Category: Other Page 51 of 181

We Are Not Safe

By

On April 8, 2015

In Other

I was awake a long time on Thursday night, thinking about Garissa.

Thinking about 147 lives taken.  Kenya is a country where less than half of all young people attend high school, where less than 10% actually graduate from high school.  These students were the best and brightest of their country.  The hope of many families to escape poverty.  The hope of their country.  Have you taken a look at some of their faces?

Thinking about the trauma.  Mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters.  There were only 815 students at Garissa University.  17% were murdered.  Seventeen percent.  Every student knows someone gone.  Hundreds more forever traumatized, in a country where there is no team of counselors to rush in.

Thinking about how we live in the neighboring country south of Kenya.  Thinking about the Christian school my kids attend.  Imagining scenarios.  I am not a creative person, but it’s amazing how imaginative I can be about terrorism.

Kenyans are justifiably angry.  They are demanding more security at their schools.  “We are not safe!”  Kenyan students chanted Tuesday.

We are not safe.  Was there ever a truer statement?

We like to think that we are safe.  We long for it, and we are lulled into it by the locks on our doors and the airbags in our cars.  We like feeling safe, and we like to pretend we are safe because it’s just too hard to be afraid all the time.

Until something happens close to us.  Columbine, 9/11, Sandy Hook….they made Americans feel unsafe.  Garissa is too far away for Americans to be affected, but it’s close to me.  So yeah, it makes me feel unsafe.  Terrorism accomplishes what it sets out to do, doesn’t it?  Incite terror.

The funny thing is, nothing has actually changed about my life.  The danger I am in now is the same that it was a week ago.  It’s just the facade of safety that has crumbled.  I see my world differently.  I know, from experience, that after a couple weeks with no other incident, I’ll pretend once again that I am safe, and I’ll feel pretty good about life.

Which is why these sorts of things are good for me.  They jolt me out of my cardboard fortress, and remind me of the reality of life.  I am not safe.  I never will be.  There is nothing I can ever do differently to make myself, and my children, entirely safe.  I live in a world that is completely out of my control.

I need this reminder.  Because it forces me to take my eyes off the waves and onto my Savior.

The Lord is my light and my salvation–

whom shall I fear?

The Lord is the stronghold of my life–

of whom shall I be afraid?



Though an army besiege me,

my heart will not fear; 

though war break out against me,

even then I will be confident.

My safety is in my salvation.  My confidence is in knowing this is not my eternal home.

How It All Started

By

On April 7, 2015

In Other

My parents are passionate about prayer, and the prayers of my parents have shaped my life.  Sometimes even when they didn’t realize that the subject of their prayers was me.

In the mid-90’s, my Dad was missions chairman of Hillside Church.  He had a vision for our church to partner with a team serving an unreached people group.  He prayed God would show him the country and the team, and it turned out to be a Reach Global group working in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania.

The partnership began in 1996, and Hillside began sending out teams to Tanzania (over 20 teams in a decade!).  My Dad led Team #1.*

My parents prayed that God would build and grow and train His Church in Dar es Salaam.  They prayed that God would shine His light on those communities that had never heard the gospel.  They prayed that God would send a Hillside member to be a full-time worker in Tanzania.

During that first exploratory trip, one of the things my Dad did was prayer-walk on the coconut plantation which was later to become Haven of Peace Academy’s campus.  He stood by the giant baobab tree which bisected nothing but rows of coconut trees, and prayed for God’s blessing on the fledgling school that had a vision of expansion.

In 1998, I was on Hillside Team #5 with three other college students.  We came to provide English camps for a group serving the Indian community in Dar.  We were also introduced to Haven of Peace Academy.  I always knew I wanted to be a missionary teacher, but when I found out about HOPAC, I was hooked.

My parents never, ever pressured Gil or me about any major life decisions–and they never intentionally planted the idea of serving in Tanzania in our heads.  They never prayed that Gil and I would be the answer to their prayers.

Yet in 2001, God led us to Tanzania.  He led Gil to join the team serving the Indian Community that I had joined on Team #5.  He led me to HOPAC–and later, Gil too.  And now God is using us to train His Church in Dar.

And it all started with my parents’ prayers.

My parents were here visiting the last two weeks, and the time was filled with card games and water balloons and sight-seeing and long talks after the kids went to bed.  I am blessed that my parents are some of my best friends and my biggest cheerleaders.  I am incredibly thankful for their lives of service, sacrifice, and passion.

But today, I am mostly thankful that they pray.

*Special note for other RG and/or Hillside folks:  Ironically, for those of you who know him, Kevin Kompelien–the pastor of Hillside–was also on that first Tanzania team.  Kevin later became the Reach Global director for Africa and is now the candidate for president of the Evangelical Free Church of America.   Seems like my parents’ prayers affected more than just us.

Term 2: Book Week Mice, Farms, and Medieval Princesses

By

On March 29, 2015

In Other

Another peek into the lives of our crazy kids at their amazing school.


Book Week

You can’t tell parents, “Take pictures of your kids reading in unusual places,” and not expect Gil to go all out.  

 

Yes, we really do have a glow-in-the-dark bathroom….and they are reading in it.

 Book Character Day:  We’ve got Despereaux, King Peter, and Angelina Ballerina.  We tried hard for Josiah to be Reepicheep, so that they would all be mice, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

Masai Day in First Grade

Kindergarten’s Trip to the Farm

Learning to milk a cow

Poetry Recital in Third Grade

Medieval Day in Third Grade

Football!


Gil coached after-school primary football this term, and Grace and Josiah both participated.  He organized an intramural tournament at the culmination, and Grace’s team ended up defeating Josiah’s team.  Oh, the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat!

GOAL!!!

Celebrating their victory!

Service Emphasis Week

SEW is one of the best things about HOPAC!   This is Grace’s class (and some Big Kids) off to visit a local orphanage.  

Sporting their SEW Week shirts

Enchanted?  This incredible school still has staff openings for the next school year!  

The Grim Reality of Bathroom Door Locks

By

On March 15, 2015

In Other

Last week, Alyssa and I visited Lucy’s home, where we were treated like royalty.  Lucy continues to impress me with her love for Jesus and people, which was even more evident in her home and neighborhood.  And her incredible sense of humor makes her a fantastic Kiswahili teacher.  

But it was no laughing matter when she explained to us why there’s a lock on the outside of her bathroom door.  It seemed strange–after all, there’s nothing worth stealing inside.  

Most people in Tanzania have pit toilets, and Lucy’s house is no exception.  She explained that the government tells people to lock their bathrooms, so that women will not abandon their newborn babies to the depths of the pit.  

What a horrifying reality.  In fact, I know two such children–now adopted (but not by us)–who were rescued on their birth days from such a nightmare.

Whenever I talk about adoption with my Tanzanian friends, every single one can tell me of an instance when they came across an abandoned baby.  Though not always alive.

For most, they are found too late to rescue.  And those that are, live their entire lives on the streets or in an orphanage.  There are over 2 million orphans in Tanzania, and maybe only a couple dozen get adopted every year.

Which is why it makes me mad when UNICEF and other such organizations are so anti-international adoption, and anti-orphanage, and are heavily influencing developing countries (including Tanzania) to be the same way.  YES, let’s work at family reunification whenever possible.  YES, let’s work at getting corruption out of the adoption process.  And by all means, tell people to put a lock on their bathroom doors.

For many children, there is no family to be reunified with.  Let’s at least redeem their stories by helping them find a new one.

March 19:  Follow-up to this post here:  When You Became Mine.   Why is it so shocking that women in Africa leave their newborns to die?  Is dumping a baby into a toilet more barbaric than jabbing a scalpel into a baby’s neck, suctioning out her brains, and crushing her skull?  Or simply vacuuming her life away, piece by piece, as she struggles to get away?

Additional note added in 2016:  Since I wrote this post, I now have many more mixed feelings on the issue of international adoption.  Please read this series I wrote:  I Wish It Wasn’t True:  The Dark Side of International Adoption.

The Monster that Waits in My Bathroom Every Morning

By

On March 11, 2015

In Other

The alarm wakes me up.  I huddle in my friendly cocoon of fake air-conditioned air, not wanting to leave.  I breathe well.

I take one last breath, wince, and push open the bathroom door.  There it is, as it is every morning these days.  The Heat.  Waiting for me.

I always hope it may have gone away during the night, but in February and March….it never does.  The sun isn’t up yet, so it starts its attack rather gently.  It just lies there, breathing, in my bathroom, waiting to envelop me as soon as I enter.

I look longingly at the bathtub.  Really, I just want to fill it up with cold water and sit in it all day.  But I shower at night, since there’s no way I could sleep with The Heat still attached to me.  And in the morning, it doesn’t take long for its sticky fingers to wind their way around my arms, my legs, my neck.  After five minutes in the bathroom, I can feel the first drops of sweat for the day.

I don’t bother with much make-up…it would run off in half an hour.  Unfortunately, it’s not culturally appropriate to wear shorts.  But every day, I choose my clothes based on what looks coolest.  I could care less about how I actually look.  After all, in a few hours, The Heat will have stolen all my dignity.

My next stop for the morning is the kids’ bedroom, to wake them up for school.  It’s more like a wind tunnel than a bedroom.  Not only is the ceiling fan on at full-blast, but each child has a fan attached to the end of their bed.  A foghorn could go off in there, and you wouldn’t be able to hear it over the noise of the fans.  Still, my children sleep mostly naked with no covers.

I enter the rest of the house, and this is where The Heat really begins its attack.  The tiled floors are warm under my bare feet, not having cooled off during the night.  I breathe as one would with a wet blanket on her head.  I turn on ceiling fans as I walk to the kitchen, pushing, shoving The Heat aside.  But it never really leaves, it just sort of swirls around.

Some mornings, dark clouds gather overhead.  We all stare at the sky, hopeful.  But the clouds mock us.  They push The Heat further down to earth, but give us no rain.  The air is full of so much moisture that it feels like something’s got to burst.  Maybe tomorrow, we think.  Maybe the rain will come tomorrow.

If I happen to walk to the nearby market for some eggs, that’s when The Heat brings out all its guns.  It attacks me with full force, filling my pores and my bones and my hair follicles.  My skirt sticks to my legs.  My legs stick together.  My arms stick to anything they touch.  I have to be careful I don’t accidentally shoplift.

It’s difficult to be affectionate with The Heat making its attack.  Don’t touch me; you’re sticky!  You’re smelly!  You’re sweaty!  Most of the time, The Heat wins.  It’s a good thing we don’t have leather couches.  We would sit down and never be able to get up again.

By afternoon, The Heat is conquering me.  My dog lays on the tiled floor, unmoving except for the pink tongue sticking out of her mouth.  I am tempted to join her. I walk slower; I move slower.  I gulp down liters of water.

If I dare turn on my oven, The Heat cackles with glee.  Now I’ve got you completely in my clutches, I can hear it saying.  The temperature in the kitchen rises by at least 10 degrees.  If I open my deep freezer, it takes every ounce of will power to not jump in head first.  By the time I’m done cooking, I look like I have run a marathon.  But I’ve only got chicken to show for it.

If the power goes off, we hold up the white flag in surrender.  The Heat has won.  There’s nothing left to do but cry.

The sky is a brilliant blue, the Indian Ocean sparkles in the distance, the palm trees wave peacefully….and we don’t care.  All we can think about is The Heat, surrounding us, inside of us, overtaking us.

Cold showers are the best thing in the world.  Here, take all my money.  Take my car.  Take my Firstborn.  But please, don’t take away my shower.

And we wait for tomorrow, and hope for the rain to come.

Are you anxiously waiting for a change of seasons too, in your part of the world?

Page 51 of 181

Previous

Next

Powered by WordPress & Theme by Anders Norén

Verified by MonsterInsights