Control? Or Trust?

I've been thinking a lot about my miscarriages lately.  When they first happened, I blanked them from my mind. Just forget, get over it, move on.  Then, months later, guilt started creeping up.  What if I had done this differently?  Should I have done that?  And now, most recently, comes an understanding.

People like to think that if they do x, y, and z, if they live their lives according to whatever checklist, then good things will come their way.  God will bless them.  It makes sense.  I mean, you hear all the time, God wants to bless you.  So if I don't perceive that I'm being blessed, I must be doing something to get in His way.

Only, in my reality, life doesn't work that way.  Good people die from cancer.  Bad people keep on living to screw up more lives.  I lose my baby.  Another girl smokes meth through the first trimester and into the second, and the baby's born healthy.

It's even more frustrating because this body, this tent that I live in, is mine.  Or so I think.  I feed it, I exercise it, I've lived in it for three decades.  I know it pretty well.  So when a baby starts growing inside of you, and then suddenly stops growing for no apparent reason, it's hard to take that you didn't do something to cause it.  Or couldn't have done anything to prevent it.

But I didn't cause the miscarriages.  And I couldn't have prevented them.  So there you have it.  Where can I go from here, this place of recognition that I have absolutely no control over this thing we call life?  I can't cause life, I can't will it into existence.

This understanding that I'm not in control has led to a deeper understanding that the only One in control is God.  He gives.  He takes away.  He is God in Heaven.  I'm not.  I don't understand why He does things, or allows things to happen.  But it's not my place to question Him, any more than it is my kids' place to question me, when I can see so much more clearly through my greater experience and knowledge.

So the question then becomes, do I trust Him?  Do I trust Him when my baby dies?  Do I trust Him when my dear friend dies from cancer, leaving three teenagers?  Do I trust Him with my present circumstances and my future plans?  Do I, in other words, have faith.

How about you?  Do you control?  Or trust?

(edited to add August 2013) ---
I'm digging around my blog, looking for old posts about my miscarriages, when I came across this one.  It still rings very true to my heart, except for the last bit, where I wrote, 'it's not my place to question Him'.  I used to believe this, but I have come in  my journey to a place where questioning is an important and valuable part of my faith.  I don't think God sits back when I ask him, 'Why' and says, 'How dare you question or doubt ME?!'  God can see more clearly, and dwelling on the 'why' too much can lead down a dark road of guilt and shame, but I don't want to discount the importance of the freedom to question and doubt.

Connected By Loss

Most TCKs feel alone, but we're connected by our shared experiences of loss.

I came across a fledgling blog the other day.  It's written by another TCK, and, curious, I stopped to read a while.  Soon (very soon), I was pulled in by 'iTCK's' raw, heartfelt writing.

What I love about this blog is that its author is (or could have been) ... me ... a few years ago.  She is just starting her journey to healing and wholeness, trying to make sense of her experiences and multiple transitions in her life.

Here's a snippet from a post titled, 'Loss':

It's amazing how much a simple, material item, can mean so, so much.  My parents recently removed a couch from my room that I had always known was only a temporary establishment.  But when it actually came to them removing the item I felt another piece of me, somehow taken by that event.  I keep thinking, I always knew this would happen, and, we need the money so selling this will profit everyone.  But my thoughts keep turning back to the loss. 

Loss.  No matter material, like the couch that I just lost, or friendships or the physical aspect of moving from one space to another as so many TCK's experience - hurts.  We all grow and handle the situation in our own way but loss, in whatever light you put it in, is loss.  

If you're interested in more, you can find her at i-TCK.blogspot.com.  Go check her out!

Fear of Failure

It came to me suddenly, and will not let me go.  It's an idea.  A story idea, to be specific.  The plot and characters are blooming in my mind, taking up permanent residence, demanding to be given a voice. 

And I'm scared.  Terrified, really.  I'm scared that:

• I won't be able to do it
• I'll get half way through the book, and get stuck, and won't be able to finish
• I'll write trivial crap that nobody wants to read
• That I'll be exposed and ashamed
• I won't be able to flesh the characters out correctly
• I have no idea how to go about getting published
• Who would want to publish me, anyway?
• And where, in my packed day, will I find the time? 

The entire process frightens me.  I think, really, because as long as I have known how to put words on paper, I have wanted to write a book.  I used to write and publish my own little books as a kid.  I had a whole series about Annie the Ant.  So this dream of writing a book is my oldest and dearest aspiration.  A lifetime of longings can stack up pretty high, and weigh mighty heavy.  Held up against that, the fear of failure is near overwhelming. 

What Happens In the Dark

It was dark.  I was having a flirt fest under the eves of the church with another girl and two local boys.  Just the typical harmless fun shared by teenagers worldwide - laughing, sideways looks, lots of posturing by the boys.  Ostensibly, we were preparing the music sheets for tomorrow night's choir practice.  In reality, we were just stealing a few moments away from prying adult eyes, in this society where males and females kept strictly apart most of the time.

One of the boys was the son of a trusted local translator.  His dad was my father's friend.  There was something about him that I didn't quite trust - a shifty eye, something in the set of his mouth, or the way he carried himself.  Little rumors hinted around the well as girls gathered to draw water and gossip.  But I accepted him into my sphere because his family was trusted.  So he could be.  Right?

There in the dark, under the deeper shadows of the sheltering church, I felt a hand snake out and grab my breast.  And the stars fell from the sky.

Unable to breathe, I backed towards the low outer wall of the church.  "Hey, where are you going?" he called, mockingly.  I couldn't form a word.  "Come back," he called.  But I fled.

Did you know that in the United States, 33% of girls and 14% of boys are sexually molested by the time they reach the age of 18?  Approximately three quarters of reported cases of child sexual abuse are committed by either a family member or someone the child knows.  It happens in the dark, under cover and away from eyes that would protect the victim and expose the evil.

So I ask you today:  inform  yourself.  Turn on the light in your relationships, and don't be afraid to let it shine deeply into the darkness.

Here are some signs that a child might be a victim of sexual abuse (taken from www.protectkids.com):

• Waking up during the night sweating, screaming or shaking with nightmares. 
• Masturbating excessively. 
• Showing unusually aggressive behavior toward family members, friends, toys, and pets. 
• Complaining of pain while urinating or having a bowel movement, or exhibiting symptoms of genital infections such as offensive odors, or symptoms of a sexually transmitted disease. 
• Having symptoms indicating evidence of physical traumas to the genital or anal area. 
• Beginning wetting the bed. 
• Experiencing a loss of appetite or other eating problems, including unexplained gagging. 
• Showing unusual fear of a certain place or location. 
• Developing frequent unexplained health problems. 
• Engaging in persistent sexual play with friends, toys or pets. 
• Having unexplained periods of panic, which may be flashbacks from the abuse. 
• Regressing to behaviors too young for the stage of development they already achieved. 
• Initiating sophisticated sexual behaviors. 
• Indicating a sudden reluctance to be alone with a certain person. 
• Engaging in self-mutilations, such as sticking themselves with pins or cutting themselves. 
• Withdrawing from previously enjoyable activities, like school or school performance change.
• Asking an unusual amount of questions about human sexuality.

As hard as it may be to think someone you love could be sexually molesting a child, it is critically important that you champion the helpless and innocent.  Here are some warning signs to look for in a potential abuser (taken from www.stopitnow.org):

Relationships:

• Misses or ignores social cues about others’ personal or sexual limits and boundaries 
• Often has a "special" child friend, maybe a different one from year to year 
• Spends most of his/her spare time with children and shows little interest in spending time with someone their own age 
• Encourages silence and secrets in children 

Sexual Interactions

• Links sexuality and aggression in language or behavior, e.g. sexualized threats or insults, like “whore” or “slut” 
• Makes fun of children's body parts, describes children with sexual words like “stud” or “sexy” or talks again and again about the sexual activities of children or teens 
• Masturbates so often that it gets in the way of important day-to-day activities 
• Has an interest in sexual fantasies involving children and seems unclear about what's appropriate with children 
• Looks at child pornography or downloads/views Internet pornography and is not willing to show whether children are involved 
• Asks adult partners to dress or act like a child or teen during sexual activity 

Personal Safety/Responsibility:

• Has been known to make poor decisions while misusing drugs or alcohol 
• Justifies behavior, defends poor choices or harmful acts; blames others to refuse responsibility for behaviors 
• Minimizes hurtful or harmful behaviors when confronted; denies harmfulness of actions or words despite a clear negative impact 

And lastly, if you suspect a child may have been or is currently being sexually molested, don't hesitate. Call and report it.

Taking Out the Trash

It's an unsavory job wherever you live.  On Luaniua, the trash gets sorted into burnables, which are incinerated on the beach, and food waste, which is fed to the chickens and pigs.  Everything that can't be safely burned or fed to the animals gets taken far out onto the reef at low tide for the ocean to flush away. 
This was mostly my brother's job.  Nathan would sneak through the village after dark with a bucket of tin cans, plastic, dried pens, empty toothpaste tubes, and foil packets, and then pick his way out to the yawning edge of the reef.  Why wait for the sun to set?  Because otherwise he'd collect a bevy of curious pikininis, who would pick through our trash, and then broadcast it throughout the village.  Even our garbage was endlessly interesting to villagers who had basically lived the same life for centuries. 

Sometimes, he would catch the tide on the way in, or dump too close to the beach.  I always knew when this had happened, because the next morning there would be a week's worth of white man trash floating along the shore.  The sodden re fried bean packets and jagged tomato cans always gave me a guilty, uneasy feeling.  When you throw away trash, you want it to stay thrown away.  You don't want to be reminded of the ghosts of things you've consumed. 

There are people in my life with whom I share a history of hurt.  When I don't interact with them, I'm fine.  The trash stays out on the reef where it belongs.  But then something happens to trigger conflict, and suddenly the tide comes rushing in and I'm staring at the sodden mess of old things.  Nasty old words and hurts that can't be burned away.  And I have this boiling, seething mess of garbage I have to look at again.  Forgive again. 

I used to think that once I forgive a hurt, it gets washed out to sea.  I don't ever have to look at it again.  But I've learned that sometimes, I have to chose to forgive the same offense over and over again, because it resurrects itself in my heart whenever trouble rolls in. 

All I know to do is look at each bit of trash as it floats by, and say to myself, "Yep.  That hurt.  But I forgive."

For D, With Love

Sorrow is a cloak that settles itself heavily, without invitation, in a great, muffling embrace.  It colors the world grey.  Like a chalkboard eraser, it wipes the glimmer of life from your eyes as your soul retreats into the deepest part.  Its calling card of weariness hangs heavily on your words.  It even dims the words of a status update:

"Just want to see her pretty blue eyes and hear her voice"


This from a man, barely 30, after his wife was medevaced due to bleeding on her brain.  


Diana, larger than life, with the personality of a lion.  The first glimpse I had of this woman was on the first day we moved to a little adobe house tucked away on a ranch in the Sacramento foothills.  New Mexico wine country.  Diana was digging a ditch to repair some pipe next to the house, her skin stretched golden and taut over smooth, lean muscles.  She had a couple eyebrow piercings, one in her lip, and several along her ear lobes.  I was frankly intimidated by her strength and the ferocity with which she attacked the red dirt.  She looked up, and her blue eyes pierced me.  Direct.  Frank.  Fearless.    


A few months later, I was dismayed to discover that Diana, the ranch's Jill-of-all-trades, was slated to spend the entire week in my house, laying tile in my front entryway.  Tentatively, over the course of the week, I began spending the lazy afternoons between nap time and dinner time sitting on the unfinished part of the floor, chatting with her.  To my surprise, in Diana I found a kindred spirit.  Honest as the day, and loving as fiercely as she worked, Diana and I became fast friends.  Her dry humor and no-holds-barred transparency were the spice in our conversations.


A few months later, she married Brad in a quiet ceremony.  They joined our first small group a year later, Diana enriching it with her characteristic vivacity.  She was the first friend I made in New Mexico, and the only one that has lasted through the years to today.  


Two years ago, the doctors discovered a tumor in Diana's abdomen.  It was cancer.  As that evil dark growth threatened Diana's life, I watched Brad stand beside her in his quiet strength.  He never wavered.  His love for her shone pure, crystal clear in its intensity and simplicity.


Diana, true to the lioness within, conquered the cancer with unwavering optimism.  She didn't just 'survive' it.  She stomped into its camp, burned down the tents, captured the flag and ran off in victorious, shrieking splendor.  To celebrate, Brad commenced on remodeling the kitchen of their mobile home for her.  She called the resultant makeover her 'P.W.T. Palace'.


A year later, a seizure sent Diana to the ER.  Doctors found blood clots, and more cancer.  "All my family's treating me too nice,"  she Facebook chatted to me.  "It's freaking me out."


She jumped these hurdles, too, and continued to march on.  She enrolled in college.  She hadn't been in school since she was 16, but that didn't stop Diana.  


And then, four days ago, I got another call.  Diana had another seizure.  We started praying.  And hoping.  And praying.  When a CAT scan revealed bleeding on her brain, she was airlifted to a bigger hospital, Brad at her side.  Always at her side.  His sunken, stark eyes staring in wordless hope into a future they had dreamed together.


Tonight, we are still hoping and praying.  Lying in her hospital bed, unable to move or speak, surrounded by her family, I know the lioness within is roaring in defiance.  And Brad is just waiting to see her blue eyes smile.      

O Death Where Is Thy Sting?

This morning, at the beginning of my 5 a.m. jog, I set out into the cool, pre dawn darkness, curling my hands up into my windbreaker sleeves against the slight breeze.  Just above the rooftops, Scorpio curled its tail down, punctuating the sky in an eons old question mark.  Over my shoulder, Cassiopeia was just rising, its crooked line of stars forming the distinct crown outline of Greek myth.  As my feet and breath fell into rhythm, my mind wandered to the night I had learned about that particular constellation.

We were at summer camp.  The camp director took all the work crew girls out into the athletic field after sundown one evening, to teach us about the night sky.

"And over there," he said with gentle humor, as we all craned our heads back, "is Cassiopeia.  Most people say it's the crown of a Greek goddess.  But I always used to tell Wendy it was a 'W' in the sky, just for her."

I looked over at his profile, a black cut-out against the brilliant Texas sky.  I knew the story of Wendy, his daughter.  When I was in 6th grade, we came back to the States on furlough in time for me to attend summer camp as a camper.  A week before my block was scheduled to begin, Wendy and some friends were driving home on a twisty back road.  On one treacherous turn, another car came zooming from the opposite direction.  Most of the truck's occupants survived.  Wendy and one other boy did not.

Although the director and staff were in deep mourning, camp was not cancelled.  The next week scores of hopeful young girls (of which I was one) flooded the cabins, lake and dining hall.  One night, my counselor led us to the director's cabin, and we sang hymns of consolation from the front gate.

Looking at the director, four years later, I thought about that night when our voices had carried on the soft Texas air, and wondered at the love and patient humor in his voice.  I knew his faith had to be immensely strong to carry on ministering Christ to hundreds of young women, while his own daughter had been taken from him.

And then, with Cassiopeia and Wendy still on my mind today, Scott came home with sobering news.  A colleague of his, Wyatt, died suddenly in the middle of the work day.  Unlike Wendy, we aren't sure where Wyatt stood before he died.  Instead of sadness holding hands with hope, my husband and I felt, as we sat together absorbing the news, the great sting of death.  A hopelessness, the finality of a giant door being swung shut with a thunderclap.

From now on, when I see Cassiopeia strung like great jewels in the sky, I will think about Wendy and Wyatt.  And then I will turn to Scorpio's question mark, suspended, asking the eternal question:

"Where do you stand?"

Pills and Chewing

I have to apologize for not posting this week.   It is because I am sick.  The ugly old Strep bug swooped down and took me out, wrecking gleeful havoc on my tonsils.  During the lowest days, as I lay shivering and sweating in my darkened room, I decided that this was worse than even malaria.  It was can't-do-anything-but-cry sick.  It was I-just-want-my-mommy-even-though-I'm-grown sick.

I am now on the upside, thanks to blessed antibiotics and lots of honeyed tea, but am still in recovery.  So, today I'm hosting a guest post by my sister, Anna.  She writes (fittingly!) about taking chloroquine tablets, which are anti-malaria pills.

(that's Anna in the forefront, me in the back)

Pills and Chewing

By Anna Gentry

I remember in the early days mom and dad tried many things to make chloroquine more palatable.  There was the first attempt: sprinkle a crushed pill on dinner.  This only succeeded in turning a rare treat of mac & cheese into bitterness incarnate.  

They continued the crush  and mix method with a variety of things with identical results.  The one I most clearly remember is honey.  A brimming spoonful of honey.  At first it looked great, it wasn't often that my mom would let me have that much sugar at one time.  I put the spoon into my mouth and pulled it out again through my closed lips.  The small pile of powder hiding under the honey deposited itself right one the center of my tongue.  Swallowing did no good.  Have you ever tried to swallow a spoon full of honey?  Sticky bitterness clung to every corner of my mouth.  The cups and cups of water which washed the honey away did nothing to erase the now infamous chloroquine aftertaste.  It was 10 years before I could eat honey without the taste of chloroquine along for the ride. 

In the end, it seemed that the best method was to throw a pill as far back in your throat as you could get it and chase it with great gulps of water. The trick was to swallow the pill and any contaminated water while minimizing contact with your taste buds. This practice became forever entwined with, as we called it, Gum Day.  

The weekly pills were handed out on Sundays.  The incentive to take the pill was the gum you received afterwards. I am not talking about those little pellets that were sold masquerading as gum under the name Juicy Fruit.  This was real American gum that came in foil wrapped sticks.  It was gum that you could really chew and sometimes even blow bubbles with. Though this was an ever so cool skill that eluded me well into high school. 

In one aspect alone was this treasure inferior to the locally obtainable varieties of gum.  Its Achilles was its  sensitivity to heat and we had plenty of that on a tropical island where air conditioning was a distant fantasy. The glorious sticks of heaven would melt in the tropic heat and humidity.  If I kept it too long it would get damp and sticky.  I usually did, keep it to long that is.  To me, having gum I could chew anytime I wanted, real American gum, was often better than actually chewing it.  For one you could savor the idea much longer than the taste.  For another, if I held out longer than my siblings (this was not hard when it came to Matthew, my younger brother with a sweet tooth) I could have the added pleasure of holding it over them that I had gum, real American gum to chew, any time i wanted to.   

Fly Away Home

Julia Gentry was my grandmother.  She had large, brown, doe-like eyes and a gentle touch.  She always wore skirts and dresses in pretty pastel flower patterns.  She came to the Lord later in life, together with her husband my grandfather changing direction mid-stream and thus altering the lives of her five children.  She was a faithful Sunday School teacher, played bridge weekly, and knew how to speak the language of the Southern lady.  She collected cook books.

Even while we were overseas, Grandmommy was faithful in supporting our spiritual and mental development.  She would buy story tapes for us to listen to:  'Ants'hillvania' and the Odyssey series, spiritual principles broken down for a child to understand.  She was the one who built our vast Lego and Playmobil collections, sending a new set for every birthday and Christmas.  She was the gentle background figure at family gatherings, cooking, caring, creating the environment for us all to connect with one another.

Twelve years ago, at my high school graduation, Grandmommy was busying herself as usual taking care of us all.  But something was a little off.  She couldn't remember where she left her purse - was it at the hotel, or had she brought it to the party?  She filled a cup to drink, and then came back to get another one, the first cup still standing full on the counter.  Her hands shook just a little bit.  Most of us didn't know what some had begun to suspect, to discern hanging on the horizon of her life, ominous and looming, a threatening dark thundercloud.

Four years later, Scott and I attended my brother's graduation and saw for ourselves what had been whispered about at recent family gatherings.  "Grandmommy's forgetting things."  "She can't remember ..."  She knew me, but didn't recognize my husband of two years.

As the years continued to slip by, Grandmommy's memories began to trickle from her brain like sand through a sieve.  She forgot her friends.  She forgot her grandchildren.  Eventually she didn't recognize her own kids when they came, with grey hair and wrinkles and reading glasses.

My aunt took over the primary care of Julia, placing her in a nursing home close by.  Aunt Peebs would go visit Grandmommy every day with a little gift.

"Looook what I have for you, Mom!"

Grandmommy would say in delight, "I love surprises!"  And open the gift.  Thirty minutes later it would sit forgotten again on the bedside table, where Aunt Peebs scooped it up, hid it, and brought it back the next day for her to open again.

Julia Gentry's mind completely left her about two years ago.  The doctors told us that it would be a matter of time before her brain regressed to the point where it stopped controlling her major organs.  So we loved her, and prayed for her, most of us from afar as we lived our own lives.  And she would walk, around and around the dementia ward at the nursing home.  She, who had been the connecting center of the family, was now adrift and lost and alone, unable to find a safe harbor to rest.

This week, Grandmommy finally sailed home.  After years of not recognizing the faces of those she loves, she beheld the face of the One who loves her most.

"Some glad morning when this life is o’er,
I’ll fly away.
To a home on God’s celestial shore
I’ll fly away.


I’ll fly away, oh glory,
I’ll fly away.
When I die
Hallelujah bye and bye,
I’ll fly away."

I'll see you soon, Grandmommy.

The Case of the Missing Tooth

Today we have a guest post from:  Me, at age 14.  I wrote this in 1995 (OK, I know you're all doing the math, and yes, for the record, I am actually HAPPY that I am finally 30!), for our family newsletter.

--------------------------

"Yes, that's right.  It's the third, bottom, left-hand molar .... over."

"Roger, roger.  Was that the first molar?  Your transmission is a little garbled.  Over."

Dad pressed down the button of our radio microphone, "That's third.  The spelling is Tango, Hotel, India, Romeo, Delta.  THIRD, over."

"OK.  Now, you're telling us that Danica's molar is ... broken in half?  What do you plan to do about it?  Over."  Dad was talking to someone in the capitol city of Honiara, 250 miles south of us, about my tooth which had decayed and finally cracked in half earlier that day.

My mind flashed back to the beginning.  It had all started with a swollen, painful area around my tooth a bit after Christmas.  I decided to show it to 'Doctor Mom'.

"Well," she said, peering into my mouth, flashlight in hand, "It looks pretty red.  Better brush and floss really well."  I hoped she'd finish her examination because my jaws were starting to ache from holding my mouth open so long.  "OK, you're free."  I let out a thankful sigh.

For the next two or three weeks, I carefully brushed it and tried not to chew with the left side of my mouth.  Then, one day as I was reading, I was absent-mindedly chewing on a pen when I felt it go through the top of my tooth.  "Hey," I thought, "that's not supposed to happen."  I decided to ask Mom to look at it.

This was during our scheduled short-wave radio time, and it was taboo to even look at Mom from noon to 12:30 while she stood by the radio, trying to hear messages for us from Honiara.  Finally, I heard her say, "SITAG Luaniua, out," and approached her.

Armed with a flashlight, she took me into her room.  Another session of poking and prodding with my mouth stretched open to the limit.  "Danica."  Oh, oh.  I knew that tone.  "Danica, have you been messing with your tooth?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Danica," she sounded upset, "There's a hole in your tooth."

"Uh, yeah, what about it?"

"Oh, Danica," she set the flashlight down.  "David," she called my dad.  "Will you come and look at Danica's tooth?"

I heard Dad click a couple more keys on the computer and push his stool back.  Once again, I tilted my head and forced my aching jaws apart.  Dad peered in.

"We'll have to fill it.  Do we have any filling compound?"  It was not an option to simply go to visit the dentist because there is no dentist, or doctor for that matter, here in the outer islands.  We do every fix-up job ourselves.  We kids have become pretty skilled at handling tropical ulcers, but broken teeth are a different matter.

Mom swabbed my tooth first with antiseptic cleaner, then alcohol.  She poked in this grey, pasty stuff.  I bit down on the piece of cotton which she placed in my mouth.  "Will it stay in?"  I asked doubtfully.

"I hope so," was her reply.

It didn't.  After three brushings, my filling was totally dissolved.  Oh, well.  Another three weeks went by.  The next disaster happened when I was reading, as well.  This time, I was chewing on a bit of plastic when I felt it crack.  "Hey," I thought, "what was that?"  I gave another two experimental chews to see what would happen.  Crack!  This time, I felt something smooth and hard and tiny in my mouth along with the plastic.  I spit it out.  Oh, oh.  That looked suspiciously like ... I put my tongue to the back of my tooth.  Instead of feeling a smooth, round surface, my tongue encountered a rough, jagged hollow.

I dropped my book and ran to the small mirror hanging over our kitchen sink.  I tilted my head forward and forced my eyes up to the mirror.  Yep.  My tooth was cracked.  The back half of my molar was laying in my hand.  I took it to Mom.

"Guess what this is?"  I said.  She glanced at it, did a double take and demanded that I open my mouth.  She peered in, then sank into a chair.  "David," she called my dad.  He came in and the three of us had a conference about what to do next.  That is, the two of them had a conference and I sat quaking, half pleased about the commotion I had created.

"We'll have to send her to Honiara," Mom was saying.  "There's no way we can fix it here."

I broke in.  "You mean, by myself?  Who would I stay with?"

"Oh, we'll find someone," said my Dad.  "Well, it is almost radio time.  I guess I'll tell the people in Honiara what happened."

As Dad talked, I mused.  Go to Honiara by myself!  I was dazed.  I imagined the trip there - boat to Auki, then plane to Honiara - alone.  I imagined being picked up by friends at Henderson Field and driving into town, then staying at another translation family's house.  Sure, I knew the people who I would be staying with, but ... travel alone?

I heard Dad's voice again.  "All right.  Yeah, it's good that this happened just when a ship is coming out here.  Don't know what we'd do if it was between ships.  Thanks for everything.  This is SITAG Luaniua, out."  Dad shut the radio off and turned to me.  "Well, Danica, you'd better get packed.  The ship should appear on the horizon sometime tomorrow morning."

I lost my stomach somewhere in the future.  I stood up and managed a smile.  "Well," I said brightly, "This is an adventure!"

Dad smiled at me, "We'll miss you."

For the rest of the day, I lived in a flurry of getting ready.  Mom came into my room and gave me a talk about behaving myself.  I was given a shopping list, money, and a whole lot of do's and don'ts.  While we waited for the ship to come, I tried to go about my regular routine:  choir at night, church the following day, Sunday School, and a game of basketball afterwards.  Through it all, my stomach felt like a whole family of butterflies had moved in and had brought relatives along.

Eventually, I tried sitting down with a book.  Maybe that would be relaxing.  I poured myself a cup full of granola and found a comfortable place to curl up.  I was well into the second chapter when ... crack.  I knew that sound.  I fished out the other half of my tooth, washed it off and called out to Mom.  "The other half of my tooth broke off!"

I opened my mouth for her to see.  She peered in.  She emerged with a funny look on her face.  "Danica," she said, "are you sure that molar was permanent?"

"Pretty sure," I answered, "why?"

"Because," she said, "what we thought was the dentin looks suspiciously like a new tooth coming in!"

We contacted Honiara radio at 5:00pm.  "We have good news and bad news.  Over."

"Roger, roger, go ahead."

"Well, the bad news is that the other half of Danica's tooth cracked off.  The good news is that there is a whole new tooth coming in underneath!  Over."

"Well!" came the reply, "That was an adventure!  Over."

And it was.  "This is SITAG Luaniua, over and out."

Ma Ling Madness

We were getting ready to get on the ship, headed from Luaniua into Honiara, the capital city and wonderland of running water (right in your house!), electricity, and shopping.  Mom and Dad had divvied up the remaining cans of food we had, because we wouldn't be back in the village for another few months, and they would go bad by then.  The night before the ship came, we had dinner at a local translator's house.  His wife served us rice, with cans of Ma Ling dumped on top, and hot, sweet tea. 

For the uninitiated, Ma Ling is the Asian equivalent of Spam ... but the meat's not as high quality.  As kids, the stuff was our filet mignon.  We'd eat it chopped up in Ramen noodles, fried, on top of rice, or stir-fried with pumpkin greens and onions.  Yum.  This particular night, we ate it island style, straight up with a side of rice.  After the meal, us kids played in the fragrant darkness, while the adults sat and talked in the glow of the kero lamps. 

Slowly, I began to feel something creeping up my stomach.  An invisible fist attached itself to my midsection, and over the course of the next half hour, began to squeeze ever more tightly.  I left my companions to lay on a mat just beyond the perimeter of light.  A few feet from me, my mom had checked out on another mat.  The vise continued to squeeze, and my stomach gave a horrible lurch. 

Something was said about a can of meat, which 'popped' when opened, and smelled a little different.  Guess who it had been served to?

I don't remember how they got us home.  All I remember about the rest of that night is darkness, and the feeling of my stomach being physically ripped out of my body.  Dad set my mom and I up in the veranda of our little hut, on coconut mats and a pillow covered in towels.  He placed a metal bowl by my head, which I was repeatedly sick into.  Anna would take it down to the ocean, empty it, and by the time she got back I had already filled another bowl.  It felt like somebody was playing string games with my intestines.  If felt like my midsection had been flattened by a steam roller.  It felt like I was ejecting the entire contents of my abdomen, organs included. 

Some time during the night, Father Nehemiah (our Anglican priest), came to our home with a chalice of holy water.  He prayed over us, anointed us with oil, then gave us the water to drink.  I didn't want to drink it.  My lips curled, my throat closed.  My stomach rose to meet my voice box.  I knew I was going to die that night.  Somehow, the priest and my father convinced me to put the cup to  my lips and receive just a sip of the blessed water.  It was the first time I had raised my body up all night.  I fell back on my pillow, stomach heaving, tears streaming.

I must have fallen asleep after that, because the next time I opened my eyes, the hopeful sun was greeting the greying sky.  Looking slowly around, I could see the scattered bowls, splatters of sick on the floor, soiled clothing and sheets crumpled against the mat walls.  My middle felt calm.  My whole body was wobbly and a little shaky.

I could hear children's voices shouting 'keva'a!' (ship) from the ocean side of the island, and closed my eyes again.  In another day, we would be boarding for the long, three day boat ride to Guadalcanal.  For now, I rested.

Roses are Red

There was something about the whiteness of the sand. Its purity under the cold, grey New Mexican sky was clean, sterile, an open blankness that I could lose myself in. Forget myself in for a moment. The happy chatter of my children and good-natured banter between my husband and siblings were absorbed into the white vastness, buffered by the enormity of the white sands stretching for miles around us. I stood alone, at the edge of a dune. I looked out at the black spots of people silhouetted against the rises beyond mine. I wondered if I looked like a little black spot to them, or if they could distinguish the red hoodie that I wore...

Red stands out against white.

It shouts like an accusing stain of fear when you see it on the toilet paper, when you're pregnant. Newly pregnant. For four weeks Scott and I had celebrated with friends the impending third addition to our little family. The morning before I went to buy the pregnancy test, Scott rolled over in bed and said, "Good morning, Preggo! How's little Rose?"

"Whatever," I mumbled. That comment completely came out of left field. Surely I would start any day now - the tidal wave of emotions I'd been feeling lately were just hormones, a signal that it was almost 'that time of the month'. It's normal to cry at Elmo, right?

Hours later, I came incredulous and filled with joy out of the Walgreen's women's bathroom, with a little pink stick in my hand. I found Scott lingering in the toy aisle with Sophie and Alexander.

"Well?" he turned to me.

"It's positive!" I couldn't wipe the silly grin off my face. The rushing thrill of 'here we go again!', the feeling of cresting the precipice of a new roller coaster ride came sweeping over us. We were ecstatic. A love immediately flooded our hearts for this little child. The love was more immediate and real than what we had experienced with either of our previous children. This little one would be special. We already had her name - Rose, the name God had placed on my husband's heart like a promise that morning. Our little flower.

Four weeks later, I discovered the red stain on the toilet paper. After a long phone conversation with the OB nurse, I was consoled that first trimester bleeding was common, as long as it wasn't accompanied by cramps, or heavy flow, the baby was OK. Etc. Etc. And so on. Scott and I prayed together. My siblings and I prayed together. I called my parents overseas and they prayed for me and Rose. I was overwhelmed by a peace flooding my soul. It was the undercurrent of my entire day, carrying me along, soothing my anxious heart, lapping reassurance and rest around me.

I went to bed that night so surrounded in God's presence that I fell asleep the minute my head hit the pillow. I had expected to dream nightmares, but I slept peacefully, soundly and securely curled up in my Father's palm. I knew that wherever we went together, He would take care of me.

At 4:30 that morning I woke up to wetness between my legs. I lay for a quiet second in my bed, asking myself if I wanted to discover what I thought I might discover if I turned the light on, or if I wanted to sleep a few more hours in unknowing oblivion. I decided I wanted to know. For sure. "Whatever Your will is, Lord, let it be resolved tonight. Don't make me wait, please, not knowing," had been my prayer before I went to sleep hours earlier.

In the bathroom, I felt something pass from me. I picked it up, and held it delicately in my hand. What had been Rose lay there in my palm, red and alien. I sat numbly on the bathroom floor for several minutes, staring at the redness in my hand, saying goodbye to my daughter, letting the reality sink in. This was knowing. For sure. There was no doubt. You don't just pass something like this and go on being pregnant. Please, Lord Jesus, take care of her. She was Yours before, and she is really Yours now, running unhindered with You in fields of glory. I watched little rivulets of blood drop between my fingers. Red staining the white. It was messy. Ugly. An ugly, messy splotch against the pristine sterility of the porcelain bathroom and my pale skin.

When I finally crawled back into bed next to Scott, I still hadn't cried. I didn't think I would.

"Wow, I sure am taking this well," I thought detachedly.

My husband woke up and asked, "Are you OK, sweetheart?" The love in his voice opened the floodgates in my heart, and I began to sob.

"I ... we ... we lost the baby," I managed to choke out.

"Oh, honey, come here," and he enveloped me in his arms. The sorrow came then. The tears were ready and abundant. I cried as the inner me crumpled into a little, rumbled, tender heap onto the dark floor of my heart. My body was just a shaking shell, and I held the hand that had held my baby close to my heart as my husband held me close to his. We cried together there in the darkness before dawn. We mourned our little Rose, for whom God had already given us such a love. My heart had already pictured how she would be (gentle, loving, sweet, delicate), and how she would fit into our family. How she would enrich and widen the circle of love. The waves of sorrow washed over us in the warm darkness, and our Father held us in His arms as we clutched each other, His tears mingling with ours.

The next morning, I wanted to be with my family. I wanted my babies close, and I did not want to be in the house. We packed up kids and adults, and drove out to the White Sands National Monument, about 20 minutes outside of town. The stark, barren whiteness provided a blank space for me to rest a little from the garment of sorrow that had draped itself over my soul. I watched, detached, outside of the action as my family played and explored around me.

Still, even in the blankness, I felt the river of my Father's presence flowing around me. "It's OK, dear daughter," His words whispered to my heart. "I Am here."

Driving home, my sister put on some acapella African CD. The warm tropical voices washed over my soul, crisp and deep and rhythmic. I settled into the music, and another gentle wave of grief began to come over me. It rose like an ocean swell, higher and higher, until it had lifted me off my feet and covered my head. Silent tears began to run out of my eyes as I cried from the crumpled place in my heart. The inner me wore a red dress. Because life is messy. But even so ...

When peace like a river attendeth my way

And sorrows like sea billows roll

Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,

"Even so, it is well with my soul."

Jungle Fever

One morning, a few months into our stay on Luaniua, I woke up with a severe headache. The ache wasn't just in my head, come to think of it, but all over my body. I rolled over on my pallet and curled my knees to my stomach, willing it to stop hurting, as well.

My sister and brothers began stirring with the rest of the village outside. I could hear their feet crunch-crunching on the coral stones that covered our floor, and my mom digging for the right pot for the morning's breakfast. I heard the clicking sound as she pumped the little Bunsen burner, the cadence increasing in speed until there was a little pop as the released gas was ignited by a match. On the other side of the mat wall, I could hear chickens scratching fretfully for their breakfast, as well. Underneath it all was the constant, low, rolling thunder, felt as much as heard, as the ocean continued its quest to re-claim this little atoll unto itself.

My mom came in some time later, to see why I wasn't joining the rest of the family as they ravenously devoured the breakfast she had made them.

"I don't feel good, Mom," I said. She made the low, comforting murmur that comes inherent to all mothers worldwide, and returned to me a few minutes later with a thermometer. It felt cool and alien, poking against the tender flesh underneath my hot tongue. When it was time, she pulled it out, held it up to see against the light, and frowned.

"Here, honey, take some medicine for your fever," she said, and left me to rest. The day grew hot and sticky, and my achy body found no rest on the thin mat. Every way I turned, I could feel the coral sticking up at me, hard little nubs in my back, or my legs, or my arms, or my stomach. My stomach. Suddenly I sat bolt upright, lifted the mosquito net and vomited into the bowl my mom had set there for me. After that, I felt much better, and settled down into sleep.

By the time the sun had crossed the highest point, and begun to make the shadows long again in its descent into the sea, I was feeling much better. I even got up and ate dinner with my family (canned tuna on rice), and took a trip to the women's beach to relieve myself. I lay down to sleep that night hopeful for a full recovery tomorrow.

But the next day, I felt even worse than I had the previous morning. Now I had chills, and shook uncontrollably sometimes. I would get icy cold, and my nose ran and ran. I blew it on a lava-lava kept by the side of my bed so many times that the cloth soon became crusty and stiff, but I had no other choice but to continue blowing as my sinuses continued to fill up. My bed, encased in the mosquito net, felt like a cage. The thin, green mesh hung on strings from the ceiling, pressing down over and around me, closing me in, cutting off my air. The back room of our hut in which my bed lay was close and dark, filled with dusty shadows. The ambient air steadily warmed as the sun pushed relentlessly on the leaf roof above. There was no cross breeze to relieve the stuffiness, and even if a stray puff found its way in, it was blocked by the net around me.

My mom gave me more medicine for my fever and I finally fell asleep. This time my sleep was full of strange things. A boy with an animal's face would point at me and laugh and laugh. Fish jumped in and out of the ocean at enormous heights, making barely a ripple on the smooth water. Someone held a burning branch to my forehead, and it turned into a gecko which burrowed into my skull and reproduced there.

I awoke from my nap several hours later exhausted, but feeling better. My fever was gone. My body was sore all over, but my stomach was relatively quiet. I was not too cold or too hot, just very weak. Mom fed me some soup from a can when I came from my bed and sat draped against the wall in the common room of our hut. Maybe it was a forty-eight hour sickness, and I would feel better tomorrow once I had regained my strength.

Only I didn't. When the sun rose on the third day, I felt even worse, if possible, than the two mornings prior. When it came time for our daily radio sched, Dad sent out a help cry, talking to other, more experienced missionaries in our group who were scattered throughout the provinces of the Solomon Islands. Their response was immediate; I had malaria, caught from innocent mosquitoes that carried the bug among the islands. It is a cyclical illness that shows flu-like symptoms half the day, then regresses the other half, and gains strength as time goes on. My parents had the anti-malarial medicine, Chloroquine, in their medical supplies kit, and gave me a dose immediately.

I gagged on the bitter pill, which was chalky and stuck to the back of my throat stubbornly. It tasted as if it was coated in acidic vomit which had been dried and ground into a powder. I almost threw it up. My parents urged me to gulp water, which I did, and under extreme power of will managed not to hurl it, along with the rest of the contents of my stomach, all over the graveled floor.

I recovered quickly after that, but to this day have great difficulty swallowing any type of pill. My mouth still remembers the bitterness of that Chloroquine tablet. And anyone who had taken it will know what I mean.