Author: Amy Medina Page 66 of 233

My Crazy, Wonderful, Beautiful Family

Medina Family 2016

Grace:  Almost 11

Josiah:  9

Lily:  7

Johnny:  5

(Gil: 39, Amy: 40, Bibi & Babu: 66….but who’s counting?)

(Just so you know, this photoshoot was interrupted by someone getting disciplined, and the best smiles happened because somebody tooted.  Just keepin’ it real.)  

Snakes Simply Don’t Belong in My Children’s Bed

Snake stories have always been the territory of the “real” African missionaries; you know, the ones who live in mud huts in the middle of nowhere.  City dwellers like us rarely see them, unless you are my friend Alyssa who found 16 in her house.

In all our years in Dar es Salaam, we’ve only had one snake in our house, and that was about 10 years ago in our dining room.  We’ve seen a few others in our yard, but that’s about it.

So yesterday, when Lily came out of her room to tell us there was a snake in her bed, we thought she was seeing things.  For one thing, she was quite calm (which is very un-Lily-ish….this is a child who has been known to scream bloody murder over a frog).  And she had been sent to take a nap (which she despises), so we thought this was a convenient diversion.  But she insisted it was a snake.  So Gil and my dad (who is visiting) went to investigate, and lo and behold, there was a green 3-foot snake hanging from the slats of the bunk bed.  Johnny was already sleeping on the top bunk, but we rapidly decided that his nap was now over.

Thankfully, the snake stayed put while my husband and my dad grabbed a box and various instruments of death.  My dad knocked it into the box and covered it, and we all trailed behind him as it was carried outside of our gate.  I was ready with the camera, but once the box was opened, it made a quick exit, and started slithering away into the bushes.  Gil hacked at it, cutting off about 8 inches of its tail, so we are assuming it has now perished.  Fitting punishment for having the audacity to get into my children’s bed.

We tried to play it cool the rest of the day so as not to alarm the children, though Lily dissolved into tears at bedtime and refused to get into bed.  I tried to reason with her, but considering that I’m not sure I would want to get into my bed if I had looked up and seen a snake, I couldn’t blame her.  She slept on our floor last night.

After the kids went to bed, we started Googling snakes, and great discussion ensued over whether the snake was greenish-yellow or greenish-blue and whether it was skinny or really skinny.  All of this is very important, because our visitor was either a harmless tree snake:

Or a green mamba, one of the most venomous and deadly snakes in East Africa.  

If missionary life were a video game, we would have just gone up a level.

When We Don’t Want to Think About Aleppo, Especially at Christmas

Last night I went to sleep thinking about Aleppo, and the absurdity of the fact that I was thinking about Aleppo while sleeping in my comfortable bed in my air conditioned room with a full stomach, and healthy children in the room next door.  Yet somehow I am living on the same planet and I share the same sun as those describedhere:

“As residents began to flee, bombing continued and a steady rain began to fall. Parents holding small children by the hand picked their way over dead bodies in the streets to escape. One image showed a man with his wife ducking from shelling, holding a child in one arm and an IV bag in another, the drip still attached to the blanket-wrapped infant. Some photos showed adults holding babies wrapped in blood-soaked blankets or pushing the injured in carts as they made their way out of bombed apartment buildings. Early Wednesday morning, AFP reporter Karam al-Masri watched as a mother with a child in her arms stooped in freezing rain, desperate to scoop some spilled powdered baby formula from the mud at her feet.”



What do we do with that?  The thought that a mother is frantically picking out baby formula from the mud at the same time I am picking out presents for my children just seems ridiculous.  

Yet this is life, isn’t it?  All eyes are on Aleppo right now–it’s about time--but what about Congo and South Sudan and North Korea and Afghanistan?  Apparently if the suffering didn’t have a start date and there’s no end date in sight, we just get too tired to pay attention.

The bombs drop while we laugh at Buddy the Elf and the babies cry from hunger while we decorate sugar cookies and the father cradles his maimed son while “Joy to the World” plays in the shopping mall.

So we send in some money to make the guilt go away, but what is enough?  Is it still okay to buy the American Girl doll for my daughter while the other mother picks out formula from the mud?  

The fantasy of Christmas is alluring.  We want to believe in magic, in goodness, in peace.  We want to forget the blood-soaked blankets, the stepping over dead bodies because it’s too hard to enjoy the pumpkin-spiced latte that way.  Happiness feels guilty in the face of terror.

There’s got to be some sort of inbetween.  We shouldn’t have to ignore suffering in order to be happy.  We shouldn’t need to be afraid to turn on the news because it might spoil the Christmas spirit.  



Sometimes, though, we sugarcoat our perception of Christmas.  We want the magic, the silver bells, the glittery lights, the sweet baby on the silent night.  But is the story as idyllic as we imagine?  Yes, angels sang when Jesus was born, but we forget that babies and toddlers were also ruthlessly massacred.  Joseph and Mary were hunted refugees who ran for their lives in the middle of the night.  Somehow that part doesn’t make it into our Christmas pageants.  A second-grader with a sword, jabbing doll babies to death doesn’t have the same allure as rosy-cheeked shepherd-children with bath towels on their heads.  

Mixing in the stories of terror and war and horror shouldn’t be incompatible with Christmas.  In fact, if we really want to understand the significance of the Incarnation–God becoming flesh–then perhaps it might do us good to meditate a little bit more on that war and terror that went along with it.

The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light;

those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness,

on them has light shone.


For every boot on of the tramping warrior in battle tumult

and every garment rolled in blood

will be burned as fuel for the fire.



For to us a child is born,

to us a son is given;

and the government shall be upon his shoulder,

and his name shall be called

Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God

Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.



Of the increase of his government and of peace there will be no end,

on the throne of David and over his kingdom,

to establish it and to uphold it

with justice and with righteousness

from this time forth and forevermore.

The same passage that speaks of the great light also mentions blood and burning and darkness.  There’s a reason why Jesus was called the Prince of Peace.



So is it possible to experience the joy of Christmas and the heaviness of the world at the same time?  Of course.  That’s the whole point, actually.  John Piper calls it brokenhearted joy.  We are not those who flit about with our head in pink clouds, but we also do not descend into despair.  We weep with Aleppo and South Sudan and our suffering neighbor, but we simultaneously rejoice in the Son,

Our Mighty God, 

Our Prince of Peace.  

Lily, 2014

Behind the Beautiful Forevers

To be virtuous is a luxury of the rich.  

I just made that up.  I’m well aware that it’s certainly not a true statement of everyone, as many rich people are evil and many poor people are virtuous.  But it is much, much easier for a rich person to choose to be virtuous than it is for a poor person.

And if you don’t believe me, then you’ve probably never been poor.

To be poor in Annawadi, or in any Mumbai slum, was to be guilty of one thing or another.  Abdul sometimes bought pieces of metal that scavengers had stolen.  He ran a business, such as it was, without a license.  Simply living in Annawadi was illegal, since the airport authority wanted squatters like himself off its land. 

I read Behind the Beautiful Forevers by Katherine Boo about a month ago.  I had planned to include it in my semi-annual list of books to recommend, and then I realized that I just can’t stop thinking about it.  Even a month later.  This is one of those books that changes you.  You can’t be the same after reading it.

A few weeks ago, Abdul had seen a boy’s hand cut clean off when he was putting plastic into one of the shredders.  The boy’s eyes had filled with tears but he hadn’t screamed.  Instead he’d stood there with his blood-spurting stump, his ability to earn a living ended, and started apologizing to the owner of the plant.

If you’ve read this blog for any length of time, you know that poverty is always on my mind.  I am surrounded by it.  I struggle daily with what to do about it.  So as I read this book, even though it is about a slum in India, I felt like it was describing the lives of those on the other side of my fence.

True, a few residents trapped rats and frogs and fried them for dinner.  A few ate the scrub grass at the sewage lake’s edge.  And these individuals, miserable souls, thereby made an inestimable contribution to their neighbors.  They gave those slumdwellers who didn’t fry rats and eat weeds, like Abdul, a felt sense of their upward mobility.

This book has inestimable worth in helping the average (rich) westerner to understand the vast complexity of poverty.  How it’s not just a matter of providing seed money or sending a Christmas shoebox or paying for a good education that is going to get someone out of poverty.  That ethnicity and religion and politics and most importantly, worldview, have far deeper ramifications than we realize.

In this way [Sunil] learned that policemen sometimes advised the road boys about nearby warehouses and construction sites where they might steal building materials.  The cops then took a share of the proceeds.

Probably what was most valuable to me in this story was the importance of virtue in poverty alleviation.  And how the poor can’t really, truly be helped until integrity is valued in a society.  And how we can’t expect poor people to be virtuous until the rich are virtuous as well–starting with the government, the business owners, and the elite.

‘Out of stock today’ was the nurses’ official explanation.  Plundered and resold out of supply cabinets was an unofficial one.  What patients needed, families had to buy on the street and bring in.

I don’t think that my fellow Americans really understand the level of corruption that exists in the developing world, and how much it contributes to poverty.  I certainly didn’t get it until I had lived outside of America for many years.  And I think that this is one of the main reasons why westerners’ poverty-alleviating efforts often hurt more than they help.

In newspaper interviews, Gaikwad spoke of his search for unschooled children, and his hope of giving them the sort of education that would lift them out of poverty.  His less public ambition was to divert federal money to himself.

The biggest revelation of this story comes in the epilogue.  It’s the sort of thing that I thought should have been included in the prologue, because finding out the truth of how this book came to be written made me want to start over from the beginning and read it again.  But since the author obviously wanted it left for the end, you’ll just have to trust me when I say that this book is incredibly powerful–and it will change your life.

The crucial things were luck and the ability to sustain two convictions: that what you were doing wasn’t all that wrong, in the scheme of things, and that you weren’t all that likely to get caught.  

‘Of course it’s corrupt,’ Asha told the new secretary of the nonprofit.  ‘But is it my corruption?  How can anyone say I am doing the wrong…when the big people say that it’s right?’

The subtitle of this book is Life, Death, and Hope in a Mumbai Undercity.  To be honest, I didn’t see much hope in this book.  It is deeply disturbing and terribly depressing and really not redemptive.  But it’s necessary, because poverty is real.  Far more real and far more prevalent than those of us with manicured lawns want to admit. And if we want to be a generation of rich people who really do help the poor, then that must start by really understanding poverty.

Among the poor, there was no doubt that instability fostered ingenuity, but over time the lack of a link between effort and result could become debilitating.  ‘We try so many things,’ as one Annawadi girl put it, ‘but the world doesn’t move in our favor.’

Though the gospel was nowhere to be found in this story, I kept thinking about the difference it could make.  In promoting the value of human life.  In valuing justice and truth.  In offering forgiveness.  In providing hope.  And it reinforced to me the necessity of the gospel not just taking root in individual’s lives, but the importance of it transforming whole societies by becoming a worldview of influence.

‘Always I was thinking how to try to make my life nicer, more okay, and nothing got better,’ Sunil said.  ‘So now I’m going to try to do it the other way.  No thinking how to make anything better, just stopping my mind, then who knows?  Maybe then something good could happen.’

Those of us whose lives are nicer, are better, we don’t often realize how powerful we really are.  Or how responsible.

From 10 to 105 (This Is Why We Are Here)

Freddy was one of Reach Tanzania’s students in 2014 and 2015.  Recently, he stopped by our training center and shared this story:


In 2015, we started having family sessions of prayers in the evening. So we used to praise and worship God, and some of our neighbors started hearing how we were praising God and worshiping Him.  So they started joining us for prayers and worshiping the Lord.  And slowly I started telling them about the Good News about Jesus.  And [I used] some methods I have learned about here at Reach Tanzania.  For example, from the evangelism [class].  They accepted Christ and they offered their lives to Jesus.  So I taught them those methods that I have learned here at Reach Tanzania and they started applying them to the places that they were going.  And they won a lot of souls.  So from a number of 10 people now we have grown to a number of 105, to this time.  In a year.  So I thank God for this school.  


This is why we are here.  This is why we keep staying.  

Gil and some of our students recently made this 4 minute video to recruit new students for next year.  Freddy tells his story in it, and you’ll hear from some others as well.  (If you are reading in a feed, you will need to click through to the post.)

And if you don’t have time for that one, this one is only 1 minute, and I promise it will make your day.  This is what our students do…all the time…spontaneously….just because they love Jesus and love to sing.  

Page 66 of 233

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