Tag: Growing up in Africa Page 7 of 11

Where you live, the leaves are probably starting to change color.  But down here in the southern hemisphere, things are heating up.  

So since the kids had the day off from school, we headed to Wet n’ Wild.  

Yep, Dar es Salaam’s very own water park.  And it’s only a mile away from our house.  

We got there at 11:30.  We waited in line.  This was the line.  Needless to say, the wait was not long.  Well, except that no one was in the ticket booth, so we had to yell into the window for a minute until someone heard us.

One adult + 4 kids (Zawadi was with us) = 32,000 shillings or $19.20.

The crowds were overwhelming, as you can see here.  In fact, I think there might have been a whole 12 people there besides the other HOPAC friends who joined us.

I mean, look at the lines the kids had to wait in!

And Lily could practically barely move around the swarms of other kids!

But before you start thinking that this place is too good to be true, well, don’t.

It may look amazing from distance shots, but when you get up close, your Mommy-radar may give a little shudder.

Especially when you realize that the wonderful kiddie-pool is really just an ordinary playground cemented into the water on large concrete blocks with sharp edges.

And even though this set of slides may look picture perfect,

on closer inspection, you may notice this sign.

Which was probably unnecessary considering that the whole front of the structure is covered with scaffolding.  

And when the children climb to the top of the slides, you notice large cracks running through the bottom of the stairs.

And you notice that there are workmen, with drills, working on the scaffolding.

But apparently, none of these are reasons to close down the slides to small children!

In all the years we have gone to this park (over 13 years), the kitchen has never actually served the items listed on their rather extensive menu.  I stopped being disappointed years ago, and have learned to ask, “So what are you serving today?” instead of even bothering to look at the menu.

Today, it was burgers and fries.

And of course, ice cream!

The truth is, that even though this park’s lack of safety standards gives me a few heart palpitations, the kids always have an absolutely fabulous time.  Why shouldn’t they?  They don’t have to wait in line, they get the slides all to themselves, and they wear themselves out by running up the stairs.

Sure, you know, Mom wants slides that aren’t held up by rusty poles, but I guess I’m just picky like that.

When I was five years old and my parents were preparing to move to Liberia, my grandmother was so furious that she threatened to contact a lawyer to try to get custody of my brother and I away from them.

In contrast, last week my mom said to me, Your job is to follow God’s calling.  Our job is to release you to pursue God’s calling.

My grandmother really, really loved us and couldn’t accept us being so far away.  My parents really, really love their grandchildren too.  Being separated from them by 10,000 miles is excruciating.  Every time we talk about our upcoming departure, my mom and I get all teary.

Most of the time, the emphasis is only on the missionary and the sacrifices they make.  But hidden behind the banner of missions are others who are forced to make equally difficult sacrifices–the ones who are left behind, and who didn’t get to choose to be there.

We made the choice to live so far away from our families.  And yet, they have to suffer the consequences.

So today, I want to honor those who are our biggest supporters, our biggest fans, even though every day we are gone leaves a hole in their hearts.

My mom (known to my kids as Bibi) handles the American side of our finances when we are in Africa.  She is my personal shopper, and so many of my emails start with, Do you think you can find__________? or We just need a little bit more of __________.  She is the first one to be concerned, the first one to pray, the first one to listen.  When we are home, she stocks her closet with crafts and patiently pushes a four-year-old on her bike a mile to the park.

My dad (known to my kids as Babu) is the first one I go to with missions questions.  He is famous for his pancakes and even more famous for sneaking desserts to his grandchildren.  He has taken each child out for breakfast dates on numerous occasions, and dutifully rides the roller coaster at Happy Hollow–over and over.

And of course, Gil’s parents love us just as much.  Grandpa does our taxes and is also an expert roller-coaster rider, and Grandma can find anything at a garage sale–even cars, which she has bought for us more than once.  They have driven an hour each way every Saturday just to watch all of our kids’ sports games this year.  They drive an hour each way every Thursday evening to baby-sit while we lead college group.

I really can’t imagine any two sets of grandparents who are so devoted to their grandchildren.  And yet, we continue to take those children away from them.

And yet, they smile.

And they support us.

And they love us unconditionally.

Even though they miss almost every birthday, every Christmas, every Thanksgiving, every ball game.  Years go by before they see their grandchildren again.

But they smile, and they are so brave.

I know very well that this does not characterize all parents of missionaries.  I have a number of friends whose parents are bitter, or angry, or emotionally distant because of their children’s decisions, and the missionary has to make the excruciating choice between obeying God or making their families happy.

We feel so blessed that our families have chosen joy, and courage, and unselfishness.  They have given us to God, and given us the freedom to follow Him, despite how much it hurts.

Bibi and Babu and Grandma and Grandpa, we love you so much.