last until a child is 5 or 6 years old. All the tantrums and disobedience are annoying, but ultimately encouraged as a primal display of strength. That child, the one who yells the loudest and disobeys the fiercest, will make a wonderful adult if handled right in the intermediate years. 

Once a child reaches the age where they are expected to give back to the society that put up with them, a flip is switched. There is very little tolerance for their bad behavior and selfish tendencies. It's hard to watch interactions between adults and the children going through this shift. It's harsh and, again, grating to my American senses. Wilma is currently undergoing an assault to her reign of terrible twos-threes-fours-etc. on two fronts: she has a younger sibling and she has reached "that" age range. The baby is now given rights to unfettered selfishness while Wilma is expected to take responsibility for that baby, since she is deemed old enough. Talk about insult and injury. However, each time we visit Wilma and her family in the village, we see her grow and change. She isn't always happy about giving up her throne to the baby, but she clearly loves this new role of caretaker. 

When I started to learn about parenting the PNG way, I pulled the insensitive West-is-best card (yep, I unfortunately still have that tucked away in my brain) and allowed myself to judge it as, well, wrong. But then I looked at Wilma's older siblings and realized that they are all well-adjusted, responsible, and much more hardworking than I was at their age. There are some major problems with domestic life in PNG, just like there are major problems with domestic life in the US. It's the state of humanity apart from God as sin permeates every aspect of our lives. I fervently pray that my parenting of Ray will not be the PNG way or the way of the West, but instead guided by Biblical directives. In the meantime, I continue to learn about stretching my cultural self through our interactions with Wilma and her older, more level-headed siblings. It'll be interesting to watch her grow into her own as I continue to grow into my own.

A boy named Sue

Ray Evangeline. It's a name that people either love or hate. We have yet to meet friend or stranger that is capable of hiding their reaction to it. You'll deal with this your whole life; we totally recognize that and accept responsibility for it. So here's why we did it, my girl.

You were good news. Nope... you were great news. We found out just a month before you entered our lives as a tiny embryo that we had between a 1 and 3 percent chance of getting pregnant. Our doctor talked us through godly grieving and implored us not to target one another in the bitterness that sadness can sometimes breed. I was too shocked to have proper time to be sad before God gave us you. From my perspective, your dad was very sad. You'll have to ask him for a more accurate representation of his reaction to the news when you're curious. Regardless of how either of us felt during that month of processing, we were overjoyed (and a little stunned) when God made your presence known. Besides being a lovely name, Evangeline became a natural fit for you because you were our good news.

Ray is a boy's name. Got it. We obviously knew that when we chose it, but we honestly didn't think it would be as difficult for people as it has been. "Rae" has become more common for a girl, so we figured all would be well despite the boy spelling. We also thought that by growing up in PNG, you wouldn't have to deal with the stigma of it being a boy's name. We've never encountered a Papua New Guinean man named Ray. Lots of Johns, Thomases, Stevens, and Andrews, but no Rays. Your dad just finished some work "in the bush" and showed lots of Papua New Guineans pictures of you. They loved you. They were also confused as to why we would give our little girl a boy's name. Hmmmm... oops.

But I'm not going to apologize to you for the explanations you will constantly be required to give. As you grow into the beautiful woman of God I know you'll be, I hope you'll understand the significance of your name and love having opportunities to explain it. Your grandmother called me her ray of sunshine my whole life, which she shortened to Ray. So you're getting "my" name. I'll be the first to tell you that I was only a ray of sunshine occasionally. I was a serious child often being admonished to be happy or to smile or to stop looking so mean. I didn't intend to communicate tenseness, it was just that my default facial expression was, quite unfortunately, very serious. You, on the other hand, are a naturally happy child. You laugh often and smile almost unceasingly. Where people commented over and over again that I should be happier, they comment over and over again on your gentle demeanor and friendly face. "Does she ever cry???" they ask. Of course you do, but never without a valid reason. I held my smiles close and you pass them out like candy. You truly are your name.

Beyond that, your dad and I desperately want you to be a ray of God's light in a very dark world. Go ahead and grimace at the cheesiness of that statement, but that's the best way I know to say it. We want you to grow to know and love Him to the point that it overflows into the lives of those around you. It's a hard place you've been born into; not a day goes by that I don't hear or read something that makes me sad (and scared) for you. But I also have full faith that God can give you the ability to embrace your name and shine for Him. 

So I'm not sorry we gave you a boy's name. Live up to it and remember whose kid you are every time you have to explain why you're a girl named Ray. 

Brian was thrilled to find some BBQ sauce with Baby Ray's name!

Cultural hang-ups

Traditional clothing seen on the Rai Coast

It's interesting to me how the western world feels the need to put clothes on naked village children. We have this mindset that all children need to wear clothes because that's obviously appropriate; naked children running around in the world makes us feel sad and is kind of offensive (though we may not admit the latter as a motivator for sending warm clothes to equatorial countries). The same goes for what clothes adults wear and how they wear them. Men wear pants and women wear items that cover all the blush-worthy areas, as we define them. We value clothing and tend to barrel ahead with our "right" views instead of learning about what constitutes modesty for others.

I first started thinking about this when I saw how western clothing translates in a PNG village setting. I stayed with a family on the north coast for five weeks in 2007. They had two sons and two daughters, all of whom stayed more or less fully clothed. The mother and father stayed fully clothed, most of the rest of the villagers stayed fully clothed, and all was right in my world. Then one day I popped over to the family's house unannounced to ask a question about the meal that night. The area of their home designated for cooking was partially concealed, but open enough to invite visitors. Anyone walking by could see in. As I strolled up and called out to the mother, I heard all manner of scrambling. When she peeked her head around I could tell she was throwing on her shirt and was rather embarrassed. I was confused because being topless in PNG is not uncommon, especially for a mother. Why would she be embarrassed? 

After that I started noticing things. I noticed that all the boys in the village wore shorts, even though most of those shorts had a worn out bottom. I noticed the women wearing shirts around me. I noticed the women not wearing shirts in situations where I was not expected to be. I noticed children being dressed in the morning by their parents and then promptly undressing as soon as their parents went to the garden. Overall I noticed that people were trying to communicate that they, too, were respectable by some vague definition of the word they thought I had. I then noticed as time went by that the overtly western cultural rules began to slide and the shirts (gasp!) stayed off.

Based on several articles published about PNG, and general discussions I've had with people about life there, it's obvious that many believe PNG is uncivilized. They base their judgements on what they think a civilized culture should be, and that picture does not include naked children or topless mothers. This mindset over the years, and the cultural hang-ups early missionaries overlaid onto their message, created a legalistic church culture where people are wearing things because that's what it means to be a Christian. It has created profound confusion about what is right and what is wrong. On surveys, I've had many conversations where people expressed their frustration at contradicting rules missionary's have brought or how missionaries have "changed their mind" about what's right and wrong. It's so easy to believe the things we're teaching aren't culturally motivated, but so many of them are. Even something as basic in our minds as what defines modesty. Some things just aren't so black and white as I grew up believing.

PNG is rapidly changing. Part of the change includes the view of clothing and what certain outfits communicate. Regardless of the outcome, I have learned to examine carefully what standards I'm holding up to others. The conversations I've had with confused and frustrated Papua New Guineans over early Christian teachings that emphasized a "do this, don't do that" list based on western cultural norms has further verified in my mind the importance of Bible translation. A major reason they are frustrated is because they haven't been able to test teachings against Scripture, so they are at the mercy of the western whim. And that is not always a nice whim to be at the mercy of.

What defines a home

Before we arrived home for our first furlough earlier this year, I knew the Achilles' heel I would face in the US. I started praying about it well before landing in San Francisco, but it's hard. I'm a nester and I strongly desire a house in which I can nest. The arrival of our bundle of bouncing happiness has only strengthened my nesting urges and I've had no way of fulfilling that urge. It's natural and not in itself wrong, but that one desire sometimes overwhelms me with a mixture of sadness and frustration at the life I'm leading; the one with the home ownership box not checked. 

We lived in six different places the two years that we spent in PNG and each place was, in a sense, full of other people. Bits of their lives and memories were lingering through all the household items left behind. Before we left the States I knew this would be a struggle for me, but God was faithful even in this little thing. He allowed us to create homes in each place that we stayed, even in the transient flats we were assigned to. In fact, I turned nesting into a true art in PNG and Brian certainly helped with several intelligent suggestions about decor (I've intentionally barraged him with episodes of Love It or List It while we've been around television to give him an even sharper eye).

One of our six PNG "homes"

But here in the States... it's rough. All the beautiful homes friends have established for their families play into my insecurities at not moving down that path. Shouldn't we own a home by now and what's wrong with us that we haven't? Aren't we hindering Ray somehow by not putting a roof over her head that we own? 

Then, in moments of lucidity, I remember that this tension is exactly what I should be feeling. I'm discontent here in the States because we don't have a set home and I'm discontent in PNG because we don't have a set home. We live in whatever flat is available in PNG and here we've lived (or stayed for a short time) in a dozen homes. I'm not supposed to feel content here on this earth and at this point in time I know that if I owned a home I would be much too content. I would find security in a structure rather than God. I would focus on my life here rather than life eternal. 

It's still my Achilles' heel, but I'm happy to have it. Each time I feel the tug in my gut when I see a beautiful home I remember the home that matters.   

A lesson in grace from human mosquito repellent

It was setting up to be another brutally hot day when we woke up in our small bamboo house. I chose to stay on top of my sleeping bag where I was able to watch the geckos play in the roof while listening to the sounds of a Papua New Guinean village waking up. I didn’t put off climbing out of the mosquito net for the novelty of hearing pigs and chickens argue under the house or to hear the crackle of fires heating a breakfast of leftover taro or even to hear the children running through the jungle after their river baths. On other days those sounds thrilled me, but on this particular morning I was weary. I knew the day was going to tick by painfully slow just like many of the days before it, and I knew it would be full of tasks that I simply did not want to do. The newness of life in PNG had worn off. 

Deslia!

After I stretched my time on the sleeping bag (never in it) to its absolute limit, I faced the day. Brian was supposed to go on a hike with our adopted father, Steven, and I was bitter because I was expected to stay back and clean. I was sick and tired of washing pots in the creek (which takes a long time), washing our clothes in the creek (which takes an even longer time), and having women and children watch me the whole time critiquing my style. My blood was boiling as I snuck to the creek hoping to avoid the usual trail of children that followed me for their daily entertainment. I had only passed two houses and still had a goodly distance left to the creek when three girls popped onto the path and trotted along behind me chattering away. I completely ignored them and spent the rest of the walk venting to God about the whole situation. I hoped that by not responding to them, or even really looking at them, they would become bored and leave me to be alone at the creek. Instead they stayed by my side for the two and a half hours that followed. One of the girls, Deslia, told story after story after story until I thought my nerves would fray completely. Right in the middle of one of her stories she came up behind me and slapped my leg hard. I took a deep breath and kept working, but she slapped me several more times in quick succession. I looked down at her with what I thought was one of my best teacher-glares. She smiled sweetly and explained with one simple word: mosquitos.

I realized that day what an incredibly selfish person I am. I was having a bad day and felt justified to wallow in my bad mood; after all, Brian got to go spend a day gallivanting through the jungle while I had to work! At the very least I deserved time to myself to nurse my frustrations. Instead I had to listen to a group of girls twitter about everything under the sun. But despite my Jonah attitude, I went home without one single mosquito bite after standing for hours in a creek infested with the bugs. Deslia squatted on the bank next to my legs, continued to tell her stories, and kept every mosquito from getting a nip at me; she was kind and loving where I was rude and cold. God used Deslia to teach me a lesson about being gracious and I hope I never forget it.

Top 6 unexpected results of my life, Part 2

Okay, last week I started going through the top six unexpected things that have happened to me since PNG became my home. Here is the conclusion: 

3. I never thought I would regularly cook from scratch.
You can ask my college roommates what kind of a talented cook I was back in the day and they would sing my praises. While they both worked diligently (and masterfully) in the kitchen, I was assigned the very technical tasks of grating cheese or slicing tomatoes. I excelled, but not at actually cooking anything.

First attempt at homemade subway rolls!

In PNG you can get all the basic foods you need to cook from scratch, along with all the foods already made. Problem is we live on a very tight budget over there and the already-made food shipped from Asia or Australia is expensive. It’s much more economical to bake your own bread and make your own soup. So I learned and I love it. My culinary flower blossomed just a little later than my roommates’!

2. I never thought I would say yes to a marriage proposal while delusional.
My husband Brian is quick at making decisions and he rarely ever doubts himself. I’m the opposite. I agonize and procrastinate all decisions, whether it’s as simple as what to eat for dinner or as overwhelming as who I’m going to marry. I think that’s why I had malaria when Brian proposed. God knew I needed to be in an altered state of mind to make the absolute best decision I’ve ever made. Otherwise I was on a clear road to screwing the whole thing up. 

My father-in-law loves to remind my husband that I was delusional when I said yes to his proposal. I had been so careful about taking my prophylaxis, but decided to stop once I traveled up to the highlands where the malaria mosquitoes are few and far between. Six days before I was supposed to meet Brian in Australia I became very ill. It was clearly a fever but it had no other signs of being malaria, which comes and goes in waves. Not wanting to be a wimp, I kept away from the clinic and assumed I would get better shortly. Hindsight being 20/20 I now know I cycled at least three times before traveling. Malaria gets worse with each cycle, so by the time I arrived in Australia I was bad off. I had several nights of seeing monsters crawling down the bedroom walls and I was, simply put, miserable. Shortly after arriving, Brian called a taxi to take me to the emergency room. In good taste, the taxi driver commented that I looked like death and followed that up with a story about his wife’s fight with malaria that ended in a coma. Thanks for that. 

Our engagement photo... I was feeling better!

Despite the physical discomfort of that time God used the malaria to bring Brian and me back together. I was having a bit of a meltdown about how serious our relationship was getting and I thought I wasn’t ready for marriage. I was a knife’s edge away from breaking up with Brian and returning to PNG single, but we bonded that night in the emergency room. Despite the malarial cobwebs, my mind cleared and I remembered why I chose to be in a serious relationship with him; he was and is perfect for me. 

When he proposed a week later in a very simple and straightforward way, I felt God’s presence. It took me a second, but once I said yes a weight came off my shoulders and I knew that my bout with malaria may have been the best thing that’s happened to me. 

1. I never thought I would fall into a pit toilet.
Bathrooms in PNG are pit toilets found outside, far from houses. This means I will inevitably have to go to the bathroom several times throughout the night even though I can make it clean through when I’m in a house with a bathroom right there; don’t even get me started on how many times I have to go when it’s raining. It also means I have to be “on guard” for snakes, spiders, and other creepy critters. I learned the hard way that it also means I need to pay attention to the general state of the outhouse structure; is it new or is it rotting to the point of falling apart?

The inside of a fairly new PNG pit toilet.

During a survey my fellow female teammates and I would rate the pit toilets in each village we visited. The first person to go would give the toilet a 1-5 star rating. The very last village we visited had a toilet that didn’t even really rank. It was clearly old and rotting, but that’s the only place we had been advised to go. In the morning I was the first person up, so I made my way to the outhouse alone. I snuck past several houses where the people were just starting to wake up and found the dilapidated structure. I remember contemplating that I should try to think light thoughts to make myself less weighty, but I didn’t seriously consider the possibility that the floor would give. It gave.

As I climbed out of the pit toilet, I considered my life and the decisions I had made that led to that moment. It was gross and tears may have been involved (I really don’t remember as I’ve blocked the details of that morning from my mind), but in the end I wouldn’t trade my life in PNG for a life anywhere else. Not one of these six unexpected results of my life would make me want to give up and live back in the US. I believe God gives us a heart for the work He puts in front of us and though it’s not always easy and I don’t ever want to fall into a pit toilet again, He gives us the ability to thrive!

Top 6 unexpected results of my life, Part 1

When we travel around I get lots of questions about what life is like in PNG. In response, I usually give cursory descriptions of food or housing that probably don’t communicate a whole lot to the asker. I’m not trying to be rude, but I assume people are just being polite by feigning interest; I don’t want to tax them with unnecessary details. 

Before I went to PNG the first time I remember getting so frustrated at the people who had gone before me. I was curious about life there and wanting desperately to better prepare myself, but every time I had a chance to talk to a veteran missionary they seemed to not want to talk about it. Now I wonder if they were doing the same thing I do by trying to spare me the details. I wanted details! 

This post is for anyone who has received a less than impressive answer from me about what life is like in PNG. It’s still far from comprehensive, but it’s a start. I have listed out the top six things I never thought would happen to me, but have happened because of the life I chose. I’ll post three this week and three next week.

6. I never thought I would fail at laundering my clothes.

I’m a bit of a neat freak. I got that from my beautiful mother. She kept our house spotless and trained my sister and me to do the same. She didn’t limit herself to the house, though; our clothes were in a state of readiness at all times. I like to think of myself as being a fairly capable person that was given the tendency to like life clean. Those two things combined gave me the impression that I would never have trouble washing clothes. Then I went to PNG.

In town we have access to a washing machine and line dry everything. It’s normally so hot that clothes will dry very fast. I do have to add to my loading/unloading/folding routine the ability to predict the weather, but it’s doable. Out in the village it’s an entirely different story. I wash our clothes in the creek with a bar of soap called Klina. It smells delicious and I do feel quite clean when I’m done. However, there’s a method to wringing and beating clothes on rocks when you’re cleaning them in a river that I just can’t get the hang of. I got to the point where I would sneak out of our house and try to make it to the washing spot when no one was around in order to avoid embarrassing myself. The women never outright told me that I was a dirty person, but I knew they thought it. Oh, I knew.   

5. I never thought I would enjoy bathing in a creek.

Hot showers have become a luxury. As have temperature controlled rooms, mattresses, and bathrooms inside the house (more on that next week). I have bathed in small creeks, deltas, under pipes coming out of the side of a mountain, under waterfalls, and in glorified mud pits. They are all surreal and mostly beautiful. Just like washing clothes there’s a method to body washing that I haven’t perfected, but I have learned to tie rope around my soap to keep it from taking a trip down the river.

When we visit our PNG family in their village, we wash in a small creek. They’re preferred body washing method is to take a small bucket with them, sit in the water, and use the bucket to dump water over their heads. I prefer to lie back in the water so I know that every part of me is getting wet. For a good while they tried to fix my method, but I held firm to it. Now they just laugh and say I’m “sleeping in the water.” I do love a good shower, but I have come to enjoy bathing in the outdoors.

4. I never thought I would eat crocodile and sea turtle meat.

Yep. Done and done. Eating crocodile isn’t all that impressive considering many Americans enjoy a good alligator meal, but sea turtle meat? Brian tells me it was a cross between fatty dark meat chicken and pork. I swallowed one tiny bite whole, so I couldn’t really say. Being the committed carnivore in the family, I trust his ability to describe meat.

There are still a few delicacies out there that we haven’t encountered yet: sago grubs, dog, cat... to name a few. It’s very regional, so you’ll find some Papua New Guineans more than ready to eat dog while others get squeamish. I had one lady try to convince me that in order to truly learn about PNG and be like them I needed to eat cat. I told her that I would eat cat during a meal where she also ate cat. I never had to eat cat. I will trust to my wily picky-eater abilities to continue avoiding sago grubs, dogs, and cats. If that fails me, I married the committed carnivore and whatever I can’t eat I can deftly plop on his plate! 

Continued next week…

How PNG saved future teens... from me

The air was hot and sticky, just like I was used to it being during summers in the Piedmont of North Carolina. I remember being completely worn out and just a little bit terrified as I walked from the plane to the terminal. I had flown from Los Angeles to New Zealand to Australia, finally arriving in Port Moresby where I was set to spend two nights before heading to the highlands.

My trip to Papua New Guinea began just over a year before I actually arrived. During the Christmas holidays my family had some friends over for dinner that live and serve in PNG. During that meal I expressed my new desire to work overseas as a teacher. They encouraged me to look into the international school at the mission station where they work, and one thing led to another. Over the course of the next few months I graduated with a degree in education and prepared for my first teaching job in PNG. When I arrived that hot afternoon I was overwhelmed by what I was doing. In the end, I realized that my nerves weren’t from being in a foreign country as far from home as I could find on the planet. Instead, they came from the fact that I would start teaching high schoolers within a week and I didn’t want to fail.

The six months I spent teaching in PNG changed my life, but not in a short-term-missions-trip-high sort of way. While teaching at the secondary school for some of the highest functioning teenagers I’ve ever met, I realized that I hated the profession I had chosen (a feeling which, believe it or not, did not stem from the mortifying experience of falling over a concrete pylon in front of the senior gym class I was a substitute for, though that was the icing on my teaching cake). I just wasn’t meant to be a high school teacher. One morning when I woke up with the familiar dread in the pit of my stomach, I had an epiphany. I was going to become THAT teacher. You know the one. She (or he) teaches with the gusto of a limp noodle. They clearly hate life and, as a result, every student in their class is miserable. Growing up I wondered how a person became a teacher like that. Obviously they didn’t aspire to be that way, but there they are. Being miserable and making everyone else miserable. On that morning I began to realize that some teachers end up old and cranky because they ignore the moment early on when they suspect that they hate teaching. Instead of stepping away from the ill-advised career choice, they just keep going and slowly become a limp noodle teacher trying to get to retirement. That morning I decided I would not resign myself to becoming a limp noodle, and the knot in my stomach began to dissipate.

As my incredibly short-lived teaching career was vanishing, I heard all about language survey and how it fit into the Bible translation process. It sounded like the most amazing job in the world, but I was quite sure that my physical and academic abilities were not up to it (if you haven’t noticed, I tend to struggle with insecurity and a sometimes overwhelming need to not fail). Instead of succumbing to the insecurity I began to cautiously move in the direction of becoming a language surveyor for Wycliffe Bible Translators. Since then, I have been to PNG twice for extended periods as a surveyor, once single and once married, and I’m happy to have left teaching far behind.

All of the people I grew up with spent their twenties establishing their careers, getting married, buying houses, and having children. I spent my twenties getting to know myself and Papua New Guinea. During that first trip PNG got into my blood and I couldn’t shake it. I struggle daily with not having a “normal” life and not having a stable home for our baby Ray to grow up in. Then I remember that what she will miss out on here in the US will be made up for by the life experience she’ll gain by growing up in PNG. Looking back on this chaotic decade of my life wears me out and, though my anxious nerves are never far, I do look forward to what God has in store for my family as we follow His lead.