Where you belong

We've been in country for just over a week and already you're adjusting. The heat is irritating, but your tiny body just sweats it out. The humidity is oppressive, but it's given your hair a bouncy curl that has turned you into a little girl overnight. The night noises are new and loud, but you don't pay them any attention. The storms are ferocious, but you sleep deeply through them. The baby geckos living in your room poop on everything, but you enjoy watching them scurry around the walls. The electricity is completely unreliable leaving our fans impotent, but you continue piddling with your books as if the house didn't just become a roaster. The groups of drunk men ambling down the street at 5 am are obnoxious, but you call out to them through the window loving them with your baby heart as you love all people. Strange women and the occasional man are constantly patting, squeezing, bouncing, and touching you, but you're reveling in the admiration. You wave, squeal, and chatter at almost everyone. In Texas you would get upset when the car seat came out, but here in PNG you know the appearance of a car seat means we're going to a place where new people exist. Instead of grunts of frustration as the restraints tighten, the car seat triggers the kind of excitement that involves your whole wiggling body.

When the days start to close and the relentless heat hangs on, you get cranky. Unfortunately that's right when we're trying to feed you, and those experiences haven't been awesome. You scrunch up your face, shake your head firmly, and in no uncertain terms let me know where I can put those pureed lentils. I'm nervous about getting you the food you need here, and your sudden affinity for picky eating has not allayed any of those fears.

You've also decided that bathing is not the diverting activity of yesteryear. Literally, yesteryear... just a couple of weeks ago before you turned one. Baths have gone from delightful playtimes to a nuisance interrupting your day.

Sometimes at night you cry so much that the national translators living in the dorm behind our house come to check on you. Your voice rockets across the yard between our buildings and assails them as they're trying to have a relaxing evening. I'm fairly certain they think I'm a shockingly negligent mother, but it's too hard to explain to a group of Papua New Guinean men that I let you cry in the evening and at night because I know your determination and your end game: holding off sleep. You're learning to put yourself to sleep and this is how I believe you will succeed in that. So instead of worrying about being seen by our Papua New Guinean coworkers as a "good mother" I've chosen to accept the title of "mediocre mother" and appreciate the fact that they already care about you. Care about you to the point of making sure your Mom and Dad aren't sleeping through your 11pm fit.

But in the end, putting both the good and the bad together, you were made for Madang. I love watching you interact with people as we toodle around town. I love watching you sponge up all your surroundings, from the small piece of dirt on the floor to the black bats swirling above the house. I love watching you grow up and touch people where you are. Above all, I love watching God answer all the prayers from home for you and your transition into life in PNG. 

Why I'm breaking up with Facebook

"It's not you, it's me." I may have heard that frustrating phrase as part of someone's worthy attempt to dull a blow. I may also be guilty of having used that frustrating phrase as part of my own unworthy attempt to avoid conflict. Now I am definitely saying it, but not to a person: to Facebook.

I don't remember when I joined Facebook, but I wasn't one of the first. I had to be convinced of its wonders and I prided myself on not joining the pack. Eventually, I was persuaded to swim along and didn't look back; at least not until recently. Facebook hooked me with their lazy man's methods of staying in touch and easy reconnect with people I otherwise wouldn't remember. It takes just a couple of clicks a day and I can see all the babies, new houses, exotic trips, and seasonal celebrations of hundreds. I mull over pictures, laugh at status updates, get angry at the multitude of faceless arguments, and roll my eyes at the community games (another invite... really?!?). 

But that's not all I do. If it was, Facebook and I wouldn't be having our irreconcilable differences right now. I also covet and envy the picture perfect lives of many Facebook friends. I live in a self-inflicted state of insecurity because I compare myself to those particular friends, seeking out their status updates and pictures to mentally torture myself. And then I superficially calm my mind, not by confessing to God my sin of envy and pride, but by glancing at the news updates of Facebook friends that I qualify as having the same monotonous Facebook life that I do. See? Those people are just as boring as I am. No fancy job, pretty house, or fashionable clothes. Just a humdrum person. Ahhh. 

Brian has been flint on flint for me in a lot of areas, but maybe none more so than Facebook. He's the one that absorbs my insecurities the most, so my unhealthy relationship with social media has affected him deeply. He has to listen to it. When I brought up the idea of cutting my ties and moving on from Facebook, he was fully supportive. He knows that it's a foothold in my life that the devil is using over and over. I've tried to simply use it as a tool for staying in touch with friends, families, and supporters, but in the end I find myself browsing aimlessly and eventually landing back in the "why isn't that my life" mode. Those perfect pictures are just too enticing.


At a conference where it's possible I'm Facebooking...

Just as the devil uses our world to tempt us away from God, God uses all sorts of methods to reach us. Like millions of others, I have loved The Chronicles of Narnia since before I can remember. My favorite is The Horse and His Boy for two simples reasons: I love horses and Breey-hinny-brinny-hoohy-hah is one of the best character names I've ever come across. Besides the immense pleasure I find in imagining having a talking horse friend, there's a very convicting aspect of that story for me. Several different characters at different junctures of the plot express concern or curiosity about the path of the other characters. Aslan's answer is always, "It's none of your business. Stick to your life and what I put in front of you." Okay, maybe C.S. Lewis had Aslan say it a bit better than that, but it's what I hear. I worry much too much over other people's paths and lose mine somewhere along the way. Facebook will never help me focus on what God has put before me, and for that reason I have to say my goodbyes to posts, likes, pictures, and endless invites. I will miss "seeing" many "friends" daily, but I already feel free.

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.  

Greener grass

It's interesting how time manipulates the mind. For the most part, I'm in favor of this. The days after my beloved dog Clyde died, I thought the world was cruel for going on. How could it ignore the passing of such a sweet creature? One that had selflessly seen me through the rigors of middle school, the angst of high school, and the loneliness of undergrad! I hated the world for that. But time passed and now, years later, I barely smart at Clyde's memory. It's sweet, but it's not painful anymore.

Snuggly Clyde just a few months before he died.

The healing time brings is a gift, but it's passage does one thing I do not appreciate. As I flip flop from living in PNG to living in the US, I only remember the wonderful things about the place I'm not currently living. It's "the grass is greener" effect and it drives me batty. A few months ago I hit my wall. I was ready to go back to PNG and ever since it's been hard to be here. I'm thoroughly enjoying time with family, but my life is there and it's perfect there... right? I mean, I only remember it being amazing! Then I start to think...

When we go back, cooking will become a challenge again. We never know what staple is going to suddenly go missing from the country. It could be oats. Or it could be sugar. Or it could be flour. Not that any of these are necessities, but I do like a good oatmeal cookie. 

When I use flour (which is fairly often) I choose to sift. Many missionaries will scoff at me for this, but if I can get rid of bugs, I'll do it. I haven't sifted a bag of Flame Flour yet that hasn't had some wriggly worms or black boll weevils in it. Wriggly as in "still alive." Gross. Again, this is a time-consuming and frustrating process that I choose to put on myself. However, it is really nice to be in the States where I can both choose to not sift and know that my flour is relatively protein-free.

When we return, I'm going to sweat in places I forgot existed... in the middle of the night. It's hard to remember what it's like to sit in sweltering heat 24/7 when you're enjoying the wonders of temperature controlled housing. I do remember sitting and staring at Brian while we wallowed in our shared misery on a Saturday afternoon, but it's such a distant memory. I have to really think hard and, even then, surely it wasn't as bad as all that!

When I go to do laundry that first time, it's going to hurt. There's just something about being able to do your laundry whenever you want to, day or night. Doing load after load of diapers in our quasi-outdoor washing machine and then hanging them on the line, hoping for sun, is going to wear on me. 

Let's keep on the theme of machines: the dishwasher. I do remember nights where the cares of the day and the heat of the night combined to create combustible stand-offs between Brian and myself. Only one could stand at the sink, so who would it be? Sometimes we were gracious and volunteered…. and sometimes not so much. 

I could easily continue this list and do the same of living stateside. There are lots of hard things about being here that I totally forget about once I'm in PNG grunting through the incomplete list above. And in reality, it's not time manipulating me, but one of those fallen humanity things that causes the "grass is greener" effect. Living with a foot in two worlds is hard, but it gives me the opportunity to embrace an attitude of being discontent or embrace an attitude of acceptance. I wish I always took the easy road and chose to gracefully accept what God has put directly ahead of me, but alas. I'm Hannah and will always battle Hannah. Fortunately for me, His grace is greater.