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.

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.

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.

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.

Rain, pt 1

The rain came drumming down on our tin roof, beating out an ancient cadence on the corrugated aluminum. With no insulation to separate us from the metal, monsoon season meant that my family communicated in yells to be heard over the furious cacophony. The monsoons lasted several months, during which everything stayed slightly wet - bedding, clothes, hair, walls. A mouldy smell pervaded the air, giving an earthy undertone to the scents of rain-crushed flowers and leaves.

I looked out our louvered window, and saw a pack of kids running by. Their naked brown bodies glistened in the warm wetness and their wide feet sent joyful splashes into the rock yards. The monsoons turned the village into a new brand of playground. Pools of standing water stayed for days on the saturated sand. The village rain tanks filled to overflowing, and villagers stood beneath the outpouring to shampoo their hair, right there in front of our house.

A pail of fresh fish stood by our front door, an offering from the day's fishermen. It was my job to clean them. I scooped up the pail, threw a sharp knife in the mix, and made my way out into the wet chaos.

As I stepped out from under the protective awning of our house, the heavy sheets immediately claimed me. In under a minute, I was soaked through. My hair ran in snakes down my cheeks. My skirt and shirt clung to my body. The falling drops embraced me and became me, saturating even my eyelashes. I kicked my toes through the puddles; 'swish, swish, swish', and watched the water skip ahead of me.

At the lagoon, I waded into the warm, calm ocean. The sea received me as a mother, offering shelter and protection. I sank my body to my neck beneath the calm water, letting the pail of fish float beside me. From this vantage point, I could look out over the lagoon and see the tiny drops attacking the expanse like billions of tiny spears. I sank my head below the surface. There was instant quiet. Looking up through the salt water, I saw the drops being absorbed into the placid vastness. My hair floated up and out, my clothing released its wet cling, and I floated there for a moment in the alien world.

Fear

The sun had already set below the ocean's edge one night as my sister and I embarked for a nightly 'bathroom break' before bedtime. It was one of those mystical nights when clouds race in great patches across the sky, pushed on a restless breeze. The gusts came in from the lagoon, wrecking malicious havoc among the coconut fronds and dried leaf roofs. The night air was filled with the rustling and clattering of resurrected things given new life by the wind.

Anna and I linked arms as we quickly wended our way through the houses in the almost complete darkness. Our free hands clutched spare lava-lavas around us, as much to ward off the night's evil spirits, as the wind.

Fear is a funny thing. At times it comes, creeping steadily up on you so gradually that you don't recognize it until your heart is racing and the hairs on the back of your neck are at end. Other times, it lies in wait for you. You can feel it, on the periphery of your conscious mind, sense its gleeful grin as it waits for you to surrender and let it catch you. This was the malevolent game fear played with us that night. We walked faster and faster, quickening our pace as the darkness pressed in closer and closer around us. The wind took our hair and slapped it around our cheeks. It tugged on our clothing, wrapping our skirts around our legs. It took our breaths as they came out, short and quick, and threw our words into the black sky.

"Danica, let's sing," my sister said.

The words came out, quivering but sweet:

"Joy is flowing like a river
Since the Comforter has come.
He abides with us forever
Makes the loving heart His home.

Blessed quietness, holy quietness
What a comfort to my soul
On the stormy sea He speaks peace to me,
How the billows cease to roll."

Somewhere around us, demons began to quake and tremble as the presence of the Holy God flooded the atmosphere. Angels joined hands around us, and, strengthened by our songs, enveloped us in the peace which passes all understanding. Even the winds seemed to blow softer past us then. We made it down to the beach, did our business there on the low tide's sand, and returned back to the sanctuary of our house, our praises trailing in our wakes.

Dusk

Church was every morning and evening. Our house sat right behind it, so if I chose not to go, I usually stayed hidden from the inquisitive brown eyes during the duration of the service. This particular evening, I was laying in the hammock strung across our veranda, reading. The hour of evening service was announced by the ringing of the church bell. Martin, the catechist, would take the old, rusty hammer reserved for this purpose, and strike the empty gas cylinder that hung from the eves of the open building. The clanging would ring throughout the village, signalling to the faithful that it was time to come again to get their souls wiped clean. A quietness settled over the village in that hour. The echoing axes stopped chopping, women laid off yelling at their young, and even the infants sensed that now as a time to be still.

I lay there in the hammock, listening with half an ear to the sounds of the service. The evening zephyrs carried scents of fragrant flowers that bloomed only at dusk, and also the prayers of the faithful. Streams of 'Lord have mercy' and 'Christ have mercy' were caught up on the breeze, wafting past me and up to heaven, hopeful offerings of fragrant incense to a God they really didn't know.

I let my book fall to my side, and rested my head back on the taut web of strings. The fading tropical sun's quick glory radiated through the trees, blessing the village with its golding light. I watched the clouds above the leaf roofs change from dusky rose, to orange, a quick, bright flash of molten amber, and then the sky became a palate of deep purples and blues as the sun sank below the ocean's rim.

From the church, lines from the closing hymn rose in the Islanders' perfect harmony:
'Abide with me, fast falls the evening tide.
When darkness deepens, Lord with me abide.
All other helpers fail and comforts flee.
Help of the helpless, Lord, abide with me.'

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.

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?