I’ve lived here over 11 years, and my mind is still blown, every time.
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| photo credit: Shelby Rhee |
Category: Other Page 41 of 181
Friday was Haven of Peace Academy’s annual International Day. I was standing in line at the Lebanese booth, waiting not-so-patiently for my hummus and pita bread and spinach-stuffed pastry, and chatting with the people next to me. They were a new teacher at HOPAC and his wife, who have only been here a few months, and I asked him how it’s going.
“I love my job here,” he told me. “I worked at a public school in the States before this, and I used to dread going to work every day. Now I get up in the morning and can’t wait to get to school.”
No one paid him to make that statement. In fact, HOPAC gives him nothing but a housing allowance, and I’m certain he is living off of less than he did in the States. It’s hard to raise support and it’s hard to live in a developing country and sometimes tropical heat is just plain….hard. But nothing beats the feeling of getting up in the morning and loving your job.
There’s also nothing that beats the feeling of knowing your kids love going to school. That even if ministry is overwhelming and you miss your mom and the car has a flat tire for the third time in a month–at least your kids love school. And you know that they are being loved and challenged and stretched intellectually and spiritually. That’s the amazing gift that HOPAC teachers give us.
Haven of Peace Academy is always looking for teachers who love Jesus and love the nations. Know anyone I could talk to? Please put them in touch with me.
International Day 2015
all pictures by Abi Snyder
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| My kiddos performed this year! This past summer, a few other moms and I hired three talented senior boys to teach our kids African dance. Our kids absolutely loved it and they all did a great job! |
Tomorrow is Orphan Sunday, the day when thousands of churches across America focus on the plight of orphans worldwide.
I always have been a big fan.
Now, I’m just uncertain.
Discovering the illegal inter-country adoptions happening in Tanzania shook me to my core. Oh, I had always read the articles from the doubters and the nay-sayers and all those negative people who either had a beef against Christians or taking kids out of their culture or whatever. Phooey on them. Adoption was beautiful, and that’s final.
Then I saw the full effects of the damage that American adoption agencies are capable of doing in an African country.
And I have found myself with this tension I can’t resolve. First, I see my own experience and my own children, and I am absolutely confident we did the right thing. We did our adoptions legally and without a hint of corruption, and there were no other options available to my children other than a life sentence in an orphanage. My children made me a mom and have blessed my life beyond description, and I want that for other children and for other families.
But now my eyes are open to the abuses, especially in countries with poor infrastructure and bottom-level poverty. Where is the line between adoption and child-trafficking? How can something so beautiful turn into something so ugly? How can we best love the child, but also love her family and his country?
I am on a quest for these answers. In the next couple of months, I plan to read the following books:
The Child Catchers: Rescue, Trafficking, and the New Gospel of Adoption by Kathryn Joyce
In Pursuit of Orphan Excellence by Philip Darke and Keith McFarland
Orphan Justice: How to Care for Orphans Beyond Adopting by Johnny Carr and Laura Captari
In the meantime, Yes, we should celebrate Orphan Sunday. Let’s not turn our backs on those most vulnerable because some people make it ugly. But by all means, let’s work to get it right.
I will be thinking hard and writing about what I learn. Anything else I should read as I continue this journey? I welcome your thoughts and questions.
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| photo credit: Hannah Towlson |
It’s been 8 years since this quirky little guy was born. In 8 more years he will be sixteen. Whaaaat????
He could kick since he could walk. Recently, a mom of four boys said to me, “My boys say that Josiah by himself could beat all of them in football combined.”
That’s my boy. He is the smallest in his class, but he is the fastest. Last week, when school was cancelled because of the election, he said, “I’m sad there’s no school….because I wanted to play football.” He plays three times a day–at least.
So, of course, he had a football birthday party (of course). Gil, who is the party-planner extraordinaire, planned a multitude of football activities for the boys. Cost nothing and was the best party ever (as confirmed by various 8-year-olds).
Aw, my sweet boy. You are all energy and bravado, but you still love to climb in my lap. This Mommy is still so smitten by you.
When I was a little girl, I often imagined I was a princess. I loved the idea of being able to have anything I wanted. I had only one Cabbage Patch doll, while a girl in my class had sixteen. In my imaginary palace, I had a whole room full of them.
What I didn’t realize is that I already was nobility, and I still am.
After all, I am one of thetop 1% richest people in the world, even on a missionary’s salary. If you make over $30,000 a year, you are too. If that’s not a princess, I don’t know what is.
Growing up, I never felt wealthy in America. My parents lived on the “undesirable” side of town. My family never had a new car. My parents wouldn’t buy me a senior class ring. A girl in my class received $150 a month for her allowance. I had to work for the $20 a month that I received.
It didn’t change as an adult. When I was teaching kindergarten and Gil was in seminary, it seemed everyone had more than me. I drove a dumpy little Hyundai. Gil and I have never owned a house, and our apartment was full of used furniture. Everyone else had nicer clothes, fancy kitchens with marble counter tops, weekly pedicures, and gym memberships. I felt…poor. And I felt kind of sorry for myself.
Then I moved to Tanzania. We moved into a modest-sized house, average for California…but most Tanzanians live in one room. We have electricity and indoor plumbing, which puts us in the top 10% of residents. We own one 1999 Toyota mini-van, but the vast majority of Tanzanians are lucky to have even a bike. I have a college education, when only 5% of Tanzanians finish high school.
Suddenly, I was a princess.
Just yesterday, I was talking to a Tanzanian friend about her financial struggles. She has a sixth grade education. She receives $100 a month from her job, plus whatever else she can make selling charcoal. She supports three young children and a good-for-nothing husband who continually cheats on her. Twenty percent of her income goes to childcare, so that she can work. Ten percent goes to her daughter’s (supposedly free) public school education. At least sixty percent of her salary goes towards food. She lives in two rooms, cooks outside, and walks a few blocks to bring home water. Her life, in Tanzania, is average. She’s not even considered the poorest of the poor.
Living here has done wonders for my level of contentment. Sure, there are still people around me who are much richer than I am. Not everyone in Tanzania is poor! But when the vast majority is scratching by on so much less, suddenly my 1999 mini-van looks like a queen’s carriage. The air conditioner in my bedroom puts me in a palace. The never-ending supply of food in my refrigerator, the trips to the beach, the occasional dinner at a restaurant–all put me in the category of The Privileged.
In America, it was much harder to see myself this way. I was constantly bombarded by advertisements, shopping malls, and friends’ houses, all telling me that I wanted more, deserved more, needed more. In a country where even food stamp recipients get $400 a month, it’s easy to feel poor.
I’ve noticed that whenever I feel discontent with what I have, it’s because I am comparing up. He has a nicer house than me. She had a better vacation than I will ever have. Why does she have that, and I don’t? American commercialism, in general, encourages this.
But if the statistics are true, and Americans hold half of the world’s wealth, and anyone who makes $30,000 a year is in the top 1%…..well, then shouldn’t we be comparing down? It may seem that everyone around us has more than us, when in reality, in the grand scope of the world, we are the ones who have more….than pretty much everyone else.
I’m not about feeling guilty for being rich. And I’ve written many timesbefore on what I think us rich people should do with all our wealth. Today, I’m just thinking about contentment. About entering this holiday season with the perspective of someone who is one of the richest people in the world. Instead of comparing up, comparing down. Americans spend more on Halloween than the entire world spends on malaria in a year. Americans spend $465 billion on Christmas every year, and only $6.3 billion to fight AIDS overseas.
Someday, just like the servant who received 10 talents, I’ll have to stand before God and give account of how I spent my money. I think He’ll expect me to own up to being rich. At the very least, I can start with being content with what He has given me. After all, there’s not much more that’s disturbing than an ungrateful, dissatisfied princess.
