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The most recent post, God is my sister, can now be read at www.theparisfamily.com.

God is good?

"I was scared and lost heart, but when I collected my head I realized I wasn't dead."

My life has been full of complaints lately. I injured something that wraps around my ribcage making it nigh impossible to do anything without painful grunting. Complain. I incurred the injury by ineffectively wrestling Jett to both stay out of the house and stop chewing my shoe simultaneously. Complain. The dog is being a dog. Complain. Willa has stopped being the Incredible Sleeping Baby (it was an awesome superpower while it lasted) and needs to be held non-stop during waking hours. Complain. The toddler is being a toddler. Complain. I don't feel like I have enough time to do the office work I committed myself to. Complain. It's hot. Complain. The washing machine cuts itself off and subsequently beeps obnoxiously over and over and over and over until I go all the way outside and down the steps to punch the restart button... when the dog is barking, the toddler is whining, and the baby is crying because she pooped out of her diaper onto me. Complain and maybe some tears.

I could keep going with all the things I complain about in a day, but I won't. Because it's embarrassing. When a friend came for her usual Friday morning round last week, she seemed unhappy. She's missed a bit of work recently, but I assumed it was due to illness or needing to care for a child or some such issue. After the obligatory greetings she gathered Willa into her arms and sat down slowly on the couch. For a time she was completely absorbed in the placid face of the baby. Mary* talked, sang, and rocked while Willa rhythmically sucked on her binky intently watching Mary's face. I wasn't entirely sure what was going on, but I just let it happen. Any time someone wants to love on my baby, I let it happen. Eventually she stood up and as she carefully passed Willa back to me commented that her back hurt.

I've lived in PNG off and on for ten years now. Ten years it's been one of my homes. And yet I still stumble through conversations with Papua New Guineans. I still don't know so much. When Mary addressed her back pain I wasn't sure if that was an open invitation to find out why her back hurt, or simply an indirect request for some Tylenol. I decided to reply sympathetically, but not to press for more information or immediately pass over the pain relievers. She stopped any further mental debate by quickly moving ahead and pouring out the events of the past few days with a resigned frustration. A few nights previous she had gotten into an argument with the man she lives with. He distracted her with a light and began hitting her repeatedly on the head and back with the blunt side of his bush knife (machete). The following morning she went to the police, which is not always a successful venture for abused women. I don't know how she felt walking into the building, but I assume she wasn't confident. Despite the evil she had endured in the night, God was watching over her. He kept her alive during the attack and when she went to the police station he put in her path the daughter of one of our national coworkers. This woman recognized Mary and was assigned to take down and file her report. Mary felt comfortable with this woman and confident something would get done, which it did.  The man was arrested and told that if one more report like this was filed against him he would be thrown in jail immediately.

It's not unusual to hear stories of women being killed with bush knives by their significant others, so it's not surprising that Mary thought she would become one of those stories. I had no clue what to say, but I felt compelled to pray with her. Some people are so natural at corporate prayer; without thinking they would instantly react to her pain by sitting down and praying with her. That's not me. It was a conscious thought for me that I pushed away. I didn't want to. I wanted to just tell her I would pray for her and then pray later that day by myself. Privately. In English. Wouldn't that be good enough, God?? But it didn't feel right. The manner in which she recounted her tale was so unnerving in it's matter-of-factness. Something about it screamed that she needed to know God cared. And that I cared too. I was pretty sure a pat on the arm with the promise of some future vague prayer wouldn't accomplish that. We sat back down on the couch with Willa perched on my leg, held hands, and prayed. In my estimation, it was a disaster. All my language learning flew out the window and the thoughts jumbling inside of my head crashed against my tongue. I heard a string of Pidgin words coming out, but they didn't fit together properly. When I finished I apologized for not making any sense and said that it was all stuck in my head. She laughed and said it didn't matter. That praying with her in Pidgin was an encouragement and God would sort it out. I'm certain he did.

It's hard to listen to God in the moments when I'd rather just hide in my happy shell and get my feel-goods by promising private future prayer rather than engaging in corporate now prayer. It's altogether uncomfortable to pray for someone when you yourself don't understand why God allowed such a thing to happen. How can I pray about this when I'm only just processing it and have no words? How can I hope to encourage and strengthen her faith when my own faith that God is good collides with the reality of a fallen and broken world? And in another language? Seriously?!?! But he is good. And whether or not any of us believes that he is good, he still is. In the act of praying with Mary, I felt his presence wrap us both up with one truth clarifying itself and remaining steadfast in my mind amidst the jumbled words and confused thoughts: this is never what I intended for the world I created and I'm hurting with her too. 

Since Friday I've thought a lot about Mary and her situation. I've complained a little less. I've trusted a little more. Trusted that no matter what happens to us in this life, no matter how painful, he is walking it with us and he is feeling it more than we ever could imagine. And I'm listening a little more intently for when he's asking me to be uncomfortable.

*Name changed

A girl and her dog

I couldn't find her anywhere. All the doors leading to potential danger were firmly closed so I wasn't panicking, but the house is small. There are only so many places she could be and she wasn't in any of them. Suddenly, as I scoured the kitchen and living room with a quick eye, I heard a faint voice saying, "Walking, walking, walking." Her voice with it's confidence and bravado, and that distinct mix of baby and little girl. I love that voice.

She was on the back porch sitting cross-legged in front of the newly acquired dog kennel, facing its occupant. Inside, unsure of everything, was a small puppy, black with a streak of speckled white going down his chest and sprinkling his front paws. Jett's first day with us was nerve-wracking for him. He spent most of it cowering directly under our feet, or hiding behind the washing machine. His tail seemed permanently down and his eyes ever shifting. 

Ray loved him immediately, as we had little doubt she would. She has a heart for God's creatures, and this one stole a piece as soon as she glimpsed Daddio carrying him out of the truck. But that first day was a tough one for him and for us. Why were we doing this? Puppies are high maintenance. Especially if you want it to grow to be a reasonable dog. Just like a child, if you put in the time early, the later years are easier. Not without trial, but easier. Through the ear-piercing yips and multiple nightly trips to the backyard, the question stands highlighted in our minds, what possessed us to do this??? Did we seriously think we had time for this now?

"Walking, walking, walking." A pile of books stood neatly stacked next to Ray as she flipped slowly through the open book on her lap. Appropriately chosen, Ray was reading Mirabelle Goes for a Walk to Jett as he draped himself along the side of the kennel. What used to be a tight, black ball of fearful fur had finally settled down and relaxed. The story very simply recounts Mr. Muller taking his Boston Terrier out for a walk. Ray didn't read, but retold the story to Jett as she saw it. Mr. Muller was walking, so she told Jett. The sun existed, so she told Jett. The trees were intermittent, so she told Jett. It appeared that Mr. Muller was falling (he's just running), so she expressed great concern to Jett. She even added a firm "the end" as she closed the book. 

Being a two year old with a very limited ability to talk to me, I don't know why she was reading to Jett on our back porch. Perhaps it's because he's new. Perhaps it's because she was bored. Perhaps it's because Willa and her parents don't listen attentively enough and he was, quite literally, a captive audience. Or perhaps it's because something inside her understood that he was scared, and knew that if she felt as he felt she would want someone to sit beside her and read under the dark sky. It's so easy to see in her toddlerhood the fallenness of man, and to miss the moments where God enables her to glorify himself. We think she's big enough to be full of sin, but too little to be glorifying God. But we're wrong (see 1 Timothy 4:12). He created her and put a huge helping of compassion inside that body, especially for those smaller than herself. And animals. I choose to see what she did for Jett during his first night as a picture of what we should always be doing to one another. Simply loving.

And that is the picture I hold to when the dog really starts to annoy. The yipping during afternoon naps. The accidents in the kennel. The chewing and the jumping and the toe nibbling. When I start to forget why we incorporated him into our family I remember that God can and will use this little creature to help Ray grow her ability to love on others. I've little doubt there are many future lessons in store for me as I watch the girls and their dog grow up together. 

Practice does not make perfect

For three weeks now I've been experiencing one of the hazards of being a stay-at-home mom: terrible neighbors. One would think in a country like PNG there would be no chance of having neighbors with a garage band that has zero self-awareness. One would think. Sadly, our neighbors do have a garage band made up of individuals who believe anyone can do anything. Talent is an afterthought, if part of any of their thoughts. Besides self-awareness, they lack a sound muffling garage. Instead it's just a wall of jungle behind our properties that pummels all that amplified noise right back into my abused ears. 

As we plunge into week four of practicing the same four or five songs every afternoon for five hours, I can confidently say the band has gotten worse. They're so loud I feel them in the floor, and with that kind of volume I can only think about them. Sometime during the 100th attempt of their almost-on-key version of "Under the Boardwalk" (think throbbing, pulsating torture with a howling cat thrown in for good measure), I began to fancy myself an expert. I've decided that their performance deteriorates when their self approval inflates. As they "master" playing songs in a simple, straightforward manner, they start to increase the challenge by adding trills and "woahwoahwoahs" where there just shouldn't be any. Ever. Especially not by them.

So in an effort to make this experience edifying, I've been reflecting on how I do this in my own life. Where do I forge ahead thinking I've mastered something, when I should be pulling back and taking it note by note? Keeping it simple? For me it's flexibility. I like to style myself a flexible person. Sure, I'm laid back (as long as the house is swept, dishes are done, kids are asleep, to-do list is complete). Sure, I can do anything at a moment's notice (as long as the house is swept, dishes are done, kids are asleep, to-do list is complete). Sure, my plan for the day isn't set in stone (more like set in the bedrock under the stone). Sure, I'm okay with our PNG friends unexpectedly landing for a morning and chatting about I'm not completely sure what (really??? argh).

That's all rather hard for me to say publicly because flexibility is the one thing every missionary is supposed to be amazing at. The word is overused in any sort of training or orientation program as an absolute requirement. Are you a flexible person? Get ready to be flexible. Flexibility is key. Life will be tough if you aren't flexible. You won't make an impact if you're inflexible. On and on and ON. I heard it so much during my time I began to believe I actually was flexible. Obviously I had to be if I was going to survive (which, incidentally, is not true). As a result, I occasionally go through phases where I believe I'm flexible, and I stop working on the basics of being calm amidst the unplanned; stop intentionally practicing the art of allowing God to economize my days. Sometimes I even add trills thinking I can. Because I'm amazing. And flexible. But I inevitably crash in a mess of discordant notes, and it's not pretty.

Life most certainly is better on the mission field if you're a flexible person. I envy those around me that have the gift of hospitality and the ability to truly put all aside for something unplanned. I'm capable of doing it, but it's an internal battle that takes its toll and makes me acutely aware of my need for God to do the work in me to prioritize His way. Perhaps the awfulness of our neighbor's band and their tendency to complicate when they should stabilize will help remind me to practice flexibility one note at a time.

These agonizing choices

The walls of the buildings are colorful, the grass is a rich green, and the playground looks out onto the moody ocean and a street lined with coconut palms. The international school looks pleasant enough from the outside, but is ultimately an unknown. Just one more unknown in the mountain of unknowns looming in our children's educational future.

Every time we walk or drive past that school my brain hurts. I love watching Ray develop physically and mentally as she turns into a little girl, but the persistent passage of time brings us closer and closer to her first day of school. What will that day look like? Do we homeschool? Do we send her to the international school? Do we move to Ukarumpa, the SIL center in the highlands, where she can attend a school full of other missionary kids? Do we try to work out some sort of one-room school with other PBT parents? And my head hurts.

Those curls...

This isn't a problem isolated to expat parents of expat kids. In fact, if I wasn't the natural worrier that I am, we could procrastinate this headache for several more years. Many stateside parents have to make schooling decisions when their children are still being knit together in the womb. So I'm grateful that we aren't forced by society to frantically search for the right preschool and the right district before I even know my child, but I'm not very excited about any of our prospects and dreading the day we have to make a decision. When I see Ray's ringlet curls bouncing off her ears, then her shoulders, then her back, I have a marred excitement. She's growing so beautiful and strong... but she's growing. Stop doing that!  

Homeschooling is something I never wanted to do. I have a degree in secondary education, but a degree certainly doesn't make a person. When teaching days were good, I loved it. But it took a lot for those days to be good and I was not patient. Have I grown over the past decade and developed more patience? I certainly hope so, but I don't want to test that out on my children and their division problems.

The international school is rumored to be quite excellent right now. Right now. In PNG, expertise comes and goes. The hospital has exciting (and usually imported) flavors of the month that never stick around too long, but are delicious while they last. This month's flavor will be an anesthesiologist while next month's flavor will be a neurosurgeon. Or perhaps there won't be a flavor for one or two or ten months. One never knows. It's always best to try and plan your medical emergencies around the flavor of the month. The international school works the same way. The level of excellence is dependent on the leadership, and that leadership has a high turnover rate. This year the school may be of the highest quality, but next year under the new leadership? Not so much. Are we willing to risk that? Or will we send her there while the quality is high and then pull them out if/when the quality dips back down? 

Going up to Ukarumpa would be exciting for me. We have family up there (not blood, but family all the same) and the weather is crisp and cool. The school is better than most US schools and the girls would be surrounded by loving teachers that would be part of their spiritual growth as well as their educational growth. Seems perfect, but it's not. Our work is here and it just feels wrong to go up there. It's possible this will change in the years between now and then, but we really don't see how it could.

I think my favorite option is collaborating with other parents here in town. I can't even begin to know what that would look like or how we would pull it off, but in my head it's less lonely than homeschooling, more stable than the international school, and local.

I recognize that God doesn't always call us to places or situations that we feel comfortable in. Educating and socializing our children is one of those "situations" for me. It's yet another area of our lives, highlighted by living here and being isolated from the girls' passport country, God is asking me to leave to Him. To wait and trust that He does have a plan for this. While contemplating all of our flawed choices, my task is to find that happy balance between doing nothing expecting God to do everything and doing everything expecting God to forget this detail. That has never been an easy balance for me to achieve.

Returning with class

We've traded white and yellow cockatoos for leathery fruit bats, air conditioning for the occasional sea breeze, indoor church for outdoor church, restaurants for home cooking, and suitcases for closets. There are certain aspects of Cairns we sorely miss, and I briefly adorn my "going south hat" when I see the morning and evening flights in the sky, but overall we're relieved. We're home. It smells like home, looks like home, and feels like home. 

Getting here was relatively easy, but not without character. We had two short flights and a brief stint in Port Moresby's domestic terminal. Our morning started slow since we had a later flight and we made it to the airport with plenty of time to spare. Since we were a unique case, going through immigration took some time. Willa didn't exist as an independent person when we arrived in country and, as such, she didn't have a visa. But then she wanted to leave the country as an independent expatriate who happened to not be in their system and also happened to not have a visa in her brand new passport. In the end it's doable, but unique and complicated. Fortunately we had a very happy agent that chose to chat about the girls and baby names while we waited for higher-ups to sort us out. 

The hot and humid PNG air hit as soon as we climbed down the metal steps of the Qantas plane that bore us away from pleasant Cairns, but it felt right. I used to react to that air with nerves of excitement and dread. Now it's simply the air as it's supposed to be. Blowing hot and smelling hot. Two international flights landed at the same time causing the immigration lines to fill the small, dark room. One agent was available for important people, one agent was available for those getting a visa on arrival, and one agent was available for the many, many expats coming in with a visa. That was us, so in dismay we popped to the back of the line in the back of the hot room. Willa was strapped to Brian's front in the Baby Bjorn while Ray was strapped to me in the Ergobaby. I wasn't exactly sure how I would hold her in the creeping line. My back ached just thinking about it, but almost immediately an airport employee came around and quietly led us to the important people line where only one other family was waiting. Traveling with youth is exhausting, but it has perks!

We made it to the domestic terminal and settled into an empty row of seats. Ray warily eyed the precocious Papua New Guinean toddler sitting in the next row. Eventually they became over-the-seat friends sharing books, snacks, and squeals. In return for sharing her Olaf the Snowman book, the girl gave Ray some Twisties, forever addicting her to that processed puff of corn with questionable flavoring. 

Olaf and snacks kept her appeased for brief moments.

Climbing aboard the Air Nuigini flight from Port Moresby to Madang was less sentimentally appealing than the exit from our first plane. It wasn't a full flight, but even so the cabin felt tight. Small bursts of stale air would come out of the vents, but did little to relieve the overall stuffiness. We sat in our sweat feeling the tenseness of our fellow passengers, all of us wondering when the crew would arrive. The comfort level dropped even lower when the lady sitting behind Brian sprayed enough perfume to cover three rows. Ray was immensely frustrated at being strapped into another seat, this one much more uncomfortable than the first. She determined to follow the course of action dreaded by all parents in planes: bellow, whine, fuss, and flail. It's the first and only time I've been grateful she doesn't have full command of the English language. She began by reasonably asking to be let loose and when that was a firm no, she lost sight of reason. The rest of the flight went about like that. Brief moments where she calmly asked to do something she's never allowed to do, followed by a "why can't I have my way" meltdown. Towards the end, Brian looked at me from across the aisle and reminded me that it's just one hour (plus some wait time) where it could have been sixteen. Truth.

The flight ended exactly as it should have. Brian and I massively miscommunicated leaving me huffy. He efficiently gathered up Willa and most of the bags while I fumbled with Ray and the rest of our carry-ons. Not everyone was disembarking in Madang, so instead of the usual human crush to get off it was just a few passengers. This meant everyone could watch in stony silence as I bumped and crashed my way up the aisle with a cranky toddler in one arm and poorly positioned bags falling off the other. One would think it was my first flight. It wasn't until after that impressive display of personal organization when we were clear of the plane that Brian confirmed Sir Michael Somare (the last prime minister) had been in the front row. Awesome. I probably whacked him or his people on the head with a flailing Ray foot. 

All minor difficulties and embarrassments aside, we're here. Walking in the door for the first time flipped the invisible switch that sends a dreamy haze over the previous stage. Those months in Australia happened, but they feel so distant. If it weren't for Willa's presence, my own newly visible feet, and the sad remains in our neighbor's yard of what used to be a towering mango tree, I would question whether any of it happened. But it did. And I loved it. Now I'm here. And I love it, too.  

How vomit led to self-awareness

You quickly find things out about yourself when your shirt is dripping and your hands are sticky with the evidence of your child's illness. I was never the girl that played house and dreamed of the day I would have kids. I never believed I would be okay with having another human's bodily fluids all over me. I therefore determined I would be childless (so many fluids come out of children) and never enter the medical profession on any level (even more fluids flowing in a hospital... gross). I knew if I became a mother this day would come. I knew it would be revolting and messy and smelly and, well, disturbing. What I didn't know is that it would disturb me for reasons independent of the bodily fluid on my shirt and on my hands. 

This past week and a half I've inwardly ached and outwardly cried for Ray. She's miserable. First she had a stomach bug, then she lost the ability to go to the bathroom due to the bug, and finally she caught a cold (which she promptly passed to the rest of the family). Even though she's an achy, hungry, stopped up mess, she still laughs and sings and dances when she can. She also cries for no reason, or many reasons, constantly. Today is the first day that she's made it through a whole hour without losing it over something. Deep breath. 

The things I found out about myself in this first true experience mothering sick are both encouraging and discouraging. I was surprised to find that what other parents have said is actually true: I love every bit of Ray and don't think twice about having her vomit on me. I was equally surprised to find that I didn't trust God with an ounce of her health during that time. Several years ago my Dad and I went to pick up a pizza for the family. It was a rare moment in my adult life when it was just me and him, and those moments often result in a deep conversation. He asked how Brian and I felt about potentially having children in an area of the world that is high risk for malaria, dengue, measles, and other such unpleasantness. I very confidently said that, though we had talked about it, we weren't concerned. We felt strongly that God has us in PNG, and that includes any children we may have. Unless He made it clear that we should move back to the States, we would trust Him with our hypothetical children's health. I even went so far as to say that if they do contract a tropical disease, we know that it isn't out of His control or plan. Wow. I was so confident I felt that way and so clueless about how deeply a child wiggles into a parent's heart. So deep, in fact, that I have to check myself on whether I'm putting the child above God in my life. When I didn't handle her first average stomach bug very well I began to question how I would handle anything more serious. I just couldn't let go of the worry and trust that she actually was under His control and in His plan. Every minute of her run of the mill illness I was sure she was dehydrated or compacted or dangerously exhausted. Never mind that she was drinking milk and water with a vengeance. Never mind that she was sleeping most of the night. Never mind that she was singing "In Summer" and "Let It Go" in between bouts of nausea. The positives tend to slip by me when I convince myself it's time to worry.

Though still sick and far from her normal self, Ray is doing better. As her health clearly improves, I also improve. I'm grateful that this first experience was in Australia instead of PNG. God clearly knew that I would need the comfort of knowing two reliable and fully-functioning hospitals were 15 minutes away and in His mercy He provided that. However, we're only weeks from returning to a situation with more risk and less care. A situation where my crutches are taken away and all that's left is a confident trust in our Father or frayed nerves and a thicker gray streak in my hair. I'm not going to be as flippant as I was on that pizza run in knowing how I will react when another illness hits my girls. What I will be doing is better preparing myself for it now that I know I'm not as amazing as I thought I was. I'm learning that our trust in Him for anything can only come out of a reliance on Him, rather than a confident boast in our own hypothetical abilities to trust. So hopefully next time around there will be a little less worry and a little more leaning.