My mom said the other day, "I have left pieces of my heart all over the world." She and my dad have only been back in the States since last summer. I understand that feeling of being caught in transition, trying to balance on the tectonic plates of multiple cultures that shift and bump into each other, change the only constant in your life.
I've had some time to heal, to put down roots, to come to a safe place where my feet are firmly planted and my heart can grow. Interesting fact: when infants begin to develop, they can only develop one skill at a time. They are born with their voice boxes high up in their throats, for example. At first they can only cry. Loudly! But then their voice boxes begin to drop, and they begin to make other sounds. When they start to crawl, however, an interesting change happens. The vocalizing takes a back seat to the developing gross motor skills as baby tries to figure out how to coordinate his arms and legs. Only one area of the brain can develop at a time.
I think our hearts act the same way. When we're in constant shift and transition, we focus on adapting to each new change. The heart issues of who we've left behind, broken relationships, and denied self, take a back seat. It's only when we've stopped moving that the heart can then start to sort all the backlogged emotions.
Showing posts with label Living TCK. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Living TCK. Show all posts
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Monday, January 16, 2012
Discrimination
Kohimarama is the Solomon Islands' Anglican seminary. The nation's training ground for new priests sits about an hour or so down the coast line from Honiara, nestled against the rising mountains, surrounded by cocoa and pineapple plantations. There is a potholed dirt road that connects Kohi with Honiara and the rest of Guadalcanal, cutting through the jungle but never out of sight of the beach. It was down this road that I bumped in a public transport van, sharing the seat with a local friend.
I was excited, high on the thrill of independence. My parents had never let me take this trip alone before, but it had been determined that I spend the weekend in Kohi with some friends. And best of all, I would ride the jungle road on my own. So I sat hugging my backpack, watching the trees reach over the road and relishing my happy freedom.
Every fifteen miles or so the van would stop at wayside villages, picking up and letting off passengers. There weren't many travelers today, or perhaps there were more transport vans than usual, but either way the seats in our little van remained relatively empty. My legs stuck to the vinyl, sticky from countless sweaty passengers before me. My friend was closest to the window, her head leaning out so that the breeze could lift the curls from her neck. I said a silent thank you that we didn't have to share our seat, which was made for three, with a stranger. I didn't want to be stuck between two perspiring, swaying bodies.
My luck lasted to the next stop. When the van slowed and the door opened, people started piling in. We all began the inevitable dance that repeats itself in elevators, buses and subways across the world. Who shall sit where? The seats filled up quickly, until the only places left were the seat opposite me. And beside me.
I should stop here and say that I was the only white skin in the van. I was used to being the conspicuous on Guadalcanal, my blond hair and pale skin made more obvious by my height. On Luaniua, everyone knew me, and familiarity had long ago nullified any gaps caused by physical differences. But in other places in the Solomons, I was immediately categorized by the strangers around me as loose, easy, and rich. Most Islanders' exposure to Westerners came from movies, and most white women in moves filled these stereotypes. The weight of men's assessing eyes and women's judging ones became a familiar, if not easy, burden whenever I was on the mainland.
So I sat there on the van, trying to ignore the invisible bubble the Islanders had created around me. My friend's leg pressed comfortingly against mine. A woman boarded last with her daughter and a large basket of taro. She quickly took in the situation, and barked at the girl in Pidgin, "You sit with the Arokuao. I'll sit here."
I could feel my friend stiffen beside me. The woman had used the Island equivalent of the 'N' word we use here in the States, except it was their word for a white person. The daughter was looking at me, her face betraying her hesitance at having to sit next to the white skin. I gathered grace around me and smiled at her.
"You can sit here, there's room," I said, in flawless Pidgin.
As the girl slid down next to me, I looked over her head and watched her mother's slowly dawning realization that I had understood what she said.
To quote the inestimable Dr. Martin Luther King Jr, "Darkness cannot put out darkness. Only light can do that."
I was excited, high on the thrill of independence. My parents had never let me take this trip alone before, but it had been determined that I spend the weekend in Kohi with some friends. And best of all, I would ride the jungle road on my own. So I sat hugging my backpack, watching the trees reach over the road and relishing my happy freedom.
Every fifteen miles or so the van would stop at wayside villages, picking up and letting off passengers. There weren't many travelers today, or perhaps there were more transport vans than usual, but either way the seats in our little van remained relatively empty. My legs stuck to the vinyl, sticky from countless sweaty passengers before me. My friend was closest to the window, her head leaning out so that the breeze could lift the curls from her neck. I said a silent thank you that we didn't have to share our seat, which was made for three, with a stranger. I didn't want to be stuck between two perspiring, swaying bodies.
My luck lasted to the next stop. When the van slowed and the door opened, people started piling in. We all began the inevitable dance that repeats itself in elevators, buses and subways across the world. Who shall sit where? The seats filled up quickly, until the only places left were the seat opposite me. And beside me.
I should stop here and say that I was the only white skin in the van. I was used to being the conspicuous on Guadalcanal, my blond hair and pale skin made more obvious by my height. On Luaniua, everyone knew me, and familiarity had long ago nullified any gaps caused by physical differences. But in other places in the Solomons, I was immediately categorized by the strangers around me as loose, easy, and rich. Most Islanders' exposure to Westerners came from movies, and most white women in moves filled these stereotypes. The weight of men's assessing eyes and women's judging ones became a familiar, if not easy, burden whenever I was on the mainland.
So I sat there on the van, trying to ignore the invisible bubble the Islanders had created around me. My friend's leg pressed comfortingly against mine. A woman boarded last with her daughter and a large basket of taro. She quickly took in the situation, and barked at the girl in Pidgin, "You sit with the Arokuao. I'll sit here."
I could feel my friend stiffen beside me. The woman had used the Island equivalent of the 'N' word we use here in the States, except it was their word for a white person. The daughter was looking at me, her face betraying her hesitance at having to sit next to the white skin. I gathered grace around me and smiled at her.
"You can sit here, there's room," I said, in flawless Pidgin.
As the girl slid down next to me, I looked over her head and watched her mother's slowly dawning realization that I had understood what she said.
To quote the inestimable Dr. Martin Luther King Jr, "Darkness cannot put out darkness. Only light can do that."
Thursday, January 5, 2012
A Slice of Sunshine
For some reason there have been pineapples in the produce section of our little desert superstore. They called to me last week from their little plastic crates, and on impulse I found one that smelled just right and put it in my cart. Its rough skin felt like the handshake of an old friend in my grasp.
When it was time to cut the fruit open, I stood barefoot on my kitchen tiles, my belly pressed against the counter, knife in hand. The first slice released the sharp, pungent, sweet smell of the fruit and I was instantly transported back through time and space.
During the pineapple season on Guadalcanal, the Honiara market undergoes a transformation. Usually the red, spit-stained walkways reek of spoiling, over ripe fruit, the ocean's catch of the day, and hundreds of sweaty, poorly washed bodies. The sun bakes up this teaming mix of goods and humanity, making the stench palpable from the street.
Pineapple season, however, is different. For a few weeks every year, each mat is piled with a bumper crop of the prickly fruit. Warmed by the sun, the fruits release their spicy sweet smell into the air and the whole world smells like pineapple. The scent lays so heavily that everything around you seems to turn golden, just because of its bright influence. Pineapple paints the world.
Mom would come home with her van piled high and fragrant. Ten for $2, fifteen for $3. She'd slice it up and freeze it, and for weeks afterwards we'd snack on cold little slices of sunshine. She'd blend it up into smoothies, or dehydrate it and save it for our morning granola out on Luaniua. My favorite way to eat pineapple, however, was straight from the cutting board.
I'd snag a couple wet, sticky slices and take myself out to the front veranda. Our house in Honiara perched on the spine of the first big hill that rose off of the harbor. Balanced on the railing, my toes swinging into nothing, I would slowly eat my snack. Always save the center for last. Nibble down around the soft outer flesh that pans it like the sun's rays, the juice trickling down my chin. My nose filled with the spicy sweetness of the pineapple and the underlying fragrance of frangipani blossoms drifting over from my left. To my right, softly waving fronds framed the view down to the sea and the islands beyond.
This was bliss.
When it was time to cut the fruit open, I stood barefoot on my kitchen tiles, my belly pressed against the counter, knife in hand. The first slice released the sharp, pungent, sweet smell of the fruit and I was instantly transported back through time and space.
During the pineapple season on Guadalcanal, the Honiara market undergoes a transformation. Usually the red, spit-stained walkways reek of spoiling, over ripe fruit, the ocean's catch of the day, and hundreds of sweaty, poorly washed bodies. The sun bakes up this teaming mix of goods and humanity, making the stench palpable from the street.
Pineapple season, however, is different. For a few weeks every year, each mat is piled with a bumper crop of the prickly fruit. Warmed by the sun, the fruits release their spicy sweet smell into the air and the whole world smells like pineapple. The scent lays so heavily that everything around you seems to turn golden, just because of its bright influence. Pineapple paints the world.
Mom would come home with her van piled high and fragrant. Ten for $2, fifteen for $3. She'd slice it up and freeze it, and for weeks afterwards we'd snack on cold little slices of sunshine. She'd blend it up into smoothies, or dehydrate it and save it for our morning granola out on Luaniua. My favorite way to eat pineapple, however, was straight from the cutting board.
I'd snag a couple wet, sticky slices and take myself out to the front veranda. Our house in Honiara perched on the spine of the first big hill that rose off of the harbor. Balanced on the railing, my toes swinging into nothing, I would slowly eat my snack. Always save the center for last. Nibble down around the soft outer flesh that pans it like the sun's rays, the juice trickling down my chin. My nose filled with the spicy sweetness of the pineapple and the underlying fragrance of frangipani blossoms drifting over from my left. To my right, softly waving fronds framed the view down to the sea and the islands beyond.
This was bliss.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Coming Home
I spent the past week in my childhood home. Or, should I say, my American childhood home. Nestled among the cedar trees and live oaks of the Texas hill country, this old house has always waited patiently for us to come back to it. Even when someone else was living in it, it still stood as a testimony of permanence, standing there like a promise that we would all be together again, some day.
Mom and Dad have moved back in for a time, and my sister has, too. When the kids and I pulled up and parked under the hack berry tree, whose uppermost branches I used to share with the wind, the house reached out and welcomed me. The five year old Danica, the fifteen year old Danica, were in there too.
After the clatter of greetings and hugs for everyone, the weight of my life and memories settled down on me. Parts of me were hiding all throughout this house. There between the railings on the landing, the four year old me dangled her feet. Three year old Danica bumped down the stairs one by one on her butt. The fourteen year old was hiding up in the corner bedroom with her dreams and castles. And there I was in the middle of it all, trying to figure out where I fit in, now.
The oddly displaced feeling lasted through our week long visit, and followed me back home to the desert. The kids and I tumbled out of the car on the tail end of our 12 hour trip. I watched as they said, Hello I missed you to their childhood home. But I still felt disconnected.
The next day, we waited eagerly for Daddy to come home from his conference. The kids drew with ice cubes on the sidewalk and I watched from the shade of the porch, as we kept a lookout for his little red rice burner. Finally, it appeared around the corner, and we all jumped up as he pulled into the driveway.
I was the first one in his arms. And in his arms, I was finally home.
Mom and Dad have moved back in for a time, and my sister has, too. When the kids and I pulled up and parked under the hack berry tree, whose uppermost branches I used to share with the wind, the house reached out and welcomed me. The five year old Danica, the fifteen year old Danica, were in there too.
After the clatter of greetings and hugs for everyone, the weight of my life and memories settled down on me. Parts of me were hiding all throughout this house. There between the railings on the landing, the four year old me dangled her feet. Three year old Danica bumped down the stairs one by one on her butt. The fourteen year old was hiding up in the corner bedroom with her dreams and castles. And there I was in the middle of it all, trying to figure out where I fit in, now.
The oddly displaced feeling lasted through our week long visit, and followed me back home to the desert. The kids and I tumbled out of the car on the tail end of our 12 hour trip. I watched as they said, Hello I missed you to their childhood home. But I still felt disconnected.
The next day, we waited eagerly for Daddy to come home from his conference. The kids drew with ice cubes on the sidewalk and I watched from the shade of the porch, as we kept a lookout for his little red rice burner. Finally, it appeared around the corner, and we all jumped up as he pulled into the driveway.
I was the first one in his arms. And in his arms, I was finally home.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
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':
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!
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Model Missionary Kid
About twice a year or so, all of the missionaries in our group would congregate in Honiara, the main city, to do training. These group conferences were much anticipated by us kids, because they were one of the few times when we all got to be together. The group would import some volunteers from overseas to put on a children's program for us, to keep us busy and out of our parents' hair while they sat in classes.
I stared in disbelief at the script as it was passed around. Across the top read the title, "A Modern Missionary Kid."
One time, the volunteers brought a curriculum that included a play we kids would practice all week, then perform for all the adults at the end of the conference. I remember sitting with the other SITAG kids on the concrete floor of the pavilion we were using, as the play was presented.
I stared in disbelief at the script as it was passed around. Across the top read the title, "A Modern Missionary Kid."
"Ok, kids!" chirped the volunteer, "Here is how the song goes: I am the very model of the modern missionary kid. I do everything my parent missionaries did..."
Revolt started deep inside me. I glanced around at my SITAG compatriots, and except for a few yes-men, they all had mutinous frowns blooming across their faces. Nothing stirs rebellion in a child like forced sanctimoniousness.
None of us had the guts to rebel outright, but there was much muttering in the ranks that week, and many sweet smiles that hid some pretty sullen hearts. We were all jealous of my friend Diane, who got cast as the devil in the play. With her sunglasses and sparkly cape, she was the coolest and, let's face it, most interesting thing about the whole experience.
Notice the "Model Missionary Kid's" delighted smile as she is confronted by the sneaky snake.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Wantok
Wantok. It's an island word that means, quite literally, 'one talk'. In a nation where languages differ from island to island, wantok is the word used to describe someone from your place. Someone who speaks your language. Someone who shares 'one talk' with you.
A wantok is obligated to give food and shelter when you show up at their door. If your wantok is driving the city bus, everyone else might have to pay, but you won't. If a wantok has a need, you fill it. You might not be related, but you're family.
Here in the States, we just celebrated Independence Day. Of all the words in the English language, I think that one describes us best: Independent. Our national mantra is, "No thanks, I can do it myself." We live sometimes hundreds of miles away from family, don't know our neighbor's names, and build high walls around our properties to ensure our privacy. We go from living in isolated homes, to driving in insulated cars. And then when we get out of the cars, we flip open the cell phones so we won't have to look at or talk to anyone. Independent.
I recently got a friend request from a Luaniua islander on Facebook. As I sat drinking my morning cup of coffee, his status update popped up on my newsfeed: 'Goodnight all'. Smiling at the irony of being online simultaneously with someone half way around the world, I posted, 'Polaoi. It's morning here in America.' Polaoi means 'goodnight' in Luaniua language.
This comment by me provoked an ensuing conversation as people wrote in, curious as to why an American was commenting on his status. In reply, he simply explained, 'She's a wantok.'
That word arrested me. The unquestioning, immediate, enveloping acceptance brought tears to my eyes. I had forgotten what it was to belong not only to a nuclear family, but to an entire community. To live in a place with no walls, where every cook fire is open to you at meal time, to always be surrounded by protecting and watchful eyes.
And I miss it.
A wantok is obligated to give food and shelter when you show up at their door. If your wantok is driving the city bus, everyone else might have to pay, but you won't. If a wantok has a need, you fill it. You might not be related, but you're family.
Here in the States, we just celebrated Independence Day. Of all the words in the English language, I think that one describes us best: Independent. Our national mantra is, "No thanks, I can do it myself." We live sometimes hundreds of miles away from family, don't know our neighbor's names, and build high walls around our properties to ensure our privacy. We go from living in isolated homes, to driving in insulated cars. And then when we get out of the cars, we flip open the cell phones so we won't have to look at or talk to anyone. Independent.
I recently got a friend request from a Luaniua islander on Facebook. As I sat drinking my morning cup of coffee, his status update popped up on my newsfeed: 'Goodnight all'. Smiling at the irony of being online simultaneously with someone half way around the world, I posted, 'Polaoi. It's morning here in America.' Polaoi means 'goodnight' in Luaniua language.
This comment by me provoked an ensuing conversation as people wrote in, curious as to why an American was commenting on his status. In reply, he simply explained, 'She's a wantok.'
That word arrested me. The unquestioning, immediate, enveloping acceptance brought tears to my eyes. I had forgotten what it was to belong not only to a nuclear family, but to an entire community. To live in a place with no walls, where every cook fire is open to you at meal time, to always be surrounded by protecting and watchful eyes.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Muscle Memory
We had our inaugural swim in our pool today. The first of the season. Sure, the pool is still a bit cloudy, and it hasn't warmed up enough outside to take the edge off the water-to-air transition, but I was chomping at the bit. So in we went.
After the first gasping shock, my muscles started to unclench, the adrenaline subsided and left sweet dopamine in its place. The desert sun, still not too hot, smiled warmly down at us. Xander paddled out to me in his sister's pink floaties from last year, his blue lips stretched into a huge grin. Sophie sucked down an Otter Pop at the railing.
I kicked out from the shallow end and dove down towards the drain, feeling how good it was to move my body. My muscles stretched. My lungs ached with contained air. My arms and legs said, "Please and Thank you" to each other as they came together and apart, together and apart. And a burst of joy suddenly ran through my heart.
Here I was, a 30 year old wife and mother of two, frequenter of the superstore and wielder of the debit card. But in that weightless moment, as my body fell easily into old, habitual movements, I was 12 again and diving to the ocean floor to recover a handful of sand.
That's how it is to live TCK, rocking along my happy little path, when suddenly my Island self reaches across time and distance to grab my hand in sudden remembrance.
How do you deal with this schizophrenic self? I know some TCK's who push it so deeply down it pulls their authentic selves right down with it, and they live, shells of themselves. Some embrace it so radically that the only place they are able to fit in is with other TCK's. Some spend their lives searching to replicate the experiences of their childhood.
And me? I try to embrace each appearance of my Island self as a gift, and try not to allow the ache it brings with it to consume me.
After the first gasping shock, my muscles started to unclench, the adrenaline subsided and left sweet dopamine in its place. The desert sun, still not too hot, smiled warmly down at us. Xander paddled out to me in his sister's pink floaties from last year, his blue lips stretched into a huge grin. Sophie sucked down an Otter Pop at the railing.
I kicked out from the shallow end and dove down towards the drain, feeling how good it was to move my body. My muscles stretched. My lungs ached with contained air. My arms and legs said, "Please and Thank you" to each other as they came together and apart, together and apart. And a burst of joy suddenly ran through my heart.
Here I was, a 30 year old wife and mother of two, frequenter of the superstore and wielder of the debit card. But in that weightless moment, as my body fell easily into old, habitual movements, I was 12 again and diving to the ocean floor to recover a handful of sand.
That's how it is to live TCK, rocking along my happy little path, when suddenly my Island self reaches across time and distance to grab my hand in sudden remembrance.
How do you deal with this schizophrenic self? I know some TCK's who push it so deeply down it pulls their authentic selves right down with it, and they live, shells of themselves. Some embrace it so radically that the only place they are able to fit in is with other TCK's. Some spend their lives searching to replicate the experiences of their childhood.
And me? I try to embrace each appearance of my Island self as a gift, and try not to allow the ache it brings with it to consume me.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Netflix Movie Monday - 'Outsourced'
Hope your week's off to a good start, folks! For me, 'Monday' means that I write another review of a movie I found on Netflix that I enjoyed, and think you might, as well.
If you have ever wondered what it would be like to move to a non-English-speaking country, this movie is for you! It's also for all of us who have been through the experience of moving between cultures. 'Outsourced', an Indie romantic comedy, is the story of manager Todd Anderson, whose catalogue sales department is outsourced to India. He is tasked to go train the company's new employees, on site, in Mumbai, India. Plunged into a world he has never experienced before, Todd reels from the ensuing culture shock as he realizes, 'we're not in Kansas anymore'.
Putting aside the sometimes preachy, 'we're people, too' undertones of some of the Indian characters, this movie gives a pretty realistic, often humorous, portrayal of what it's like to be suddenly dropped in the third world. Todd (whose name sounds like 'Toad' in Indian English) comes face to face with the new-to-him foods, religion (including the super creepy goddess painting in his bedroom), customs and festivals of Indian culture. His first encounter with an Indian 'bathroom' (hint: they don't use toilet paper) is side-splitting.
'Outsourced' paints a beautiful picture of the vibrant, deeply rooted culture of India, without being overly romantic or idealistic. You see its strengths and flaws portrayed side-by-side with our own, Western culture. This is a lighthearted movie that will leave you feeling good about your world. The only downside is one unnecessary (and in my opinion culturally inappropriate) sex scene. Overall, a positive, entertaining flick.
If you have ever wondered what it would be like to move to a non-English-speaking country, this movie is for you! It's also for all of us who have been through the experience of moving between cultures. 'Outsourced', an Indie romantic comedy, is the story of manager Todd Anderson, whose catalogue sales department is outsourced to India. He is tasked to go train the company's new employees, on site, in Mumbai, India. Plunged into a world he has never experienced before, Todd reels from the ensuing culture shock as he realizes, 'we're not in Kansas anymore'.
Putting aside the sometimes preachy, 'we're people, too' undertones of some of the Indian characters, this movie gives a pretty realistic, often humorous, portrayal of what it's like to be suddenly dropped in the third world. Todd (whose name sounds like 'Toad' in Indian English) comes face to face with the new-to-him foods, religion (including the super creepy goddess painting in his bedroom), customs and festivals of Indian culture. His first encounter with an Indian 'bathroom' (hint: they don't use toilet paper) is side-splitting.
'Outsourced' paints a beautiful picture of the vibrant, deeply rooted culture of India, without being overly romantic or idealistic. You see its strengths and flaws portrayed side-by-side with our own, Western culture. This is a lighthearted movie that will leave you feeling good about your world. The only downside is one unnecessary (and in my opinion culturally inappropriate) sex scene. Overall, a positive, entertaining flick.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Island Feet
Before we left for the mission field, my parents read a lot of books about the living conditions and inhabitants of Pacific islands. One particular account by a turn-of-the-century explorer still stands out in my mind. The man was navigating the South Seas, making acquaintance with the cannibals who lived there while searching for King Solomon's lost gold. The explorer tells of a native who, to demonstrate the utter uselessness of wearing shoes, put his machete to his heel and cut off a full inch of callous.
I was convinced that the story had to be an exaggeration. But when we got to Papua New Guinea, I stared in horrified fascination at the dusty brown feet walking past me. They were as wide as a man's hand, flat, with thick, rough, white pads on the bottom. The toes stretched so far apart that you could easily fit a penny, width-wise, between each one. Some of the more sophisticated Papuans wore flip-flops, and their toes overflowed from the rubber soles onto the ground. Seemed a bit superfluous to me. Like the teeny tiny pillbox hats ladies used to wear, perched like sleek bird's nests on their molded hair.
Three years later, I had become so efficiently acclimated to the Island culture that I was proud of my 'island feet'. I didn't have to mince around anymore like some delicate china doll. Instead, there I was, running over the razor sharp coral reef at low tide, virtually unscathed. I grew thick, protective callouses on my feet, and my toes stretched out to embrace the earth, strong to grip into the dirt when I ran.
Being barefoot became so normal to me, that when we went back to the States for furlough my feet rebelled against anything other than flip flops. It was the summer after my 9th grade year. My parents sent me to church camp as a crash course, I guess, in preparation for public school integration that fall. The first day of camp, the counselors all loaded us up into a bus and drove us out into the Texas hill country. We stopped by a dusty little embankment, about 15 feet high. Everyone piled out of the bus and began to kick around.
Of course, it quickly became a competition to see who could get to the top of the little cliff first. The boys jostled each other, their testosterone spilling out with their sweat into the dirt as they worked to impress the girls, most of whom were pawing at the cliff and saying, "Omigosh, it's so high. Like ... you know ... whatever."
Sizing the cliff up, I saw a little indentation running up it, where I should be able to wedge myself in and lever up with my legs and arms pressed against both sides. Quickly, I shed my shoes, and after a few dusty moments was sitting in the dry grass at the top of the embankment in the shade of a little live oak tree.
"Woah, how did you get up here?!" a guy drawled.
I shrugged. "Over there," I pointed, a little shy to be talking to a boy. In the village, boys and girls were kept strictly separated after puberty. I hadn't had a real conversation with someone my age, of the opposite sex, who wasn't related to me, in years. From then on, I shed my shoes every time we played tag football, ultimate Frisbee, or any of the 'mingling' games everyone is so enthusiastic about at youth camps.
A week later, we were having our end-of-camp 'awards ceremony'. People were getting awards for silly things, like the most grapes eaten in one sitting, or loudest sneeze. I got the 'Barefoot Award'. It wasn't until I had gone up to receive my paper plate with the words 'Barefoot Award' written in Sharpie across it that it dawned on me that it wasn't normal to go everywhere without shoes.
This was the first lesson in many I learned that year about how little I really did know about American culture.
I was convinced that the story had to be an exaggeration. But when we got to Papua New Guinea, I stared in horrified fascination at the dusty brown feet walking past me. They were as wide as a man's hand, flat, with thick, rough, white pads on the bottom. The toes stretched so far apart that you could easily fit a penny, width-wise, between each one. Some of the more sophisticated Papuans wore flip-flops, and their toes overflowed from the rubber soles onto the ground. Seemed a bit superfluous to me. Like the teeny tiny pillbox hats ladies used to wear, perched like sleek bird's nests on their molded hair.
Three years later, I had become so efficiently acclimated to the Island culture that I was proud of my 'island feet'. I didn't have to mince around anymore like some delicate china doll. Instead, there I was, running over the razor sharp coral reef at low tide, virtually unscathed. I grew thick, protective callouses on my feet, and my toes stretched out to embrace the earth, strong to grip into the dirt when I ran.
Being barefoot became so normal to me, that when we went back to the States for furlough my feet rebelled against anything other than flip flops. It was the summer after my 9th grade year. My parents sent me to church camp as a crash course, I guess, in preparation for public school integration that fall. The first day of camp, the counselors all loaded us up into a bus and drove us out into the Texas hill country. We stopped by a dusty little embankment, about 15 feet high. Everyone piled out of the bus and began to kick around.
Of course, it quickly became a competition to see who could get to the top of the little cliff first. The boys jostled each other, their testosterone spilling out with their sweat into the dirt as they worked to impress the girls, most of whom were pawing at the cliff and saying, "Omigosh, it's so high. Like ... you know ... whatever."
Sizing the cliff up, I saw a little indentation running up it, where I should be able to wedge myself in and lever up with my legs and arms pressed against both sides. Quickly, I shed my shoes, and after a few dusty moments was sitting in the dry grass at the top of the embankment in the shade of a little live oak tree.
"Woah, how did you get up here?!" a guy drawled.
I shrugged. "Over there," I pointed, a little shy to be talking to a boy. In the village, boys and girls were kept strictly separated after puberty. I hadn't had a real conversation with someone my age, of the opposite sex, who wasn't related to me, in years. From then on, I shed my shoes every time we played tag football, ultimate Frisbee, or any of the 'mingling' games everyone is so enthusiastic about at youth camps.
A week later, we were having our end-of-camp 'awards ceremony'. People were getting awards for silly things, like the most grapes eaten in one sitting, or loudest sneeze. I got the 'Barefoot Award'. It wasn't until I had gone up to receive my paper plate with the words 'Barefoot Award' written in Sharpie across it that it dawned on me that it wasn't normal to go everywhere without shoes.
This was the first lesson in many I learned that year about how little I really did know about American culture.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
ROOM: Otherwise known as, the reason I didn't post Netflix Movie Monday yesterday
So. Sorry to those of you who enjoy my weekly Netflix Movie Monday posts. I had a great movie all picked out, ready to review yesterday (don't worry, it's on hold for next week). Then, I made the mistake of going to the library. Well, maybe not a mistake in terms of providing my kids with a lifelong love of reading. Just a mistake in the fact that I picked up a book there that completely derailed my plans for the entire day.
My friends the library turtles over at Three Turtles and Their Pet Librarian did a book review last week on Room, by Emma Donoghue. It intrigued me, so I picked it up to read over the next week. Problem is, Room grabbed me from the time I sat down at 1:30, and held me in its clutches until I finally finished reading all 321 hard-bound pages close to midnight that night.
Room, narrated from the perspective of five-year old Jack, relates the life he and his mother live in an 11 foot by 11 foot room. 'Ma' has been imprisoned there for seven years by her abductor, who they call 'Old Nick', only seeing the light of day through a skylight set high in the ceiling. Jack was born in Room, and its world is the only one he knows.
The first half of the book tells, in Jack's words, the day-to-day details of their lives in Room. About half way through the story, Jack somehow escapes, and the last part of the book describes Jack's struggle to assimilate in a world completely foreign to the one he's always known.
Besides being beautifully written, with well rounded characters (even the secondary ones) and some heart stopping moments (seriously, it was like I was watching an action thriller on TV), this book speaks to the TCK experience. Anyone who has lived in the third world, and has then been transported to a first world nation, will deeply relate to Jack's struggle to adapt to Outside. Things like the fear of driving on a speedway for the first time, or navigating an escalator, or marveling at the size of an indoor mall, are all experiences I share with Jack. Jack also goes through some internal conflict that I can relate to. He meets family members who are strangers, longs for the familiarity of 'home', and struggles with how to interact with people he encounters while completely ignorant of the 'hidden' social rules.
This poignently written novel will soon be a permanent addition to my own personal library. I have a feeling I will want to revisit Jack and the world of Room often.
My friends the library turtles over at Three Turtles and Their Pet Librarian did a book review last week on Room, by Emma Donoghue. It intrigued me, so I picked it up to read over the next week. Problem is, Room grabbed me from the time I sat down at 1:30, and held me in its clutches until I finally finished reading all 321 hard-bound pages close to midnight that night.
The first half of the book tells, in Jack's words, the day-to-day details of their lives in Room. About half way through the story, Jack somehow escapes, and the last part of the book describes Jack's struggle to assimilate in a world completely foreign to the one he's always known.
Besides being beautifully written, with well rounded characters (even the secondary ones) and some heart stopping moments (seriously, it was like I was watching an action thriller on TV), this book speaks to the TCK experience. Anyone who has lived in the third world, and has then been transported to a first world nation, will deeply relate to Jack's struggle to adapt to Outside. Things like the fear of driving on a speedway for the first time, or navigating an escalator, or marveling at the size of an indoor mall, are all experiences I share with Jack. Jack also goes through some internal conflict that I can relate to. He meets family members who are strangers, longs for the familiarity of 'home', and struggles with how to interact with people he encounters while completely ignorant of the 'hidden' social rules.
This poignently written novel will soon be a permanent addition to my own personal library. I have a feeling I will want to revisit Jack and the world of Room often.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Superbowl Sunday
My first Superbowl party ever occurred my junior year in high school. 11th grade was the year my parents went back to the Solomons, taking my two younger siblings, so that they could finish up their work there. Nathan and I stayed in Austin with foster families from our church.
That winter our church's youth group had all gone on a ski trip together, my first time to ever experience snow. Pretty much everyone else in the youth group had been going skiing with their families from the time they could walk. I spent the first day on the bunny slope in a borrowed, banana yellow ski suit. Determined come hell or high water to catch up with my peers, by the third day of the trip I was doing low jumps on the blue diamond runs.
Our youth pastor, about half way through the trip, set himself up with a camcorder at the bottom of one such jump, and filmed us as we all shot by, one after the other. Goaded by the fact that everyone else was conquering it, I threw caution to the wind and when it was my turn, hurtled myself towards the jump. It was steeper than I had anticipated. And the drop off went much further down. Knees bent, I shot from the end of the jump in perfect form. Ever watched the old Roadrunner cartoons where Wile E. Coyote runs off a cliff and doesn't realize it until he's in mid-air? That was me. I looked down and screamed, "Oh, SHOOOT!"
Only, in my high pitched, fear induced voice, it didn't sound like "Oh shoot." It sounded like, "Oh shit." At least, that's how it sounded when the film was played back that night. Some of the boys from the group thought it was hilarious that Danica had been 'caught' cussing on tape, and razzed me about it all night. Annoyed, I just ignored them. They always needed someone to make fun of. Tonight, it was lucky me.
A few months later, the entire youth group had gathered at some one's house to watch the Superbowl. I was at a loss about why everyone was getting so worked up about a football game. I went and hung out awkwardly in the back of the room with a few friends. I think Green Bay was playing that year.
I had a little knot in my stomach that night. The house that was hosting the event stood in the neighborhood of our old family home. The one on my dad built little by little, the one we always came home to, the one that was always waiting for us on Devereux Street, with its smell of plywood and dusty memories. Right now, renters occupied the house. It felt a little like sacrilege, that strangers could live in the one place we had always called 'home', no matter where in the world we were. Here I was, 5 minutes away and shut out.
The party was OK. I faked having a good time pretty well. Then half time came around, and everyone got bored of what they had been doing - watching the game, flirting, eating, gossiping, and watching everyone else watch the game, flirt, eat and gossip. People were searching for a diversion. Then, someone had the brilliant idea to pull out old tapes from past youth group events. It caught on like wildfire.
Three or four boys led the charge, searching through piles of old VHS tapes. I watched them idly, wondering why they didn't just pick one, already. Then, slowly, I became aware that they were searching with purpose. They were looking for one specific tape. A dawning feeling of horror started to creep over me as I caught one boy glance sideways at me, snicker, and continue his search. Sure enough, they found the 'Danica cussing' tape, popped it in, and fast forwarded to my specific moment of glory. And played it over. And over. Again.
I looked in desperation at the adults in the room, but they either weren't paying attention, or were watching the scene unfold with isn't-it-great-that-teens-can-have-good-clean-fun smirks on their self-satisfied faces. Determined not to let the boys win, I kept my chin up and a 'you guys are soooo juvenile' look firmly plastered on my face. It wasn't until we were ten minutes into the second half that I slipped surreptitiously away.
Sitting in my car, alone, both hands gripping the steering wheel, I drove. I drove unthinking. On auto pilot. Like a homing pigeon, my car took me back to Devereux Street. I pulled to a stop in the street right outside our house. Our house that should have had my mom and dad waiting inside for me, and our loved, worn furniture, and the perennial basket of fruit on the kitchen counter. Great, huge, ugly tears welled up inside me, and suddenly I was snotting and sobbing and struggling to breathe, gripping my steering wheel like it was the only stable, real thing in this entire world.
The tears, and the emotion behind them, was less about the hurtful boys, and more about not having a safe place to go when the boys hurt me. Looking back, it's really laughable that they would make such a big deal out of such a little word. A word which I didn't even SAY, but even if I HAD said it, would not negate the fact that they were intolerant, hypocritical pricks. There, I said it.
That winter our church's youth group had all gone on a ski trip together, my first time to ever experience snow. Pretty much everyone else in the youth group had been going skiing with their families from the time they could walk. I spent the first day on the bunny slope in a borrowed, banana yellow ski suit. Determined come hell or high water to catch up with my peers, by the third day of the trip I was doing low jumps on the blue diamond runs.
Our youth pastor, about half way through the trip, set himself up with a camcorder at the bottom of one such jump, and filmed us as we all shot by, one after the other. Goaded by the fact that everyone else was conquering it, I threw caution to the wind and when it was my turn, hurtled myself towards the jump. It was steeper than I had anticipated. And the drop off went much further down. Knees bent, I shot from the end of the jump in perfect form. Ever watched the old Roadrunner cartoons where Wile E. Coyote runs off a cliff and doesn't realize it until he's in mid-air? That was me. I looked down and screamed, "Oh, SHOOOT!"
Only, in my high pitched, fear induced voice, it didn't sound like "Oh shoot." It sounded like, "Oh shit." At least, that's how it sounded when the film was played back that night. Some of the boys from the group thought it was hilarious that Danica had been 'caught' cussing on tape, and razzed me about it all night. Annoyed, I just ignored them. They always needed someone to make fun of. Tonight, it was lucky me.
A few months later, the entire youth group had gathered at some one's house to watch the Superbowl. I was at a loss about why everyone was getting so worked up about a football game. I went and hung out awkwardly in the back of the room with a few friends. I think Green Bay was playing that year.
I had a little knot in my stomach that night. The house that was hosting the event stood in the neighborhood of our old family home. The one on my dad built little by little, the one we always came home to, the one that was always waiting for us on Devereux Street, with its smell of plywood and dusty memories. Right now, renters occupied the house. It felt a little like sacrilege, that strangers could live in the one place we had always called 'home', no matter where in the world we were. Here I was, 5 minutes away and shut out.
The party was OK. I faked having a good time pretty well. Then half time came around, and everyone got bored of what they had been doing - watching the game, flirting, eating, gossiping, and watching everyone else watch the game, flirt, eat and gossip. People were searching for a diversion. Then, someone had the brilliant idea to pull out old tapes from past youth group events. It caught on like wildfire.
Three or four boys led the charge, searching through piles of old VHS tapes. I watched them idly, wondering why they didn't just pick one, already. Then, slowly, I became aware that they were searching with purpose. They were looking for one specific tape. A dawning feeling of horror started to creep over me as I caught one boy glance sideways at me, snicker, and continue his search. Sure enough, they found the 'Danica cussing' tape, popped it in, and fast forwarded to my specific moment of glory. And played it over. And over. Again.
I looked in desperation at the adults in the room, but they either weren't paying attention, or were watching the scene unfold with isn't-it-great-that-teens-can-have-good-clean-fun smirks on their self-satisfied faces. Determined not to let the boys win, I kept my chin up and a 'you guys are soooo juvenile' look firmly plastered on my face. It wasn't until we were ten minutes into the second half that I slipped surreptitiously away.
Sitting in my car, alone, both hands gripping the steering wheel, I drove. I drove unthinking. On auto pilot. Like a homing pigeon, my car took me back to Devereux Street. I pulled to a stop in the street right outside our house. Our house that should have had my mom and dad waiting inside for me, and our loved, worn furniture, and the perennial basket of fruit on the kitchen counter. Great, huge, ugly tears welled up inside me, and suddenly I was snotting and sobbing and struggling to breathe, gripping my steering wheel like it was the only stable, real thing in this entire world.
The tears, and the emotion behind them, was less about the hurtful boys, and more about not having a safe place to go when the boys hurt me. Looking back, it's really laughable that they would make such a big deal out of such a little word. A word which I didn't even SAY, but even if I HAD said it, would not negate the fact that they were intolerant, hypocritical pricks. There, I said it.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Thinking About It
Today I have another guest post, written by yours truly, age 11. I thought after a slew of extremely long posts, I'll spare you guys the verbiage and post something short, for a change. (I know, don't choke on your coffee, people. Turns out Danica can make it short and sweet when her feet are to the fire. And talk about herself in third person. Which is kinda weird. Isn't it a sign of some kind of disorder?)
Anyways, back to the point, presenting thoughts by ME:
Sometimes, when I think about it, it is so weird that we are missionaries, that we are really living out here. We are those people living far away that your Sunday school teachers make you write letters to. When I get old I am going to write a book titled, "One of the Family." Because that's who I am here.
Anyways, back to the point, presenting thoughts by ME:
Thinking About It
by Danica, Age 11
by Danica, Age 11
Sometimes, when I think about it, it is so weird that we are missionaries, that we are really living out here. We are those people living far away that your Sunday school teachers make you write letters to. When I get old I am going to write a book titled, "One of the Family." Because that's who I am here.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Tradition
Tradition. It's about repeating the same things over and over again, year after year. Pretty soon, these repetitious actions start to feel like an old, favorite sweater, or a childhood comfort blanket. Safe, secure, grounding.
For a month now, I've been focusing with the kids and Scott on celebrating the season. We've made a gingerbread house (from scratch, thank you very much), read a part of the Christmas story every night and acted it out with our Fisher Price nativity set, toured neighborhoods at night to see the lights, listened to favorite Christmas CD's over and over again. All this, to build up to 'The Day', a short 12 hour period that had better be joyous and perfect, because we anticipate it all year, darn it.
Now, the trash is overflowing with wrapping paper, the sink with dishes, there are pine needles stuck in the carpet, and I'm left pondering the frenetic month I've just spent. Part of me wonders, why did I work so hard to create all those memories and reinforce the traditions? The nice answers, of course, include, 'so that the kids will have fond memories of childhood', 'to make Christmas about more than just the gifts', 'to spend time together as a family.'
But if I'm really honest with myself? If I really examine it all closely? If I pull back the pretty nice things, what is beneath? Beneath, deep, deep beneath, it is fear. Fear of not connecting. Fear of losing time. Fear of knowing that nothing in life really ever stays the same, that there is no real stability.
Stability.
Traditions.
It's my comfort blanket, this frantic memory making. It is a constant need to connect, to belong, to take a quick snapshot before it's all uprooted again. Somewhere in the middle of it all, I get so frantic to create the tradition, that all enjoyment and peace is taken out of it.
Case in point:
We had arranged to video chat with my parents during our present opening time, so that (again), we could be connected while apart. When it came time, I could not get my computer to work. My kids and husband were sitting there, waiting to enjoy the moment we'd all been anticipating, and all I could think about was suppressing the rising anxiety because I couldn't get my blasted computer to work.
How ridiculous! I was robbing my family of a beautiful moment, because I just couldn't let go. And live. In the moment.
For a month now, I've been focusing with the kids and Scott on celebrating the season. We've made a gingerbread house (from scratch, thank you very much), read a part of the Christmas story every night and acted it out with our Fisher Price nativity set, toured neighborhoods at night to see the lights, listened to favorite Christmas CD's over and over again. All this, to build up to 'The Day', a short 12 hour period that had better be joyous and perfect, because we anticipate it all year, darn it.
Now, the trash is overflowing with wrapping paper, the sink with dishes, there are pine needles stuck in the carpet, and I'm left pondering the frenetic month I've just spent. Part of me wonders, why did I work so hard to create all those memories and reinforce the traditions? The nice answers, of course, include, 'so that the kids will have fond memories of childhood', 'to make Christmas about more than just the gifts', 'to spend time together as a family.'
But if I'm really honest with myself? If I really examine it all closely? If I pull back the pretty nice things, what is beneath? Beneath, deep, deep beneath, it is fear. Fear of not connecting. Fear of losing time. Fear of knowing that nothing in life really ever stays the same, that there is no real stability.
Stability.
Traditions.
It's my comfort blanket, this frantic memory making. It is a constant need to connect, to belong, to take a quick snapshot before it's all uprooted again. Somewhere in the middle of it all, I get so frantic to create the tradition, that all enjoyment and peace is taken out of it.
Case in point:
We had arranged to video chat with my parents during our present opening time, so that (again), we could be connected while apart. When it came time, I could not get my computer to work. My kids and husband were sitting there, waiting to enjoy the moment we'd all been anticipating, and all I could think about was suppressing the rising anxiety because I couldn't get my blasted computer to work.
How ridiculous! I was robbing my family of a beautiful moment, because I just couldn't let go. And live. In the moment.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Flip the Switch
I have a memory of the time period between SIL training, and our departure to the Solomons. We had been in Dallas for a year, my parents attending linguistics training in preparation to go overseas. After this sojourn, we went back to Austin for just a few months, to bide the time before we got on the plane to fly into the unknown. My dad had taught us a few songs in Pijin - 'Jesus Loves Me', and some other typical Sunday school fare.
Returning to Austin should have been returning to the familiar, but I was already learning an underscoring theme of my life, that every move means change. Even if I move to a familiar place, the people have changed, moved on, grown. It leaves an unsettled feeling, like wearing glasses of the wrong prescription. Everything is just slightly off.
We went to our 'home' church, after having been gone for a year. My parents dropped the four of us off in our respective classes, but somehow I got mixed in with the older kids. I was scared of their big bodies and loud voices. I didn't know any of the teachers. My brother Nathan was sitting towards the very front and didn't see me. I retreated to the back of the room, crawling underneath a table, and sat there hugging my knees to my chest. I could just see out across the floor at all the children participating in the flannel graph story.
I hid from the room's occupants for most of the allotted hour, sitting separated and afraid under the overhang. My feeling of isolation grew as people continued not to notice me. Perversely, as I shrank deeper into the shadows I grew angry at being overlooked and abandoned there.
The teacher began to sing, 'Jesus Loves the Little Children'. I tried to sing along, but my confused mind could not remember the English words to the song. Pijin came to my tongue, and I started to cry as my brain locked down. It scared me that I could only remember the foreign words to the familiar song, words of a language I hadn't really even learned yet.
An adult finally noticed me crying beneath the table, and kindly came to help me up. My tears increased as my brain refused to operate with my mouth. The two languages became crossed on my tongue. I was desperate to communicate, but couldn't.
-------------------------
Now, looking deep into my heart, I wonder if that little girl is still there, hiding with her tongue tied, unable to do anything except to cry from frustration and confusion, lost in the shuffle as life plays out around her. I have spent so much of my life suspended between cultures. Anna and I were talking today about the duplicity of growing up third culture, and she hit the nail on the head. "When somebody isn't right in front of me, they don't exist to me," she said. "It's like I just flip the switch and they're gone, and I don't have to feel anything." That's exactly how I feel, too. It is way too difficult to deal with every change, every goodbye, every loss.
I left America the first time - flip the switch, move on. I left Honiara for Luaniua - flip the switch, move on. I left Luaniua again for Honiara - flip the switch again. Every time I leave a place, even if I'm going somewhere I've been to before, it's a new loss, because the people have all changed. They don't put their lives, growth and development on hold just because Danica's leaving. So the little Danica inside of me is still hiding underneath her table, not sure really of where she is, what language to speak, who all these people are, and with each flip of the switch I shove another suitcase packed with relationships and experiences under there for her to keep with her.
---------------------------
All this revelation comes after a day spent in tears, the source of which I was at a loss to find. I was thinking about missing my mom today, as I folded laundry, and tears came up out of my heart like a faucet had been turned on deep inside of me. An hour later, they still hadn't abated, and all I knew was that I needed to talk to somebody. I called an older woman who I trust, but don't know well (hadn't let in), and she lovingly listened as I blubbered like a seven year old, trying to put into words what was churning in my heart. Translating my feelings into words, going from my heart's language to common English was difficult, but she stuck with me, prayed with me, and I got a few of those suitcases opened.
My biggest realization today was that there is more hidden in my heart than I had ever suspected. With every change, every flip of the switch, I have neatly packed up all my previous relationships, emotions and experiences and hidden them deep in my heart. This blog is becoming more and more difficult to write, because as I look at the events of my life, I inevitably must unpack and examine the contents of every hidden suitcase stowed in the recesses of my heart. So when I'm not writing, you will know why - I'm just trying to get brave enough to open another one up. Bear with me, please. I invite you, the reader, to come along with me on this journey into the unknown.
Returning to Austin should have been returning to the familiar, but I was already learning an underscoring theme of my life, that every move means change. Even if I move to a familiar place, the people have changed, moved on, grown. It leaves an unsettled feeling, like wearing glasses of the wrong prescription. Everything is just slightly off.
We went to our 'home' church, after having been gone for a year. My parents dropped the four of us off in our respective classes, but somehow I got mixed in with the older kids. I was scared of their big bodies and loud voices. I didn't know any of the teachers. My brother Nathan was sitting towards the very front and didn't see me. I retreated to the back of the room, crawling underneath a table, and sat there hugging my knees to my chest. I could just see out across the floor at all the children participating in the flannel graph story.
I hid from the room's occupants for most of the allotted hour, sitting separated and afraid under the overhang. My feeling of isolation grew as people continued not to notice me. Perversely, as I shrank deeper into the shadows I grew angry at being overlooked and abandoned there.
The teacher began to sing, 'Jesus Loves the Little Children'. I tried to sing along, but my confused mind could not remember the English words to the song. Pijin came to my tongue, and I started to cry as my brain locked down. It scared me that I could only remember the foreign words to the familiar song, words of a language I hadn't really even learned yet.
An adult finally noticed me crying beneath the table, and kindly came to help me up. My tears increased as my brain refused to operate with my mouth. The two languages became crossed on my tongue. I was desperate to communicate, but couldn't.
-------------------------
Now, looking deep into my heart, I wonder if that little girl is still there, hiding with her tongue tied, unable to do anything except to cry from frustration and confusion, lost in the shuffle as life plays out around her. I have spent so much of my life suspended between cultures. Anna and I were talking today about the duplicity of growing up third culture, and she hit the nail on the head. "When somebody isn't right in front of me, they don't exist to me," she said. "It's like I just flip the switch and they're gone, and I don't have to feel anything." That's exactly how I feel, too. It is way too difficult to deal with every change, every goodbye, every loss.
I left America the first time - flip the switch, move on. I left Honiara for Luaniua - flip the switch, move on. I left Luaniua again for Honiara - flip the switch again. Every time I leave a place, even if I'm going somewhere I've been to before, it's a new loss, because the people have all changed. They don't put their lives, growth and development on hold just because Danica's leaving. So the little Danica inside of me is still hiding underneath her table, not sure really of where she is, what language to speak, who all these people are, and with each flip of the switch I shove another suitcase packed with relationships and experiences under there for her to keep with her.
---------------------------
All this revelation comes after a day spent in tears, the source of which I was at a loss to find. I was thinking about missing my mom today, as I folded laundry, and tears came up out of my heart like a faucet had been turned on deep inside of me. An hour later, they still hadn't abated, and all I knew was that I needed to talk to somebody. I called an older woman who I trust, but don't know well (hadn't let in), and she lovingly listened as I blubbered like a seven year old, trying to put into words what was churning in my heart. Translating my feelings into words, going from my heart's language to common English was difficult, but she stuck with me, prayed with me, and I got a few of those suitcases opened.
My biggest realization today was that there is more hidden in my heart than I had ever suspected. With every change, every flip of the switch, I have neatly packed up all my previous relationships, emotions and experiences and hidden them deep in my heart. This blog is becoming more and more difficult to write, because as I look at the events of my life, I inevitably must unpack and examine the contents of every hidden suitcase stowed in the recesses of my heart. So when I'm not writing, you will know why - I'm just trying to get brave enough to open another one up. Bear with me, please. I invite you, the reader, to come along with me on this journey into the unknown.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
My First Jungle Experience
Our first stop overseas was the volcanic island nation of Papua New Guinea. The plane bounced down on the cracked runway like a reluctant child called home for supper. I stared at the line of dense vegetation curiously. The pilot's voice came on the overhead speakers, "Please remain seated while we fumigate the cabin." My mom twitched in her seat, and I was turning to ask the question forming on my tongue when I was arrested by the sight of a stewardess at the head of the aisle. She was holding an aerosol can in each hand and walked quickly down the row, spraying a stream of noxious, choking mist over our heads. "Cover your mouth!" my dad called, panicky, leaning across my siblings and yanking Matthew's t-shirt up over his face.
When the cabin door finally opened, we spilled gratefully out onto the tarmac, stumbling over our rolling suitcases and carry-on bags. The fumes cleared from my watering eyes and burning throat as I sucked in my first taste of tropical air.
I felt that if I bared my teeth and bit down, I could take a bite out of that air. I felt that if I had a piece of bread and knife, I could spread it like butter. I was sure that if I filled a balloon with that jungle air, the balloon would sink to the ground instead of floating. That was how thick the jungle air was. It was heavy with tastes and smells I couldn't identify - green, growing, rotting, pungent things, whose scent clung to the hairs on the insides of my nostrils and dripped from my fingers. The tropical air embraced me in a warm, moist cocoon of promise. I followed my family as we pushed our way through the thickness to the waiting terminal ahead.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Days later, we had passed through customs, met up with the rest of our fledgling missionary group, and boarded a truck that would take us up to Jungle Camp. There, we would receive a crash course on 'how to survive bush life', including making mats, fishing, sewing up flesh wounds, and fraternizing with the natives.
The truck that took us to our new destiny must have been left over from WWII, abandoned by the GI's when the Allies won the war. We sat on wooden benches along the back, under a canopy tarp that was pulled up to let in the breeze and scenery. I sat between my father and older brother Nathan, watching in wonder as the new world flashed past me. Clap board and cinder block houses quickly faded as the coconut and banyan trees rose on either side of us and met over our heads. Little brown children ran from huts the size of my garage back home, waving their hands and smiling and shouting at us. I waved and smiled back.
I turned to look at my dad. He was sitting upwind from me, with his hand grasping the metal support post and his back turned towards me. I could see his profile as he was gazing out at the passing bush, and saw an inner something being set free. The part of himself that had been repressed by parents, teachers, and then society his whole life suddenly flashed out into freedom, and birthed a new expression in this primitive, unfettered land. I felt the elation radiating from his triumphant back, and together we let our free spirits soar on the laden wind.
Bright oranges, yellows and pinks flashed by - fruits and flowers that grew in a glorious riot along the roadside. The road steadily grew steeper, as we climbed the mountain to our hill-top camp. The truck bounced along, heedless of the crater-sized ruts in the dirt road. I braced my feet against the bed and rode each jolt like you would a bucking horse, or skiing moguls. Then, the sky suddenly became dark.
The sun is the only thing that hurries in the tropics. It slips quickly below the horizon at dusk, with a brief and painfully brilliant show, splashing color on the clouds and ocean in its haste to descend. It rises again each morning with equal haste, impatient to start its long, intense trek across the sky.
We foreigners were taken by surprise at the quickness with which it set. We suddenly found ourselves hurtling through a dense, alien blackness. The open sides of the truck offered no shelter and little separation from the bush. The jolts grew more precarious and the truck began to sway as it took tight curves up the side of the mountain. Thankfully, we couldn't see the steep drop down in the dark. I didn't think to be scared, because my father's strong back was in front of me. I leaned my cheek against it and watched the glistening darkness rush past.
It began to rain. Fat drops came like an army of invading paratroopers, rolling off the tarp overhead and blowing in through the open sides. In that moment, I heard a high-pitched, unearthly cry. It rose out of the darkness as if birthed from some dark, hidden thing lurking there. The sound sent an arrow of fear into my heart, which quickly spread into a sick panic. My mother reached over to pat my kneed. "It's OK, Danica," she said, low and soothing. "She's just scared. But you're alright." I suddenly realized that the sound had come from an adult woman, one of the mothers, pushed beyond rational thought and reacting with animal-like desperation.
I know that my parents were praying for me then, because the fear left. They sat on either side of us, my dad in front and my mom in back, with the four of us kids sandwiched between them. We were safe in their love and faith.
When the cabin door finally opened, we spilled gratefully out onto the tarmac, stumbling over our rolling suitcases and carry-on bags. The fumes cleared from my watering eyes and burning throat as I sucked in my first taste of tropical air.
I felt that if I bared my teeth and bit down, I could take a bite out of that air. I felt that if I had a piece of bread and knife, I could spread it like butter. I was sure that if I filled a balloon with that jungle air, the balloon would sink to the ground instead of floating. That was how thick the jungle air was. It was heavy with tastes and smells I couldn't identify - green, growing, rotting, pungent things, whose scent clung to the hairs on the insides of my nostrils and dripped from my fingers. The tropical air embraced me in a warm, moist cocoon of promise. I followed my family as we pushed our way through the thickness to the waiting terminal ahead.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Days later, we had passed through customs, met up with the rest of our fledgling missionary group, and boarded a truck that would take us up to Jungle Camp. There, we would receive a crash course on 'how to survive bush life', including making mats, fishing, sewing up flesh wounds, and fraternizing with the natives.
Nathan and I, at Jungle Camp.
The truck that took us to our new destiny must have been left over from WWII, abandoned by the GI's when the Allies won the war. We sat on wooden benches along the back, under a canopy tarp that was pulled up to let in the breeze and scenery. I sat between my father and older brother Nathan, watching in wonder as the new world flashed past me. Clap board and cinder block houses quickly faded as the coconut and banyan trees rose on either side of us and met over our heads. Little brown children ran from huts the size of my garage back home, waving their hands and smiling and shouting at us. I waved and smiled back.
I turned to look at my dad. He was sitting upwind from me, with his hand grasping the metal support post and his back turned towards me. I could see his profile as he was gazing out at the passing bush, and saw an inner something being set free. The part of himself that had been repressed by parents, teachers, and then society his whole life suddenly flashed out into freedom, and birthed a new expression in this primitive, unfettered land. I felt the elation radiating from his triumphant back, and together we let our free spirits soar on the laden wind.
Bright oranges, yellows and pinks flashed by - fruits and flowers that grew in a glorious riot along the roadside. The road steadily grew steeper, as we climbed the mountain to our hill-top camp. The truck bounced along, heedless of the crater-sized ruts in the dirt road. I braced my feet against the bed and rode each jolt like you would a bucking horse, or skiing moguls. Then, the sky suddenly became dark.
The sun is the only thing that hurries in the tropics. It slips quickly below the horizon at dusk, with a brief and painfully brilliant show, splashing color on the clouds and ocean in its haste to descend. It rises again each morning with equal haste, impatient to start its long, intense trek across the sky.
We foreigners were taken by surprise at the quickness with which it set. We suddenly found ourselves hurtling through a dense, alien blackness. The open sides of the truck offered no shelter and little separation from the bush. The jolts grew more precarious and the truck began to sway as it took tight curves up the side of the mountain. Thankfully, we couldn't see the steep drop down in the dark. I didn't think to be scared, because my father's strong back was in front of me. I leaned my cheek against it and watched the glistening darkness rush past.
It began to rain. Fat drops came like an army of invading paratroopers, rolling off the tarp overhead and blowing in through the open sides. In that moment, I heard a high-pitched, unearthly cry. It rose out of the darkness as if birthed from some dark, hidden thing lurking there. The sound sent an arrow of fear into my heart, which quickly spread into a sick panic. My mother reached over to pat my kneed. "It's OK, Danica," she said, low and soothing. "She's just scared. But you're alright." I suddenly realized that the sound had come from an adult woman, one of the mothers, pushed beyond rational thought and reacting with animal-like desperation.
I know that my parents were praying for me then, because the fear left. They sat on either side of us, my dad in front and my mom in back, with the four of us kids sandwiched between them. We were safe in their love and faith.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Saying Goodbye
The day my father came home and announced we were moving to live on an island, I didn't really understand. I was 6, and my world consisted of the warm little nucleus my mother had created at home for us, church, and first grade. And so, months later when we had undergone training in Dallas, raised the support needed, and actually packed our home, I started to realize what moving might really mean.
My mother, brother Nathan, and I in the woods behind our house.
We had lived up till that point in the Texas hill country, outside of Austin. The house we lived in was built plank by plank by my father. He would come home from a long day of nursing his start-up software business, strap on his worn tool belt, and climb to the rafters to nail drywall. Dad's tool belt, to me, is similar to his wedding ring. It symbolizes comfort, security, and my father's deep strength and ingenuity.
Me, playing in the foundation of our house while it was being built.
My mom would paint and lay tile during the day, while she also watched the four of us. My brother was born in the upper bedroom of that house, his first indignant cries echoing over the virgin hills. The house took 5 years to build.
The last night we had in it, we slept on pallets of blankets on the floor. In the morning, we would climb into our loaded U-Haul and make the trek to Houston, board the plane after kissing tearful grandparents, and head off into the unknown. I was quivery with excitement. Change electrified the air and made it hard to sleep, but I finally did. The morning dawned cool and fragrant with the hill country's special blend of cedar and live oak trees. Morning doves wooed each other from the woods behind our house.
We ate our Cheerios and milk for the last time at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, while my parents loaded the last of our things into the truck. I talked excitedly with my siblings. Our child's minds could not see past a trip to Houston and the grandparents. Breakfast done, we were herded outside. My mom stopped me.
The last night we had in it, we slept on pallets of blankets on the floor. In the morning, we would climb into our loaded U-Haul and make the trek to Houston, board the plane after kissing tearful grandparents, and head off into the unknown. I was quivery with excitement. Change electrified the air and made it hard to sleep, but I finally did. The morning dawned cool and fragrant with the hill country's special blend of cedar and live oak trees. Morning doves wooed each other from the woods behind our house.
We ate our Cheerios and milk for the last time at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, while my parents loaded the last of our things into the truck. I talked excitedly with my siblings. Our child's minds could not see past a trip to Houston and the grandparents. Breakfast done, we were herded outside. My mom stopped me.
Nathan, me, and my mom holding Anna, in our VW van.
"Danica, do you want to go say goodbye to the house?" I looked at her strangely, wondering why I would want to say goodbye to a house, and was caught by a deep something hidden in her eyes. I think in that moment her heart needed me. So I followed along beside her, taking in the strangeness of the empty rooms. We made our way through the downstairs, then up to my parent's room and bedroom. My room was the last we visited.
I stepped into the barren emptiness. The ceilings stretched high above me, un-anchored by friendly furniture, pictures and toys. The room seemed huge. I stood in the middle of it, lost suddenly in the space, and reality smacked me for the first time in my young life. I grew in that moment, a part of innocence lost, when I realized that this room of dreams, romps, and imaginary playmates, the room that was somehow my friend, had turned its back on me. It offered no comfort, no sanctuary. The blank walls stood aloof and the windows stared in haughty starkness.
I felt my mother's hand on my shoulder, and I looked up to see that she was crying. We sank together in the middle of the nothingness and I cried from the torn place in my heart onto my mother's chest.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Outer Strength, Inner Brokenness
The village had two wells, one for each half. The one closest to us was dug by a group of well-meaning Peace Corps years ago, a four-foot diameter concrete shaft penetrating into the island's coral core. The remains of a sad windmill stood beside it, its dilapidated arms hanging down in defeat, pointing in despair at the rusted water pump. The villagers used long poles with little buckets attached to the ends to access the water now. It was an art to carefully lower the bucket so that it filled with water (which was about 1 foot deep on average), but didn't stir up the silty bottom of the well, thus polluting the entire water source.
I had a morbid fear of the well. The villagers treated it with respect, never going too close to the edge. They scolded me when I looked too long into its depths. I think that a spirit lived down there, although they never told me its name. It seemed that wells all over the islands were homes for benevolent water spirits.
The water was brackish, too salty to drink but good to wash ourselves and clothes in. My mom paid me three dollars a bucket to haul water from the well to our house - good money. I had a thriving business with my family, charging them for buckets of fresh water when they needed 'showers'.
Once a 10 gallon bucket was filled with water, I would have a friend help hoist it onto my shoulder. I would then totter my way through the houses. If you have never tried it, it is difficult to carry an open bucket of water on your shoulder or head. Disregarding the weight, you have to walk very smoothly. The more you wobble around, the more the water begins to slosh, and very quickly it will throw you off balance. My pride made me endure intense amounts of physical suffering, with my neck aching from the weight of the bucket pressing against it, my arms trembling from holding it up, my legs quivering with the effort to keep the rhythm of my walk. I endured all this, so that the village kids would see me as strong, and one of them.
A year ago, I sat in the chiropractor's office and watched as he studied an x-ray of my back. "Were you a gymnast, as a kid?" he asked me.
"No," I said.
"You have arthritis in your lower back. I never see it in people this young, except for people who worked on farms as children, or who played intense sports such as gymnastics."
"Would carrying buckets of water on my shoulders for seven years count?" I asked.
I've picked up a lot of hidden aches in my efforts to 'appear strong' to those around me, or to be accepted. Every time we would move from the island to the US, or back again, I would suddenly find myself dropped into a community where everyone had been tootling along in their lives, and expected me to pick right back up again, wherever the CD skipped to. I didn't have time to go through an adjustment period. The islanders didn't understand me missing things like shopping malls, church picnics, and Thanksgiving. American kids didn't 'get' my longing for the simpler life and small, tight-knit village community.
So, I compartmentalized my island and American selves. Each part of me lay there, dormant and aching for recognition, with the effect that wherever I was, no place was completely home. I developed arthritis of the heart, a constant, festering aching that effected my ability (or willingness) to let anyone too close. I became very strong on the outside, good at 'faking the funk' no matter what situation I found myself in.
In high school, it became worse. I left the Solomons for good and returned to the US, with a heart full of mourning for people and places I loved and would never see again. It was like the whole village died in one fell swoop. I dusted off my American self and, with the help of Old Navy and the Clinique counter, assimilated into high school. I found myself being angry at the kids around me, angry at how easy it was for them to belong, to fit in, to 'get' the jokes. I was angry at how simple their lives were, how narrow their world view was, how close-minded their conversations. Most of all, though, I was angry that they weren't my island family.
I eventually made some friends; mostly people who helped keep our relationship on a safe, surface level. And a few, precious, true friends who were just as different on the inside as I was - you know who you are.
I had a morbid fear of the well. The villagers treated it with respect, never going too close to the edge. They scolded me when I looked too long into its depths. I think that a spirit lived down there, although they never told me its name. It seemed that wells all over the islands were homes for benevolent water spirits.
The water was brackish, too salty to drink but good to wash ourselves and clothes in. My mom paid me three dollars a bucket to haul water from the well to our house - good money. I had a thriving business with my family, charging them for buckets of fresh water when they needed 'showers'.
Once a 10 gallon bucket was filled with water, I would have a friend help hoist it onto my shoulder. I would then totter my way through the houses. If you have never tried it, it is difficult to carry an open bucket of water on your shoulder or head. Disregarding the weight, you have to walk very smoothly. The more you wobble around, the more the water begins to slosh, and very quickly it will throw you off balance. My pride made me endure intense amounts of physical suffering, with my neck aching from the weight of the bucket pressing against it, my arms trembling from holding it up, my legs quivering with the effort to keep the rhythm of my walk. I endured all this, so that the village kids would see me as strong, and one of them.
A year ago, I sat in the chiropractor's office and watched as he studied an x-ray of my back. "Were you a gymnast, as a kid?" he asked me.
"No," I said.
"You have arthritis in your lower back. I never see it in people this young, except for people who worked on farms as children, or who played intense sports such as gymnastics."
"Would carrying buckets of water on my shoulders for seven years count?" I asked.
I've picked up a lot of hidden aches in my efforts to 'appear strong' to those around me, or to be accepted. Every time we would move from the island to the US, or back again, I would suddenly find myself dropped into a community where everyone had been tootling along in their lives, and expected me to pick right back up again, wherever the CD skipped to. I didn't have time to go through an adjustment period. The islanders didn't understand me missing things like shopping malls, church picnics, and Thanksgiving. American kids didn't 'get' my longing for the simpler life and small, tight-knit village community.
So, I compartmentalized my island and American selves. Each part of me lay there, dormant and aching for recognition, with the effect that wherever I was, no place was completely home. I developed arthritis of the heart, a constant, festering aching that effected my ability (or willingness) to let anyone too close. I became very strong on the outside, good at 'faking the funk' no matter what situation I found myself in.
In high school, it became worse. I left the Solomons for good and returned to the US, with a heart full of mourning for people and places I loved and would never see again. It was like the whole village died in one fell swoop. I dusted off my American self and, with the help of Old Navy and the Clinique counter, assimilated into high school. I found myself being angry at the kids around me, angry at how easy it was for them to belong, to fit in, to 'get' the jokes. I was angry at how simple their lives were, how narrow their world view was, how close-minded their conversations. Most of all, though, I was angry that they weren't my island family.
I eventually made some friends; mostly people who helped keep our relationship on a safe, surface level. And a few, precious, true friends who were just as different on the inside as I was - you know who you are.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
From Suburbanite to Missionary - My Dad's Faith Journey
What is it like to go from a suburban small-business owner, to a foreign missionary? As it all seemed like a huge adventure to me as a kid, I will let my father's words describe the process for me. The following are excerpts from our family newsletters as we embarked on the journey that would change all our lives forever.
March 1989 - (the first newsletter ever sent out)
"We are rapidly approaching a crossroads in the life of our family and would appreciate your prayers for us. This will entail some major decisions concerning our involvement with Wycliffe Bible Translators.
As you know, we have been on a fairly normal course up to this point; raising a family, being active with our neighbors, and serving in our local church.
This June we plan to attend Wycliffe's four week missionary candidate program, "Quest". They require this for all potential translators, to judge their suitability for field work. We are praying that God will use the staff at Wycliffe to give us definitive guidance concerning our involvement in Bible translation."
August 1987 - Quotable Quotes from Quest
"Success is not permanent, neither is failure."
~Jerry Allen, our language instructor giving us encouragement the first week of class
"When entering another culture remember, you are the foreigner, not them."
~Scott Smith, missionary kid
Q: "Did you ever feel like quitting?"
A: "About every day."
~ Dan Davis has served with WBT for 23 years, completing one New Testament and serving as a consultant on many others.
"Sometimes God puts us on a holding pattern to make us grow."
~ Ken Wiggers, former Jaars pilot on returning to the US for medical reasons
"The work of Bible translation involves a partnership between those being sent and those who are sending. God chose each member of this partnership before the foundation of the world."
~ Clarence Church has been involved in Bible translation at various levels since he first went to Mexico with Cameron Townsend in 1947.
December 1987
"Last week Nathan's bike was parked behind the family van and got crushed. Later Matthew toddled out the back door and became stranded in the back yard with his little bare feet in the sticker burr patch.
It seems that our kids are always getting into situations that they can't resolve alone. Similarly, our desire to do Bible translation is getting our whole family into a situation where we cannot proceed alone. So, we are in the process of looking for people to make u support teams at churches, who will be our partners in this venture. These teams will be involved in financial support, daily prayer, and keeping the church and friends up to date on our activities.
'Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies it remains by itself alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. He who loves his life loses it; and he who hates his life in this world shall keep it to life eternal. If anyone serves Me let him follow Me.'"
September 1988
"I crossed the front yard and took a look back at the home we had just completed. The big rental truck was packed. The boys and I climbed in and lumbered up the hill, past the homes of friends. Our hearts were full of memories as we left the life that would be forever changed when we return.
We lumbered through Westlake and headed north on I-35. Matthew's excitement had worn him out. he was sound asleep in his car seat, cheeks flushed in the heat. Nathan was quiet, staring out the window.
As the mile markers slipped by, my mind was in the past ... Cub Scout meetings, teaching kids in Sunday School, men's Bible Study, work, soccer practice. July and August had been an incredible storm of activity as we finished the house and moved with a great surge of help from our friends.
Our last hours in Austin were full of tears. It was very difficult to leave. We realized how much of our hearts were in our home, our friends, church, and community ... we miss you all.
However, we know that the Lord is our Shepherd and we trust that He has still waters in store for us. Please pray that we will be able to be still and trust Him for what lies ahead of us as we train to translate God's written Word."
November 1988
"We have been assigned to the island of Ontong Java to do Bible translation. This is near Guadalcanal and New Britain islands in the Pacific Ocean north of Australia.
During World War II, these Pacific Islands were inundated with U.S. Soldiers who were fighting the Japanese. The U.S. Army brought in mountains of supplies to keep the war effort going: clothes, canned food, vehicles, radios, weapons, etc. The local people had very little contact with white men up to this point, and were very interested in how they came by all of this 'Cargo'.
The local people knew that all power to produce goods, to make gardens grow, to make pigs bear young, to be victorious over enemies, all of this power came from the spirits of ones ancestors. To have powerful ancestors meant to have much wealth. So they thought that these white men must have powerful ancestors indeed.
The local people learned from missionaries that their God was named Jesus. This Jesus had been a man. He had died and gone to the place of the ancestors, and had then returned to men for a period of time.
Of course this made things very clear to the local people. Jesus must have learned the secret of 'Cargo' from the white ancestors and had given this secret to the white men. The obvious problem was that the white men were not about to give away the secret to such wonderful power.
Since the local people knew that ancestor power is appropriated from ritual, they decided to watch the white men, and listen to them very carefully in case they slipped and let out the secret.
The missionaries told them that they should believe in Jesus and be baptized. This the people gladly did. They told the people to build a church and bury their dead in a graveyard near the church. This the people also gladly did. In fact they had observed the white men talking to their ancestors on radios with wire antennas which received the voices of the ancestors. So the people strung vines from their church building to the graves so that their prayer requests for 'Cargo' would be transmitted to Jesus and the white ancestors.
The people prayed, they made air strips, they decorated the graves of their ancestors with flowers; they copied the white men in every way they could. But still no cargo came. Finally they became angry. The white men were holding out on them. There was obviously enough Cargo to go around. These white men were really selfish and miserly. To refuse to share with your village, when you have plenty, is the worst sin they could imagine. Finally, they decided that these white missionaries were bad people. The people turned away and rejected them and their God.
The missionaries were dismayed. The responses to the gospel had been so good at the beginning. What had gone wrong? How could this confused response to the gospel have been remedied?"
March 1989
Our first news letter went out last spring. In it, we talked about the transition from suburban life (work, soccer, scouts, and Sunday outings), to being Bible translators overseas.
In retrospect, it has been a lot like training to sky dive. Last spring we were at the back of the plane chewing our fingernails, and now we are at the door and ready to jump.
We just got our passports back. Next we get shots; hepatitis A & B, tetanus, and oral malaria. Nathan, Danica and Anna are dreading that, and Matthew isn't too thrilled by their reaction to the word, "shot".
A year ago, one of the kids in our Sunday school class heard that we were planning to be missionaries. She approached us and volunteered to send us $5 a month, which was our first promised financial support (and a hefty sum for a first grader).
Looking back on that incident, it reminds me of the time that Elijah had defeated the prophets of Baal. This victory turned the hearts of Israel back to God. So he prayed for God to end the three year drought that was a punishment for Israel's idolatry.
As Elijah lay prostrate on the ground, he sent his servant to the hilltop to look for rain clouds. On the seventh trip the servant saw (not a thunder cloud, but) a cloud the size of a man's hand. Elijah's reaction was RUN, before "the storm of rain washes you away."
Over this past year that "little cloud" of $5 has grown to about $1700 / month of the $2400 / month that we need to leave for our overseas assignment. I am continually amazed at how God continues to provide for us, and aware of how much this effort of Bible translation depends on His faithfulness.
June 1989
Nathan received this letter from Samuel Daams, son of Pam and Nico Daams, WBT translators in the Solomon Islands:
Dear Nathan,
I keep wondering when you will come here. I hope to show you how we shoot birds and eat them. I also hope to go and spear shrimps and fish in the creek nearby.
I have many friends whom I have told about your coming. They are looking forward to it and we will show you how to make many things such as trucks out of wood, bows and arrows, and slings.
There are lots of fruit here nice to eat such as guava, mango, sugarcane, coconuts, cabbarei, and pineapple and banana. There are lots of bats and birds here.
I hope to show you a parrot of mine that I shot myself and is still alive and very tame. It likes to crawl along peoples hands and chew their hair.
Yours faithfully,
Samuel
What do we think about The Move? A quick poll revealed the following thoughts:
David: I am looking forward to getting to know people and feeling at home there. I want the kids to find friends soon too.
Pam: I think that we are going to have lots of surprises. Leaving the familiar is difficult but I feel expectant about what lies ahead.
Nathan (age 10): I think it's going to be fun. I am going to be able to shoot birds and spear fish. I am looking forward to going.
Danica (age 8): I wonder how many friends I am going to make. I am looking forward to making a shell collection. I'll bring some special shells when I get back. I will miss my friends in Texas.
Anna (age 6): I think that home school is going to be exciting. I think that it will be fun and I am looking forward to getting on the plane. I like the food that they have on the plane. I hope I find a friend and I hope that they are nice.
Matthew (age 4): Can I have a Popsicle?
March 1989 - (the first newsletter ever sent out)
"We are rapidly approaching a crossroads in the life of our family and would appreciate your prayers for us. This will entail some major decisions concerning our involvement with Wycliffe Bible Translators.
As you know, we have been on a fairly normal course up to this point; raising a family, being active with our neighbors, and serving in our local church.
This June we plan to attend Wycliffe's four week missionary candidate program, "Quest". They require this for all potential translators, to judge their suitability for field work. We are praying that God will use the staff at Wycliffe to give us definitive guidance concerning our involvement in Bible translation."
August 1987 - Quotable Quotes from Quest
"Success is not permanent, neither is failure."
~Jerry Allen, our language instructor giving us encouragement the first week of class
"When entering another culture remember, you are the foreigner, not them."
~Scott Smith, missionary kid
Q: "Did you ever feel like quitting?"
A: "About every day."
~ Dan Davis has served with WBT for 23 years, completing one New Testament and serving as a consultant on many others.
"Sometimes God puts us on a holding pattern to make us grow."
~ Ken Wiggers, former Jaars pilot on returning to the US for medical reasons
"The work of Bible translation involves a partnership between those being sent and those who are sending. God chose each member of this partnership before the foundation of the world."
~ Clarence Church has been involved in Bible translation at various levels since he first went to Mexico with Cameron Townsend in 1947.
December 1987
"Last week Nathan's bike was parked behind the family van and got crushed. Later Matthew toddled out the back door and became stranded in the back yard with his little bare feet in the sticker burr patch.
It seems that our kids are always getting into situations that they can't resolve alone. Similarly, our desire to do Bible translation is getting our whole family into a situation where we cannot proceed alone. So, we are in the process of looking for people to make u support teams at churches, who will be our partners in this venture. These teams will be involved in financial support, daily prayer, and keeping the church and friends up to date on our activities.
'Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies it remains by itself alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. He who loves his life loses it; and he who hates his life in this world shall keep it to life eternal. If anyone serves Me let him follow Me.'"
September 1988
"I crossed the front yard and took a look back at the home we had just completed. The big rental truck was packed. The boys and I climbed in and lumbered up the hill, past the homes of friends. Our hearts were full of memories as we left the life that would be forever changed when we return.
We lumbered through Westlake and headed north on I-35. Matthew's excitement had worn him out. he was sound asleep in his car seat, cheeks flushed in the heat. Nathan was quiet, staring out the window.
As the mile markers slipped by, my mind was in the past ... Cub Scout meetings, teaching kids in Sunday School, men's Bible Study, work, soccer practice. July and August had been an incredible storm of activity as we finished the house and moved with a great surge of help from our friends.
Our last hours in Austin were full of tears. It was very difficult to leave. We realized how much of our hearts were in our home, our friends, church, and community ... we miss you all.
However, we know that the Lord is our Shepherd and we trust that He has still waters in store for us. Please pray that we will be able to be still and trust Him for what lies ahead of us as we train to translate God's written Word."
November 1988
"We have been assigned to the island of Ontong Java to do Bible translation. This is near Guadalcanal and New Britain islands in the Pacific Ocean north of Australia.
During World War II, these Pacific Islands were inundated with U.S. Soldiers who were fighting the Japanese. The U.S. Army brought in mountains of supplies to keep the war effort going: clothes, canned food, vehicles, radios, weapons, etc. The local people had very little contact with white men up to this point, and were very interested in how they came by all of this 'Cargo'.
The local people knew that all power to produce goods, to make gardens grow, to make pigs bear young, to be victorious over enemies, all of this power came from the spirits of ones ancestors. To have powerful ancestors meant to have much wealth. So they thought that these white men must have powerful ancestors indeed.
The local people learned from missionaries that their God was named Jesus. This Jesus had been a man. He had died and gone to the place of the ancestors, and had then returned to men for a period of time.
Of course this made things very clear to the local people. Jesus must have learned the secret of 'Cargo' from the white ancestors and had given this secret to the white men. The obvious problem was that the white men were not about to give away the secret to such wonderful power.
Since the local people knew that ancestor power is appropriated from ritual, they decided to watch the white men, and listen to them very carefully in case they slipped and let out the secret.
The missionaries told them that they should believe in Jesus and be baptized. This the people gladly did. They told the people to build a church and bury their dead in a graveyard near the church. This the people also gladly did. In fact they had observed the white men talking to their ancestors on radios with wire antennas which received the voices of the ancestors. So the people strung vines from their church building to the graves so that their prayer requests for 'Cargo' would be transmitted to Jesus and the white ancestors.
The people prayed, they made air strips, they decorated the graves of their ancestors with flowers; they copied the white men in every way they could. But still no cargo came. Finally they became angry. The white men were holding out on them. There was obviously enough Cargo to go around. These white men were really selfish and miserly. To refuse to share with your village, when you have plenty, is the worst sin they could imagine. Finally, they decided that these white missionaries were bad people. The people turned away and rejected them and their God.
The missionaries were dismayed. The responses to the gospel had been so good at the beginning. What had gone wrong? How could this confused response to the gospel have been remedied?"
March 1989
Our first news letter went out last spring. In it, we talked about the transition from suburban life (work, soccer, scouts, and Sunday outings), to being Bible translators overseas.
In retrospect, it has been a lot like training to sky dive. Last spring we were at the back of the plane chewing our fingernails, and now we are at the door and ready to jump.
We just got our passports back. Next we get shots; hepatitis A & B, tetanus, and oral malaria. Nathan, Danica and Anna are dreading that, and Matthew isn't too thrilled by their reaction to the word, "shot".
A year ago, one of the kids in our Sunday school class heard that we were planning to be missionaries. She approached us and volunteered to send us $5 a month, which was our first promised financial support (and a hefty sum for a first grader).
Looking back on that incident, it reminds me of the time that Elijah had defeated the prophets of Baal. This victory turned the hearts of Israel back to God. So he prayed for God to end the three year drought that was a punishment for Israel's idolatry.
As Elijah lay prostrate on the ground, he sent his servant to the hilltop to look for rain clouds. On the seventh trip the servant saw (not a thunder cloud, but) a cloud the size of a man's hand. Elijah's reaction was RUN, before "the storm of rain washes you away."
Over this past year that "little cloud" of $5 has grown to about $1700 / month of the $2400 / month that we need to leave for our overseas assignment. I am continually amazed at how God continues to provide for us, and aware of how much this effort of Bible translation depends on His faithfulness.
June 1989
Nathan received this letter from Samuel Daams, son of Pam and Nico Daams, WBT translators in the Solomon Islands:
Dear Nathan,
I keep wondering when you will come here. I hope to show you how we shoot birds and eat them. I also hope to go and spear shrimps and fish in the creek nearby.
I have many friends whom I have told about your coming. They are looking forward to it and we will show you how to make many things such as trucks out of wood, bows and arrows, and slings.
There are lots of fruit here nice to eat such as guava, mango, sugarcane, coconuts, cabbarei, and pineapple and banana. There are lots of bats and birds here.
I hope to show you a parrot of mine that I shot myself and is still alive and very tame. It likes to crawl along peoples hands and chew their hair.
Yours faithfully,
Samuel
What do we think about The Move? A quick poll revealed the following thoughts:
David: I am looking forward to getting to know people and feeling at home there. I want the kids to find friends soon too.
Pam: I think that we are going to have lots of surprises. Leaving the familiar is difficult but I feel expectant about what lies ahead.
Nathan (age 10): I think it's going to be fun. I am going to be able to shoot birds and spear fish. I am looking forward to going.
Danica (age 8): I wonder how many friends I am going to make. I am looking forward to making a shell collection. I'll bring some special shells when I get back. I will miss my friends in Texas.
Anna (age 6): I think that home school is going to be exciting. I think that it will be fun and I am looking forward to getting on the plane. I like the food that they have on the plane. I hope I find a friend and I hope that they are nice.
Matthew (age 4): Can I have a Popsicle?
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
My First Foray
After a week spent tethered to our little hut, venturing out only for forays to the potty beach with my sister or mom, I felt ready seize my relational destiny and strike out to find my new best friend. I knew some Pidgin, mostly gathered from our village living stay in Papua New Guinea, and felt confident that a new world of friendship was waiting just beyond the next pandanas tree.
So with these high hopes, I stepped out of our hut one fresh morning into the sunshine, which fell like a benediction on my skin, blessing me and commissioning my purpose. The path that led from our front door skirted the village church. It was a solid and airy building, with its painted white cinder blocks rising only half-way up to the tin roof, left conveniently open for the little daydreamers who fidgeted on its pews every day, and twice on Sunday. In front of the church was the requisite crushed coral yard, hemmed in by flat reef stones, and then beyond it a large open space of packed white sand, used as a gathering place for church functions.
This I crossed with some trepidation, trying to squelch the creeping paranoia I felt from the empty black openings of the surrounding huts. It was hard not to think of all the Islanders hiding there, peering out at the white girl as I crossed the exposed space. I kept walking, though, drawn by the beach beyond and its promise of companionship. Here the houses thinned out, and under a cluster of coconut trees sat a group of girls.
They lounged on the packed dirt like a pride of young lionesses, leaning against each other languidly, their bodies liquid and supple. The breezes coming off the lagoon saw them and loved them, sending their hair and lava lavas fluttering. One had a little ukulele, and it sang a background for their gossip and jokes as they sat there in the shade.
I realized, as I watched them, that I had no plan for what to do once I actually found some girls my age. Never one to be daunted by lack of a plan, however, I forged on, walking right up to them and plopping down on the dirt. I addressed the biggest girl in Pidgin: "Hi, I'm Danica. What are you guys doing?" A short silence followed, leaving my words dangling from the end of the question mark.
The girl I had spoken to widened her eyes at me, gave a glance at her friends, and said something to me in the native language. Everyone started laughing hysterically, their mirth rising up into the air like a flock of pigeons in a town square. Completely unseated, I jumped to my feet and beat a quick retreat back the way I had come. I could hear them shouting after me words that I didn't understand. I picked up my pace, my feet pounding the dirt path across the open meeting area, around the church yard, down the side of the church and to our front door.
I burst through the front part of our hut, a common area for eating, cooking, and visiting. Our home was divided into three areas; the front, and two back parts, one of which my parents used as a bedroom, and the other had four little pallets laid out on coconut mats, with mosquito nets hanging over each. Mine was the furthest back, tucked in a corner where the leafy roof nearly met the floor. This is where I dove, headfirst, to seek refuge and lick my wounds.
I sat there, writhing inside in embarrassed agony as the scene kept replaying itself before my unwilling mind's eye. In that shadowy corner I buried my little rainbow dream, and resolved myself to a life of relational celibacy.
So with these high hopes, I stepped out of our hut one fresh morning into the sunshine, which fell like a benediction on my skin, blessing me and commissioning my purpose. The path that led from our front door skirted the village church. It was a solid and airy building, with its painted white cinder blocks rising only half-way up to the tin roof, left conveniently open for the little daydreamers who fidgeted on its pews every day, and twice on Sunday. In front of the church was the requisite crushed coral yard, hemmed in by flat reef stones, and then beyond it a large open space of packed white sand, used as a gathering place for church functions.
This I crossed with some trepidation, trying to squelch the creeping paranoia I felt from the empty black openings of the surrounding huts. It was hard not to think of all the Islanders hiding there, peering out at the white girl as I crossed the exposed space. I kept walking, though, drawn by the beach beyond and its promise of companionship. Here the houses thinned out, and under a cluster of coconut trees sat a group of girls.
They lounged on the packed dirt like a pride of young lionesses, leaning against each other languidly, their bodies liquid and supple. The breezes coming off the lagoon saw them and loved them, sending their hair and lava lavas fluttering. One had a little ukulele, and it sang a background for their gossip and jokes as they sat there in the shade.
I realized, as I watched them, that I had no plan for what to do once I actually found some girls my age. Never one to be daunted by lack of a plan, however, I forged on, walking right up to them and plopping down on the dirt. I addressed the biggest girl in Pidgin: "Hi, I'm Danica. What are you guys doing?" A short silence followed, leaving my words dangling from the end of the question mark.
The girl I had spoken to widened her eyes at me, gave a glance at her friends, and said something to me in the native language. Everyone started laughing hysterically, their mirth rising up into the air like a flock of pigeons in a town square. Completely unseated, I jumped to my feet and beat a quick retreat back the way I had come. I could hear them shouting after me words that I didn't understand. I picked up my pace, my feet pounding the dirt path across the open meeting area, around the church yard, down the side of the church and to our front door.
I burst through the front part of our hut, a common area for eating, cooking, and visiting. Our home was divided into three areas; the front, and two back parts, one of which my parents used as a bedroom, and the other had four little pallets laid out on coconut mats, with mosquito nets hanging over each. Mine was the furthest back, tucked in a corner where the leafy roof nearly met the floor. This is where I dove, headfirst, to seek refuge and lick my wounds.
I sat there, writhing inside in embarrassed agony as the scene kept replaying itself before my unwilling mind's eye. In that shadowy corner I buried my little rainbow dream, and resolved myself to a life of relational celibacy.
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