Author: Amy Medina Page 27 of 230

America Doesn’t Know What To Do With Us

On June 11, 2020

America, apparently, doesn’t really know what to do with people who have spent 20 years in Africa.

Several weeks ago, we started the process to buy a house. We’ve never owned a house, but we had spent the last few months Googling, “how to buy a house” and “what is escrow.” We had some savings and no debt. We had done the math; we knew what we could afford. We had researched the neighborhoods that were in our price range. We were ready!

That is, we thought we were ready. Then we got on the phone with a loan officer. After answering questions about Gil’s employment history, he asked me about mine. “We’ll need W-2s and evidence of your work history for the past two years,” he told me.

That’s when things got awkward. “Oh, so, um, I actually haven’t received a salary in fifteen years,” I said. “I mean, I’ve been working and all. I’m a qualified educator. I’m actually an elementary school principal. I just don’t get paid for it. I’m a missionary, a volunteer….”

Silence.

That should have been my first indication that things weren’t going to go well. But we plowed on, and I managed to gather the evidence he needed to prove that I was actually employable.

Then he called with more bad news. “You don’t have a credit score,” he said. “You don’t have a bad credit score, you just don’t have any credit score. We can’t get you a loan without a credit score.”

I guess that would be because the last time we had credit cards was 2014. Oh. So just having no debt and some savings isn’t good enough in America. You need credit.

Never fear. A friend told us about another mortgage company connected to Dave Ramsey which doesn’t require a credit score. So I called them up. “Yes!” the agent told me confidently. “We do not require a credit score. No problem! So all I need is proof of utility payments at your home address from the last twelve months.”

Uh oh, I thought. I cleared my throat. “So, you see, we didn’t actually have a physical address, only a P.O. Box. And [ahem] we didn’t have any utility bills.”

Realizing how strange that sounded, I rushed to explain. “See, electricity was prepaid in Tanzania. There was this little box in our bedroom, called a Luku box, and we would use our phones to buy electricity units which came as a code in a text message that we punched into the box….” My voice trailed off. I was babbling. Better stop now before he thinks I lived in a mud hut.

“Okay,” he said, less confidently. “How about phone bills? Internet?”

“Also, prepaid,” I said miserably, knowing what was coming.

“Water?”

“Oh, that was a bill!” I said. “Except….the bill came as a text message to my phone. And I paid it using this system called M-Pesa and the receipt also came as a text message and the receipts are all in Swahili…..”

Silence again.

“I think you need to call me back after you’ve lived in America for a few months,” he said.

Seriously though. Wouldn’t Dave Ramsey himself approve of Tanzania’s prepaid system? Much less debt, obviously. But apparently not good enough for America.

So the end of the story is ….(drumroll)…..we’re renting. Which is fine. We found an apartment just a half mile from school, so that’s happy. After being turned down for a loan (and even having trouble getting credit cards–apparently you need credit to get credit cards), we were thankful to just get a lease. And after three months of living out of suitcases, I really don’t care anymore where we live. I’m just thankful we’ll have a home again. We move in in two weeks.

This does feel like some kind of time warp, though. I may be all grown up now, but coming back to California, I feel like that inexperienced 23-year-old newlywed moving into her first apartment. Sure, now I have 20 more years of life experience, but it’s with paying Luku using M-Pesa. I can speak with authority on the various pros and cons of Tanzanian internet providers, but haven’t a clue which one to choose in America. I am familiar with the various ways to send money around the world, but I haven’t had a credit card in seven years. I’m 43, but I still had to Google the word escrow.

So I guess it’s fitting that I’ll be moving into an empty apartment that we’ll be filling with used furniture and random finds from thrift stores, just like Gil and I did 20 years ago when we moved into our first place. After all, I still have some growing up to do in America.

My kids and their cousins being super-cool Americans.

The Next Chapter

By Amy Medina

On June 2, 2020

In Other

If you had told me this time last year that Gil and I would get to the third week of May without job contracts, that there would be a global pandemic and we would have to leave Tanzania three months early, on top of all the other stressful things that happened this year, I probably would have spent the year hiding under the bed.

I guess it’s a good thing that God gives us strength to handle just today. Not knowing the future is a mercy.

But here I am, on June 2, 2020, and we finally know what’s next. Gil has accepted a teaching job at a school in Southern California, and we will be moving to our new city in about three weeks.

Back in October, I asked you, “Anybody out there looking for people like us?” You were amazing! We got emails from all over the United States, some with suggestions of places and ministries we should consider, and others that were practically job offers. It was really exciting to think about all of the possibilities that were out there for us.

But as Gil and I really started to consider what were going to be our priorities for this next chapter, we kept coming back to one thing: Our Kids. Our kids were the primary reason we had decided to move to the States at this particular time. With their unique backgrounds, we wanted them to adjust to American life while they were still young. So while there was a part of us that really wanted to jump into something crazy and amazing like moving to Houston to work with refugees, we realized that wasn’t what would be best for our family at this time.

Gil and I began to prioritize two things: We wanted to live as close as possible to extended family (which narrowed locations down to California or Arizona), and one of us would need to teach at a Christian school. When we considered the educational options out there, we decided that a small Christian school would be the best way for our particular kids to transition to American life. In order to afford it, that meant one of us needed to teach at one.

So Gil and I started researching Christian schools all throughout California and Arizona. We eliminated all of the ones that were in areas we couldn’t afford to live in, which for California, was most of them. We sent out dozens of resumes and a number of applications. We had some good leads. Surely we would have job offers by March or April….right?

Wrong. As you all know, the world stood still in March and April. Schools in particular became paralyzed by the unknowns. No one was hiring. In fact, most of us wondered if education in general would ever be the same again. So all the days ticked by in March….April….and into May. Along with dealing with my own roller coaster of emotions due to our early and sudden departure from Tanzania came increasing concern about our future. I started envisioning my life as a never-ending vagabond, jumping from one hospitable relative to another.

Then the miracle happened: A position opened up for a Bible and History teacher at a Christian school in Southern California. A fantastic school and the perfect location–half a day’s driving distance from all of our family, and affordable enough that we could manage to, you know, feed our children after paying rent. Gil went through several interviews with several people. He was offered the job just over a week ago.

And the miraculous part? This is the school where one of our very best friends from Tanzania, Ben Snyder, is the principal. You might remember that I wrote about the Snyder family in The Happiest Kind of Sadness: Portrait of a Friendship and The Adoption Story of Zawadi, the Parents Who Waited for Her, and the God of Miracles. When the Snyders moved to California a year ago, we were thrilled that meant we might be able to occasionally see them. We talked about how cool it would be if that meant our lives might cross again, but we didn’t dare to hope that would actually happen. I mean, what would be the odds?

But God doesn’t work by odds. There was one position available at their high school for next year, and it was a position that Gil just happened to be uniquely qualified for.

Right around the same time Gil got this offer, another one came in as well, which threw us for a loop for about a week. But really, it was an obvious choice. God had answered our prayers and orchestrated a seemingly impossible set of requests: Living in California, a job at a Christian school, and incredibly, doing life again with some of our best friends.

There’s another question, of course, that you might be asking: What are you going to be doing, Amy? Well, that’s another story. I too have accepted a job, but I’m not ready to write about it yet. Partly because the journey to my new job is a story that will take a while to tell. But mainly because I still have several more weeks left as elementary principal at Haven of Peace Academy. My mind and heart still belong there at the moment, so I will write about the new job when this one is finished.

In the meantime, yesterday we found a place to live and we will move in in about three weeks. We’ve lived with uncertainty for so long that my emotions haven’t quite caught up yet. Am I really allowed to be excited? I can’t write out this story without seeing for myself the hand of God in working this all together for us. I am so very thankful.

The Medinas and Snyders back together again, this time in California.

Icons of Their Tanzanian Childhood

By Amy Medina

On May 25, 2020

In Leaving Tanzania

“Those who repatriate to their “home” country aren’t just moving from one state or province to another. They aren’t just losing a measurable number of people, places and ‘sacred objects.’ It’s the intangibles that exacerbate their grief and intensify their response to it. Missionaries’ Kids who are enduring transition have lost the languages, sounds, aromas, events, values, security, familiarity and belonging that have been their life—an integral part of who they are and how they view the world. When they leave their heart-home, it feels as if they’re surrendering their identity too.” (Michele Phoenix)

Here’s just a sample of those “languages, sounds, aromas, events, values, and familiarity” that my kids have lost in moving to America. I know that kids adapt. My kids are great at it. But I don’t want them to ever forget where they came from, and the many things that made their childhoods so special.

Azam Juices

Azam juice boxes are a Tanzanian icon; frozen Azam juice boxes are a Haven of Peace Academy icon. Slice off the top with a knife and you have an instant popsicle. The snack bar sells them daily; my kids have eaten probably thousands in their lifetime.

Hot Christmases

Living in the Southern Hemisphere means the seasons are reversed. Living at sea level near the equator means it never gets cold. The hottest time of the year is December and January, which means we never had a cold Christmas in Dar es Salaam. However, even in July, which is technically “winter,” never gets below the mid-70’s. Ever. Even when it’s raining. Which explains why my children are freezing in California air conditioning.

Piles of Pineapples

I always said that pineapple season, which starts in November and goes through February, is Tanzania’s apology for the stifling hot weather. Piles and piles of pineapples are sold on the roadside during pineapple season. During the height, our family would eat two a day.

“That Good Chicken Place”–our version of fast food

Street food was the only form of fast food in our area, and just about every Saturday night I would stop by this outdoor restaurant to buy grilled chicken, fries, or rice and vegetables. This chicken? To die for. Seriously. Service would take anywhere from 15-40 minutes, so I guess it wasn’t always ‘fast.’ But I didn’t have to cook it, so it was worth waiting for.

Chips Mayai and Beans and Rice

Beans and rice are like Tanzanian mac and cheese. When I knew I would have a lot of kids over at the house, beans and rice were on the menu. All kids love them, or they learn to. Chips mayai is French Fries cooked with eggs like an omelet. Everyone loves chips mayai. Not a breakfast food, though. This is lunch.

Bajajis

What is known as a “bajaji” is a three-wheeled rickshaw imported from India. We had a car, but just one, so that meant that part of the family often needed another form of transportation. Bajajis are cheaper than taxis and safer than motorbikes or buses, so we used them often.

Nets and Fans

Mosquito nets (soaked in Permethrin) and fans attached to their beds was how we kept out the bugs and kept the air moving. Josiah is so used to sleeping with a fan straight on his face that he has politely asked for a fan everywhere we’ve been visiting in the States–even if it’s not hot.

Market Shopping

Sometimes we would be driving along and someone would yell out “Hey, there’s the Croc guy!” We would quickly pull over because whenever you saw the Croc guy with his cart fulled of used Crocs for sale (shipped over from U.S. thrift stores), you knew that it was time to stock up on Crocs. Buying used clothes and shoes from open air markets was our normal. Picking out gorgeous Tanzanian fabric and having it tailor-made into dresses was a treat.

Playing in Unusual Places

So, playing Capture the Flag or Nerf Wars in the half-finished, abandoned hotel next door to their friends’ house was totally cool. You just had to be careful to avoid the bats, of course.

Pray for Sheshi

By Amy Medina

On May 14, 2020

In Other

During a time of deep crisis in our community in January, our chaplain at Haven of Peace Academy, Sheshi Kaniki, stood before us at a staff meeting and exhorted us: “Nothing you experience will ever be worse than what you have already been saved from.”

I wrote it down on a post-it note and stuck it on the wall in front of my desk. I repeated those words to myself numerous times over the following weeks of stress as it felt like we were in a continual state of crisis. I wrote about that season here, and I ended it with Sheshi’s quote.

That was before COVID-19. The day I left my office for the last time, I can’t remember if I took that post-it note with me. Maybe I’ll find it someday when I finally get to unpack. Or maybe the next principal will see it there waiting for her. I do know that I kept thinking about those words as my life was wrenched out of Tanzania at the end of March.

And now, I’m thinking about Sheshi’s words again. Because on Saturday, I found out that Sheshi has a large, malignant brain tumor. In fact, that brain tumor must have been growing the day that he stood before our staff and exhorted us with his words of truth.

Sheshi is not only HOPAC’s chaplain, but the church-planter and pastor of the vibrant, gospel-centered church we attended in Dar es Salaam. His wife, Trudie, is my friend and co-worker at HOPAC. She coordinates our Service Learning program. Their youngest son, Tim, has been Josiah’s best friend since first grade.

Sheshi and Trudie are one of those dynamic couples who impact everyone they come across. They make you feel seen, loved, and accepted, even if they’ve only just met you. They are incredibly godly, wise, and humble. I remember walking past our assembly hall a couple of months ago during the middle school chapel, and listening to Sheshi speak to the kids. I don’t remember what he was saying, but I do remember thinking, I am so incredibly grateful that this man is investing in my children.

So I can’t write this without waves of grief. I spent most of Saturday hidden away from my kids, because I was so distraught and I wasn’t at liberty to tell them why just yet.

Please, my friends, pray for Sheshi and his family. If you go to the GoFundMe page set up for him by his friends, you’ll read more about his background and the huge impact he has on our community and the city of Dar es Salaam. If the story grabs your heart, sign up to receive prayer updates using this link. (I’m helping to send out those updates.)

I have no doubt that Sheshi still stands by his words, even in this.

We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption to sonship, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what they already have? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.

The Stripping Away

By Amy Medina

On May 11, 2020

In Other

It might have been a mistake to keep using the same day planner.

I like to plan ahead, you see, which means that these days, when I turn the page in my planner, I see depressing things like “Sports Day” and “Boot Sale” and “Remember to announce April’s House winner.” Little reminders, all over the place, of what I’ve lost. So I cross those things out and write in “Video call, 8:00” because what else is there to write in my planner these days?

Remember that scene in Back to the Future Part II when Biff goes back in time to give the Almanac to his younger self and it skews the future so that when Marty returns to 1985 he finds himself in an alternate universe? That’s what this feels like, right? An alternate universe. And one day I’ll wake up from this bad dream and look at my planner and it really will be Sports Day. Where is Doc with his time machine when you need him?

There simply is not enough space here to express how much I hate this alternate universe. Not because my conditions are miserable (because they are not; we are enjoying time with extended family), but because I am being stripped of the parts of me that I have valued the most.

You might recall that recently I wrote an entire post on how much I love crossing things off of lists. Finishing a task gives me a thrill. You want to know how many tasks I can’t finish right now? About a bazillion. Like, that whole three-year commitment to being principal at a school that I have invested in for almost 20 years? Yeah, that little thing. Don’t get to cross it off my list. Sure, I’m still frantically working, but I feel like I’m in a hamster wheel.

I’m a perfectionist. I like to do things well. I like to do things on time. I despise procrastination. I never once pulled all-nighter in college. Yet now? I feel like I’m always 10 hours behind. That would be because I am 10 hours behind. I wake up in the morning in California and it’s already evening in Tanzania. A few times in my childhood, I experienced that sinking feeling that everyone had already turned in their homework assignment except me. Those experiences still give me nightmares. Now, I wake up every single morning, open my computer, and get that same feeling.

My sense of isolation and disconnection is exacerbated by the fact that I have teachers living in four locations spanning ten time zones and students in even more. I walk around these California neighborhoods and see the signs posted on lawns, “We love Mrs.______!” for Teacher Appreciation Week, but I can’t do that for my teachers. My teachers are working their tails off, logging in dozens more hours a week than usual, with a fraction of the rewards that come from teaching physical children in a physical classroom. They are teaching during odd hours so that they can help groups of kids on opposite sides of the world. And I can’t even give them a stupid sign on their lawns. I hate being mediocre. Yet these days, that’s all I’ve got to offer.

Of course, alongside running in my own hamster wheel, I’m also helping my children with Distance Learning, which means that I too am bordering on the edge of my sanity. If anyone was enviously thinking that Mrs. Medina must be doing such a fabulous job with Distance Learning since she’s the principal and Perfectly Patient All of the Time, well, I guess it’s a good thing you can’t visit me so that I don’t completely decimate my reputation. Last week Johnny started crying during one particularly tense exchange over spelling words and he wailed, “Everything was better in Tanzania!” So then I started crying too. Me too, Buddy. I want out of this alternate universe. (I may or may not have offered to pay a million dollars to Johnny’s second grade teacher to come to California and teach him.)

It’s like we’re all working twice as hard but with half of the productivity, which is probably why I feel frustrated 92% of the time. Did I mention I really like productivity? Efficiency, productivity, perfectionism, planning. All of those things have been thrown out of the window, and since they were my most-cherished values, I feel like jumping out along with them.

I know better, of course. I know that what I’m supposed to think is that all of my values–as good as they are–still must submit themselves to God’s will. That God doesn’t really care about my efficiency and productivity as much as I do, and that as those “values” are being stripped away from my heart, the revealed flesh that is underneath sits raw and exposed before God. I am nothing without Him. I do no good other than the good He does through me. I accomplish nothing of value other than what He deems is important. I know I’m supposed to think that, but my flesh wrangles and wrestles and beats up against it.

I know that He wins in my weakness. I need to give up this fight.

At the start of the school year, I planned out all of the elementary school Bible verses for whole year. Providentially, the verse that was scheduled for the week of March 23 (when everything fell apart) was Proverbs 19:21: Many are the plans in a person’s heart, but it is the Lord’s purpose that prevails.

So there you have it. What I wrote in my planner was just that–My Plan and nothing more. It was just ink on paper, a fantasy that was never meant to exist. This isn’t an alternate universe, it is The Plan, the one that was meant to be from the beginning of time. Any control I thought I had was just an illusion.

It’s ironic that I started this job as principal flat on my face, feeling like a complete failure, and now here I am again, ending the job in a similar way. At the beginning, I fell apart with anxiety, not knowing if had what it takes to do well. Now I know I can, but instead of running past the finish line, I have to limp there, my feet chained together with a world crisis. I look back now and know that starting in weakness was incredibly good for me–that it set the stage for the humility and God-dependence I would need for this season. So why can’t I trust Him with the ending as well?