Recently we made a road trip from our town, which is located atop a 4,500 foot plateau, to the capital city of Abuja. The view during rainy season is breathtaking. The rolling horizon stretches for miles, the green hills growing darker until they meet the huge African sky. The hills are pocked with grazing cattle, hosting endless fields of towering corn stalks, sugar cane, and the elephant ears formed by the casava tuber. Driving through village after remote village composed of mud huts and thatched rooves, there are no big cities along the 4 hour journey. No tall buildings, no restrooms, no fast food places to grab a burger. No Discount Tire in case of a flat, no WalMart if the kids forget a toothbrush. No gaudy bill boards boasting a national obsession with aquistion. But there ARE a few Road Signs.
The two-lane road winding down the plateau is treacherous to say the least. Mini-bus taxis overstuffed with travellers speed down the sharp inclines. Ancient lorries belch exhaust as they struggle to climb the narrow road. A few modern sedans and SUV's race around these lorries, unwilling to wait in the long line that crawls behind the smokey, sputtering contraptions. Every corner of the road is a blind curve with no shoulder, and the carcasses of victim vehicles are a frank reminder to the wary that patience is a lifesaving virtue. Every kilometer is marked with past wreckage, stripped of anything valuable, but left as a planter for weeds. If the old cars were not enough of an eye-opener, the government has posted many road signs, reminding the travellers to drive carefully. Although there is nothing jocular about the frequent loss of life on the highway, I am very amused by the bluntness with which the people are cautioned. Here are a few:
"Have a friendly day and don't die."
"Many have died on these bends. Only the living can celebrate."
"You have been warned: Slow your driver down before he kills you."
In Texas, the law states that a defensive driving course may be taken once a year to exsponge a moving violation from a driver's record. I used to be ashamed to admit that I took Defensive Driving every year of my life from the time I received my license at 16 until moving to Nigeria in 2004. Now I know that nothing is ever wasted, and that the Omniscient God was preparing me for a life in the land of offensive driving!
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Just A Quickie
Whew....we have been busy little bees this summer! I am happily typing on my resurrected Mac, completely restored after our lightening disaster last month. I wrote nary a word since the laptop was Medivac'ed back to Texas for a little surgery, and the stories are piling up in my brain like so much firewood! So as soon as I find a few minutes to write - OR the children return to school - I will fill this page with tale after happy tale. (One is actually not-so-happy.) So stay tuned.....
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Wee Village Babies
Last week, one of my ladies in the village delivered her baby early, at 33 weeks. For several months I have been concerned about this young girl. When her family discovered that she had become pregnant out of wedlock, they beat her as punishment. Fortunately her unborn baby was unaffected. On Thursday, I went to Ladi’s home to visit her new arrival. As I entered the family compound, I was greeted with ululation and escorted into a tiny room where the new grandmother was cutting goat intestines for dinner. Many well wishers were ushered out of the only bedroom to allow me entrance. Ladi, clad in a Texas A&M sweatshirt, and tiny baby Jummai were snuggled into the lone bed, the room warmed with a charcoal oven. I asked if I might take the infant to the clinic for a weight check and her vaccines, a request to which the family easily complied.
In the light of the clinic, I could see that the 3 day old premie had been decorated in the traditional coal-eyeliner, with her eyebrows penciled in black and a tiny red dot painted between her eyes. She was wearing about 10 layers of clothing to protect her against the frigid 80 degree weather, with gaping trousers that were marked size 9-12 months. Weighing in at 2 kilograms, little Jummai appeared alert and thriving. I administered vaccines, re-dressed her (this took 15 minutes), and bundled her back to her mother. After instructions of care for the fragile infant, I left, praying that the Lord would watch over this precious package.
I am always amazed at the tenacity of these tiny premies. Last month one of my patients delivered her baby at 27 weeks, 3 months ahead of schedule. During that home-visit, I interrupted the Mommy while she was harvesting crops (2 days post partum), and instructed her to feed her baby every 2 hours and keep her warm. No incubators, pulse oximeters, umbilical lines, IV drips, heart monitors, or apnea machines. All of those gadgets are incredible life savers, but I am so thankful that in their absence, we have The Real Lifesaver!
In the light of the clinic, I could see that the 3 day old premie had been decorated in the traditional coal-eyeliner, with her eyebrows penciled in black and a tiny red dot painted between her eyes. She was wearing about 10 layers of clothing to protect her against the frigid 80 degree weather, with gaping trousers that were marked size 9-12 months. Weighing in at 2 kilograms, little Jummai appeared alert and thriving. I administered vaccines, re-dressed her (this took 15 minutes), and bundled her back to her mother. After instructions of care for the fragile infant, I left, praying that the Lord would watch over this precious package.
I am always amazed at the tenacity of these tiny premies. Last month one of my patients delivered her baby at 27 weeks, 3 months ahead of schedule. During that home-visit, I interrupted the Mommy while she was harvesting crops (2 days post partum), and instructed her to feed her baby every 2 hours and keep her warm. No incubators, pulse oximeters, umbilical lines, IV drips, heart monitors, or apnea machines. All of those gadgets are incredible life savers, but I am so thankful that in their absence, we have The Real Lifesaver!
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
All Eyes on Blind Town
There is an enormous rock in the heart of the city where the blind and the lepers have been sequestered. Although their location is central to the main mosque, and teaming with thousands of people, the location of this colony is a mystery to many native Jos-dwellers. In the winding city streets, I could not find BlindTown on my own, and am not positive that I would want to. The colony itself is an enigma to me, both repelling and enticing, very much like a weight room but without all of the shiny Nautilus machines. The effect is the same. The self-sacrificing half of my nature is forced to drag the self-indulgent half onto the bus with a wary anticipation of what I might step in as I am treating patients and being climbed on by dozens of excited children. But as with a physical work-out, I am usually left with the exhaustedly contented glow of self-denial as I climb back onto the bus, retreating back into the sanctuary of my plastered home with two flush-toilets.
I have always heard that to be deficient in one of the five senses causes the other four to stand at attention. Surely this is true. For the inhabitants of BlindTown, I can only hope that the olfactory sense has not been kicked into overdrive, compensating for the lack of visual acuity. That would be a double whammy. Being that the community is built on rock, there is no pit latrine, no outbound plumbing system, no pipes to carry away the stuff that should be evacuated. There is, however, a sewage-pool accumulated in the center of the colony, flowing freely down the corridors as the ground slants downward to the base of the rocky hill on which the place is constructed. One must watch carefully where one steps, but for here, “watching” is a luxury that few possess.
For many years, the National community healthcare providers from City Ministries have trekked into the bowels of Blindtown, befriending and treating the thousands of people who live there. Usually in groups of four, they pack their medical supplies in a large duffel and traverse the narrow pathways between the mazes of homes. First to the chief, whose compound is inhabited by his three wives and many children. All of the adults are blind, while all of the children are sighted. He is gracious, inviting us into his small bedroom to check his blood pressure and inquire of our work and our families. He thanks us for coming and re-issues an invitation for next week’s outreach. One of his sons has stepped on a rusty nail that went clear through the foot. Another of the girls has a high fever. Almost all of the children’s heads are caked with the familiar white crust of fungus. But each is enthusiastic about our visit, bouncing around the newcomer like so many rubber balls. She has a camera, and they eagerly pose “for a snap.” Not a shy one in the bunch, they grab our hands, pull at our extremities, and demand our attention, smiling from ear to ear as they babble on in Hausa. I respond in English to tease them, and they snicker and repeat with a nasal whine, the tell-tale noise of the Bature (white). After treating each of the ailing in the compound, we move to the next block of homes, weaving a trail through the complicated lanes. The children follow, yanking our arms and pulling at my watch. We sing songs in Hausa, careful not to be too overtly churchy in the strictly Muslim district. My head is covered with a scarf, but as I squat to assess blood pressures, the children reach beneath my “head-tie” and pluck a bottle-blonde hair. A souvenir. I prefer the hair pulling than the arm-rubbing. Sometimes they will lick their fingers or spit on my arm, then try to rub the white off of my skin. Why is it so stuck? The people are gracious and appreciative of the house calls. There is one old woman who is confined to her room. Although there is a small window, it opens to a covered walkway, and no sunlight comes in. The only entrance is a 3-foot door, and as I stooped to enter, I wondered if she missed the sunlight. Then I remembered that she was blind from birth and had always missed the sunlight. She never leaves her little rabbit hole, and was grateful that we came to visit, to medicate her soaring blood pressure, and to break up the monotony of her day. The next compound was home to the Secretary, who is a charismatic sixty-something. He was quick to greet us, to acknowledge that it is God who gives us the grace to love his people, and to introduce us to his newest wife – a 12 year old visually impaired child who was busily grinding tomatoes with mortar and pestle. They both appeared happy, but my eyes have been known to deceive me.
As we were leaving the colony, I noticed something uncommon in this corner of the world. Commenting to our “pharmacist” that I had seen many working light bulbs over the doorways, he assured me, “Here in BlindTown, there is light all the time.” How peculiar that those who are incredibly needy have an abundance of something they cannot use, while we who are accustomed to abundance do not appreciate that which we feel entitled to have.
I have always heard that to be deficient in one of the five senses causes the other four to stand at attention. Surely this is true. For the inhabitants of BlindTown, I can only hope that the olfactory sense has not been kicked into overdrive, compensating for the lack of visual acuity. That would be a double whammy. Being that the community is built on rock, there is no pit latrine, no outbound plumbing system, no pipes to carry away the stuff that should be evacuated. There is, however, a sewage-pool accumulated in the center of the colony, flowing freely down the corridors as the ground slants downward to the base of the rocky hill on which the place is constructed. One must watch carefully where one steps, but for here, “watching” is a luxury that few possess.
For many years, the National community healthcare providers from City Ministries have trekked into the bowels of Blindtown, befriending and treating the thousands of people who live there. Usually in groups of four, they pack their medical supplies in a large duffel and traverse the narrow pathways between the mazes of homes. First to the chief, whose compound is inhabited by his three wives and many children. All of the adults are blind, while all of the children are sighted. He is gracious, inviting us into his small bedroom to check his blood pressure and inquire of our work and our families. He thanks us for coming and re-issues an invitation for next week’s outreach. One of his sons has stepped on a rusty nail that went clear through the foot. Another of the girls has a high fever. Almost all of the children’s heads are caked with the familiar white crust of fungus. But each is enthusiastic about our visit, bouncing around the newcomer like so many rubber balls. She has a camera, and they eagerly pose “for a snap.” Not a shy one in the bunch, they grab our hands, pull at our extremities, and demand our attention, smiling from ear to ear as they babble on in Hausa. I respond in English to tease them, and they snicker and repeat with a nasal whine, the tell-tale noise of the Bature (white). After treating each of the ailing in the compound, we move to the next block of homes, weaving a trail through the complicated lanes. The children follow, yanking our arms and pulling at my watch. We sing songs in Hausa, careful not to be too overtly churchy in the strictly Muslim district. My head is covered with a scarf, but as I squat to assess blood pressures, the children reach beneath my “head-tie” and pluck a bottle-blonde hair. A souvenir. I prefer the hair pulling than the arm-rubbing. Sometimes they will lick their fingers or spit on my arm, then try to rub the white off of my skin. Why is it so stuck? The people are gracious and appreciative of the house calls. There is one old woman who is confined to her room. Although there is a small window, it opens to a covered walkway, and no sunlight comes in. The only entrance is a 3-foot door, and as I stooped to enter, I wondered if she missed the sunlight. Then I remembered that she was blind from birth and had always missed the sunlight. She never leaves her little rabbit hole, and was grateful that we came to visit, to medicate her soaring blood pressure, and to break up the monotony of her day. The next compound was home to the Secretary, who is a charismatic sixty-something. He was quick to greet us, to acknowledge that it is God who gives us the grace to love his people, and to introduce us to his newest wife – a 12 year old visually impaired child who was busily grinding tomatoes with mortar and pestle. They both appeared happy, but my eyes have been known to deceive me.
As we were leaving the colony, I noticed something uncommon in this corner of the world. Commenting to our “pharmacist” that I had seen many working light bulbs over the doorways, he assured me, “Here in BlindTown, there is light all the time.” How peculiar that those who are incredibly needy have an abundance of something they cannot use, while we who are accustomed to abundance do not appreciate that which we feel entitled to have.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Re-Wiring
A few summers ago my Aunt Barbara introduced my family to a reality show filmed a la PBS (I.O.W. - CLEAN) about 5 families sent from the real world to 1860's Montana. My Mom, born in the wrong era, salivated over the idea of having to rough it through the hard winter, armed with a few sticks and shovel, or some ridiculous scenario like that. But as I watched the show, I thanked the Lord for light bulbs and microwaves. Now my Mom is living in the land of perfect power and I am rubbing sticks together, trying to remember all of the tricks I learned in Brownies. (I only went for the cute brown outfit and can't actually recall any tricks.)
I abhor complaining: #1 - it is boring to complain. #2 - it is illegal as far as God is concerned, and #3 - I really do have an awesome life. BUT, we need a little re-wiring done in our lives, and writing is a good way for me to process, so here goes. (If you can't tolerate a little venting, stop reading now and I promise that I will be more upbeat on my next entry.)
Our power company is called NEPA, which the locals have affectionately dubbed "Never Expect Power Again." They give us an unending supply of prayer material, as we enjoy their services less than 2 hours per day. Having light here requires a gamut of electronics that I had never heard of prior to our leap over the ocean 4 years ago, things like - step down transformers and 5,000 watt stabilizers and change over boxes and inverters. I still don't know what any of those things are, but I am beginning to learn that they are a necessary part of having light in my home. So each week, one of these crucial things catches fire or we hear a large boom coming from the office where they are kept, smoke following the sound as thunder follows lightening. There has never ever ever been a time when all of our appliances were running, the lights were all on, and the hum of electronic tranquility filled our happy home. But we have learned to live with the bumps in the world governed by NEPA.
However, this weekend, we lost our seventh stabilizer, our 110 transformer (which powers all of our American electronics), and our change over box was popping and hissing as if to blow. Nothing worked. So we emptied the fridge and threw food to the dogs again, and took the portable DVD player to the neighbors to charge for an evening respite of Andy Griffith. (All of our neighbor's electricity worked beautifully.) But just as we settled into our dark room to enjoy a little humor, I flipped the switch to turn on the DVD player and guess what happened? In Hausa we say, "Ba aike." No work.
So the electrician who has become my closest friend, has assured us that with only $2000 we can have our house re-wired with Nigeria's best cable, and hope for the best. But as I feel my blood boiling, knowing that the re-wiring may or may not be a successful solution, I know in my heart that it is ME that requires an overhaul. "My grace is sufficient for you, for My POWER is made perfect in your weakness." I know that these LIGHT and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all, but it is the pits right now. I feel like I am the one in need of re-wiring, a boost of grace to get me through the warm fridge and dark nights. So we pray for grace, and light, and good wiring within and without.
I abhor complaining: #1 - it is boring to complain. #2 - it is illegal as far as God is concerned, and #3 - I really do have an awesome life. BUT, we need a little re-wiring done in our lives, and writing is a good way for me to process, so here goes. (If you can't tolerate a little venting, stop reading now and I promise that I will be more upbeat on my next entry.)
Our power company is called NEPA, which the locals have affectionately dubbed "Never Expect Power Again." They give us an unending supply of prayer material, as we enjoy their services less than 2 hours per day. Having light here requires a gamut of electronics that I had never heard of prior to our leap over the ocean 4 years ago, things like - step down transformers and 5,000 watt stabilizers and change over boxes and inverters. I still don't know what any of those things are, but I am beginning to learn that they are a necessary part of having light in my home. So each week, one of these crucial things catches fire or we hear a large boom coming from the office where they are kept, smoke following the sound as thunder follows lightening. There has never ever ever been a time when all of our appliances were running, the lights were all on, and the hum of electronic tranquility filled our happy home. But we have learned to live with the bumps in the world governed by NEPA.
However, this weekend, we lost our seventh stabilizer, our 110 transformer (which powers all of our American electronics), and our change over box was popping and hissing as if to blow. Nothing worked. So we emptied the fridge and threw food to the dogs again, and took the portable DVD player to the neighbors to charge for an evening respite of Andy Griffith. (All of our neighbor's electricity worked beautifully.) But just as we settled into our dark room to enjoy a little humor, I flipped the switch to turn on the DVD player and guess what happened? In Hausa we say, "Ba aike." No work.
So the electrician who has become my closest friend, has assured us that with only $2000 we can have our house re-wired with Nigeria's best cable, and hope for the best. But as I feel my blood boiling, knowing that the re-wiring may or may not be a successful solution, I know in my heart that it is ME that requires an overhaul. "My grace is sufficient for you, for My POWER is made perfect in your weakness." I know that these LIGHT and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all, but it is the pits right now. I feel like I am the one in need of re-wiring, a boost of grace to get me through the warm fridge and dark nights. So we pray for grace, and light, and good wiring within and without.
Friday, May 30, 2008
My Only Begotten Son
There is nothing more alarming than to wake up to the frantic urgings of a little Korean yelling my name through the windows in the wee hours of the morning. Well, it is mid-day to her, but 6 a.m. is still wee to me. “Kelly!! Kelly!! Tim!!! Kelly!! Wake up!” In my semi-conscious stupor, I wondered why she could be hollering in my windows, surely on a hunt for someone to cut her hair or put a band-aid on her finger. But that only lasted for a second until the fog was cleared a little and I sensed danger in her voice. “What’s wrong?” I hollered through our slatted windows. “There is fire coming from your house!” I didn’t wait to hear which room, but leapt out of bed and darted off to find the culprit. I burst into the girls’ room, all was well. Sprinting across the living room, I threw my weight against Colin’s closed door and found my son lying in bed, three feet from his burning desk. The air was thick with black smoke, which had risen through the night as his candle burned down to the desk, sometime igniting the plastic casing that he had concocted, and moving over to slowly incinerate the Rubik’s cube which was still aflame. As soon as I yelled his name, he awoke and cried out in fear, instantly aware of the fire. Seeing that the fire was not spreading, I opened Col’s curtains and windows to allow the smoke to escape. Tim was quick on my heels, armed with a towel to extinguish the flames. Waiting outside of the window, our Korean fire alarm asked what had happened. Later I will make her some banana bread to show my gratitude for her saving my son’s life.
The commotion awoke Schyler, who is a natural morning person, and was chipper and inquisitive. “What happened? Did Col’s room catch on fire?” Not a hint of fear in her voice as Tim and I collapsed in a heap in the living room. After 3 minutes in the smoke-filled room, Tim’ lungs were staging a revolt, and my knees were Jello. I could feel my heart pumping wildly, trying to restore order in the midst of “fight or flight.” But Colin sat quietly, hugging his knees to his chest. No coughing, no crying, just sitting. How many hours had he been inhaling black plastic fumes? After turning off the generator, we went to bed around eleven, seven hours before my friend’s wake-up call. Had he been inhaling fumes for many hours? I kicked into nurse mode, assessing my son for signs of respiratory distress, or any other distress for that matter: cardiac, urinary, psychological, financial, spiritual, or endocrine. Zip. Zilch, Nada. Perfect. He admitted that he had been afraid when he woke up, engulfed in smoke, and his mother and father ranting. But he was not coughing and gasping for air in his closed room. His quietness was an uncommon mixture of fear and peace. Recovering on couches in the living room, I knew that the Lord had protected His boy, and I was compelled to break into a prayer of thanksgiving. Sometimes it is easy to spot a miracle, especially when my own Shadrach, or Meshack, or Abednego is sitting next to me, without even a wiff of smoke on his clothes. Thank you, Lord!
The commotion awoke Schyler, who is a natural morning person, and was chipper and inquisitive. “What happened? Did Col’s room catch on fire?” Not a hint of fear in her voice as Tim and I collapsed in a heap in the living room. After 3 minutes in the smoke-filled room, Tim’ lungs were staging a revolt, and my knees were Jello. I could feel my heart pumping wildly, trying to restore order in the midst of “fight or flight.” But Colin sat quietly, hugging his knees to his chest. No coughing, no crying, just sitting. How many hours had he been inhaling black plastic fumes? After turning off the generator, we went to bed around eleven, seven hours before my friend’s wake-up call. Had he been inhaling fumes for many hours? I kicked into nurse mode, assessing my son for signs of respiratory distress, or any other distress for that matter: cardiac, urinary, psychological, financial, spiritual, or endocrine. Zip. Zilch, Nada. Perfect. He admitted that he had been afraid when he woke up, engulfed in smoke, and his mother and father ranting. But he was not coughing and gasping for air in his closed room. His quietness was an uncommon mixture of fear and peace. Recovering on couches in the living room, I knew that the Lord had protected His boy, and I was compelled to break into a prayer of thanksgiving. Sometimes it is easy to spot a miracle, especially when my own Shadrach, or Meshack, or Abednego is sitting next to me, without even a wiff of smoke on his clothes. Thank you, Lord!
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Seasonal Affective Disorder
One of the best television shows ever created was Northern Exposure, an under-appreciated contribution of the 90’s, about a sleepy little town in Alaska with a New York doctor who left his heart on Park Avenue. One of the phenomena that this city doctor found peculiar to the Alaskan tundra was caused by long winters with few hours of sunlight. Seasonal Affective Disorder is a real problem is some places of the world, where the brain experiences a shortage of natural light and seratonin levels suffer anemia. Jos is not one of these places. Even in the dead of wet season, with pregnant rain clouds always looming overhead, we have a plethora of light. But we do have another distinct cycle in our little missionary community. This being my fourth May, I am just now taking note of my own rhythm. As a Mom of three, my life revolves around the Hillcrest calendar rather than the January-December to which the rest of the world times their watches. The whirlwind of August, with the resumption of the school year brings a busyness to our beehive that always reminds me of new school supplies. I love it. Then we have birthdays and a nine-day school break in October, also fun. Rains stop and we can schedule outdoor activities without a contingency plan once again. The Christmas season is a mixed bag. The constant ache for family is exacerbated, but with the Miango frenzy, I have managed to hold sadness at bay for 4 years running. Then the long haul of Spring, when the school year feels eternal and the Easter Break seems to never arrive. First Rain is an annual highlight, when kids of all ages splash wildly in puddles. Then finally…the niggling ache in my heart begins to make itself known and I am aware that May is just around the corner, feeling it before I actually see its presence on the calendar.
My parents were solidly rooted at 10735 Valley Hills Drive for the bulk of my life. Selling their house when I was in my thirties, the mother of three, and living in Africa, one would imagine that I could have handled the sale with gracious maturity. One would be wrong. I inwardly protested and outwardly cried for many months, knowing that my childhood home would be inhabited by strangers who surely could not appreciate my memories. Being a spontaneous, free-spirit, it would seem that I might be an adventurous thrill seeker, always in search of new horizons to explore. The converse is true. In my heart of hearts, I love consistency: in geography, in emotion, and especially in friendship. I crave long-term bossom friends, the Anne and Diana type. The Jonathan and David type (preferably without any King Saul.) Those usually only happen over time, with two people who stay in the same place for awhile. So the first in my list of Questions-to-Ask-God, “Lord, I trust You, but why did you put me in a place with a constantly revolving door? The only consistent fact in this missionary life is that come May or high water, my friends will leave. Some for three months, some for six, some forever. I try to deny that May is coming the other eleven months of the year, but no matter my attempts to hold back the tide, May rolls up on shore every year, washing away my friendships like yesterdays sand castles.
So May is a month of turbulent emotions, a break-neck pace at Hillcrest with a litany of end-of-school activities. Perhaps some gregarious pioneer missionary plotted a scheme to make us all sick of each other throughout the month of May so that when the plane departed, we were ready to say Good Riddance! It doesn’t work. After years together in the life boat of missionary service in Nigeria, how does one continue on without fellow rowers, or without a crew chief or the familiar encouragement of my favorite Kiwi’s? (A Kiwi is someone from New Zealand!) But it is hard to break the rhythm to lick my wounds, feeling loss right along with everyone else, but feeling it as deeply personal. This is my Nigerian Seasonal Affective Disorder. If only it could be treated with a light-visor!!
My parents were solidly rooted at 10735 Valley Hills Drive for the bulk of my life. Selling their house when I was in my thirties, the mother of three, and living in Africa, one would imagine that I could have handled the sale with gracious maturity. One would be wrong. I inwardly protested and outwardly cried for many months, knowing that my childhood home would be inhabited by strangers who surely could not appreciate my memories. Being a spontaneous, free-spirit, it would seem that I might be an adventurous thrill seeker, always in search of new horizons to explore. The converse is true. In my heart of hearts, I love consistency: in geography, in emotion, and especially in friendship. I crave long-term bossom friends, the Anne and Diana type. The Jonathan and David type (preferably without any King Saul.) Those usually only happen over time, with two people who stay in the same place for awhile. So the first in my list of Questions-to-Ask-God, “Lord, I trust You, but why did you put me in a place with a constantly revolving door? The only consistent fact in this missionary life is that come May or high water, my friends will leave. Some for three months, some for six, some forever. I try to deny that May is coming the other eleven months of the year, but no matter my attempts to hold back the tide, May rolls up on shore every year, washing away my friendships like yesterdays sand castles.
So May is a month of turbulent emotions, a break-neck pace at Hillcrest with a litany of end-of-school activities. Perhaps some gregarious pioneer missionary plotted a scheme to make us all sick of each other throughout the month of May so that when the plane departed, we were ready to say Good Riddance! It doesn’t work. After years together in the life boat of missionary service in Nigeria, how does one continue on without fellow rowers, or without a crew chief or the familiar encouragement of my favorite Kiwi’s? (A Kiwi is someone from New Zealand!) But it is hard to break the rhythm to lick my wounds, feeling loss right along with everyone else, but feeling it as deeply personal. This is my Nigerian Seasonal Affective Disorder. If only it could be treated with a light-visor!!
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