Clouds

I've been hoping to avoid the inevitable forever. Hoping I would be special enough or strong enough or happy enough to never feel it. The pull of America. The distaste for PNG. The general discontent that eventually happens to people living away from their home country. My discontent exploded on me when I wasn't aware it was lurking and wasn't prepared to ward it off. It came in the form of a loving mother and grandmother. She brought with her the essence of America and all it means to me right now. Comfortable homes, delightful summer trips, yummy food, and family connections. All the devil had to do was put one little seed in my heart. One little tug and my whole happy world unravelled. 

I started asking hard questions about why we're here and coming up with flimsy answers. Not because the ironclad answers don't exist, but because my flaky heart can't see them right now. As I wallowed in my dark cloud of "why is my life here and not there" Brian encouraged me to take these moments to write out the things I love about PNG. To remind myself of our happy reality, partially as a practical exercise and partially to derail my thoughts from obsessing about a fake life in the US. If I'm thinking hard about the good things of this home I can't think about the longed for things of that home. Here's my list so far:

1.   The imported New Zealand cheese here is infinitely better than comparable cheese in the States.

2.   The pineapple is sweet, juicy, and readily available for anywhere from $1-$3. Economical yum.

3.   I love kaukau (perfect mix of potato and sweet potato) in various forms and have zero access to it in the US.

4.   I have a home here.

5.   I have work here.

6.   Ray will grow up knowing that the world around her isn't always physically comfortable. And she'll just deal. 

7.   Ray will grow up knowing more than one language.

8.   Ray will grow up knowing that in order to eat chicken and pig, you must first kill the said chicken or pig. She'll be tougher for it.

9.   We hear outside noises 24/7 since the house is never closed.

10. We smell outside smells 24/7 since the house is never closed.

11. I'm inside God's will and residence.

You'll notice that many of the items on the list are pretty shallow. It's the best I can do right now, and I'm trying to be patient with myself because I know that this inevitability, the disenchantment with exotic PNG, will be followed by another inevitability: true acceptance of my life here. God will bring me there.

As I struggle through this phase, He's already sent assurance of His watchfulness on my heart. I've been reading through a book by David Crowder called Praise Habit, which has not directly spoken to anything occurring in my life until last night. In his rumination of Psalm 84 (the psalm that includes the well known "better is one day in Your courts than thousands elsewhere") he says:

We have not been promised palatial housing, but we have been promised His presence. We often find ourselves in spaces that seem the last spot on earth we would have picked to insert ourselves, engaged in things we never imagined ourselves having to do, but we can know this comfort: that wherever we are, we are in the very residence of God and this is sweeter and greater than anywhere without Him. We carry His residence into these spaces. Perhaps we're on our hands and knees with sponge and soap because someone has just made a mess of things or maybe we've just noticed that most places we inhabit are in need of cleaning. Living praise often leads us close to the ground. To dirt. It often leads to industry that is unglamorous and unromantic. It often leads to sweat and toil and lonesome valleys. But around the bend are cool springs. These moments are holy because we know that wherever we find ourselves we are in the very house of God. And there is space and comfort here exceeding anything offered elsewhere. Even if it leads us to dark places on our hands and knees, it is sweeter than lying on a beach in Greece because the sunshine of our Maker's presence is brighter and stronger than a thousand stars, and it reaches to wherever we are.

It was just the reminder I needed to help pull my thoughts out of the swirling clouds of discontent. And I added number 11 to my list.

Deferred love

The verdict on the dog decision isn't a yes or a no. It's the worst kind of verdict: wait.

About two weeks ago we went up to the highlands to visit some friends and see the dentist. Our trip ended up reminding us of dog owning headaches. At the mission station people have many dogs of various shapes, sizes, personalities, and occupations. While we were visiting it was suspected that a puppy died of Parvo, so most dogs went on lockdown. Vet care is sporadic and/or do-it-yourself. Despite being a missionary, I'm not really a do-it-yourself kind of person. Being vet-less would undoubtedly take away years of my life in needless anxiety about our four-legged friend. A Parvo outbreak with no vaccine readily available is just one of many potential health hazards facing dogs here. On top of being reminded of the realities of life without a vet, we stayed at a house with a dog and were reminded of what it's like to have barking outside your window at night. These were obvious points against.

Ray's "Sammy" will be her dog for now.

Then on Sunday we went to a new friend's house. He's British, his wife is Canadian, and they're inviting anyone and everyone to come watch World Cup games at their place. They have two enormous dogs, a Rottweiler and a German Shepherd. We all attended closely as Ray made herself known to these behemoths, and I'm not sure which creature liked the other best. Ray squealed with delight any time one of them looked at her, and they doted. After the brief meeting, they were put outside where the Rottweiler watched over her from the window. When Brian started playing "too rough" with Ray, the dog let him know. For Ray's part, her whole body lit up in reaction to being so near dogs, especially one that would "talk" to her through a window.  

It's quite clear that Ray is enamored with dogs, maybe to her detriment. She'll have to learn that many of the dogs around here are not friendly; we always keep a close eye on her when her dog alarm (outstretched arms, bright eyes, a torrent of baby words) goes off. We don't want to prevent her from knowing the joys of dog ownership just because it's a difficult and sometimes heartbreaking task in PNG. However, we'll wait until she's a bit older, during a time in which we can all give solid attention to training the dog. 

That doesn't mean it's easy to say no right now. I saw a little white puppy during our run this morning, and my heart broke a little. I wanted him (or her) as much as I wanted the Doberman Pinscher puppy I saw in the pet shop when I was 10 years old. And I don't even like Doberman Pinschers. The magnetic tug of dogs on my heart never abates and knowing that I could give a dog a lovely home that might otherwise have a very terrible life makes the tug almost override sense. But sense keeps telling us not now. So we wait.

Cats, dogs, birds... and decisions

We're thinking about getting a guard dog. The pros and cons of dog ownership in PNG have been waging a war in my head ever since we started entertaining the idea. During our first term we house/pet-sat for dear friends while they were on furlough. Their collection of animals included an outdoor dog, an indoor dog, and a cat. I decided to post a journal entry I wrote while I was living at their house which has served to remind me what my life is like as an animal owner. Perhaps it will help us make the dog decision...

"I'm not a detective. I don't have good observation skills. I often see clues indicating that abnormal things are occurring in my normally normal world, but my mind refuses to see them as the warning sign God intended them to be. Instead I choose to accept the first ridiculous account that pops into my Sherlock-less head to explain away what I see, and I wind up unawares. When I came home from work Tuesday night a series of events played out that should have warned me my evening would be interesting. Per usual, I ignored all the signs and ended my night stunned. Laughing, but stunned.

To set up the general atmosphere, the bottom of the sky dropped on Tuesday. All afternoon. There had already been almost five inches of rain on Monday, so Tuesday was really just more of the same. The gravel road was treacherous as I plucked my way home, arms gracefully balancing three bags of groceries and a floppy umbrella. I was desperately trying to keep my hair smooth for Bible study, but the weather was obviously against smooth hair so I let go of that lofty ambition. As soon as I entered the house my mood went from cranky to downright irascible. The first thing I saw were tiny paw prints all over the dining room table and the kitchen counter. More often than not I'm able to peacefully submit to the fact that the cat makes adventurous little forays onto furniture when it knows no one is in the house to reprimand him. But on this particular frizzy-haired Tuesday evening, I'd had it with the cat and its blatant disregard for my feelings on the issue. It didn't help that right on the edge of the dining room table, closest to where I consume food, was a tuft of cat hair. This was the first piece of evidence that should have tipped me off to strangeness, but instead of seeing the perfect tuft of hair and thinking, "What could be the cause of this?" I saw the tuft of hair and thought, "Grrrrrrrrr cat." I had just grumped my way to the bathroom to clean the mud off my feet when I heard some thumping noises. As soon as I finished cleaning up, I went back into the kitchen to investigate and found the cat sitting on top of the kitchen counter right next to the stove. It was too much. I snapped. It was unusual for the cat to commit this manner of crime right in front of me, but this second clue went totally unheeded in my rage. There was yelling and lunging (the details are a bit embarrassing, really), but he was too quick and darted downstairs before I was remotely within range. When I next saw him, I decided to communicate my displeasure by hissing at him. The result was fairly satisfactory and I started to feel better.

Even though we are dog people, I developed a special place in my heart for Mic when he watched over me through an illness.

As the evening progressed, the cat continued to act odd in the general area of the kitchen. I chalked it up to him processing my impressive hissing performance and put it out of my head. 

Directly above our stove is a small spice rack containing basic spices, olive oil, and apple cider vinegar. Each level of the rack is narrow and the spices are set up as far to the front as possible, leaving a small space between the spices and the wall. Earlier that day we were given ground cinnamon that I reached up to put away. Before I started shifting spices to make room for the cinnamon, the spice rack fluttered. Spice racks aren't really known for fluttering, so I, of course, immediately panicked. I pride myself for not being a screamer, so I bottled all my panicky emotions inside and took one brave look at the empty space behind the spices. Instead of seeing the wooden rack, I saw a sleek black object, rather long. The scream sitting in my belly jolted as if to come out, but I swallowed it back down. Instead, heart pounding and slightly light-headed, I walked into the living room to calmly ask my husband to check if there was a bird on our spice rack. He laughed at me. And then he looked behind the oregano and saw a dirty black bird.

The rain, the bird, the cat, and the spice rack had created a perfect storm of weird. The bird, finding the weather to be a little too wet, flew into our dry house through the fireplace. Instead of finding a haven of peace, it found a cat. After an epic battle that raged through the living room, dining room, and kitchen (traces of which were found after the bird's discovery), the bird found some solace on the spice rack. For mysterious reasons, the cat had not aggressively pursued its victim while it remained on the spice rack. Once the bird found this effective hiding spot, it thought it would top off all of our days by getting its head stuck behind the jar of apple cider vinegar.

At first, Brian was sure the bird was dead. While he was checking for life, I banished the dog and cat to the basement. After quickly dispatching that duty, I ran back into the living room to be as far from the bird as possible when Brian freed it. Sure enough, the bird was very much alive and started flapping around the house banging into things. Hard. Brian valiantly chased it while I, equally valiantly, ran around yelling choice words trying to avoid the winged monster coming at my head. Eventually, Brian was able to catch the bird in the laundry basket and we freed it with strict instructions to stay away from the chimney.

You have to look close, but the bird's there!

For the next half hour, we frantically bleached the kitchen and did a thorough search of the floors and furniture for feathers and poop. There was an abundance of both. After that, I spent a good portion of the rest of the evening mulling two questions. Why am I a language surveyor, a job that requires impeccable observation skills, when I don't notice the aftermath of a National Geographic battle waged for who-knows-how-long in my own living room? And for what possible reason did the cat not finish off the bird when it was such an easy kill? I don't have an answer for the first question, but I am quite confident that the answer to the second is God's intimate knowledge of me and what I can handle. Coming home to a dead, bloody bird on my stove may have broken me that day. Instead, it was all just a good laugh."

So... guard dog? Sigh. I still don't know.

Waking up to PNG

Our 3 yr old "sister" going into her bush house with a bag on her head. When you think about it... why not?

It was the kind of Saturday morning where I could almost forget that I'm not living in the States. If it weren't for the sweltering heat already baking the house and the buzzing mosquitoes flitting from my calf to my toe to my elbow, I would forget. I was making the bed while Ray puttered around behind me unmaking it; a run of the mill activity for a mom with a 1-year-old. Just as I was coaxing her away from the straightened sheets, we heard a loud bang. I automatically assumed it was a coconut falling on someone's house or car, but then it didn't quite have the resonance of a falling coconut; it was much more explosive. Beyond the sound quality, the bang was immediately followed by shouts, and falling coconuts aren't usually followed by shouts unless someone was silly enough to be under the coconut tree. The noise immediately jerked me out of my state of forgetfulness and landed me right back in PNG. I tried not to think it was gunfire so close to the house, but I couldn't help it. I'm always wondering if the random cracking noises I hear are gunshots. Ray shot down the hallway towards the front door to investigate, saving the bed from further unmaking.

As part of our morning ritual, we always open doors and windows to get the airflow going. I followed Ray to the front door where we could see the activity that accounted for the strange sounds. It turned out to be a truck burning just down the street. So we spent the morning sitting on the floor at our security door watching the fire grow and eventually die. Ray held on to the bars of the door swaying gently back and forth while yelling her signature "bah" to anyone who would listen. Cars drove by, people walked by, and none seemed concerned by the loud explosions occasionally being emitted from the burning metal. No police came, no firefighters contained it. Just a truck burning right next to the main road into town with a small crowd of semi-angry people surrounding it. We still don't know the full details of the event, but we know it was a vengeance burning. Something happened between that crowd of people and the owner of the truck, resulting in the truck's untimely and violent death. We heard rumors from our village family later that it was the Twisties truck. Twisties are a deliciously processed puff of corn covered in greasy flavoring and we have no idea why anyone would want to destroy their truck. The village stories went a little askew in rumor and conjecture once we got past the basic information of the pick-up's identity, but rest assured the people in that crowd felt just cause. 

Situations like this arise every so often reminding me that I'm not in a place I know. Those moments sometimes elicit frustration when my home culture and PNG culture clash in unmet expectations, but occasionally it gives me a thrill. I love to watch the trucks full of people coming into town, legs and arms mixing up with heads and torsos, and then to watch them flow back out again in the evenings. I love to hear the people laughing and singing as they bounce in the back. My morning runs are more entertaining now that they include men hunting for frogs while taking their morning bath in the golf course pond or boys trying (and failing) to shoot fruit bats out of the mango trees with their homemade slingshots. I see the golf course and it takes me back to the States. Then I see the multi-tasking man washing while chasing frogs and I'm plopped right back in PNG. And it makes me happy. 

When fears and life collide

"Oh crap." 

Not very eloquent, but it's the first thing that popped into my head when I saw the twenty or thirty men standing by the road a hundred yards ahead of my vehicle. The sun was dipping close to the jagged mountains on my right and bouncing off the sea to my left. It was the last day of Brian's survey trip and I was encouraged by how life had gone for the two of us left in town. We were both still alive, still happy, there was still a standing house, and we had even been moderately productive (Ray became a walker!). This was our first attempt at Brian going out to the bush for days at a time without us, and the success of it gave me a sense of calm ease. Of course it couldn't end without something jarring my newfound confidence.

Before Brian left I was a ball of nerves about living life in town by myself. I didn't want to drive, didn't want to shop, didn't want to be solely responsible for Ray every minute of every day. What if she choked on something? What if she needed to go to the hospital? What if someone tried to break in? What if things start breaking at the house? What if things broke at the dorm? What if I got a stomach bug? What if, what if, what if...??? I fill my life with unnecessary anxieties that are inflated when I feel vulnerable; Brian being out of touch in a PNG village certainly qualifies. We didn't take the decision for him to leave lightly and I tried to delineate between the healthy fears and crazy fears before he left. I decided that driving was a crazy fear for me. Long ago I made the decision to never drive in this country because the culture of driving is so different from what I know, but that decision was logistically crippling us. I chose to face the anxiety head on to make our lives better and found out that the unspoken rules of the road here are exactly suited to the style of driving my mother prepared me for: offensive with lots of communication by horn. Being free of that constraining fear gave me the leverage to do much more, and the other fears were minimized in the knowledge that I could always get the two of us to help.

Brian wasn't set to arrive back in town until late afternoon the day he returned. That being the case, I decided to go with Ray to a beachside resort about twenty minutes from the house on the North Coast Highway to meet with some dear friends. In the short span of time that Brian was absent, I drove this road many times to see these and other friends. It quickly became familiar to me with all its various curves and potholes, and I forgot that in PNG potholes, though huge, are not the only danger you face. After I arrived at the resort, happily chatting with my friends while we watched our kids play together, I got a text from Brian saying he heard there was an issue at one of the bridges between me and town. Some men were maybe throwing bushknives (machetes) at cars, or maybe not. The reports weren't clear. Eventually he got new information that it was just a group of drunk men that were run off by locals, but as his car was driving right through that same area he would let me know if everything was clear. When his car went over the bridge, all was fine. He texted and said to come on, so off Ray and I went.

A portion of the North Coast Highway

I followed two other vehicles closely thinking that if something was still amiss I would be safer in a line of cars. I could see the bridge from far off and immediately noticed a police truck on the far side. The near side was blocked by a line of vehicles waiting to get across with a large cargo truck obstructing my view of the policemen. It wasn't until we got a bit closer that I noticed the group of men milling around the jungle on the righthand side of the road. They all had bushknives, some wore shirts around their heads as makeshift masks, and none of them were happy. As we slowed to a stop my body betrayed me. I felt like my head was staying cool and calm, but my legs and hands were shaking uncontrollably. I tried not to think of all the stories I've heard over the years about raskols (young and listless men committing all manner of crimes) making trouble on the roads, but it was hard in the face of the angry and armed men. Their attention was not focused on any of the vehicles, but ahead at the bridge where the police were standing. I tried to think through where I would go if I got stuck on this side of the bridge and whether or not to bring attention to myself by turning around and driving away, but I just couldn't make a decision. I was frozen. 

That's when I heard the sharp raps of gunfire at the bridge creating a ripple of emotion in the men. They went from calm and angry to agitated and angry. They moved into the road spilling between and around all the vehicles, but they still weren't looking at any of us. Their eyes seemed glued to what I couldn't see. As soon as I saw space, I turned the truck around and drove slowly away. If at all possible, I wanted to get across that bridge. As I crept along I kept my eyes in the rearview mirror to see if the stopped cars would make it. They were moving, so I made yet another U-turn and sped back hoping to slide in behind the last vehicle. Before I could get back, all the cars were across and the men were in the road, in my way. I prayed, increased my speed, and hoped they had similar prejudices to men in the States in regards to female drivers; a prejudice that would encourage them to get out of my way. They did.

I still don't know what happened out there to cause the conflict. There have been deaths in that area and the best theory I have is that two groups were "sorting out" a death. Since I wasn't part of either group, I was white noise to them and so never in any real danger. The gunfire was most likely from the police firing their guns into the air as a warning. It was my first experience with this type of incident on PNG roads and, though frightening, only bolstered my contentedness at being here. God protected us and will continue to do so in His way. That doesn't mean we won't get hurt or sick or scared. It means He will strengthen us when we face the frightening and allow us to keep living the life He ordered for us. No matter what.    

Inviting chaos

As we all piled into the truck Friday, I enjoyed the feel of my hair being wet and clean at the same time. It wouldn't be long before the wet became sweat and being clean would be those precious seconds between the completion of a creek bath and the start of a sweaty, muddy walk back to the house. Papa sat in the front with Brian, I sat in the back next to Ray, Mama sat with baby Hannah bouncing in her lap on the other side of Ray, and one of Papa's many brothers sat in the bed of the truck with the cargo. We were going out to Yall village for the first time since arriving back in country. The bits of our family in the truck with us had come into town to buy supplies for a party the family was hosting on Saturday to welcome Ray home.

Ray dressed in a traditional grass skirt for her party!

Ray has three homes. Her primary home is with us in town. The flat is settled with our pictures on the walls and our clothes in the closets. It mostly smells like us too, barring the occasional waft of drying coconuts or processed tobacco (which is oddly similar to prune juice). She continues to love shopping and toddling around the office interrupting important happenings. Her other two homes are worlds apart. One is a combined home with her blood family in Texas and Delaware, where the houses of her grandparents are different but essentially equal. They are both temperature controlled, include running water, and provide consistent electricity. The cities they live in are full of busy people talking on smart phones. There are cars and fat dogs and general physical comfort. Ray's home in Yall consists of a house made of bush materials that comes full of friendly critters and is not meant to be used much beyond providing shelter at night, shelter for cargo, and shelter in storms. The village is lively during the day and deathly quiet at night. She has to go on a walk to get to her bath and, once arrived, doesn't appreciate being naked in the jungle standing on her tiptoes in a creek while people she trusts hurriedly splash cold water on her smelly hot body. But despite the glaring differences between all three homes, one thing is absolutely consistent: there are people in each that love her deeply and feel responsible for her growth.

I had a very bad attitude about spending this past weekend in the village. I'm comfortable in town and find that the older I get the less flexible I am about my living space. I like being in control of my surroundings, and going to the village entails a certain amount of unwelcome chaos. When we arrived, Ray immediately took to her family. They passed her from one person to another, making me a little nervous. As I watched Ray glide through the truck window into a sea of people, I knew I had finally arrived at the point where I must make the decision to either allow people to cart her off or to take a firm stand that she can never leave me. Fortunately, Mama made that decision for me. Ray was never carted off without Mama sending trusty Wilma to follow like a hound dog. "Lay Lay" is Wilma's self-appointed responsibility and since Wilma viciously protects anything she deems under her care, I let Ray go. 



Wouldn't you entrust your beloved child to this face?!?

The weekend was cut short due to the neverending struggle between Ray and sleep. She skipped napping the first day and had a fitful few hours of sleep during the night. She woke up at 1:15 in the morning and decided that was the perfect time to test the bamboo floors. She would shoot from one side of the mosquito net to the other, making the whole house shake. As the floor heaved and groaned under her small weight, she would pull up suddenly, stare at the floor, and laugh. Then she spent a period of time playacting that she was a battering ram. She would rear back and hit my stomach with the top of her head as hard as she could. More laughter. The rest of the night was spent vacillating between these bursts of incredible energy and standard meltdowns. Around 3:30, I fell apart. 

The next day we found out that Papa sat outside of our house during those wee morning hours to keep watch over us. They were worried about her lack of sleep and we decided, along with them, to leave a day earlier than intended. We'll try again in a couple weeks, and then again and again until she slowly adjusts to the village house. 

Mama trying hard to put Ray to sleep the PNG way... it didn't work.

On the day we left, we first went to a nearby village to worship and visit yet another family member. As Ray was being carried gently on slippery jungle paths by her "uncle" I took a moment, or several really, to thank God. I spent much of my time nursing my bad attitude and being frustrated to the point of anger at God for not helping Ray sleep. I almost didn't see the wonderful new relationships being formed and the new style of living that she clearly enjoyed so much that she didn't want to sleep! The variety between each of her homes will help her understand the vastness of the world God created. Nights of peaceful sleep will come and times of chaos will come. I'm working to allow both to be a part of our lives, as all those moments serve to grow Ray into exactly the person God intends her to be.

Things unseen

Originally published March 13

Many people in the church have a misconception about missionaries. They believe we're the infallible, the upper echelon, the holy-and-set-apart warriors of God. Or something like that. A little known fact is that we prepare ourselves before going to our home country to deal with the inescapable pedestal that we're put on. For me it's uncomfortable and always awkward. I feel burdened and inadequate with statements like, "Oh, you're amazing. I could never do what you do. Praise God for you... someone who will go! Impressive and excessively brave!" I'm not impressive. I'm not amazing. I'm not even all that brave. In reality, I'm doing the exact same thing people at our home churches are doing every day. I'm completing the task God put in front of me, and often not completing it very well. But He put it in front of me, not in front of you. If He put it in front of you, you would do it. Whenever I reflect on the careers people have that are supporting us, I feel certain they are the brave ones. Really, who wants a career in psychiatry? Yuck. Or teaching? Been there, done it, failed. Doctors of any sort? Gross... insides should be left to the inside. Church ministry? Terrifies me. Vague political jobs in DC? The ministry there is so huge I wouldn't even know where to begin. And I honestly don't even want to begin. God has His people in each of those areas and thousands more besides. So let me tell you a piece of life for an infallible, holy-and-set-apart warrior of God that will hopefully help debunk the general theory that missionaries are any more Christian than other believers.

Ever since we arrived in PNG one month ago, I've been struggling. Not with adjusting to the heat or the smells or the food or the people. Nope, I'm good on all that. In fact I love being back here. The heat isn't bothering me so much right now and I'm even becoming courageous enough to drive around by myself (that's huge for me). I'm struggling with something much deeper than the surface level transitions: my character and my walk with God. I'm easily frustrated, which quickly develops into full blown anger at any moment. I feel distant from God and have little to no desire to fix that. Studying my Bible is daunting right now and my prayers are mostly selfish. I would love to blame my thyroid levels, but I'm pretty sure they're in tact. I could also blame hormonal imbalances and, well, the heat, but in the end it's just me. Or so I thought and so I've been taught to think.

Ray has not developed a good sleeping routine here. She just can't sleep through the night. Something happens to her, some nights around 11pm and other nights around 2am, that wakes her up with no desire to go back to sleep. Nothing is actually wrong with her physically. She's not too hot or too cold. She's not dirty, though I always take the opportunity to change her diaper. She's not hungry. She's just scared, or mad, or insecure. Or maybe a combination of all of them. It doesn't happen every night, but it happens regularly. We haven't known what in the world is going on because she wasn't like this in the States. Being practical in thought at all times, we assumed she has started to have nightmares as a result of her malaria prophylaxis. It's an unfortunate side effect, but better than having malaria. So we comfort her the best we can, and try and get sleep the best we can. It's hard.



A rare moment where Ray is happy in her crib!

These two things may seem unconnected, but I'm not sure they are. Yesterday evening some of the national translators came to Brian with a minor problem about the dormitory. As he sat with them on the front stoop of the dorm watching the cool evening rain, Ray started crying in our house. Her tears motivated the men to address something with Brian that they've been concerned about for quite some time. Different men from different language groups have all felt the presence of evil on this property. They believe it's an evil spirit invited by previous tenants and never kicked out. It harasses them at night causing anxiety for themselves and they believe it's also harassing Ray causing her to wake up the way she does. We live so close to them they can't help but share in our sleepless hours with her. Instead of being frustrated at her or us, they are certain she is sharing their experience. 

Papua New Guineans are more deeply connected to the palpable spiritual world than we are as Americans. It's part of life for them. For us, it's always medicine or sickness or just a bad attitude that needs to be dealt with. I would never assume an evil spirit is attempting to wreak havoc in my life or my child's life. But we're in PNG now and I trust these men. I trust their instincts and their sensitivity to evilness in this form. They are afraid, but they are not cowering in fear. Their first reaction to hearing Ray cry out in the night is to pray for her.

They prayed for Ray... and I didn't. I, the infallible superhuman Christian didn't even think about our battle against things unseen. I was too busy being angry about nothing and trying to meet Ray's physical needs to fix the nighttime crying problem. I should have been praying for Ray, for Brian, for myself, and for the men living behind us. I have little doubt that my faith will be developed and strengthened through our interactions with Papua New Guinean Christians. I would say they are the real infallible, holy-and-set-apart warriors of God, but then I would be doing the same thing to them that many American Christians do to me. We are all running the same racing, plagued by the same evil, saved by the same grace.