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.

Rewiring my brain

I'm 17 weeks pregnant. That's just three short weeks away from the halfway point. I've had three check-ups and each time we've "seen" the baby. First it was a bunch of black and white shadows that made no sense to me. Then it was a bunch of black and white shadows that made no sense to me, but included one pulsating splotch that our doctor said was the heart. I believed him. Finally, we saw the clear form of a baby, and even though he or she looked a bit like a creepy alien, I felt overwhelmed with fuzzy emotions.  

Despite all the baby sightings, this next appointment will be my first real appointment. So far I've been seeing the doctor under "confirmation of pregnancy" appointments. Really?? We're still confirming it after seeing splotches that tell you there's a baby forming (they didn't tell me... it's just my nauseous body confirming it), after seeing a heartbeat, and after seeing the little alien baby outline?!? But, indeed, my first real appointment is in three weeks when I will be halfway done.

The first time we visited Dr. Bolnga I had no idea what to expect. We turned into a small compound protected, like everything else in Madang, with a steel fence and barbwire. The guard opened the gate for us and pointed down the gravel road to the back building. It reminded me of medical offices in the States, in that there are no obvious signs to help guide and direct. There's just the building, which looks unfortunately like all the other buildings nearby, and it's up to your resourcefulness to find the right glass doors. Only there are no glass doors to Dr. Bolnga's building or office. We parked and walked around to the back of the building which faces an empty field and the Astrolabe Bay. After figuring out that the bottom offices belong to World Wildlife Fund, we made our way up the concrete steps decorated with various potted, tropical plants and found the door marked "Hope Specialist Health Care Limited." We added our shoes to the pile at the door and made our way down the poorly lit hallway to the cramped waiting room. It was already full of women and, despite the small air conditioning unit, it was hot. There are no set appointment times, it's simply first come, first serve. So we waited and waited, again not unlike our stateside prenatal visits. For that first appointment we had Ray with us and smack in the middle of the room was yet another leafy potted plant with an oh-so-enticing-to-a-toddler-if-they-could-read sign that said "Do Not Touch." Of course she wanted to touch. She just knew it was forbidden with her toddler radar. While we waited we intermittently kept Ray away from the plant and watched her get cozy with our fellow patients in the waiting room. The exam room was small, like most. Unlike most it didn't feel like an exam room. It just felt like an office with a bed in it. No stark white walls or paper sheets on the bed. No scale. No obvious medical paraphernalia or anatomy class pictures on the walls. Just a desk, a bed with regular sheets, an ultrasound machine that looks like a 1980s computer, and some chairs. In my cultural framework, that doesn't inspire confidence. I'm trained to equate knowledgeable medical practitioners with pristine facilities and paraphernalia. And labelled pictures of the muscular system. 

Dr. Bolnga's office building

We met Dr. Bolnga back in 2011 when I spent a couple of nights in the Madang Hospital for dysfunctional ovarian cysts. He was good then and he's good now. In fact, Dr. Bolnga is one of the best in the South Pacific. He trained in Australia and received the highest score (they call it the gold medal) of everyone that took their final test in the South Pacific Commonwealth nations that year. That means he beat students from places like Australia and New Zealand, and this test is apparently quite difficult. He's good. And though I know this about him, our appointments have felt haphazard and not at all what I grew to expect from my doctor's appointments during Ray's internment in my belly. So they feel wrong even though they aren't wrong. They're just different.

I walk away from each appointment less disconcerted than the last. I'm slowly becoming more accustomed to the vast cultural differences in how Americans treat pregnancy and how Papua New Guineans treat pregnancy as manifested through my highly competent but completely laid back PNG doctor. My brain is rewiring itself to accept this new kind of medical care as "good" even though it looks totally different from what I culturally define as "good" medical care. In the end, I would have no qualms staying here for Baby Garbo's birth if I knew that Dr. Bolnga would be the attending doctor and if the medical facilities he had to work with at the hospital were better equipped for complications. Neither of those is true, so we'll head to Australia with his blessing and thank God that in the meantime Baby Garbo is in unfamiliar, but excellent hands.