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.  

Finding my way

Sometimes I wonder if I missed my calling in life. What was I really supposed to be when I grew up? A writer? A dog trainer? Working my way through the ranks of a therapeutic horseback riding stable? A teacher (eek!)? If I opened the door of unchosen professions wider, we'd start seeing wisps of Hannah on exotic archaeological digs, or Hannah as a stodgy old museum curator wandering dusty halls, or Hannah the college professor publishing historical papers as a hobby (I particularly like her stylish yet professional glasses). 

I talked myself out of every single one of those occupations, mostly because I didn't think I could cut it. I couldn't cut it, and about a million other more qualified, passionate, brilliant people were doing the same thing. So why should I even try? It's a horrible way to go through life and I almost missed out on one of the most fulfilling jobs I could have encountered by being that way. The first time I went to PNG I met (and secretly longed to be) the PNG survey team. They were all gifted, intelligent, and doing something that certainly qualified as the perfect job, in my estimation. They were writers completing reports after each survey that detailed the people group they visited. This involved analyzing lots of language data, but it also involved simply sharing about the people and their history. They were museum curators, occasionally collecting data on dying languages and archiving the data for future generations. They were a strange new breed of researcher that embodied my admittedly faulty view of a high-level archeologist, traveling from remote location to remote location discovering hidden bits of the world. They were teachers, using their skills during furlough to raise up new surveyors. They were not dog trainers or stable managers, but I could forgive that because I imagined these superpeople took up such activities as hobbies. They were language surveyors and what they did was an inviting mystery to me. But there was no way I could do it.

I'll never forget the day I was bouncing along the Highlands Highway after a weekend trip to a coastal town. We were heading back to Ukarumpa after a delightful time away, stuffed into a small van. I was sitting in the very back between two single people just beginning to learn of their attraction to one another. It was fun to people-watch their interactions as they danced around touchy topics, but I also rather wished they had just sat next to one another instead of talking over my lap. Directly in front of me was the head of the survey team. He asked how teaching was going and various other distracting questions about my history. He then asked about my long-term plans and whether PNG was included in them. I thought rapidly about talking to him of my interest in survey, but I was scared he would make it clear that my kind wasn't welcome in survey (I can have some pretty crazy thinking occasionally... just occasionally). Of course he didn't say I was too dull a crayon for survey, or even remotely indicate the idea was meritless. Instead, he asked for some details of my plan and then nonchalantly stated that it was sound.  

Here we were using a visual tool to ask people what langauges they use in various church activities.

The unlooked for encouragement was all I needed to push me over the edge. His casual response to what I'd been thinking about for weeks is what finally started the snowball that landed me back in PNG doing my dream job. I've found something else now that's even more delightful and fulfilling, but I plan to always be part of the survey process in PNG with Brian. Ray is certainly a consuming boss, but when we get back we'll work out a balance between my new life as Mom and my old life as surveyor. And when those wondering thoughts enter my head, I'll just look at the little girl and remember the path that, by God's grace, brought Brian and her into my life. Nope, self, you didn't miss your calling. 

Oh, Wilma

When we first met her, Wilma was a spunky 3 year-old fully representative of the Papua New Guinean ideal of a toddler. She sassed everything, whether animate or inanimate. She took what she wanted and did what she wanted. She never accepted "no" as the final answer. If "no" became the final answer, she ignored the adults and forged ahead with her plans. Everyone in the village knew where Wilma was located at any time, because not even the jungle could squelch her enthusiasm. I watched her epic meltdowns and displays of domestic dominance in horror, never sure how to react.

Raising children is one of those cultural things I erroneously viewed as universal. I used to believe that there are certain behaviors no one could possibly tolerate, no matter how your life experiences have shaped you. After experiencing Wilma (because she is an experience), I realized that my preconceptions about universal parenting are false and based on my cultural lens. Though we all have vastly different levels of acceptable behavior for children, our culture defines the parameters for those levels. So when I witnessed PNG's base level of acceptable behavior through the community's reaction to Wilma, I was taken back.

Not only were her dramatic tantrums and misdeeds accepted, they were encouraged. In PNG many groups believe that up to a certain age children have no ability to see outside of themselves. They are selfish beings concerned only with their own wants and needs without the capability of seeing the needs of those around them. It varies, but this stage of life can last until a child is 5 or 6 years old. All the tantrums and disobedience are annoying, but ultimately encouraged as a primal display of strength. That child, the one who yells the loudest and disobeys the fiercest, will make a wonderful adult if handled right in the intermediate years. 

Once a child reaches the age where they are expected to give back to the society that put up with them, a flip is switched. There is very little tolerance for their bad behavior and selfish tendencies. It's hard to watch interactions between adults and the children going through this shift. It's harsh and, again, grating to my American senses. Wilma is currently undergoing an assault to her reign of terrible twos-threes-fours-etc. on two fronts: she has a younger sibling and she has reached "that" age range. The baby is now given rights to unfettered selfishness while Wilma is expected to take responsibility for that baby, since she is deemed old enough. Talk about insult and injury. However, each time we visit Wilma and her family in the village, we see her grow and change. She isn't always happy about giving up her throne to the baby, but she clearly loves this new role of caretaker. 

When I started to learn about parenting the PNG way, I pulled the insensitive West-is-best card (yep, I unfortunately still have that tucked away in my brain) and allowed myself to judge it as, well, wrong. But then I looked at Wilma's older siblings and realized that they are all well-adjusted, responsible, and much more hardworking than I was at their age. There are some major problems with domestic life in PNG, just like there are major problems with domestic life in the US. It's the state of humanity apart from God as sin permeates every aspect of our lives. I fervently pray that my parenting of Ray will not be the PNG way or the way of the West, but instead guided by Biblical directives. In the meantime, I continue to learn about stretching my cultural self through our interactions with Wilma and her older, more level-headed siblings. It'll be interesting to watch her grow into her own as I continue to grow into my own.

A boy named Sue

Ray Evangeline. It's a name that people either love or hate. We have yet to meet friend or stranger that is capable of hiding their reaction to it. You'll deal with this your whole life; we totally recognize that and accept responsibility for it. So here's why we did it, my girl.

You were good news. Nope... you were great news. We found out just a month before you entered our lives as a tiny embryo that we had between a 1 and 3 percent chance of getting pregnant. Our doctor talked us through godly grieving and implored us not to target one another in the bitterness that sadness can sometimes breed. I was too shocked to have proper time to be sad before God gave us you. From my perspective, your dad was very sad. You'll have to ask him for a more accurate representation of his reaction to the news when you're curious. Regardless of how either of us felt during that month of processing, we were overjoyed (and a little stunned) when God made your presence known. Besides being a lovely name, Evangeline became a natural fit for you because you were our good news.

Ray is a boy's name. Got it. We obviously knew that when we chose it, but we honestly didn't think it would be as difficult for people as it has been. "Rae" has become more common for a girl, so we figured all would be well despite the boy spelling. We also thought that by growing up in PNG, you wouldn't have to deal with the stigma of it being a boy's name. We've never encountered a Papua New Guinean man named Ray. Lots of Johns, Thomases, Stevens, and Andrews, but no Rays. Your dad just finished some work "in the bush" and showed lots of Papua New Guineans pictures of you. They loved you. They were also confused as to why we would give our little girl a boy's name. Hmmmm... oops.

But I'm not going to apologize to you for the explanations you will constantly be required to give. As you grow into the beautiful woman of God I know you'll be, I hope you'll understand the significance of your name and love having opportunities to explain it. Your grandmother called me her ray of sunshine my whole life, which she shortened to Ray. So you're getting "my" name. I'll be the first to tell you that I was only a ray of sunshine occasionally. I was a serious child often being admonished to be happy or to smile or to stop looking so mean. I didn't intend to communicate tenseness, it was just that my default facial expression was, quite unfortunately, very serious. You, on the other hand, are a naturally happy child. You laugh often and smile almost unceasingly. Where people commented over and over again that I should be happier, they comment over and over again on your gentle demeanor and friendly face. "Does she ever cry???" they ask. Of course you do, but never without a valid reason. I held my smiles close and you pass them out like candy. You truly are your name.

Beyond that, your dad and I desperately want you to be a ray of God's light in a very dark world. Go ahead and grimace at the cheesiness of that statement, but that's the best way I know to say it. We want you to grow to know and love Him to the point that it overflows into the lives of those around you. It's a hard place you've been born into; not a day goes by that I don't hear or read something that makes me sad (and scared) for you. But I also have full faith that God can give you the ability to embrace your name and shine for Him. 

So I'm not sorry we gave you a boy's name. Live up to it and remember whose kid you are every time you have to explain why you're a girl named Ray. 

Brian was thrilled to find some BBQ sauce with Baby Ray's name!

Cultural hang-ups

Traditional clothing seen on the Rai Coast

It's interesting to me how the western world feels the need to put clothes on naked village children. We have this mindset that all children need to wear clothes because that's obviously appropriate; naked children running around in the world makes us feel sad and is kind of offensive (though we may not admit the latter as a motivator for sending warm clothes to equatorial countries). The same goes for what clothes adults wear and how they wear them. Men wear pants and women wear items that cover all the blush-worthy areas, as we define them. We value clothing and tend to barrel ahead with our "right" views instead of learning about what constitutes modesty for others.

I first started thinking about this when I saw how western clothing translates in a PNG village setting. I stayed with a family on the north coast for five weeks in 2007. They had two sons and two daughters, all of whom stayed more or less fully clothed. The mother and father stayed fully clothed, most of the rest of the villagers stayed fully clothed, and all was right in my world. Then one day I popped over to the family's house unannounced to ask a question about the meal that night. The area of their home designated for cooking was partially concealed, but open enough to invite visitors. Anyone walking by could see in. As I strolled up and called out to the mother, I heard all manner of scrambling. When she peeked her head around I could tell she was throwing on her shirt and was rather embarrassed. I was confused because being topless in PNG is not uncommon, especially for a mother. Why would she be embarrassed? 

After that I started noticing things. I noticed that all the boys in the village wore shorts, even though most of those shorts had a worn out bottom. I noticed the women wearing shirts around me. I noticed the women not wearing shirts in situations where I was not expected to be. I noticed children being dressed in the morning by their parents and then promptly undressing as soon as their parents went to the garden. Overall I noticed that people were trying to communicate that they, too, were respectable by some vague definition of the word they thought I had. I then noticed as time went by that the overtly western cultural rules began to slide and the shirts (gasp!) stayed off.

Based on several articles published about PNG, and general discussions I've had with people about life there, it's obvious that many believe PNG is uncivilized. They base their judgements on what they think a civilized culture should be, and that picture does not include naked children or topless mothers. This mindset over the years, and the cultural hang-ups early missionaries overlaid onto their message, created a legalistic church culture where people are wearing things because that's what it means to be a Christian. It has created profound confusion about what is right and what is wrong. On surveys, I've had many conversations where people expressed their frustration at contradicting rules missionary's have brought or how missionaries have "changed their mind" about what's right and wrong. It's so easy to believe the things we're teaching aren't culturally motivated, but so many of them are. Even something as basic in our minds as what defines modesty. Some things just aren't so black and white as I grew up believing.

PNG is rapidly changing. Part of the change includes the view of clothing and what certain outfits communicate. Regardless of the outcome, I have learned to examine carefully what standards I'm holding up to others. The conversations I've had with confused and frustrated Papua New Guineans over early Christian teachings that emphasized a "do this, don't do that" list based on western cultural norms has further verified in my mind the importance of Bible translation. A major reason they are frustrated is because they haven't been able to test teachings against Scripture, so they are at the mercy of the western whim. And that is not always a nice whim to be at the mercy of.