Lessons from a singing snail

I learned recently during an ill-advised Google search that when women say they've been in labor for 48 hours it doesn't actually mean they've been red-faced, sweating, cursing their husbands, and in unbearable pain for a straight 48 hours. That's what I always assumed and it sounded horrific. But those hours encompass all of it; from the first contractions at the house that you're debating (are they/aren't they), to the cardiovascular push at the end. 

Enjoying the first, waiting "patiently" for the second

Based on this new and enlightening information, if the baby comes in the next few days I'm going to claim that I've been in labor for a week. At least. Last Wednesday was the start of Baby Garbo's false labor, and though it's let up quite a bit since Saturday night it's still wearing me down. I'm irritable, tired, and discouraged. Saturday night was the peak. My body deceived me to the point where we were timing contractions (there's an app for that!) and were sure he/she would be in hand soon. The contractions were regular, five minutes apart, and lasted over a minute. Not overly painful, but painful enough. We put our plans in place for Ray, finished packing the hospital bag, and called the midwives for their opinion. But as soon as Ray went to sleep the regularity ended and I simply endured a night of sleep disrupting contractions that got us nowhere. Although I did milk a good back scratch out of the experience. 

Most couples start to get antsy a bit further along than we are, but we're already there. I'm consumed with overanalyzing every sharp pain and extreme tightening. I wonder each day and pray each day that the baby will come and come fast. I long for us to turn on Upward Street on our way to the hospital rather than the doctor's office for a normal check up. But nothing yet.

Since my thoughts of late have been so tunnel vision on the timing of this birth, I thought I'd explain the process of having a baby in Australia and (excuse?) why I'm so anxious. We arrived in Australia on January 1 with a three month long medical visa. Most people making this trip from PNG are able to have their baby and get the paperwork complete within those three months, but occasionally it doesn't happen. In those cases the medical visas for each family member must be renewed at $250/member (they are free until you apply for an extension). Rarely, but sometimes, the Australian government will only renew the medical visa for the new baby and the mother. Dad and other children are sent packing. In that situation, Brian would head back to Madang with Ray while I stayed with new baby. Cheaper, but certainly not ideal.

So what goes into the paperwork? As soon as Baby Garbo appears, we'll mail a request to the Queensland Registrar in Brisbane to get a copy of the baby's birth certificate. Once we get the birth certificate in hand we'll apply for his/her American passport. This requires a trip to either Sydney or Perth where the only US Consolates in Australia are located. They get eyes on the baby and approve him/her for a passport. They'll mail the passport to us here in Cairns and we'll turn around and mail it to the PNG Consolate located in Brisbane to apply for the baby's PNG visa. As soon as the visa is approved and the passport is mailed back to us, we can go home. So it's three major pieces, each relying on the last and touchy to time well. We're as prepared as possible for this process, we just need the baby. Hence, the hope and extreme disappointment at each false alarm.

Aside from the stress of getting the paperwork started, I'm ready for it to be over. Give me the sleepless nights and harried days over bruised and squished organs any day. I want to meet this child and I want this child to finally become a holdable, kissable part of this family. I want to get back to our PNG home and start nesting. I want to stop feeling the way I feel mentally and physically. This baby dropped at least three weeks ago and measured "ready" two weeks ago. I know in my head that God is fully aware of my list of wants as well as all the circumstances that I can't see. He has it all orchestrated perfectly already and no amount of anxiety on my part is worthwhile. I just haven't embraced it in my heart. So I'll be singing over and over again the song of Herbert the Snail from my childhood. I usually sang it when waiting for my sister to get ready for anything, but it's simplicity just might help me get through the next hour, day, week of waiting for baby. Prayers appreciated!

Have patience, have patience

Don't be in such a hurry

When you get impatient, you only start to worry

Remember, remember, that God is patient too

And think of all the times that others had to wait for you.

My enemy, God's strength

When I was in high school we lived in a house that sat between a lake and a golf course. I grew up skiing, tubing, knee-boarding, and generally getting in the water as much as possible. My parents were never golfers, but the proximity of the course lent itself to some fun family runs at night. During that time I had a good friend that became the brother my sister and I always wanted but would never have. He knew how to get to our house by lake and would routinely break in to walk our dogs when we weren't home. And eat our Nutragrain bars with several inches of whip cream on top. We never knew when he might pop by and he rarely failed to push our buttons, as befitted his role as our "brother." Regardless of the button pushing, he was part of our lives in a meaningful way.

I don't have much contact with him anymore. The natural course of life flowed different directions for all three of us, and without the blood link of real siblings he's now more of a memory than anything else. One of the memories that consistently comes back to me when I think of that period of my life involves the multiple conversations we had sitting beside the golf course watching the players come and go. We wondered about our futures and feared being without. We were both raised in families that weren't rich by American standards, but were well off. He never worried about money and neither did I. Our parents made sure that our needs were met, many wants were met, debts were paid, and the financial security of the family was a given. We were well aware that our parents weren't of the old money variety, but had worked long and hard to provide for us the way they did. We both wanted to maintain our cushy lifestyles, but we didn't know how to do it or if we could do it, and that was the source of our concern. So our conversations ended with only a small measure of comfort that someone else held the same anxieties, and the fears remained.

Finances and trusting God in a job that doesn't have a set paycheck is by far the most difficult aspect for me about our family's choice to be in PNG. By growing up the way I did I was never forced to develop the spiritual maturity to see my family's total dependence on God. It took joining a mission organization and devoting that aspect of my life to Him to truly appreciate that the provision I credited my parents with as a child was actually from God. I didn't understand until living month to month that "financial security" in any tax bracket is a false god. He purposed my parents with that money and has expectations of them in how they use it, and they are constantly praying for His direction in spending it. I witnessed that my entire life. They've always believed that He may choose to change the direction of how they serve Him which may mean "giving up" what they've had. 

So my parent's gave me a solid foundation to work with in this area. They enjoy how they have been blessed, but with an open hand. And they don't treat it as "their" money, but as God's money. Even though they spoke that into our lives, I still struggle. There are the months I find too much security in the monthly donation statement we receive because it's a good month. Everyone that said they would give, did give. And then some extra unexpected gifts came in. Those months I sigh in relief and feel content. And then there are the other sorts of months. The bad ones. The ones where five people forgot and that lapse was fifty percent of what we "needed." I find myself in the depths of despair lashing out at God for not coming through. I am discontent and sure we'll have to come home from the field when (not if) this trend continues. Both reactions are a reflection of distrust and an indication that I still see those numbers as "mine." 

The reality is that every year since we were married our final tally of donations has exactly matched our total need for the year. Unfortunately I spent more time in each of those years worrying than I spent praising God. Not praising God for providing money, but praising God because He is. Last year was up and down, per usual. I'm getting better with the unknowns and am often able to take captive the extreme reactions to the constant fluctuations of our monthly donation statement, but I still fall in the trap. Despite my constant failure to truly trust God, God is always faithful to us. Our year-end statement came recently and we were astounded with the outpouring of support that will more than carry us through the impending medical bills of the birth and the unknown increases in our health insurance premiums that will start in March (and that I've already been anxious about). He knew our needs and through His people met them before we hardly asked.

I have so many questions about "God's economy" and how it all works, but I know that as He has expectations for my parents, He has those same expectations for our family. Looking at our socioeconomic statuses from a worldly perspective would say that more should be expected of them than of us, but it's simply not true. He expects all of us to trust in Him whether we have a fixed income or not. He expects all of us to give when He says to give whether rich or poor (missionaries not excluded!). Most importantly He expects us to see our money as the temporal, burnable thing that it is. Necessary to living life, but totally within His right to move around as He wills. Essentially He wants us to hold it with open hands. 

Money and where it will come from month to month will always be my thing. My weak point. My enemy. I feel ashamed at how shocked I was at the end of the year when He prompted and people gave, meeting needs we hadn't yet expressed outside our family unit. I'm not sure I'll ever stop being surprised when He provides, but as each year ticks by I feel that old childhood fear slowly losing ground to a profound and peaceful trust.  

Beauty defined

One of the many bridges

The Kuranda Scenic Railway. Supposedly one of the most beautiful train rides in the world. I say supposedly because the source of the claim is the Kuranda Scenic Railway. Not exactly the most reliable source for an unbiased opinion on such a list. We've been excited to take Ray on the train ever since we started thinking about having baby Garbo in Cairns. We see the train roll by our house every morning and every evening. It's become routine for Ray and Brian to sprint to the edge of the yard just as it's approaching to wave at all the tourists. Monday was the anticipated day, and even after becoming one of those tourists I still don't know if it's one of the most beautiful train rides in the world. The ride up was certainly noteworthy, but my focus was on making sure Ray didn't stick her appendages out the open windows. I like those appendages much more than I care about scenery. So I was counting on the ride down, when Ray would most assuredly be passed out in Brian's arms, to soak in the views and judge for myself the claim. As happens so often, I counted on the wrong thing.

We were the first passengers to board the train car after exploring Kuranda with streets full of shops catering to wealthy trinket collectors. People slowly trickled in, but none sat on our bench or the bench facing us. As the train left the station I felt the relief of knowing we would have the whole row to ourselves. Ray's blinks were getting heavier as she curled up on Brian's lap and I saw a peaceful train ride ahead of me where I could finally assess the generous claim. Then it happened. The family sitting in the next row sent two of their girls to sit across from us where they could be closer to the window. At first I was slightly annoyed, even though I understood their excitement at having a better view. Then I was deeply annoyed because they wouldn't stop talking. I was hot and tired and worried that my child was missing her nap because she was too distracted by the girls. Right away Brian tried to communicate to them that Ray was going to sleep, but their response was to scoot apart from each other to make space for her to sleep on their bench. Not exactly what we had in mind. It didn't take long for Ray to lose that precious window of exhaustion all parents know how to identify... and take advantage of. She was not going to nap. As I watched that dream slip away I accepted the fact that my peaceful train ride wouldn't be so peaceful and tried to adjust my attitude.

The girls started by treating Ray as their head model. They put clips in, took clips out, organized clips, brushed her hair, tied it back (rather unsuccessfully), all while Ray laughed that deep belly laugh she does so rarely. The younger of the two quickly dominated the impromptu play date and became Ray's self-appointed best friend. She held her and explained all the deep mysteries of life to her as only a 5 year old girl can. Small children are rather like dogs. They know when people like them and respond accordingly. Ray had little doubt that this girl liked her and she became obsessed. Several times the girl tried to go sit with her family to get a drink of water or another piece of expensive Kuranda candy, but Ray cried for her each time. She quickly came running back around to console the live baby doll. As they sat at the window together, Ray put her hand just slightly out the window despite knowing her boundaries. Brian disciplined her for it which resulted in the typical "how can I in all my cuteness ever get in trouble" cry, but instead of reaching to me for consolation she reached for her new friend (much to the girl's delight).

As our stop rushed to meet us, the ticket collector came round to let everyone know town was near. When she passed our row, Ray's new friend waved frantically and announced, "I am her favorite!" The woman laughed, clearly confused, and said, "Yes, it's good to enjoy your sister." After explaining to her these two had been (and still were) complete strangers, she was astounded and moved on to tell the entire crew about the "train friends." Sadly our stop was the first, and it was extremely hard to separate them. We walked home alongside the train tracks (our house is just a stone's throw from the station) and waved to Ray's first best friend for the last time when the train steamed by.

So I still don't know anything about the scenery on the Kuranda Scenic Railway. I do know about the scenery inside the Kuranda Scenic Railway. There is very little in life more beautiful than two children in a fallen world unabashedly loving one another, free from insecurity and selfish motives. Whatever was happening outside couldn't hold a candle to that.

He called a little child and had him stand among them. And he said: "I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven."

Matthew 18:2-4

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.