Christmas according to Small Ones

Sometimes one wonders why one doesn't feel more than one does.  One wonders how exactly one recovers so quickly from a life changing experience.  And then one realizes that it must because one's life is never left empty. 

Perhaps this doesn't make sense to anyone else; it barely makes sense to me.  Rambling on about whatever is running through ones head and then posting it unedited on one's blog is not intelligent procedure.  But at any rate, that is what I am doing.  But back to the above...

I think the problem with life is just that; it is never empty.  We never have time to digest, absorb, and grow.  Instead, we turn leaf after leaf, leaving what was learned on the pages behind us.  Sometimes, one wonders if there is another way. 

As I ponder the way my heart and mind have gone since leaving Arise, I ask ya'all to do one thing: look at tomorrow, realize that little of what you've planned matters, and slice out a big slice of it to spend in contemplation.  Bring a Bible, a notebook, and a pen.  Leave your phone, watch, and computer.  And just meditate on leaves of your life that you've closed.  Flip 'em back over, even if it hurts. 

There's something there you should have learned.

I'm praying for you guys.  Please pray for me.

And let us together finish the work.

Jonathan Has Nothing to Say

Thus he will post this so that you know he has not died.

13.1

I had it all ready, handpicked and timed to perfection.  Each song flowed nicely into the next, and each was peppy and fun.  I plugged my Ipod into my computer, and left it over night.  I was ready.

Then I walked out of my room for a quick stroll just before bed, the night before my 10K run.  I immediately ran into Randy Ban, the Director of Arise, the Bible College I’m currently attending.  He informed me that Casey Barrett, our resident Aussie, was sick and could not run the half marathon he had signed up for.  And suddenly, I found myself offering to take the half marathon if he could find someone to take my 10K.

He did.

The next morning I got up (well, to be perfectly accurate, my roommate woke me up…twice) and got dressed.  I unplugged my Ipod and went out to eat breakfast. 

At the race line, I plugged the Ipod in and found that I had forgotten to sync the new playlists to my Ipod.  But no time to problem solve-the bell sounded and we were off.

And Fernando Ortega lulled me along.

I was trying to keep up with Randy-he was planning to run 8:20 miles, which would put him over the finish line at under 1:50:00.  The first two miles were pretty fun.  It was a chill day, full of clouds, but no rain.  I loped along beside him, feeling quite young and long-legged and invincible. 

Just so you know, I’m not.

I started to flag around the fourth mile.  But I kept pushing, forcing my legs to churn, churn, churn up the concrete.  At the halfway point we were at 54:40.  But life was not good.

I almost hung on until the nine-mile mark.  Randy looked back at me with a long, pitying glance, then turned and continued.  He didn’t look back again.

I kept up a decent pace until I was just three miles out.  Then I could hardly keep myself from walking.  My miles were sludging away to the tune of about 10 minutes each.  Then, somewhere between the twelfth and thirteenth markers, my mind won.  My watch told me there was no way I would break 2:00:00, and my legs hurt. 

I started walking.  As old ladies began to pass me, I hung my head in shame.  Then, just ahead I saw the thirteenth mile marker.  It took every ounce of willpower I had, but I managed to start trotting forward again.  Then I was jogging.  Then I was running.

The finish line appeared as I rounded a corner, and I began to sprint.  It felt strange-I had nothing to give in my legs, but I was floating over the ground, almost as gracefully as a butterfly. 

At least, that’s how it felt.  I’m glad there’s no video, because without one I can keep on believing that I really did look like one of those Kenyan macho men in the Olympics as I charged across the finish line.  It felt glorious.

Then David Asscherrick, one of our instructors, informed me of my time: 1:58:45.  A very good day, despite my current inability to walk, and the fact that I’m going to be going door to door for several hours starting in…52 minutes.  Ugh.

WE HAVE JUST ONE WEEK UNTIL WE'RE ON A PLANE FOR HOME!

(see above)

Hi.

I'm writing not because I have anything in particular that I want to say, but rather because I have said nothing in a very long time.  Solomon says that he who holds his tongue is counted wise, but somehow I don't think that this is the impression that you all have formed of me. 

At any rate, you should know that I am alive and well.  You should also know that I am super excited to be coming home in under a month.  And you should know that the fact scares me out of my wits. 

There are times in every life during which the owner of that life has absolutely no idea what's going on.  This is one of those times.  I've been here for nine months, and now I'm about ready to leave.  But my stay hasn't followed stereotype, or anti-stereotype, or anything any of my friends who have spent time overseas have told me. 

This has bee decidedly atypical.

WWU sent me a book on common issues one has re-entering their native culture after a missions experience.   But every experience and problem that they outline as typical simply does not fit.  They speak of receiving one reaction, Jen and I got only the opposite.  Was the book helpful?  Yes, in that it got me to think about the issue.  Were most of the issues dealt with helpful?  Not in the least.

So all of this got me thinking: what will I say when people ask me questions about my experience?  The resounding answer received was this: I do not know.

Okay.  This is failing.  I'm trying to lift the mood of blackness by being silly, and am utterly failing (see above).  Okay.  I'll give that up.

The point in all this melancholy is that I'm confused right now.  I need two weeks in the wilderness alone immediately upon my arrival back home to sort it all out.  But I'll be fine. 

I have absolutely no insights to share or humorous anecdotes to tell, but don't worry about me.  I must just be in the throes of a semi-nearly-post-student-missionary depression experience.  The worst I'll do to myself is eat chocolate. 

G'nite, and God bless every last one of you.  On Him, we may depend.

A Funeral I'm Gonna Love

     The president of Malawi died a week or two ago. This guy was the one that sparked the near-riots (hey now—a near-riot's a big accomplish for peaceful Malawi) last August; chased out foreign dignitaries, thereby effectually ending foreign aid; purchased seven Hummers and a private jet (despite ruling the poorest country in Africa); tried to destroy the constitution and set up a monarchy; and upon his death was found to have five billion kwatcha stashed away in his home (which, when changed at the black market rate [which pays less per kwatcha than the official rate], comes out to nearly seventeen million U.S. dollars). The phrase being tossed around on the streets was “Second term, second wife,” meaning that, well, he was doing a lousy job. His death was good news for Malawi—very good news.

      I happened to be out in town shopping when his hearse came through. When I went into the mini-mart, the streets looked like they usually do. When I came out again, they were packed. People stood shoulder-to-shoulder, clogging most of the street, and extending back to the shopfronts. There was a low hum that permeated the whole street. It wasn't loud; but one felt the effect stronger than had they all been screaming and smashing windows.

     A gentleman (I found out he worked at a bank just behind us) invited me to stand up on a ledge with him so that I would be able to see. He wasn't angry or upset. Neither was he jubilant and exultant. He didn't obsess over the obvious topic at hand, either. He spent most of the time asking me about myself—where I came from, what I was doing here, why I walk barefoot; the usual stuff. When I asked him if I thought the Vice President, Joyce Banda would make a better president than President Bingu had, he paused. When he spoke, he thoughtfully affirmed the new President Banda's abilities and potential without drawing any comparison to the late President Bingu. Then he moved on to a new subject.

      Once, while we were all waiting for the procession, laughter began to ripple down towards us from further up the street. A bus came flying along the street, and one woman had her head stuck out of a window, and was singing songs of jubilation. We all laughed. Then my friend leaned over and said something to the effect of, “She is very happy.” And things went back to normal. No one had joined in. No one had cheered. People had just laughed at the outrageous picture, and then moved on.

      When the new President Banda drove by in her limo, the crowd cheered and waved. Then the buzz resumed. We waited for probably half an hour, all told, and then the moment came. A hush swept down at us from up the street, and a whole cavalcade of cars pulled slowly down the road. As the hearse passed by, the street became silent. Every member of the crowd mourned, I think, the death of a man. They all put aside the fact of who he was, what he had done, and truly mourned the death of a human life.

      So often our society views death as inevitable, at least, and more often as necessary and even beneficial. We read news of ten marines getting killed in Iraq, or of a guy committing suicide in Connecticut, and think, “Hmm...too bad. What's this world coming to.” We watch men get slaughtered in films and think, “Yeah! Go James Bond, Go!” Death is. And we're okay with that.

      But Bingu's funeral procession made me rethink all that. Death is not normal. It is not okay. And I'm looking forward to the day I get to attend death's funeral. Jesus is going to come and finish this cursed monster sin.

      And that will be the day that death isn't.

Kidnapped

We sat in the black back seat of a black Mercedes driving down a black Malawian road, several hours after the time of day at which it becomes black. Jen was in the middle, and I was to her left. To her right sat a big Egyptian, another sat in the passenger's seat, and a third was driving. The driver pulled the car to the side of the road, and turned off the headlights. He turned around in his seat and looked directly into our eyes. “We're just waiting for someone,” he said. The big guy to Jen's right looked down at her, grinning.

Our students had invited us to their house for supper. Innocent, you know? But when we slid into their car in the darkness outside the hospital gates, we found that just the father and son had come. And with them were these two big strangers. Fear suddenly gripped me in the pit of my small intestine ('cause saying 'my stomach' is just too cliché) as I suddenly remembered that Mr. B owned, to quote his daughter, “a security company.” Right.

Now, you should know that Mr. B is perhaps 5'8, but probably weighs twice what I do, and its not because he's fat. The two men were of the same build, but bigger. One was 5' 10” and the other well over 6'. We were in a black car with tinted windows in company with three enormous guys from a “security company.”

So back to the beginning. We sat in the darkness for several minutes, in utter silence. Then, another car crawled slowly along the deserted road. As our car came into its headlights, the new car blinked its headlights. Mr. B blinked back, then turned the car and followed it around the side of an empty filling station. He turned around in his seat and gave us a toothy grin. “Just buying some petrol.” Then he and the others got out of the car and walked a short way off. Jen and I looked at each other. “Did you bring any money?” she whispered.

“Yeah,” I replied, “I thought we should have some in case we had to bus back.”

“Do you know how to get home?”

“No, but I don't think it matters as long as we find people.” She nodded, tight-lipped.

We looked out the windshield at the cluster of dark figures. A car flew past, and they turned away from the road and seemed to shrink into the shadow of the filling station. “Quick!” Jen hissed, “Let's switch before they finish.” We slid out of the car, and then I got in first.

Shortly after, “our” guys turned and got back in. The big six footer looked at me kind of funny as he slid back in, now next to me rather than my sister, but said nothing. Mr. B started the car and pulled back onto the road. As the miles of road flashed past, Mr. B asked me loaded questions pertaining to what I thought of President Barak Obama, and as I tried to answer diplomatically I kept my eyes locked on the road, trying to mark each turn we would have make to get back to a town. I distinctly remember marking out a row of bushes that I thought we could hide in if need be. I was later to discover that Jen had marked the same bushes for the same purpose.

Soon after this, the car turned off of the road and entered a heavily fortified compound. My eyes desperately roved the walls for weak points where we could potentially get back over. The car drove through the automated gate, and down into the center of the compound, where it turned against a building and stopped.

Mr. B pulled the key out of the ignition and we sat in darkness. Soon several more big men dressed in dark clothes surrounded the car. The big guy next to me pushed us out and into the arms of two of them. They handcuffed our hands behind our backs, blindfolded us, and forced us to our knees. We heard a voice cry, “Death to Americans who dispute the illustriousness of Barak Obama, the vastness of his intelligence and and the magnificence his comprehensive foreign policy which shall surely—” What? Oh, well, I guess their cry wasn't quite that complex. It was a little more blunt and to the point, but I don't really want to repeat it. So to move on...

They yelled their less than verbose, prolix, and pleonastic taunt and then we heard the sound of cartridges clicking into their chambers. I leaped to my feet, swinging my handcuffed hands beneath my legs as I did so, and, still blindfolded, took out sixteen highly trained commandos singlehan— What? You don't believe me? Well, perhaps that's not quite how it happened...

What actually happened was that as we were standing there, the FBI suddenly parachuted in and— What now?!? What? Fine. Be that way. The truth is that this story has a really lousy ending.

Well, no, actually; it's a really, really awesome ending, now that I think about it. The B's conducted us inside their home, where a wonderful meal was prepared. We dined for the next hour, getting fed until we were absolutely stuffed. They showed us true middle eastern hospitality, constantly loading our plates with pile after pile of beautiful food. I got the opportunity to eat chicken off of the bones, which was quite an experience. (I waited to start until I watched Mr. B take a few bites, so I would know what was inedible. Yes, I cannot identify bone when I see it.) It was actually quite good!

Then we spent time sitting and talking. We learned that the two thugs were actually tech guys for a local phone company. After this, we were conducted upstairs where we were given a plate of delicious fruit each, and then we sat and watched the Disney channel with C and F, our students. After watching that single episode of “Good Luck Charlie,” I am officially a convert. Jen and I laughed until we cried. (In case you've seen it, it was the one where the older brother dresses up as a British guy...) Anyway, that's all beside the point, which is that because of the stories I've heard about the B's, especially Mr. B, from previous SM's, and because of their foreign culture and religion (they're Muslims), I distrusted them enough to be literally freaked out the entire ride out there. I didn't let them show me who they really were until they pretty much smacked me upside the head with their kindness.

This happened before Christmas, but I'm just drafting it now. It's really timely, because the B's are getting really upset with us for a variety of reasons. We've had a good relationship with them, but now... I'm afraid for the rest of the year, frankly. Before writing this, I was set to be all firm and, I think, perhaps getting subconsciously ready for a fight, and to be a little antagonistic. But I've just gotta remember that night, and show them as much love as they did me that one night, and trust them as they deserve to be trusted. I've got to assume the best of them; that in our meeting tomorrow, they will act reasonably, and with us for the common good of their children, as they have for the majority of the year.

Ha! You know what? The meeting went perfectly. Mr. B was the model parent, and we were able to work through his concerns to our mutual satisfaction. The Lord is good, is He not?

Miss Thompson

I found this sweet, inspirational story in a small book entitled Moments For Teachers by Robert Strand.  I pray that I may be able to give my students the love and understanding they need as Miss Thompson did.


     Teddy Stallard certainly qualified as "one of the least". . .disinterested in school, musty, wrinkled clothes, hair never combed, one of those kids with a deadpan face, unfocused stare.  Unattractive, unmotivated, and distant, he was just plain hard to like.
     Even though his teacher said she loved all in her class the same, she wasn't completely truthful.  She should have known better, she had Teddy's records and she knew more about him than she wanted to.  The records showed that while Teddy was a good boy, he had little help from home.  His mother was dead and his father was disinterested.
     Christmas came and the boys and girls in Miss Thompson's class brought Christmas presents.  Among the presents was one from Teddy Stallard, wrapped in brown paper and Scotch tape.  When the teacher opened it, out fell a gaudy rhinestone bracelet with half the stones missing and a bottle of cheap perfume.
     The other children began to giggle. . .but Miss Thompson put on the bracelet and some of the perfume on her wrist.  Holding up her wrist for the children to smell, she said, "Doesn't it smell lovely?"  The children ooohed and aaahed, taking the cue from their teacher.
     When school was over that day, Teddy lingered behind.  He slowly came over to her desk and said softly, "Miss Thompson. . . Miss Thompson, you smell just like my mother. . .and her bracelet looks real pretty on you, too."
     The next day the children had a new teacher; Miss Thompson had become a different person, no longer just a teacher, but now and agent of God.  She truly loved them all. . .but especially the slow ones and particularly Teddy.  Soon Teddy showed dramatic improvement!
     She didn't hear from Teddy for a long time.  Then this note: Dear Miss Thompson; They just told me I will be graduating first in my class.  I wanted you to be the first to know.  Love, Teddy Stallard.
     And four years later:  Dear Miss Thompson; As of today, I am Theodore Stallard, M.D.  How about that?  I wanted you to be the first to know that I am getting married next month on the 27th.  I want you to come and sit where my mother would sit if she were still alive.  You are the only family that I have now; Dad died last year.  Love, Teddy Stallard.
     Miss Thompson went to that wedding and she sat where Teddy's mother would have sat!

Photos! (Finally.)

 Okay, well, the uploader and the internet were going crazy, and so everything is out of order.  I just don't have the patience and fortitude that would be required to re-organize them using this program, so my apologies.  I'll narrate what each photo is.  The only game park we went to was South Luongua in Zambia, so assume that.  Otherwise stuff is in Malawi, I think.  So behold a collection of photos that I chose, nearly at random.

 

 Here is a Cape Buffalo and an elephant.  (In case you're blind.)

Photo Credit: Dad

 

 This market scene was on one of our many bus rides.

Photo Credit: Dad

 This Jo is my sister.  You may applaud.

Photo Credit: Dad

 My favorite lion shot (we only saw one lion).

Photo Credit: Dad

 This is my second favorite shot of one of the many little dudes we saw.  If you wonder why my first favorite (also by Jo) isn't up, see top of the blog.

Photo Credit: Jo

 This is us after the safari, eating at a yummy Italian restaurant.

Photo Credit: Dad

 Sissy (and me crowding in)

Photo Credit: Jo

Other sissy (and me crowding in)

Photo Credit: Dad

 A secret consultation for what to do next at a place which I do not remember.

Photo Credit: Dad

 Please congratulate me on the extraordinary circumstance of having not one, but two gloriously beautiful sisters.

Photo Credit: Jo

 This was the cafe at the hotel we stayed at in Lilongwe.

Photo Credit: Jo

 The view from our campsite across the river and into the park.

Photo Credit: Jo

 A hippo.  Not our best shot, but definitely my fav.

Photo Credit: Jo (You may be noticing a trend: I'm not posting my photos.) 

[There's a reason for that.]

Silly sissy on safari stares at self sitting staring at silly self on safari staring at sissy staring...

Photo Credit: Jo

 An elephant.

Photo Credit: Jo

 A bird.

Photo Credit: Jo

Not our best shot of zebras, but my fav.  Again.

Photo Credit: Jo

 THE best hyena shot (edited to be better by me!)

Photo Credit: Jo

 I like zebra shots.  They're very hard to delete.

Photo Credit: Jo

 The Greater Kudu: probably my all-time favorite animal.  They are so cool.

Photo Credit: Jo

 We hadn't seen any warthogs the first day of game driving, and Jo really wanted to see a warthog.  So as we started the second (and last) day, she said, "I wish to see a warthog."  We promptly saw a family of them, and by the end of the day had probably spotted close to 50.  Yay.

Photo Credit: Jo

 Giraffes are also cool.  (Aren't these intelligent and meaningful comments of mine?)

Photo Credit: Jo

 My favorite giraffe photo by far.

Photo Credit: Jo

Here is back at camp.  We were trying to take a family photo with the timer on Jo's camera.  Unfortunately, she thought that the longest timer was for two seconds, and to all appearances that was correct.  The upside is that we ended up with all of these awesome photos of us kids trying to run the ten yards in under two seconds.  I am proud to say I got the farthest.  And no, my long legs have nothing at all to do with it.

Photo Credit: Me

 We saw this brightly billed bird beaking a brilliantly beastly beast (a snake).  It tried repeatedly to eat it, but kept choking.  It finally spit it out and gave up.

Photo Credit: Jo

A stork.  This shot was Mom's idea, but then everyone else latched onto it and started shooting.  Unfortunately, I don't have Mom's photos on my computer, so I had to settle for this beautiful one.

Photo Credit: Jo

 Jenny waiting for the fam at the bus stop.

Photo Credit: Me

 The bus!  (I also have a great video of us as they got off, but I have no patience to upload it.)

Photo Credit: Me

 Us driving out on the safari.

Photo Credit: Me

 Antelope.  These were the only animal which I had enough chances to photograph to produce a semi-decent shot.  Congratulate me.

Photo Credit: Me

 A bird.

Photo Credit: Me

 Jojo photographing.

Photo Credit: Me

 The entire safari group minus the guide.

Photo Credit: Me

 Cool sky which I like.

Photo Credit: Me

 We often resorted to tearing our hair out to alleviate the stress of not seeing things.

Photo Credit: Me

 Here's our excellent guide, Moses, making sure nothing mauls my mother, who insisted on getting out of the vehicle while viewing lions, tigers, and bears (oh my) fighting just out of the frame.

Photo Credit: Me

 The only person outside of our family to join our safari.  His name is Gal, and he is a non-religious Israeli herpetologist/ecologist who was really nice.  We had tons of great, meaningful conversations with him.  He runs a game park in southern Israel.

Photo Credit: Me

 We got some great videos of our LEOPARD that we saw, but unfortunately, this is as good as it got for stills.  Still, we saw a leopard!

Photo Credit: Me

A picture of the intrepid photographer, Jomar, who showed up at random intervals to supplement our supply of photos.  (3000+ wouldn't have been enough.)

Photo Credit: Me

Us eating at a local hotel.  Despite the fact that the majority of these pictures were of animals, the absolute best part of our family's visit was times like these.  It was amazing to just be able to sit and talk to each other again.  One of God's greatest gifts on earth truly is family!

Photo Credit: Dad

Almost Here

Hi.  This is a picture of Jenny outside, waiting for Mom & Dad & Jojo to come.  They could be here within the hour!  Or, they could be here in six hours.  Or tomorrow.  Or not at all.  But we're hoping for 'within the hour.'  Doesn't she look sad?  Between you and me, she's going a little crazy with the waiting.  But me? Oh, no.  I wouldn't mind at all if they hadn't come.  Uh uh.  Of course not!  (That's why I put up this random picture.  And am rambling on and on.)

For Bub

The Barefoot Boy

by

 John Greenleaf Whittier

Blessings on thee, little man,

Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!

With thy turned-up pantaloons,

And thy merry whistled tunes;

With thy red lip, redder still

Kissed by strawberries on the hill;

With the sunshine on thy face,

Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;

From my heart I give thee joy, -

I was once a barefoot boy!

This poem made me think of you when I found it, so I decided I would try to be creative with it. :)

Little Bits of Summer

This bird is at the top of a whole two strands of birds I got while in Tanzania.  They hang from my kitchen window and make me very happy whenever I look at them.

This makes me happy.  Pretty much our only supply of juice here is crystle light and we can get kind of tired of it.  This time, though, I made the regular lemonade on top of a tiny bit of peach iced tea that was left in the bottom of the pitcher and it tasted really good!

 This is one of the two new dogs the Guarinos got a couple weeks ago.  This one's name is Nira, and she came along with her son Cakes (ahaha!).  They are both very sweet dogs.

Today we went to Vege Delight, a delicious Indian restaurant.  Neither of us had eaten much for breakfast which resulted in us eating way too much for lunch.  On the way home, we stopped for ice cream, and this was how we felt when we got home.  I'm still getting over the effects as I'm putting this blog post together, laying on my bed and listening to the Sleepless in Seattle soundtrack.

Hopefully next week's post will be a little more exciting. :)