The Last Day: March 13 and June 18

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On June 18, 2020

In Other

Today, June 18, 2020 is the last day of school at Haven of Peace Academy. It’s still morning here in California but it’s night in Tanzania, so the day is done. We just finished our Last Day Assembly as a Zoom call, live streamed on Facebook for the whole community. After so many years of saying goodbye to others at the Last Day Assembly, for the first time, my children and I were listed as “leavers.” My HOPAC family loved me well today, having flowers delivered and enfolding me in their love, even across all of the distance between us.

About a week ago, our HR gal sent me the “Leaving Staff Exit Interview” form to fill out. And I sat there and stared at this form that I personally have given to many staff members, and wondered what on earth I would write. What are the highlights of your time at HOPAC? How would you rate your HOPAC experience? How could I possibly answer those questions? I arrived at HOPAC at age 24; now I’m 43. HOPAC has not been an experience. HOPAC has been my life.

My dad prayed by the baobab tree on the HOPAC campus before it was built. I was the first teacher to step into the fifth grade classroom on the Mbezi Beach campus in 2001. The cement dust hadn’t been swept away yet and the chalkboards hadn’t been nailed to the walls. I was there to see more and more of the coconut trees from the original plantation be cut down and replaced with the the science building, pool, admin building, library, performing arts building, kitchen, cafeteria, and playground–a rustic, rural patch of land transformed into our Haven of Peace.

I grew up along with HOPAC. I poured my soul and tears and sweat (so much sweat, this is the tropics, after all) into this school and in return its people and experiences twisted and turned me inside out, stripped me down and built me back up again. We are inextricably linked, HOPAC and me.

Friday, March 13, was the last day I saw my students. We thought that we were kicking off Service Emphasis Week (SEW), so at the end of that day, everybody put their SEW shirts on and squished into the performing arts building. The speaker had the kids make paper airplanes that said “SEW Go For It!” and at the end of her talk, everybody threw them in the air, hundreds of them.

Two days later, Service Emphasis Week was cancelled and the campus shut down. And just a few days after that, I was on a literal airplane, wrenched away from my home, my country, my Haven.

None of us knew that would be our last day together. But at least those last minutes of that last day were spent together, all 500 of us scrunched together, sharing the same space. We belly laughed over the group of teachers who did their rendition of “I Will Follow You.” The air crackled with expectancy and excitement. And because it was a special event, we got lots of pictures, including a group picture of all of us. Who would have known how important those pictures would turn out to be?

I am thankful the SEW assembly was our last time together, full of joy and anticipation, because it’s a sweet memory in contrast to following 3 months of sorrow upon sorrow. The frantic evacuation of many of our staff, many of us not knowing what was going on or why we were even in this position, far more fearful of our rapidly changing world than we were of the virus. The devastation of those left behind or who chose to stay behind. The heartbreak of the first COVID death in Tanzania being a HOPAC parent. Discovering that our beloved pastor and chaplain has brain cancer. Trying to keep a school and a community together while spread out across the globe.

There has been very little joy in my life the last three months. Just trauma, uncertainty, stress, guilt, regret, and sorrow. Sitting in front of a computer day after day, living out of suitcases for months, not knowing what the next week would hold, I had a dogged determination to finish my job as well as I could, but there was very little light in that fog.

So finishing today, like this, is not what I wanted or planned, but it is what it is. And despite it all, there is sweetness in the sorrow. Relief and gratitude and the seedlings of joy. Because nothing–not distance, nor time, nor COVID-19, can ever take away what Haven of Peace Academy is to me.

America Doesn’t Know What To Do With Us

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On June 11, 2020

In Other

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

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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

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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

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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.

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