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.