The Bird Lady

I knew a bird lady in Papua New Guinea. She wasn't the Mary Poppins bird lady, or the bird lady from Home Alone 2 who found a substitute for human company in Central Park pigeons, nor was she an animal hoarder with 20 birds in her house. She was a bird lady because she sounded like a bird and, well, the nickname stuck. Every syllable, every utterance, every single sound coming from her was sharp, quick, and incredibly piercing. As I reflect on her, I think my memory has attributed more aviary characteristics to her than may be fair. For instance, in my memory when she walked she would stroll slowly with her thin fingers interlocked behind her back. Her movements were slow and deliberate, and her head jutted out as she looked at the ground. That stance gave her the essence of a bird deep in thought, wings relaxed on it's back. Her eyes were darting and beady; her hair a bit wild. Her laughing always involved hopping. Whatever is actually true in regards to the Bird Lady, my memory will never fail me in how timely her antics were.

She lived across the large path from me and my colleague, Jo*, in a bamboo house that mirrored ours. In the five weeks we spent across from her, I could never quite figure her story out. I wasn't really motivated to try, either, because she scared me with her quick movements and unpredictable cackle. This was my first true experience in a Papua New Guinean village and it's where I would start the separation from my home culture. The time I spent in that village is something I can never explain to others; not to my family, not to my closest friends at home, not to anyone who wasn't there. It's an experience so wholly mine it makes me feel small and lonely. 

To say I started the venture stressed is an understatement. I bared many ugly bits of myself to Jo and learned exactly how defiant I can be about the most inane things. The pressure of succeeding (whatever that was defined as, I'm still not sure) and my "need" to please our adopted family crashed in on me over and over again, giving way to raw emotions. There were lots of tears and bitterness sometimes pointed directly at Jo, but our small gift of comic relief rarely failed to appear. She was terrifying in her birdness, but her memory still serves as a reminder to me that God puts personalities, strange and normal, in our lives for a reason.

My favorite Bird Lady memory stems from one of those moments when I was downright cranky. It was the middle of a blazing hot afternoon. Jo and I were cleaning the blue linoleum we put on the bamboo floors of our two room house, listening to all the people come home from the garden. In general, we tried our best to look competent and capable. Most of the time we failed miserably, but we did try hard. The huge brown house spiders were the only thing that got us flustered to the point of not caring what anyone thought; in our battle against these behemoths, we threw pride to the wind. We hated them with their long legs, fat bodies, and glassy eyes. Hated.   

The worst thing about them was their ability to lurk in the open, surprising us as we reached for food or supplies. Every time that happened it felt like stubbing your toe. I don't remember who saw the spider in the wall first, but as soon as it was located the chase was on. I was never clear whether we were chasing them or they were chasing us. With great courage, we sprayed the entire wall with Mortein (a chemical that turns their bodies into something resembling an alien), only to lose it between the bamboo reeds. The only thing worse than a known spider is a known spider in unknown locations. We ran quietly onto the porch trying to finish the job discreetly. The spider was definitely somewhere between the inside and the outside, we just didn't know where. It's possible that our preteen girl shrieks were louder than we intended. It's also possible we were as quiet as mice. Either way didn't matter for the Bird Lady; she always had her police scanner on, waiting for us to do something stupid. Before we knew it she had hopped over with her three year old perched on her shoulders. We tried to explain the situation to her adding lots of, "It's nothing, it's nothing," but all she heard was, "PANIC!!!"

Bouncing from one foot to the other, she yelled for our adopted father to come save his white daughters from the monster in their house. Convinced bad things were happening, Papa came roaring out of his house waving a bush knife, determined to take care of us. Sadly, the "monster" he was taking care of was just one spider. One small spider in his estimation. During this interval, the Mortein finally had the chance to take it's toll on the spider. Jo, myself, the Bird Lady, and our adopted father with his bush knife poised watched (two of us with embarrassed dismay) as the spider dropped to the ground out of the house, twitching. The Bird Lady stared at it for a second, started her hop-laughing, and squished it with her bare feet.

Can you find the spider?

There it is!! Ugh.

Jo and I still laugh about that incident and the look on the Bird Lady's face when she saw the source of our drama. It was... birdlike. More than that I see the Bird Lady as an example of God's creativity. He plopped us into a village as her neighbor and gave us the privilege of seeing all the different types of people He shapes.    

*Name changed

Let sleeping babies lie

We had our first family trip involving planes this past Monday. Ray has flown twice before, but this was the first time all three of us battled air travel together, with it's myriad of joys. The flights went very well, but I didn't recognize that until the end of the day... or maybe the next day when my energy returned. We were blessed in so many little ways that it's impossible for us to not see God's hand at work. 

Ray didn't get the memo that the first flight was chosen because it was timed exactly for her morning nap. She didn't care. She was stimulated and not in any sort of mood to sit quietly or sleep. At the gate she located a crying child with her "bah," and then proceeded to call out to each passenger lining up to board. With her expression I just imagined her saying, "Hello, people of the plane. Life is new and wonderful!!" Needless to say, the crying child was not trained to respond in the appropriate manner, nor were the very serious people in the early bird A-group line (we flew Southwest). Once we boarded the plane she bounced, waved, and reached out to many, many people. She was loud, but happy. To our delight, the flight wasn't full allowing us three seats instead of two. There was a newly engaged couple in front of us, giddy about the prospect of life together, and a little girl behind us willing to play peek-a-boo with Ray over and over and over. She never thought about closing those dark eyes. 

In Nashville, there was a play area designed for babies and toddlers. We only had a 30 minute layover, but our second flight was delayed an hour giving us plenty of time to wear Ray out on the baby slide, baby tunnel, and soft floor. She was excited by all of it, but running on some serious fumes at that point.

On our last flight we ended up sitting behind the exact same happily engaged couple and across from a couple with a 5 month old baby. The flight was full, so we were nervous about what sort of person would fill the last seat on our row. Turned out to be a calm and understanding sort of man with big earphones. Perfect! Ray ended up sleeping through that entire flight, rendering his giant earphones unnecessary.

I process that travel experience and think again about our best laid plans. We had our flights timed to her naps and despaired during the first flight when she wasn't behaving as we hoped. It's not that we thought we could control when planes go and when babies cry, but everything was just exactly right for her to sleep. Yet all she did was clamor over our laps, over the empty seat, back over our laps, all while trying to lick everything in range (including our faces). But she did have the space to roam and a girl to play with on that flight. Had the plan worked out the way we wanted it to, she would have been wide awake on the back of a very cramped and hot plane instead of sleeping peacefully. That man's earphones would have paid for themselves in one short flight.

We are still at 87% of what we need monthly in order for us to go back to PNG. It's frustrating and feels a lot like I felt watching Ray not sleep through the first flight. I'm praying that God would give us peace as we seek the rest of our support; that He would help us remember we're just in the first flight and not seeing the whole picture of the day yet. It's possible that I'll look back and say, "Oh! I get it. Empty flight, full flight!" It's also possible that I'll never know why our plans were so wrong. Either way, I do know there's a bigger picture. In the meantime, I'm still wondering when the baby is going to sleep and praying God will keep my sight above.

Ray's depth(s)

The little girl, a baby no more, is sitting in the middle of her parent's bedroom playing with blocks. While her Dad looks on, the girl hears someone else in the house. Instantly her head, covered in feathery dark hair, whips around and she yells "bah" with strength and authority. Staring at her father, she cocks her head and waits patiently for the expected reply. And she gets it. 

Ray has trained all of us in this house to yell "bah" whenever we hear her small voice making the utterance. She's learning and growing, each day coming up with something new to her world. Brian and I call the "bah" communication her locator. She's a people intensive kid and it's unclear to her why, if someone is in the house, they would not be there in the room with her. Boggles the mind. At the very least they should make their location well known to her.

It's exciting and sad and terrifying to watch her edge into toddlerness. She's just sticking her tiny baby toe in the vast waters of being a girl, but she's doing it with confidence. My excitement comes from knowing this is the right and natural course for her. She has to grow up and I certainly don't want to always be holding on to her baby days. The sadness is from my sentimentality and my tendency to mourn time past. It goes too fast, they said. And now my newborn is not a newborn anymore. 

Now let's address the terrifying. Brian and I went to church this morning, as is our custom. We've tried to put Ray in the nursery several times, but always get called back to find her in many small, melting pieces. The nursery workers are usually in small pieces too. So we changed our tactic and now I accompany her while Brian goes to our class. We're hoping to ease her out of the separation anxiety stuff. This morning I checked her in and acquired my "parent helper" tag from the front desk. We walked into the sunny room made for delighting small, toothless children, and she shyly examined the other three babies and four adults. It didn't take long before she was wide open on the floor playing and chasing the other babies. Then it didn't take long before the cute chaser turned into a toy stealing, hair pulling, pacifier snatching baby terror. One of her poor victims was teething when suddenly the one thing giving him relief was plucked surreptitiously from his mouth and popped into a triumphant smile; she doesn't even like pacifiers. I'm fairly certain the other three babies had no idea what had hit them. Same goes for the kind staff, but no worries... that's just (apparently) my kid. 

From the time Ray was born, family, friends, and strangers commented on her happiness. It wasn't until today that I found out the depths of her happiness are also the depths of her determination, the depths of her anger, the depths of her joy, and probably will be the depths of her anxiety as she starts having things to be anxious about. She's not one of those children that will bounce through life relatively unaffected by the ups and downs. I believe she'll turn out to be one of those people that will feel deeply, whatever the emotion, and struggle to tone it down. I know what that feels like and I know how exhausting it is. I'm terrified of parenting a child with such intensity roiling beneath the surface, but I'm hoping that being a like-minded person I can guide her through it.  

The fact that we walked away from a church nursery today with two bumps on the head, a bruise on the leg, and a wake of confused babies, tells me that life in PNG with this one is going to be a challenge. She will test every limit we set, my patience, and probably gravity a few times (just to make sure it still works). But God gave her to me. He created every little bit of her and put her in our family. I'll trust Him to guide us as we guide her, and I'll have faith that He will answer my most desperate prayer for her to find Him.

Leaving well

I loathe the packing process. I don't know if it's because the last ten years of my life have been spent packing and unpacking with brief spurts of stability in between, or if it's simply because packing forces me to be organized and think ahead (bleh). The whole process becomes a giant puzzle that doesn't feel satisfyingly solved until the locks are placed on each checked bag and my in-flight toiletries are tucked away in my carry-on (you're welcome, person sitting next to me that doesn't have to smell my unbrushed teeth).

The beginning…

We are dead in the middle of packing for our life in PNG and I'm finding that this time around is both less stressful and more stressful than previous pack-ups for PNG. Part of it is knowing, from experience, that all the supplies I take over will run out and once they run out, I'll survive. It might be a total pain and I might spend some time pining for that quality toothpaste, but I'll survive. On the other hand, this time we're packing to fill our home. That means pots, pans, sheets, towels... the whole kit and caboodle. In order to mitigate all the stuff we're taking back, I sent some pots and pans and sheets ahead with Brian when he returned for a brief time in October. As a side note, they do have many items available in Madang stores, but we found it would be less expensive to bring over supplies we had in storage rather than buy all new-to-us stuff there.

I get stressed looking at the chaos that is our packing station, but in reality none of it (aside from our medication) is necessary. It's all just "wanted" and being carried over to help us carve out a niche for our family. I've thought long and hard about how to give Ray the home I so desperately want her to have. There are the painted letters to hang in her room spelling out her name. And the paintings her two aunts lovingly created for her walls. And the little seat that will keep her safely strapped in during meals for many more months. And the general touch that will tell her she's in her home. But none of that is essential to her growth and development. What matters more than the stuff is how I treat her and her father during the packing-of-nonessentials process. It matters how I handle my frustrations during this time of upheaval for all three of us. It matters that I consistently put her and her father's needs at the top of my priority list in place of the overwhelming mound of to-dos. 

Ray has creative and thoughtful aunts! These will hang in her room in PNG.

Unfortunately, I don't do that well. If I tried to look really deep in my heart, I might find that all the preparation and thought I've put into getting stuff over to PNG isn't so much about creating a home for our family as it is creating a home for me. And then I can conveniently point to our cozy home and say to both, "See all I've done for you two! No complaining about needs not getting met. I'm working hard for you!"

It will be a struggle for the next few weeks as we plan, pack, and say goodbye. The unknowns of when (and how) our monthly support will come in, how (and when) my thyroid will balance out, and what the exact date of our return will be creates a firestorm of emotional angst for me. However, we already see God reminding us that His timing and His ways are always perfect. We have no idea why our plan to go back on January 11 wasn't His plan, but we already see the benefits of leaving later and we're learning to trust Him. Trust Him even if we couldn't see any of those benefits; it is His plan.

The toughest part of the missionary life for me is this time of transition and all the unknowns that come with it. Every time I look at our packing pile I'm going to try my level best to embrace this whole process as the wonderful opportunity for growth that it can be... if I let it.