Tremors deep under the surface send shock waves through solid rock and the earth quakes. Buildings sway, shelves teeter, books and living paraphernalia scatter everywhere. Things disconnect, solid things seem liquid, nothing is where it was.
No matter how many years you live overseas, culture shock can creep up and blindside you. The more “acclimated” you are, the less likely you are to beware. We knew that life was different in Zim, but we thought we were used to “Africa.” That big, dark continent that confounds aid and relief organizations and has absorbed countless missionaries.
Moving to Zimbabwe has been a “step up.” Although we read tragic stories of deterioration since 1980 (independence), Zimbabwe still has vestiges of being a developed country: supermarkets, used car lots, hospitals and clinics, schools with pools and immense sports grounds, hardware stores with hardware, roads in pretty good condition, traffic signals (which work when electricity is on), internet cafes (ditto), landscaped parks, lovely homes with pools and gardens.
There are elements which reflect years of neglect and deliberate exploitation: erratic power because the bills are not paid to countries of production, use of the US dollar and SA rand because the Zim dollar could not survive the inflation it generated, prices 5 to 10 times the value of the items, police randomly pulling drivers over for imagined offenses.
We have the added mix of moving to a city probably five times larger than Quelimane. A new language (Shona), a new culture (not all African cultures are alike), a new map, new transport (our bikes are out of the question for “getting” there), new people to get to know, a new ministry. It gets a bit overwhelming at times. But it’s part of the price you pay to be where you believe you should be, doing what you trust you should be doing.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Thursday, September 30, 2010
London: not tired yet
One of my favorite quotations is Samuel Johnson’s “The man who is tired of London is tired of life.” It still holds. London is an amazing place--busier and more crowded than ever. I enjoyed it this visit, but it was so different from my college trip in 1974. This time I didn’t see nearly as many English people. London is full of foreigners. And I can hardly complain, because I’m one of them.
So--no complaining--just bewildered amazement at a place so full and so busy.
The underground, affectionately known as “the Tube” is a marvel of engineering which gets hundreds of thousands of people where they want to go throughout a day. It is pricey, but it works like a Swiss clock.
Some impressions of London. Mind the Gap. Lion King. Phantom of the Opera. Agatha Christie’s “Mousetrap” still playing after 58 years. Stephen Fry (Jeeves) is a very popular stand-up comedian--posters of him everywhere. Bookstores on Charing Cross Street. The Behemoth art exhibit in the Crypt of St. Martin in the Fields: paintings of modern martyrdom and man’s inhumanity to man. The Victoria and Albert Museum. The marvelous advertising in the tube stations. The British Natural History Museum, a veritable temple to Mr. Darwin sitting in his marble throne overlooking this monument to his religion enshrined with scientific calibration and so much “fact.” Not a whiff of God in there. But the building looks like a cathedral.
Perhaps the most bizarre event was being accosted by a Japanese couple (there were very many). The woman had dyed her hair light brown. She wanted photos of herself with as many “bronde” people as possible. So, being “bronde” I was asked to pose with her, which I did. They must have had a hilarious day.
I’m not tired of life, and certainly not of London. However, it is good to be back in Africa where everything doesn’t work like a Swiss clock and tea doesn’t cost $5 a cup!
Coming soon: Some thoughts on education when my mind collects them.
So--no complaining--just bewildered amazement at a place so full and so busy.
The underground, affectionately known as “the Tube” is a marvel of engineering which gets hundreds of thousands of people where they want to go throughout a day. It is pricey, but it works like a Swiss clock.
Some impressions of London. Mind the Gap. Lion King. Phantom of the Opera. Agatha Christie’s “Mousetrap” still playing after 58 years. Stephen Fry (Jeeves) is a very popular stand-up comedian--posters of him everywhere. Bookstores on Charing Cross Street. The Behemoth art exhibit in the Crypt of St. Martin in the Fields: paintings of modern martyrdom and man’s inhumanity to man. The Victoria and Albert Museum. The marvelous advertising in the tube stations. The British Natural History Museum, a veritable temple to Mr. Darwin sitting in his marble throne overlooking this monument to his religion enshrined with scientific calibration and so much “fact.” Not a whiff of God in there. But the building looks like a cathedral.
Perhaps the most bizarre event was being accosted by a Japanese couple (there were very many). The woman had dyed her hair light brown. She wanted photos of herself with as many “bronde” people as possible. So, being “bronde” I was asked to pose with her, which I did. They must have had a hilarious day.
I’m not tired of life, and certainly not of London. However, it is good to be back in Africa where everything doesn’t work like a Swiss clock and tea doesn’t cost $5 a cup!
Coming soon: Some thoughts on education when my mind collects them.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
fare: to turn out, happen, travel
fare: to turn out , happen, travel
farewell: to do any of those well
We are faring well and farewelling. Last Friday night was our “farewell” and a potpourri of cultures: Mozambican, Nigerian, Rwandan, American, Australian, British, Brazilian, Indian, and Portuguese--blended to say “turn out well, happen well, travel well.”
The evening was one of remembering and of food. We were blessed by memories of 17 years from friends. Some memories we had never heard before: first impressions we made on an unsuspecting Quelimane. In an attempt to live simply and reduce the distance with these very poor people, we chose to simplify. We parked our pickup in a shipping container and rode bicycles. I was probably the first woman biker in Quelimane, and I was “great with child.” We heard from a few who observed our attempts and concluded we were “strange.” Surely we were. For sure we are still.
Other memories surfaced: surprise birthday parties, the multi-ethnic Fourth of July meals, the Portuguese school, malaria, that helpless feeling when your child is ill, vehicles rolling, being stranded on the roadside with multiple flat tires, and good things too--friendships that last. We laughed and cried and ate. We have lived our family -life here amidst this people.
And the festa was bordered by the reality of illness. Three little girls of long-time friends were ill, one hospitalized. Peniel, the daughter of Francisco and Carla (who live with us) is three months and had her first case of malaria. Watching the concerned maternal faces reminded me of my own times when fever robbed my peace.
It was a blessing and encouragement to hear words of love sending us on our way, wishing for Zimbabwe the best we have to offer.
With such a precious backdrop of memory and affirmation of our time here, the Lord gave me a word from His Word. I will take this as my sword with which to enter Zimbabwe: Jeremiah 29:7.
But seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the LORD on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare.
farewell: to do any of those well
We are faring well and farewelling. Last Friday night was our “farewell” and a potpourri of cultures: Mozambican, Nigerian, Rwandan, American, Australian, British, Brazilian, Indian, and Portuguese--blended to say “turn out well, happen well, travel well.”
The evening was one of remembering and of food. We were blessed by memories of 17 years from friends. Some memories we had never heard before: first impressions we made on an unsuspecting Quelimane. In an attempt to live simply and reduce the distance with these very poor people, we chose to simplify. We parked our pickup in a shipping container and rode bicycles. I was probably the first woman biker in Quelimane, and I was “great with child.” We heard from a few who observed our attempts and concluded we were “strange.” Surely we were. For sure we are still.
Other memories surfaced: surprise birthday parties, the multi-ethnic Fourth of July meals, the Portuguese school, malaria, that helpless feeling when your child is ill, vehicles rolling, being stranded on the roadside with multiple flat tires, and good things too--friendships that last. We laughed and cried and ate. We have lived our family -life here amidst this people.
And the festa was bordered by the reality of illness. Three little girls of long-time friends were ill, one hospitalized. Peniel, the daughter of Francisco and Carla (who live with us) is three months and had her first case of malaria. Watching the concerned maternal faces reminded me of my own times when fever robbed my peace.
It was a blessing and encouragement to hear words of love sending us on our way, wishing for Zimbabwe the best we have to offer.
With such a precious backdrop of memory and affirmation of our time here, the Lord gave me a word from His Word. I will take this as my sword with which to enter Zimbabwe: Jeremiah 29:7.
But seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the LORD on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
a wedding: a milestone
My African landscape has been littered with countless deaths and funerals, but after 19 years in Mozambique, I have just attended my fifth wedding. In a cultural twist which reflects what is truly important: the West promotes marriage to the point of big business, Africa relegates it to "whenever we have the time and the money simultaneously", which is seldom. Besides which, who knows how long this is going to last and there is very little point in spending all the money to feed so many . . .
Funerals cannot be put off, people must be buried very soon after they die. Weddings, on the other hand, are optional and represent a massive outlay of resources. (Funerals also require funds, but their urgency means that there will be contributions.)
So it was with great joy that Phil, Isabel and I attended the wedding of Paulo and Carina, two twenty-somethings, partners for five years, (second partners for both), whom we have been mentoring and encouraging for several years. They attend the church in the bairro (slum) and this was a giant leap for them. Weddings are costly anywhere, and here the couple is expected to feed all comers a full meal. But I get ahead of myself:
At the church, the couple processed out of the pastoral house to the church, walking on clothes spread on the ground before them.
Inside it was darkish and dusty, but the couple stood while Pastor Elias scrutinized his notes. It was Elias' second wedding. and he did well despite his nerves.
The service was exceedingly formal, which meant Elias was reading archaic Portuguese, so he frequently explained in asides so the congregation could follow the event. After a family member of each spouse and a church member all testified that there were no impedimentia to the marriage, things went off without a hitch--well, except for theirs.
Smiles are not standard fare at such serious events as weddings, so it was a relief to see that Carina was happy as well as beautiful. As we drove at a funereal pace from the church to their home, we heard comments about the queen in the car, thanks to Carina's plastic crown complete with faux jewels.
Once at the house, the agenda was to begin with cutting the cake. (Before the meal? Never mind.) It was delayed by rearranging the seating under the 3 shade clothes several times. Finally Paulo and Carina were settled facing the crowd!
Around the edge of the festive arena were palm fronds woven for privacy. But this is a slum and neighbors all want a piece of the action. Small children opened holes to enjoy the show. No amount of shooing would keep them away for long!
After Paulo and Carina had fed each other a sliver of cake and drunk a little orange fanta, it was time for gift-giving. This was a lengthy process with Orlando calling out specified groups: neighbors, Paulo's family, Carina's family, the young people, the women's group, the missionaries, and on and on. As a group was called, various members would sing and prance forward and slap down coins or even a bill now and then. This is called "hitting the table." Quite a heap of small change was amassed this way. Gifts, wrapped and unwrapped, were brought to the table. The chicken was quickly whisked off, lest she deposit on the tablecloth!
After close to an hour of giving accompanied by song, the feasting began: chicken for the seated guests at the table (about 12). Plenty of rice to fill empty bellies, cabbage fried with tomatoes and bean gravy. The young people weren't shy about helping themselves. Cutlery is optional at all events, and here was no exception.
When the guests were sated, the photos began. Here are Paulo and Carina with Pastor Elias, beaming over the milestone they have achieved.
The blended family. Carina's two daughters by her deceased Muslim partner are Ornila and Esperanza, Paulo's son is Eriki. Paulo and Carina have been unable to have children together yet, which is a cause of concern to Carina--she feels it reduces her worth and desirability. Paulo's willingness to marry her despite this shows great faith in God's inscrutable Hand. Pray for their family, that it will be a light in a dark community.
The joy that comes from deciding to make a commitment and follow it through can be seen in their faces. It cost them culturally, economically and stretched them spiritually. They are a few of this generation who are prepared to take a stand and be a visible witness to God's design of a man and woman forsaking all others and becoming one.
Funerals cannot be put off, people must be buried very soon after they die. Weddings, on the other hand, are optional and represent a massive outlay of resources. (Funerals also require funds, but their urgency means that there will be contributions.)
So it was with great joy that Phil, Isabel and I attended the wedding of Paulo and Carina, two twenty-somethings, partners for five years, (second partners for both), whom we have been mentoring and encouraging for several years. They attend the church in the bairro (slum) and this was a giant leap for them. Weddings are costly anywhere, and here the couple is expected to feed all comers a full meal. But I get ahead of myself:
At the church, the couple processed out of the pastoral house to the church, walking on clothes spread on the ground before them.
Inside it was darkish and dusty, but the couple stood while Pastor Elias scrutinized his notes. It was Elias' second wedding. and he did well despite his nerves.
The service was exceedingly formal, which meant Elias was reading archaic Portuguese, so he frequently explained in asides so the congregation could follow the event. After a family member of each spouse and a church member all testified that there were no impedimentia to the marriage, things went off without a hitch--well, except for theirs.
Smiles are not standard fare at such serious events as weddings, so it was a relief to see that Carina was happy as well as beautiful. As we drove at a funereal pace from the church to their home, we heard comments about the queen in the car, thanks to Carina's plastic crown complete with faux jewels.
Once at the house, the agenda was to begin with cutting the cake. (Before the meal? Never mind.) It was delayed by rearranging the seating under the 3 shade clothes several times. Finally Paulo and Carina were settled facing the crowd!
Around the edge of the festive arena were palm fronds woven for privacy. But this is a slum and neighbors all want a piece of the action. Small children opened holes to enjoy the show. No amount of shooing would keep them away for long!
After Paulo and Carina had fed each other a sliver of cake and drunk a little orange fanta, it was time for gift-giving. This was a lengthy process with Orlando calling out specified groups: neighbors, Paulo's family, Carina's family, the young people, the women's group, the missionaries, and on and on. As a group was called, various members would sing and prance forward and slap down coins or even a bill now and then. This is called "hitting the table." Quite a heap of small change was amassed this way. Gifts, wrapped and unwrapped, were brought to the table. The chicken was quickly whisked off, lest she deposit on the tablecloth!
After close to an hour of giving accompanied by song, the feasting began: chicken for the seated guests at the table (about 12). Plenty of rice to fill empty bellies, cabbage fried with tomatoes and bean gravy. The young people weren't shy about helping themselves. Cutlery is optional at all events, and here was no exception.
When the guests were sated, the photos began. Here are Paulo and Carina with Pastor Elias, beaming over the milestone they have achieved.
The blended family. Carina's two daughters by her deceased Muslim partner are Ornila and Esperanza, Paulo's son is Eriki. Paulo and Carina have been unable to have children together yet, which is a cause of concern to Carina--she feels it reduces her worth and desirability. Paulo's willingness to marry her despite this shows great faith in God's inscrutable Hand. Pray for their family, that it will be a light in a dark community.
The joy that comes from deciding to make a commitment and follow it through can be seen in their faces. It cost them culturally, economically and stretched them spiritually. They are a few of this generation who are prepared to take a stand and be a visible witness to God's design of a man and woman forsaking all others and becoming one.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
the abiding city
"While living in a world of change, let us seek the abiding city."
In a month we will move to Harare, Zimbabwe. We will study Shona and learn to clap our hands when saying thank you. We will meet new people with an entirely new set of problems, mostly defined by hiv/aids.
We did not seek this. But it has come to us clearly from God's hand. One by one, He closed the other doors. This one is held open by eager hands. For the most part I was overwhelmed by inadequacy and reluctance. But His grace is sufficient, He keeps saying. So grace lurks behind that door when I step through.
Now suddenly, at this late hour, are we asked to reconsider and work elsewhere. Such sudden out-of-the-blue requests disorient me. But the Lord's Hand is in everything that comes. I don't know why the request. All I do know is that the decision to go to Zimbabwe came with prayer, thought, meditation, and fasting.
Oh yes, there is an urgent need elsewhere. More than once at Columbia Professor Kingsmore in his Scots lilt reminded us: "the need doesn't constitute the call." I'm glad he said that. It sounded harsh at the time, but it is bedrock.
"A double-minded man is unstable in all his ways." Lord, keep me single-minded. Secure me by Your Grace as I sail across a stormy sea. Keep me mindful of what You told us in the Light.
In a month we will move to Harare, Zimbabwe. We will study Shona and learn to clap our hands when saying thank you. We will meet new people with an entirely new set of problems, mostly defined by hiv/aids.
We did not seek this. But it has come to us clearly from God's hand. One by one, He closed the other doors. This one is held open by eager hands. For the most part I was overwhelmed by inadequacy and reluctance. But His grace is sufficient, He keeps saying. So grace lurks behind that door when I step through.
Now suddenly, at this late hour, are we asked to reconsider and work elsewhere. Such sudden out-of-the-blue requests disorient me. But the Lord's Hand is in everything that comes. I don't know why the request. All I do know is that the decision to go to Zimbabwe came with prayer, thought, meditation, and fasting.
Oh yes, there is an urgent need elsewhere. More than once at Columbia Professor Kingsmore in his Scots lilt reminded us: "the need doesn't constitute the call." I'm glad he said that. It sounded harsh at the time, but it is bedrock.
"A double-minded man is unstable in all his ways." Lord, keep me single-minded. Secure me by Your Grace as I sail across a stormy sea. Keep me mindful of what You told us in the Light.
Monday, April 19, 2010
limping forward
This morning in our reading at the breakfast table, this brilliant sentence ended the meditation:
"Let us rise and go forward from where we are to the next place of freedom, limping forward in the therapy of grace."
John Piper.
What a great image. Limping forward/ therapy of grace. I love it. I am definitely a limper. Never have been athletic. I identify with this halting progress. How appropriate for my spiritual life. I am blind in my progress because I cannot see the spiritual. So my steps are tentative and uncertain. And I am wounded one way or another, whether aware of it or not. Because I am not a creature of grace by nature.
In this life we are neither perfect nor graceful. Limping along. And our culture, so therapy-crazed, hasn't even recognized that the truest therapy of all is Grace.
Grace is my word for this year. Lurking grace, because it catches us unaware. Jeremiah died last week. And grace has snuck in. His friend Mike, subject of prayers and witnessing for weeks before, found Jesus after the memorial service. Grace seeps into another limping soul.
Where are we going in our halting gait? Why, to the next place of freedom. Every once in a while I forget we're born slaves. The trappings of slavery are slowly divested. But as we limp along we find freedom. Ever more freedom. Freedom to lay down our lives.
"Let us rise and go forward from where we are to the next place of freedom, limping forward in the therapy of grace."
John Piper.
What a great image. Limping forward/ therapy of grace. I love it. I am definitely a limper. Never have been athletic. I identify with this halting progress. How appropriate for my spiritual life. I am blind in my progress because I cannot see the spiritual. So my steps are tentative and uncertain. And I am wounded one way or another, whether aware of it or not. Because I am not a creature of grace by nature.
In this life we are neither perfect nor graceful. Limping along. And our culture, so therapy-crazed, hasn't even recognized that the truest therapy of all is Grace.
Grace is my word for this year. Lurking grace, because it catches us unaware. Jeremiah died last week. And grace has snuck in. His friend Mike, subject of prayers and witnessing for weeks before, found Jesus after the memorial service. Grace seeps into another limping soul.
Where are we going in our halting gait? Why, to the next place of freedom. Every once in a while I forget we're born slaves. The trappings of slavery are slowly divested. But as we limp along we find freedom. Ever more freedom. Freedom to lay down our lives.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Africa hurts
I have an indelible mental photograph. Our friend John Dina sitting in the back of a pickup gazing into the distance. His hand protectively stretches over the tarp-covered box which holds the casket in which Jeremiah's body rests.
It is a peaceful photo. It follows a sad and painful procession of people-packed pickups and cars wending their ways through the rain-filled potholes to the airport some 4 km outside of Quelimane. The rain stopped soon after the service which was under an awning right next to the Casa Mortuaria at the Central Hospital. The service was heart-breaking. More than 150 Mozambicans and our few foreign faces (like a little salt mixed in with the pepper) quietly stood as the lead-lined casket was carried in to sit on a carved table. The singing and the faces were subdued. Jeremiah was only 21.
Jeremiah Johnson had come to Mozambique in 2009 to work with the Baptist missionaries in our province; he returned this year for five months. He was supposed to go home next month. But as Cleber, the Brazilian giving the message observed, Jeremiah didn't only come to serve, he gave his life. We were all challenged by his vitality and commitment to the Lord. We are reminded of our own mortality and that of our children.
In a place where sun beats relentlessly, the drizzly rain was a relief as we huddled under the rustic roof. Whether we knew Jeremiah well or had merely met him a few times; whether he'd lived or eaten in our houses or not, he was telling each of us something. He is our brother in the larger family of God and he had gone home ahead of us.
He was killed in a motorcycle accident on Monday afternoon and despite a bureaucratic labyrinth, he was on his way to his parents Wednesday. Now it is Friday and I have heard that his final flight to Arizona has been confirmed.
Each year the Lord gives me a word to meditate on and learn from. Last year's word was "sovereignty." I am picking it up again and find it as curiously heavy and opaque as then. It is a word that feels deep and serious. It tends to be the answer to questions that don't really have answers. Which means that I still don't grasp it, I just stroke it and know that it is power. Stealth power--because it doesn't show off. It doesn't protect young people on motorcycles from random motorists. It doesn't intervene and save every child from malaria or abuse. But it is surely there or we would not be able to survive this world.
So why do I entitle this post "Africa hurts"? These things happen on other continents. Mothers bury their strapping sons. Irresponsible people get behind the wheel. Police turn a blind eye to the victim in a crisis--after all, the victim is dead. But Africa doesn't sanitize its pains. It feels sometimes like Africans walk into the pain with open arms. They attend funerals and wakes. They walk slowly alongside a coffin-bearing truck, chanting the same words over and over. They honor death more than life. It is a more tangible thread in the fabric of their life than we have with elegant hearses and padded coffins with pillows.
Death is definitely in one's face and consciousness here. It is pervasive and frequent conversation fodder. But only rarely is there a ray of the hope that we heard at Jeremiah's service. Death is the absence of hope for many here.
It gives me pause and reminds me what a privilege it is for me to live my life where I may be able to share my hope with someone who desperately needs it and may not otherwise hear.
It is a peaceful photo. It follows a sad and painful procession of people-packed pickups and cars wending their ways through the rain-filled potholes to the airport some 4 km outside of Quelimane. The rain stopped soon after the service which was under an awning right next to the Casa Mortuaria at the Central Hospital. The service was heart-breaking. More than 150 Mozambicans and our few foreign faces (like a little salt mixed in with the pepper) quietly stood as the lead-lined casket was carried in to sit on a carved table. The singing and the faces were subdued. Jeremiah was only 21.
Jeremiah Johnson had come to Mozambique in 2009 to work with the Baptist missionaries in our province; he returned this year for five months. He was supposed to go home next month. But as Cleber, the Brazilian giving the message observed, Jeremiah didn't only come to serve, he gave his life. We were all challenged by his vitality and commitment to the Lord. We are reminded of our own mortality and that of our children.
In a place where sun beats relentlessly, the drizzly rain was a relief as we huddled under the rustic roof. Whether we knew Jeremiah well or had merely met him a few times; whether he'd lived or eaten in our houses or not, he was telling each of us something. He is our brother in the larger family of God and he had gone home ahead of us.
He was killed in a motorcycle accident on Monday afternoon and despite a bureaucratic labyrinth, he was on his way to his parents Wednesday. Now it is Friday and I have heard that his final flight to Arizona has been confirmed.
Each year the Lord gives me a word to meditate on and learn from. Last year's word was "sovereignty." I am picking it up again and find it as curiously heavy and opaque as then. It is a word that feels deep and serious. It tends to be the answer to questions that don't really have answers. Which means that I still don't grasp it, I just stroke it and know that it is power. Stealth power--because it doesn't show off. It doesn't protect young people on motorcycles from random motorists. It doesn't intervene and save every child from malaria or abuse. But it is surely there or we would not be able to survive this world.
So why do I entitle this post "Africa hurts"? These things happen on other continents. Mothers bury their strapping sons. Irresponsible people get behind the wheel. Police turn a blind eye to the victim in a crisis--after all, the victim is dead. But Africa doesn't sanitize its pains. It feels sometimes like Africans walk into the pain with open arms. They attend funerals and wakes. They walk slowly alongside a coffin-bearing truck, chanting the same words over and over. They honor death more than life. It is a more tangible thread in the fabric of their life than we have with elegant hearses and padded coffins with pillows.
Death is definitely in one's face and consciousness here. It is pervasive and frequent conversation fodder. But only rarely is there a ray of the hope that we heard at Jeremiah's service. Death is the absence of hope for many here.
It gives me pause and reminds me what a privilege it is for me to live my life where I may be able to share my hope with someone who desperately needs it and may not otherwise hear.
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