What I wanted (and got!) in a marriage partner

When I was in high school my parents were very free with us. They gave clear boundaries for our Friday and Saturday nights, and then they trusted us. Both my sister and I stayed well within those boundaries, and in doing so never gave them reason to question that trust. We didn't have a set curfew, but we were expected to call keeping them informed of our whereabouts and to wake them up when we got home to check in. It became a great source of amusement for my sister and I to swap Dad stories from the nights we woke him up. He was always in a strange stupor that only deep sleep puts on him. He would say the oddest things as we laughed with my Mom, knowing that the stranger he acted that night, the less he would remember in the morning.

One night, long after my sister moved away to college, I returned home alone. I went through the usual routine of tiptoeing into my parent's room to wave as I made my way quietly upstairs. Once settled in my own room I found I wasn't completely alone. A small, black spider had stealthily crept up on me and I panicked. I approve of squishing, I just can't do it myself. So I made my way back downstairs, heart pounding from the adrenaline of being so close to one of nature's monstrosities, and woke Dad up. Being a male minority in the house, he had learned over the years how to have a good attitude in these situations. Despite his exhaustion, the late hour, and the absurdity of my request, he dispatched the spider and went back to sleep with very little grumbling. It's possible he had perfected completing such tasks without ever truly waking up. I learned that night that in marriage I would need a squisher. Aside from being a fellow believer, it was the only "must have" on my mental quality-man-to-marry list. 

I got just that in Brian. He chases, squishes, and generally clears out all the unwanted inhabitants of our house with ease. Maybe not without grumbling, but definitely with finality. And that's all that matters to me. Sometimes I wonder how I, of all people, ended up living in a place with giant spiders and giant cockroaches and giant prehistoric insects, but God doesn't let little things like that stand in His way. He gave me Brian for that.  

Ray's room in the village.

Our various stays in Yall village this year have been strangely absent of the giant brown spiders that have plagued every village experience I've ever had here. That is, until last month. We stayed in our new house for the first time and I like the way this one is laid out. You step up into a small porch area and then up another step to walk down a "hall." At the end of the hall you can turn left or right into the two rooms. The floors are made of bamboo and the roof is dried leaves woven together. We set Ray up in one room with her travel crib under a mosquito net, all the cargo and ourselves in the other room. Since the bamboo floors allow you to hear and feel every movement from one end of the house to the other, we have full knowledge of Ray's pre-sleep flops. I had hoped that because the house was recently built the brown spiders would still be elsewhere, but unfortunately that wasn't true. 

The night before we left was the culmination of all my missed encounters with the brown spiders over the past year (after some brief research, I believe these are the common huntsman spider). Brian was about to preach at a night service in our family's hamlet just outside our house, the sky was clear and full of stars, and I was content. Happy with how well Ray adjusted to the village this time around and happy with how I was adjusting to our weekends out there with a baby. Especially since it will soon be two babies. I took Ray back to the house so she could putter around the porch while Brian preached. It would be perfect, I thought. Putter a bit, watch Dad, enjoy the shooting stars, and then quickly fall asleep. But as I walked up the few steps with her in my arms, my headlamp caught the telltale glint of spider eyes that always causes my heartrate to soar. I stopped and looked more closely, hoping it wasn't fully grown. Instead it was the largest I'd seen yet. Big, bulbous body with long hairy legs. It was right next to the diaper bag and right in the middle of the area I wanted Ray to roam. I was able to collect myself enough to slowly turn and find Brian. He wasn't preaching yet, so I grabbed him, pointed to the spider, and walked far, far away. I heard the house creaking and groaning as Brian dealt with the issue and returned again as he went back to his seat. I put Ray on the porch to piddle, no obvious sign of the spider anywhere. Brian had done his job. For a while, Ray was content to pull items out of her diaper bag, but suddenly she started fussing like she does when she's found dirt on her foot. She impersonated a flamingo trying to see what offensive substance was sticking to her skin, but I immediately knew what it was: spider goo. A puddle of it. I learned that night that it may have been beneficial to add "gut cleaner upper" to my list of must-haves along with squisher.

Gross.

Throughout the rest of that night I found three more brown spiders, varying in size and varying in distance from our sleeping bags, none as large as the first. Though they vex me exceedingly, they also make me constantly grateful to have men in my life willing to squish with minimal complaint.   

Sowing talents

I was two when my fingers first met the strings of a violin. Shortly thereafter they begrudgingly became acquainted with the keys of a piano. From that point until I was in the ninth grade those two instruments dominated my life. When I wasn't playing them, I was riding in a car to go play them or coming up with schemes to get out of playing them. Perhaps that's a bit of an overstatement as I also seem to have memories of the lake and school and pretending to be Nancy Drew with my sister, but it's primarily what we did. Who my sister and I were. So when I remember my childhood music is always at the forefront, and the memories are both good and bad.

We had lessons for each instrument once a week and on Saturday afternoons we were rehearsing for two hours with the Junior Youth Symphony Orchestra. My sister was amazing. I don't remember her ever being in second violin, always first. Eventually she became the concertmaster (first chair, first violin), but turned it down in order to participate in the higher level Youth Symphony Orchestra. I just prayed my chair partner would be someone diverting and that a can of NuGrape soda would be left in the machine when my turn came at break time.

On the other days of the week we were expected to practice each instrument for at least half an hour. The piano was downstairs and our bedrooms were upstairs. While one of us practiced the piano, the other would practice the violin upstairs in their bedroom with the door shut. One of our best schemes for getting out of practice involved borrowing a Gameboy from friends at school (our parents were never open to us having our own) and taking turns keeping "watch." The person "practicing" violin would actually play the Gameboy while the person playing the piano would keep watch. When a parent made a move to go upstairs, the piano player began banging away loudly to communicate that the Gameboy player should quickly transform into a violin player. Quite effective, really. Put two sisters together, give them a single goal, and brilliance happens. 

Though I was not a natural at violin or piano, I was at tennis. Put any kind of racquet in my hand and something clicked. It felt good and right. Put a violin bow in that same hand and the only thing that felt good and right was spearing the Suzuki music book innocently staring back at me from the music stand. In the ninth grade I finally gathered up my courage to quit. Well, to ask for permission to quit. By that time I hated music with every fiber of my being. I was tired of people telling me that "some day" I would be grateful. Tired of going to symphony every dreaded Saturday. Tired of working so hard for so little result while I watched my sister skate through (or so it seemed to me). Those days it clouded my life and made me miserable. I had all my proper arguments lined up for the conversation and even some quality reasons for switching all of my attention to tennis. But I didn't need them. I remember that pivotal conversation as being supremely anti-climactic. My parents immediately supported the idea and put as much energy and enthusiasm into helping me commit to tennis as they did music. In the end I believe their desire for me was twofold and fulfilled. They wanted to expose me to music and learn to commit. All the years spent staring at those Suzuki books gave me a certain amount of musical knowledge, something I've never regretted having. Those years also taught me about self discipline (despite the various wayward acts instigated totally by my sister) and choosing to do things we've committed to when we simply don't feel like it.

When I think on these things I wonder what to do with my children. I want them to grow and learn and develop through music, sports, and other extracurricular activities, just like my parents did for us. But there aren't violin teachers to hire down the road or in the next town over. There aren't Little Leagues around the corner or sports camps during the summer or fancy dance studios. Or any kind of dance studio. So what am I going to do? I don't actually have an answer for that question right now, aside from leaving it in God's hands. I'm learning to trust that He has a plan for my children and He has ways of making those plans come to fruition. He also has our family here in PNG, so I can't imagine that His plans for the growth of my children are contrary to that fact. Apparently He doesn't need the lessons, teams, and classes to develop the gifts He's given them. As their parents we'll need to be sensitive to His leading in this area and diligent in taking the opportunities for them to learn as He provides, but ultimately we need to trust that He will provide those opportunities.

A dear friend treated Ray to an impromptu organ concert during our last trip to Ukarumpa. At the mission base there are many ways to expose her to music and sport, but in Madang it's going to be more difficult.

Ray's first two-syllable word was "gecko." We have lots of them everywhere, so she gets to practice that word a lot. She also likes to cry wolf by randomly pointing to the walls and yelling "gko." In the village she learned her second two-syllable word, koki. Koki is the Tok Pisin word for "parrot." Now all birds are kokis. So on the days when I start internally bemoaning the lack of opportunity and choice for Ray and Baby Garbo, I remind myself of what they have gained. They'll be bilingual from the start and attuned to the greater world. They'll have a deeper appreciation for things I took for granted growing up (running water, consistent power, air conditioning, etc.). They'll have free pets climbing the walls and windows of their bedroom. But best of all they'll glorify God with the talents He gave them and He helped them to develop using what's available here in their PNG home.

Oreo.

His life started rough and ended abruptly. The bit sandwiched in the middle was a picture of how God can use even the smallest, most insignificant things to bring joy and healing to His people. 

My parents found Oreo on Petfinder. It's a nationwide website that connects people looking for a pet with pets looking for kind people. Oreo was a Boston Terrier used as a bait dog in a pit bull fighting ring when he was just a puppy. I briefly looked into bait dogs and couldn't stomach much of it, so I'm not an expert. However, I do know enough to wonder how he survived as long as he did. He was rescued before he turned 1 and put into a terrible foster home. When Mom and Dad went "just to look" they found a quivering, hairless mess tied to a tree, chafed and bloodied from the inappropriate use of a harness. Needless to say, he was traumatized and a bit loopy by the time God brought him into Mom and Dad's life. Also needless to say, their "just to look" turned into "get him out of here and home with us as quickly as possible." In one moment his life changed and ours began to be marked with good if quirky memories.

The first time I saw Oreo, I was confused. He was bony, googly-eyed, and had such short hair that his white bits looked bald. If you stressed him out (which was easy to do) those bald bits would turn bright pink. His ears were too big for his head and he was incredibly neurotic. Metallic clanging sounds would send him into a tailspin and kissing or hugging around him was firmly rebuked. He had little nubs for teeth and fat pockets just above each eye. So why did Mom and Dad pick him? As far as I could see there was very little going for him. Days later I was already attached to his sweet nature and incapable of seeing the googly eyes. He was like Nanny McPhee, slowly losing his physical ugliness as his inward merits became evident to the beholder.

Several years later, when Dad was stationed in Iraq, Oreo ended up coming to Dallas to live with Brian, myself, and our dog Sammy (Sammy also had a bad start in life, dumped on a busy street as a puppy). Mom was traveling too much and kennels were a bad, bad place for Oreo, so my parents asked us to be his home for those months. During that time he became as much our dog as my parent's dog. He routinely curled up in the crook of Brian's legs whenever the opportunity presented itself, or looked like it was about to present itself. He and Sammy tore around the apartment generally loving life together. And best of all, he became sensitive to my emotions, curling up with me just when I needed it (Sammy was and is useless for this). By the time we sent him back home, I was completely unable to see the ugly dog I had first met.

In 2011 we left the US to come to PNG for our first term as a married couple. One of the hardest aspects of leaving was saying goodbye to Sammy and Oreo. I knew that both would be well cared for and happy in each other's company, but I wanted their lives to be with me. Despite the sadness I felt at leaving them behind, I couldn't help but marvel at them. They both started life forgotten and abused, but were now a daily reminder that God truly does look after His creation. He saw Oreo's need and Sammy's need, and He saw the places they could fill in each of our lives. Even as we left they were part of healing my Mom's ache at our departure. Instead of serving a God that sees, but doesn't care, we serve a God that takes time to connect those dots and bring people and creatures together to bring each other joy. And in that I believe He takes great delight. 

While we were home on furlough last year we spent most of our time in San Antonio with my parents. Oreo became Ray's self-appointed guardian, standing watch over her from inside the nursery when he could, and from just outside the door of the nursery if he was shut out. I don't believe he understood why he was doing it, he just felt a natural compulsion to watch over her. He did the same with my sister's child and any other children that were nearby. If I didn't love Oreo before, he sealed my heart by guarding my child. And that's how I'll always remember him. Curled up in a tight ball under her crib, googly eyes glued to the door. 

I knew the email would eventually come informing us that Oreo or Sammy had died, but I didn't imagine it would hurt so much when it happened. I thought being here in PNG was a big enough break in my heart from them that it would be easier. But it's not. Over time I will be able to see that even his death is from the merciful hand of God. He wasn't doing well mentally, and only seemed to be getting worse. He was fully taken care of, but life was still hard for him to live. His death was quick and he had already spent his short years serving many people. And now he can rest. And now though the tears come in gushes at random times, very soon I'll simply be able to remember Oreo as God's beautifully ugly gift to our family. 

Remembering sparrows

I watched the truck pull cautiously back into our drive loaded down with men, wood, and a hot but happy baby. I could just barely hear the girlish squeals coming from the backseat and see the swish of curls as her head whipped from one side to the other trying to figure out which man sitting next to her was more entertaining. The three of us were hot and exhausted, but this second road trip of the day was clearly worth it.

Successfully returning home with the materials!

We arrived home from our week in the highlands just hours before Brian left with Ray and the guys to pick up the wood at a village on the North Coast. We only ran into one issue during our trip home that morning: a bus had inconveniently lodged itself in a deep pothole on a one-lane bridge, effectively halting the flow of traffic. So we waited and it wasn't long before PNG ingenuity had the bus unplugged and we were on our way again. The sky was clear giving us a dry road and Ray was too busy pointing out trucks to cry for breaks. Stops were mercifully limited and after a mere four and a half bumpy hours (a trip that has taken us 11 hours before), we were home again and being reminded of what hot really means.

Just after the bus (on the right) broke free of the pothole.

While I was frantically trying to unpack, clean, and generally air out a house that had been closed up and collecting dust for more than a week, the men living in the dorms behind us asked Brian to drive them up the North Coast to a village where they could collect the thick beams now overflowing in the back of the truck. They needed the beams to build a haus win (small shelter) on the lawn between our house and the dorm, a building that was constructed several years ago to provide safe shelter for the men and women coming into town to work on translation and literacy in their own language. Some of them stay for weeks at a time for their work sessions, making it imperative that their space be culturally comfortable. In building the dorm, the branch thought through as many taboos and cultural rules as possible. We thought to put rooms on top and bottom so that women could always stay below. It would make both the men and the women highly uncomfortable to have women staying above men. We thought to put the bathhouse outside as a separate building because it's typical for the things of the bathroom to be away from the things of the house. We thought to create a cooking environment that was as easy to use as possible and appropriate for cooking large amounts of rice and root vegetables. We thought to put in a common area for their recreation and for an extra work area. We thought to start a Bible study on Wednesday nights to bring them together alongside of us in the study of God's word. We even thought to put up a volleyball net in their front lawn. But we didn't think about building a small, more traditional shelter that would allow them to sit outside and kisim win (enjoy what breeze does come).

So the branch provided the copper roof, the guys used their contacts to get bush materials, we used the truck to haul everything, and the haus win was built. It only took them a few evenings to put it together. Evenings where Ray stayed glued to her bedroom window cheering the guys on with rousing statements like "bah" and "do" and "ruck." We don't have a television here and certainly don't need one now that she can stand at her window and watch them; not sure the whole creepy baby stare is beneficial to their relaxation but she has fun. 

Look closely and you'll see Ray supervising (and probably yelling) from her room!

In PNG whenever something like this is completed it's appropriate to have a feast to dedicate it. Typically the papa bilong graun (property owner) provides the bulk of the food, so in this case the expats provided meat dishes while the PNG guys provided rice, veggies, and bananas. It was a strange mix between a traditional PNG bung kai (feast) and a traditional church potluck. We had everything from greens and yams cooked in coconut milk to chocolate chip cookies. 

The men decorated the haus win for the event and set up chairs in a semicircle in front of it. We strapped Ray into her little seat on one of the chairs and enjoyed an evening of swatting mosquitos, singing praise songs, and thanking God for the small things. Sometimes in the day to day worries we don't think God cares. But when I look out our kitchen window at the dorm and the haus win I can't help but recognize His hand equally in both. One cost thousands of dollars, the other cost next to nothing. One involved prayer, sweat, and many man hours on multiple continents, while I'm not sure anyone outside of our small group knew much about the other. One took months to build, the other took just hours. But regardless of the difference in what we put into each building, God saw both needs and saw both completed. Nothing is too small or insignificant for Him.

The completed haus win with the dorm just behind.

Selfish praying

The air in the Highlands reminds me that it's October. Crisp, but not biting, with spurts of heat that at home would be the remainders of summer. Here they are reminders that the equator is close at hand. Technically it's not quite rainy season, but all the characteristics are beginning to appear. The Highlands' mornings start with clear skies and a strong sun, slowly tapering into clouds that become afternoon thunderstorms. I forgot how much I love and hate the weather in the Highlands. In Madang I'm accustomed to feeling the exact same heat each day. In the mountains it can shift from frigid to steaming in a matter of hours, and I can bless and curse it in the same amount of time. 

Ray playing outside after church, just before the cold rain starts.

We're back in Ukarumpa for a week, the mission center in the Highlands where we lived the majority of our last term. We come up occasionally to go to the clinic and see old friends. This visit will also include a day trip to a town called Goroka where we need to see a doctor that can clear us for our medical visas to Australia. The only available doctors in country for this task are found in Goroka, Lae, or Port Moresby. Combining the visa appointment with a trip to Ukarumpa helps us avoid a long drive and overnight in Lae. Since there are no roads from our part of the country to Port Moresby, that option is out of the question. The medical clearance is one of the last steps in a long list of steps to get our acts together for having a baby in Cairns. And even though we made it safely to Ukarumpa and completed our work here, we're not sure this trip will be a complete success. 

A few weeks ago a Highlands man boarded a public bus with little thought that this would be the last public bus he would ever board. That same day a group of young men decided to quench their unholy thirst for revenge by murdering a Highlander, and this man became their random target. When his bus approached the group, they stopped it, boarded, and simply found the first Highlander they could. They identified this man and loosely claimed he was a member of the clan they were in conflict with. Thus justified, they beat him to death, and dropped his body off at the nearest morgue. 

The man was a teacher, husband, father, and a follower of Christ. By all accounts, he was one of those rare, solid people that demonstrates the highest character. His death was an act of retaliation in a string of deaths that have occurred recently on a strip of the Highlands Highway between Kainantu (a town near Ukarumpa) and Goroka. His clan responded to the brutal death by blocking the highway to traffic until justice is served; not the kind of justice we are accustomed to in the States, but the kind that calls for blood or a payment of compensation equal to $25 million. Though there was a brief period of time where the groups in conflict agreed to sit together with officials to try and work out peace, peace was not reached and the road was blocked until last week when another stalemate occurred.

I wouldn't say this is a common occurrence in PNG, but it isn't shocking. Fights like this happen, and being a culture based on reciprocity, one death can turn into many deaths. These conflicts sometimes spill into markets or towns or roads affecting more than just the immediate groups concerned, like this one. So we don't know if we'll make it to Goroka. The head of security in Ukarumpa is keeping a close eye on the situation and will know whether or not it's safe for us to try to make the trip on Friday. At this point it would be safe for us to go while the two sides work with police, but we'll check again on Thursday before heading out.

Until a few days ago I'll admit that my biggest concern about this situation, and what I focused my prayers on, was that all would be straightened out and the road would be open for us to get our clearance. It won't be the end of the world to go to Lae, but it will be more expensive and highly inconvenient to make a special trip. I don't know if my reaction is a result of being in and out of PNG since 2005 and slowly becoming numb to these types of events, or if it's just my selfish, sinful nature thinking first of how I'm positively or negatively affected by the events around me. Either way, my prayers have shifted dramatically in the last few days. 

The clan the Highlands man belonged to is blocking the road, but his immediate family is pleading with them to act in a manner counter to culture and counter to their human desires, and more in line with what the victim would want them to do. They say that instead of crying for blood or an unattainable fee, he would want forgiveness and peace found in Christ. From an outsider's view of this particular situation, their attempts to speak truth into the lives of those involved seems fruitless. The road remains blocked and anger festers. Despite this I have little doubt that God is using this man's life, death, and family to change people in ways we can't see.

Rarely, if ever, do we assume that this day will be our last, this act our final act. We go through life blissfully ignoring its unavoidable end, because how else would we cope day to day? When I heard more details about the road situation it hit me how self-absorbed I am, even in my prayers. Whether or not we make it to Goroka is forgettable, but the events playing out on that road right now have eternal significance for those involved. And that is what the focus of my prayers have shifted to. We're asking you to pray with us, not that we would make it safely to Goroka to conveniently complete our medical clearance, but instead that God would use this man's family and this situation to shine light in darkness and to ultimately glorify Himself.

Balls and Rambo: how I became the greatest father ever

In case you didn’t pay attention to the title, this post was written by my husband, Brian. Although I approve of the general aspiration to be the greatest father ever, I don’t feel the need to acquire that accolade myself. Instead, I married the best prospect I could find and won the jackpot. Read on and take notes. 

What Ray looks like when Dad's in charge.

Ray is 20 months old… or something close to that. She is between one and two years old, but closer to two than one (this is one of those things that all mothers know by heart, but I break into a sweat and need a calculator, calendar, and birth certificate to figure out). At some point 3 or 4 months ago she began to look like a kid who should be talking, but she wasn’t. According to several reputable websites and a few less than reputable mom blogs that popped up on a Google search, she should be talking. Hannah and I weren’t really all that worried because even though she wasn’t talking she was communicating... a little too much sometimes. 

Through a series of grunts and pointing, she is usually able to help us understand what she wants to eat or what forbidden object she would like to play with. She is quite effective at expressing her emotions, usually in extreme forms, and she reads mine well too. "That face means I should run to mommy now."

With each passing day I was getting a little more concerned about her lack of words. I would try to get her to say ‘dog’ or ‘truck,’ the two most attention grabbing objects in the world for her. Instead she has her own utterance for each and laughs at me when I say ‘truck’. "No, Dad, that’s not a ‘truck’ it’s a ‘DOOOOOH’. Obviously."

Well it finally happened. On Friday while working in the office, Hannah called and said Ray finally uttered her first word. "What was it?" I asked wondering if it could be ‘fan’ (something she loves to point at and dance under in her own version of pagan worship), or ‘phone’ (one of her more favorite forbidden objects), or ‘llama’ (her favorite book character). 

"She said ball."

"...what? She doesn’t even like balls."

It’s true she doesn’t. She prefers her giant Lego’s or blocks or books to balls any day. I mean, she is a girl. 

So as soon as I came home for lunch I sat down with the book that she identified a ball in and asked her, "What’s this?" 

Her reply was a clear and unmistakable "BALL!" and she was quite pleased with herself. So there it is, my little girl’s first word is ‘ball’. 

We have friends who have a boy a little younger than Ray. He is also between one and two, but closer to one. So let’s say he is 16 months. He has been saying ball since before he was born. Any object that is vaguely round elicits a "Ball?" The little man can’t say the word without it being a question. What he is trying to say is, "That looks like a ball, can I play with it?"

"Well, yes, technically the sun, which you are pointing to now, is a ball. But no, you can’t play with it. For starters it’s really hot."

It feels right for a boy’s first word to be ‘ball’. It’s just proper. There is something in the Y chromosome that just drives us to balls. I’m pretty sure that if there was some kind of international study it would show that the word for ‘ball’ in whatever language is the first word for something like 85% of all boys. Now for a girl, it’s just a little weird. I can’t think of a word that should be a girl’s first word, but that’s just because women are complicated. Boys are easy, our fascination goes from balls to trucks to fire. Simple progression. 

Ray uttered her first word on Friday. On the following Sunday we went to church. After the service we were outside talking with people (international rule of church) and Ray was in the arms of a woman who lived near the church. Ray was transfixed by the handful of dogs running around. One of the dogs came trotting over to his master, the woman holding Ray. This got quite a few squeals of delight from Ray. The woman pointed to the dog and said, “His name is Rambo.” Rambo is a cultural icon in PNG. If I had a nickel for every time someone asked me “How is Rambo doing?” we would be self-supported.

Ray’s next utterance cemented my place in the fatherhood hall of fame right next to that guy who shot the apple off his kid’s head (the criteria for admittance into the fatherhood hall of fame are quite distinct from those for the motherhood hall of fame... obviously). She pointed to the dog and said, "MmmmBooooh." That’s right my daughter’s second word was 'Rambo'. She then followed it up by pointing to another dog and loudly proclaiming, "MmmmmmBoooooh." My heart swelled with pride. 

That night I was catching up with a friend who lives in another part of the country. I told him about my daughter’s vocabulary. He looked at me and said, "I think you are winning at parenting. The only thing that would be more impressive is if her third word is ‘rocket propelled grenade’."

We’re going to try for RPG. It’s simpler.

A picture of church

Ray walked into church Sunday morning smelling like the beach. She wore a flowery halter top sundress that barely covered her deep green cloth diaper and her shoulders still glistened from where we had applied the sunscreen. Every day she comes closer to appreciating nature, and since nature is inside church each Sunday she is coming closer to appreciating church. The pews are narrow wooden planks, varying in size and stability. The floor is gravel and dirt and the bamboo walls only reach my waist. When it rains outside, it rains inside too. Often I'll find myself staring at the ceiling beams watching large, brilliantly colored lizards lazily wander from one side of the church to the other. Dogs occasionally run up the aisle and out a hole in the wall at the front followed closely by some person or other hissing at them (these are Ray's favorite distractions). There is no velvety, maroon carpet with matching cushions on the ornate pews. There is no projector or choir loft or stage or microphones. Well, occasionally there are microphones attached to an old speaker, but those are ear-piercing-I-rather-wish-I'd-stayed-at-home days. The baptistry is the small creek gurgling by outside. The musical instruments are one or two or three guitars played by whoever happened to bring a guitar that day; I've learned that harmony, and sometimes playing the same song, is a cultural construct. Service has no start or end time, and the heat can become unbearable during the final announcements that seem interminable. 

Ray meandered alone up the aisle to our designated pew, shaking hands with anyone she passed as she went. That is one similarity between her church experience and my own: people have pews. It's an unspoken, universal rule of church. As I settled onto the narrow wooden plank, trying to position myself with the least amount of pressure on my legs, Ray began exploring. In front of us sat an older mother with her young child. Ray cautiously approached the child and they had one of those stand-offs where they stare at each other with no hint of civility. Suddenly Ray spun on her heel and came back to me smiling. Maybe she won their secret game, I'm not sure. For the next hour of the service, she went back and forth between climbing on top of the wooden plank to sit next to me where she could swing her feet for a few seconds and popping back down to stare at our neighbor. Only once did she topple off the back, and I was prepared for that eventuality.

Her feet have toughened over the weeks. The dirt and gravel floor used to irritate her soft skin to the point where she refused to stand on the ground without shoes, and as a general rule dirt of all manner is offensive to her (she is my child). But on Sunday she barely noticed the prickly rocks or the fine dust collecting on her feet as she played in front of me. Somehow, I'm still not sure how, a piece of cheap mint chocolate was passed to her from somewhere behind me. Rejecting all new food as something to be eaten, she played with the chocolate until it was a gross, hot blob in her grubby hand. It matched the rest of the dark splotches on her legs and arms where dirt and sweat mixed in streaks. 

This is not our church, but it's similar. This church is found in the Lower Ramu area.

When I was growing up and daydreaming about the future, this is not the image I conjured up of my own family going to church. Regardless, I love that this is Ray's experience of church, Ray's home church. She is learning to worship here even before she starts to remember lessons about God. She watches all the men and women intently and is starting to behave accordingly. What I did imagine in those daydreams was a child that knew God. And she does. I watched her clap in time to the singing and raise her hands as she mimicked the lady worshipping in front of us. She danced next to me, in her jerky swaying manner, and looked around for the affirmation toddlers often look for when they are trying to emanate the adults around them. I don't know what goes on between God and a child's heart, but I know she is being surrounded by people who have a deep love for Him and that they will be part of the "village" raising her to know Him. It gives me overwhelming peace to know that these are the adults she's trying desperately to be. She is certainly a dirtier, less polished version of what she would be if she were heading to church in the States, but she still shines in His presence and in the fellowship around her. And, really, I'm fairly certain our animal loving girl wouldn't trade the opportunity to see dogs flying up the aisle with a temperature controlled room for all the sweat-free Sundays in the world!

Accidentally landing in a (minor) tribal war

Brian and his teammates arrived in Nemnem, a village found in the Bosmun language area, ready to work. The community leaders were already present and a large group of men were buzzing about excitedly in the haus boi, a structure that in many areas of PNG is built to house single men. In this area the haus boi serves a higher function as the “men’s house” where major community and religious events occur with men only. Women are punished severely for entering these types of structures. The first thing the team did in Nemnem was sit down with the leaders to figure out a good time to come together for the presentation on PBT’s new translation project their community was being invited to join. This discussion was interrupted when someone yelled from the bush and all the men ran off intent on a fight. Brian and his teammates were left alone with one community leader who quietly stated it would be safer for them to find another village to sleep in that night.

Animosity has existed between two Bosmun villages, Nemnem and Dongan, for a very long time. On this particular day an incident occurred at the primary school in Dongan where several children were hurt by an out of control young man from Dongan. Just two days before the two communities had come together and found peace about this individual. Dongan promised Nemnem they would control this boy and that no more violent episodes would occur. Nemnem promised to wait for Dongan to deal with the issue without getting involved themselves. When Nemnem was told about the beatings at the school, they felt Dongan had betrayed their promises to take care of the problem and chose to respond in the only way they knew how; by sending a raiding party to Dongan to destroy the property of this boy’s father. It was now Dongan’s turn to feel betrayed after the peace talks and to respond in kind. Apparently they chose to do so right when Brian’s team arrived. The team quickly left the area and spent the night with a family PBT knows well in a neighboring language area.

This seems like a dramatic event to us coming from cultures where retaliation and revenge are not so violently enacted by whole communities. For the people of Nemnem and Dongan this incident was one of many and perfectly normal. Everything was progressing by the book. The next morning a community leader from Dongan called Brian and asked the team to come back to the area. Both Nemnem and Dongan had agreed to call off the fight until after the team completed their work in both villages. So in one day they presented in both villages, spent the night in Dongan, and left the area the following morning where presumably hostilities resumed.

Some of the Nemnem men after the presentation.

In order to be part of this new translation project, the Lower Ramu Project, each language group invited is required to create a board of leaders that includes representatives from each village, dialect, church, and school. Though PBT is involved in the training side of this project, the weight of responsibility is on each language group to organize and direct the project. The Bosmun people are desperate to have God’s word in their language, and despite being encouraged by their willingness to step away from their anger for one day in order to hear how they might get God’s word in their language, it is just one day and one small fight. It will take the work of the Holy Spirit to truly bring them into the cooperative relationship required for this project.

Please be praying with us for our branch as they seek to reach four language communities in a new way with various complications within each group (not all quite as severe as tribal war). Pray specifically for these two Bosmun communities, that they would find love and peace where there is now anger and hurt. Pray that God would open their hearts to His ways of peacemaking through the practice of translating portions of Mark into their language.