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…