Hola, Dolly!

I am a new mommy! Before anyone gets too excited, let me say that my infant has four legs, a tail, blonde fur, floppy ears, brown eyes, ferocious breath, and teeth as sharp as razors. This baby cries all night (well, she did the first 3-4 nights), whines when she can't see anyone, chews on whatever is in her path at the moment, and eats/sleeps/goes potty on a fairly regular schedule (not including her in-house accidents). Her name is Dolly and she is my six week old yellow Labrador puppy.

No, nothing happened to Tammy, my 7 year old German Shepherd. She thinks something has happened to her, like she's committed some terrible sin whose resulting punishment is the presence of the new, hyperactive, barking bundle of energy, but she is fine, save a mile-long jealous streak.

We (meaning myself and Todd Garrett - head of Medical Missions of Iquitos) made the decision to get another dog for several reasons. First, Tammy has been the watch dog of the El Jardin property for a long time now and can teach the new puppy what to do. We didn't want to wait until Tammy passed on to doggy heaven, taking all her good guardian secrets with her. Second, the property here is fairly large - two dogs can canvass it better than one. Finally, after a string of break-ins on my block from October to December, what better time could there be to install a new four-legged alarm system? I began my dog search prior to going to the U.S. for the holidays. Thanks to Villa, I was able to get in touch with the man who gave us Tammy, and, as luck would have it, he had recently bred two yellow labs and said the puppies were due to be born around Christmas.

Upon my return to Iquitos a couple of weeks ago, I got a phone call saying my puppy was ready to come to her new home. Boy, was I in for a rude awakening! The last time I had a newborn was about 17 years ago, so to say I had forgotten how much attention puppies require is a gross understatement. After two sleepless nights due to sound barrier breaking wailing and howling, trips outside every couple of hours in order to avoid unwanted clean-ups, and playing referee between the new addition and the current queen of the yard to keep one from literally killing the other, I didn't know whether to cry, scream, take her back to her canine mother, or all of the above. But now, a week later, things have settled down a bit. Tammy and Dolly are getting used to each other (though they definitely are not friends yet), Dolly is sleeping through the night on the screened porch (until she's big enough to join Tammy outdoors), and I have learned the value of grabbing an afternoon power nap (when the baby sleeps, mommy sleeps).

What's in a name? Tammy (pronounced Tommy based on the Spanish pronunciation of the letter 'a') is short for Tamshiyacu. I'm not really sure who named her, but she shares her name with the jungle town that one of our AMF sister churches is partnered with. When Todd and I first began discussing getting another dog for the property, I immediately thought about what I would name her (since I knew I would get another female). Naturally I began with a list of Latino names - and even though I really liked some of them, none really felt right. Then one night I was in the shower with music from my iPod blasting (as is my custom) when an old, well-worn tune had me tapping my foot and shampooing simultaneously. I sang along, loudly (as is also my custom - when there are no guests in the house), the familiar lyrics of Here You Come Again by none other than Dolly Parton, who just happens to be one of Todd's favorite singers (no kidding - who knew she was anybody's favorite?). And so the story goes of how Dolly (the dog) came into her name.

And now, for the moment you've all been waiting for, the pictures. I have tried to get some shots of Dolly and Tammy together, but Tammy will not be still long enough. At this point she allows Dolly about 30 seconds of aggravation time before she jumps up and runs off to hide. Hopefully in the future…

…meanwhile, it's hard to beat unconditional puppy love!

Breath of Heaven

Happy New Year! Well, it's not new anymore, but as this is my first entry of 2010, can you humor me?

Way back in 2009, when Thanksgiving quickly rolled into the month of December, I began to experience my first ever bout with writer's block - a condition which has plagued me for nearly two months. For weeks now I have written and erased repeatedly, stared at a blank screen, and finally, exasperated, turned off the computer hoping for better days. I wouldn't say I'm prolific again yet, but I do have a few thoughts brewing to share with you. Here goes...

While I realize Christmas past is gone and Christmas future is literally eleven months away, I feel the need to revisit my 2009 Advent season to put the proper perspective on my 2010 blog season.

It was mid-December, less than two weeks before Christmas, and I could hardly contain myself as I approached the Plaza de Armas. To my utter delight, the lamp posts that surround the square were elegantly wrapped in white lights, a giant Christmas tree, tastefully decorated in oversized ornaments, stood majestically, shadowing the life-size nativity scene, which could not have been complete without the tribal jungle natives standing guard on either side of the Baby Jesus (next to the Magi of course), while the glass front of the lobby of the El Dorado Five Star Hotel glowed, looking like a picture from the holiday edition of Southern Living magazine. An enormous smile spread across my face and I squealed with excitement, which made my Peruvian friends laugh. The scene was so simple, yet so beautiful. I felt like a little girl again and Christmas was something special - I cannot remember the last time I felt that way.

As you might imagine, Christmas in Peru is quite different from the way we celebrate in the U.S. While U.S. stores are already stocking their Christmas paraphernalia and malls are decking their halls before the last piece of Halloween candy is eaten by a young trick-or-treater (maybe before the first piece is even purchased), you won't find any evidence of the holidays in Iquitos until after December 1, and then you only catch an occasional glimpse - the real decorating doesn't begin until December 15. (I cannot begin to explain how refreshing it was to not be sick of Christmas before Thanksgiving!) Though from time to time you will see images of the white-bearded guy in the big red suit, the myth of Santa Claus is not perpetuated here. The Peruvians, however, do believe each child should get a new toy for Christmas (notice I said toy - singular), and those who are able buy extras and give them to less fortunate friends and neighbors who cannot afford gifts for their kids. In the 2-3 days prior to Christmas, long lines form in every neighborhood and at many churches as adults ladle out steaming hot chocolate into the cups the children bring with them in events known as "chocolatadas." The markets are lined with various brands of "panetton," the fruit bread that is traditionally eaten with the holiday meal at midnight, when Christmas Eve becomes Christmas Day (those who can afford it also have another round of hot chocolate). Christmas Eve is a time of reflection, particularly for those who are spiritual; many Christians spend at least part of the day in church. Commerce ceases on Christmas Day and people emerge from their homes to hang out in the streets all day with their neighbors. It is an opportunity to be together; not a time for opening presents or running themselves ragged with a hectic schedule of meals and travel, but a time to really enjoy family and friends.

That's it. If you're like me, you're surprised by the simplicity of it all. The pace is slow (not unlike the rest of the year); there is no holiday rush. Certainly I was anxious to get back to the U.S. to be with my family and friends on Christmas, but I am glad I opted to remain in Iquitos until December 23, to experience Advent in a new, refreshing way.

This year (oops, last year) I found myself listening to one particular song over and over again, haunted by the melody while pondering its words. It is written from the perspective of the Virgin Mary as she contemplates her magnanimous role in God's ultimate plan of salvation. It occurred to me that this is not just Mary's story, but the tale of every one of us who claim to be believers. We, too, carry Jesus inside us; we have an awesome responsibility to take Him into a lost and dying world. It is a daunting task to say the least, and I (like Mary) question God's wisdom, even His sanity, when He chose me to bear witness to Him, knowing how often and how completely I would mess up. In the midst of her fear and loneliness, Mary realizes that her own strength won't get her very far. Consider the words of the song penned by Amy Grant:

I have traveled many moonless nights; cold and weary, with a babe inside.
And I wonder what I've done-
Holy Father, you have come and chosen me now, to carry your son.

I am waiting in a silent prayer; I am frightened by the load I bear.
In a world as cold as stone, must I walk this path alone?
Be with me now...
Be with me now…

Breath of heaven, hold me together; be forever near me, breath of heaven.
Breath of heaven, light in my darkness, pour over me your holiness, for you are holy,
Breath of heaven.

Do you wonder, as you watch my face, if a wiser one should have had my place? But I offer all I am for the mercy of your plan; help me be strong...
Help me be...
Help me…

Breath of heaven, hold me together; be forever near me, breath of heaven.
Breath of heaven, light in my darkness, pour over me your holiness, for you are holy,
Breath of heaven.

"Be with me now…, help me…, pour over me your holiness…" - simple words; a profound prayer. As the first month of 2010 is already drawing to a close, and as I get back into my Peruvian routine, recovering from a very hectic month of traveling, meetings, and fundraising, I want , no, I desperately need, the breath of heaven.

3 Hours, 46 Minutes, 42 Seconds…

A distinct difference between Iquitos, Peru and Spartanburg, SC (or possibly the entire U.S. as far that goes) is that people here have time for each other. One of my favorite daily sights is when my neighbors come out of their homes, toting their rebar rocking chairs, and arrange themselves on the sidewalks in front of their homes to while away the afternoons/evenings talking to each other. They typically sit for hours chatting with family members and friends, and often passersby will stop as well to introduce themselves or simply to say hello. It's because of this habit that I know everyone up and down Napo Street and they know me - I am the gringa who lives on the corner of the seventh block.

Peruvians enjoy each other's company; it has taken some time for me to get accustomed to this. I'm used to being with people for a purpose: whether at work, in a meeting, at church, in Wal-Mart - wherever we are in the U.S. we always have an agenda, and much of the time we get antsy if someone in any of those locations wants to halt us for too long as we fear we will be late for the next place/event on the list, or we just plain get irritated when people stop us to talk because we want to be left alone. Even at parties or other social functions, at best our conversations are superficial, and we flit around from person to person, lest we actually have to talk about something of substance. Of course I realize that there are plenty of people who do regularly have meaningful conversations - I'm not saying it never happens - but, in general, to the outside observer, ours is a culture that is always busy being with people, but never really having time for them.

Among the things I love most about my life here is that every day, at some point, Villa and I take a break from whatever work we have going on and sit in our own rebar rocking chairs and talk. It is priceless time, because in it I deepen my friendship with the person who takes care of me literally every day, I laugh (and sometimes cry), and I learn valuable lessons about Peruvian culture and language. Perhaps more importantly, I have been granted more than a few opportunities to share my faith and my reason for being here with someone who is not particularly religious and does not go to church, but believes in the sovereign God because he says that same God is so obvious in my life (at which time I get my much needed, regular dose of humility, because I know myself well, and if Villa sees God in me it is only because He truly is there).

Then yesterday I went home with Juan. Since the deaths of their parents, his sister, Beatrice, is the only woman in the house (for all practical purposes), living with 5 of her 6 brothers, her 2 children, her husband, and occasionally the girlfriends of 2 of the brothers, as well as the kids these brothers have produced with said girlfriends. At any given time there may be 12 or more people inhabiting the 3 rooms (one of them is not a bathroom as there is no plumbing where they live) of their wooden shack (which is better than most in that they have a concrete floor (vs. dirt) and aluminum shingles (vs. thatch) for a roof). To say the least, Beatrice has a life that 26 year olds in the U.S. cannot begin to fathom, with the burden of caring for everyone in the house falling on her shoulders. On the way there I asked Juan if she would be upset that he was bringing me home with him unannounced; he looked at me like I'd lost my mind. Actually he was a little insulted and asked me why I would say such a thing. I tried to explain to him that, in the U.S., it is not polite to drop in on people without calling first - he didn't understand. So, the motokar deposited us on the edge of the paved road and off we went on foot, down the dirt road together. When we walked into the house, there were people everywhere and Beatrice was trying to tend to all of their needs (one brother was standing in front of her with a needle and thread, wanting her to stitch up his ripped shorts, another was yelling at her because he couldn't find his shoes, yet another wanted to know if she planned to make lunch that day), while simultaneously spanking her 3 year old and nursing her 5 month old baby that was nestled in the crook of her left arm. But when she saw me standing in the doorway, she broke into a huge smile, forgot about everything around her, invited me in to sit on her bed with her, and told me she knew company was coming because a butterfly had flown through her window earlier in the day. Almost immediately everyone else in the house flocked to me as well, and before I knew it, 6 of us were all piled up on the bed together talking, laughing, and playing with the baby, while the 3 year old crawled all over me as though I were playground equipment. And so went the next 3 hours. Juan stood in the corner of the room for most of the time, watching from a distance and beaming proudly, because his family was embracing me (as he already knew they would) and because I was returning the favor. Before I left I was hugged, kissed, and invited to come back any time and often. In reality (and in my mind) a similar situation in the U.S. plays out very differently (and to most anyone, myself included, who says they would react in the same manner as Beatrice, I have only this to say - liar, liar, pants on fire!). From Juan's family, I learned a lot about what it means to make a person, a total stranger and a foreigner no less, feel welcome, valued, respected, and appreciated.

In case you've been wondering about the title of this blog post, 3 hours, 46 minutes, and 42 seconds would be the length of time my brother and I talked on the phone one Saturday afternoon back in September. Anyone who knows him is reading this and thinking, "What??? I don't believe it. There is no way Brad McAbee talked that long to anyone about anything," as he is typically a man of few words. Nevertheless, I speak only the truth - we did actually talk that long. Now, nearly 3 months later, I have no idea what we talked about (and it really doesn't matter), but I have yet to forget the amount of time. In the midst of his crazy football season schedule and my tumultuous transition to foreign missionary life, for one afternoon we let the rest of the world go by and simply made time for each other.

As I count my blessings tomorrow, my list will be decorated with my family and many friends back home, and punctuated by the unmerited privilege I have been given to live here in Peru, being accepted and loved by people who have taught me more than I could ever hope to help them. And if I take nothing else from my time here, I hope I never forget the infinite value of the individual (family, friend, and/or stranger alike) and the importance of just being with them no matter what else is going on around me.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Big Juan and Little Juan

On my second trip to Iquitos in 2003, I met an 18 year old kid named Juan. So handsome and charismatic, with a smile that would light up the Boulevard on the darkest of nights, and the ability to speak relatively fluent English, he easily charmed many gringos visiting Iquitos - that is until he stole from them (money, shoes, shirts, caps, whatever was within easy reach when they weren't watching), or they saw him falling down drunk (or high, or both, as the case may be). Suddenly he wasn't cute anymore, and he became more of a street thug than a dirt-poor kid down on his luck. Juan is one of 6 children born into extreme poverty to a mother who died of cancer when he was in his early teens, and a father who daily went about the business of drinking himself to death (and unfortunately did just that earlier this year) for as long as Juan can remember. For most of his life he's been roaming the streets, searching for a place to belong, and getting into trouble. He's known all over town and pretty much no one has anything good to say about him - locals and gringos alike - with the exception of those who are just like him. Now, at age 25, he seems even more troubled and more lost than he was when we first came to know each other.

Juan typically spends what little money he may have of his own for drugs and alcohol (eating is low on his list of priorities), so when I am with him it is usually in a restaurant, as it is my habit to feed him. As I sat at Ari's Burger last Friday (a popular open-air restaurant on the Plaza de Armas) watching him savor every bite of his plate of rice mixed with shrimp, chicken, and pork and a side of fried plantains, he said he'd heard I was living in Iquitos now. As you might imagine, Juan isn't known for his honesty; he tells people what they want to hear, very little of which is ever true. I have always been aware of this, but the look on his face was priceless as I recalled, out loud, all the lies I knew for certain he'd told me throughout the years. He was fuming mad at first and about to get up and leave the table when I said, "Today we start over. Whatever happens, whatever you do, no matter how bad it is, even if you think I'm going to be furious (which I probably will), you must tell me the truth." He agreed (do I think for one minute that he's going to suddenly be honest? - not on your life, but we had to start somewhere), and we began a conversation that would lead me into a mighty internal struggle for many days to come, teach me more about sharing than I've ever learned from anyone in my life, and bring me face-to-face with not only his need for a Savior, but even more so, my own.

It was almost like he was relieved when I invoked the honesty policy as he poured out the 'not-so-good' things he'd done since the last time I saw him. (By the way, the last time I had seen him was more than 2 years ago, prior to his tour of duty in the Peruvian Army, when Frank Gonda and I were taking him to a medical clinic to get the gaping hole in his forehead stitched up after one of his drunken brawls, which had also left him without his 4 beautiful, pearly white front teeth, and I was MAD.) When he finished purging, he said he didn't expect me to understand, because I'd probably never done anything really bad in my life. He also said he knew God wasn't interested in him because God doesn't have any use for people who can't change, and, no matter how hard he tried to change, he always seemed to fall back into his old ways. Raw honesty - that's what was on the table; gone were the well-rehearsed responses he'd fed to countless members of U.S. church mission teams, tickling their ears, making some of them believe they'd actually gotten through to him. There's neither space nor reason to recount all the details of our conversation, but I assured him that plenty of skeletons reside in my closet and told him if God required people to successfully change themselves before they could come to Him, then Heaven would be an empty place. He pressed me further asking what God would say if he messed up again that same night, and I told him God would say the same thing to Juan Sangama that He says to Pam McAbee when she messes up every day of her life - He would say that His mercies are new every morning and His grace abounds and He would invite Juan, just as He invites Pam and everyone else in the world, to lay our burdens on Him and let Him be about the business of saving us. He didn't believe me.

Meanwhile, a filthy, shoeless, little boy with quarter sized holes in the chest of his sleeveless t-shirt and rips in his threadbare shorts paused in front of our table (we were sitting at one of the tables closest to the street) to watch Juan eat. Without missing a beat, Juan signaled for the waitress to bring another plate, fork, and glass and, in the midst of this intense conversation, raked a pile of rice onto the plate, added a couple of slices of fried bananas, and poured the rest of his drink into the extra cup. He held up his hand to me indicating a pause in our discussion, invited the little boy, a total stranger, (also named Juan as we later found out) to sit down, put the food in front of him, and told him to eat. Little Juan told us that he is 7 years old and lives on the corner of Raymondi and Nauta streets (which means that he sleeps on the street underneath a cardboard box) and that his mom won't let him live at her house in Belen (the section of town where the poorest of the poor live) because she has too many other kids and he is old enough to take care of himself - he hasn't seen her in months and she never comes looking for him. Little Juan ate until he was full, then stood up, looked me in the eyes and said "Gracias," smiled, and walked away. Before his meal was over, Big Juan would invite yet another stranger to join us and would share his food a second time. Never have I ever been so unselfish.

Three hours later, Juan insisted on walking the 7 blocks with me to El Jardin. The last thing he wanted to know for that day was if we could get together regularly to talk now that I called the jungle my home. The answer, of course, was yes. We didn't bother to make any plans; though Iquitos is a city of nearly half a million people, it is a small, isolated place, and people aren't hard to find. All I have to do is walk up to the Plaza or Boulevard, ask anyone if they have seen him, then come back home. Later that day or the next, whenever I venture out again, he will be waiting for me. We said our 'see-you-laters,' and as the heavy iron gate slammed shut between us, I felt like I was carrying the equivalent of its weight into the house with me.

Inside, I sat on my couch for another 3 hours - just sat - pondering - things like why a 7 year old is considered old enough to fend for himself, why a 25 year old grows a little more hopeless every day, how anyone can really help in a substantial way in the face of such huge generational and cultural problems, why I am here and ultimately what good I can do, where God is in all of this, where the church is in all of this - then the tears began. I told a friend later that what I'd seen and experienced was nothing new - it is the reality of daily life here - I see it every time I leave the house. But on Friday, it was like I was seeing it all again for the very first time. In The Irresistible Revolution, Shane Claiborne says, "When we look through the eyes of Jesus, we see new things in people. In the murderers, we see our own hatred. In the addicts, we see our own addictions. In the saints, we catch a glimpse of our own holiness. We can see our own brokenness, our own violence, our own ability to destroy, and we can see our own sacredness, our own capacity to love and forgive. When we realize that we are both wretched and beautiful, we are freed up to see others the same way" (264). Maybe that's what happened. Maybe in Juan I saw everything that is good and bad about me all at the same time. Maybe for the first time I quit silently, subconsciously judging him (in the same way that others did openly, making mine a more grievous offense). Maybe I realized "No one is beyond redemption" (253). And maybe, just maybe, for one brief moment, I had the ability to love as God loves.

Ding, Dong the Alligator is Dead

Once upon a time, for whatever reason, my friend Todd Garrett decided that the water in the pond here at El Jardin (the Medical Missions property where I live in Iquitos) was lonely, so he purchased a baby alligator and put it in the pond to keep the water company. Yes, I know, your minds are rambling through the same list of rhetorical questions as mine, with the primary one being: Has he lost his mind? Needless to say, since June I have been on a quest to find and remove the creature. Naturally I was not about to perform the task at hand, so several days a week for the past 5 months I have said to Villa that he needs to take care of this. He has given me one excuse after another as to why it hasn't been done: too much water in the pond (he can't get in to look), too little water in the pond (it has dried up due to lack of rain and the alligator has buried itself in the mud), too much mud (he doesn't have any boots), and my personal favorite, he hasn't seen the alligator in weeks therefore it must be dead and/or gone (you can see the logic, right?). I bought him a pair of wading boots for the purpose of getting in the pond to search; we also have a machete and any number of other tools that could be used to remedy the problem, yet the excuses continue.

Even I know that the best time to locate an alligator is at night with a flashlight, so Monday evening, just after dark, I took my little linterna and traipsed to the back of the property where the pond is located. One quick sweep across the water with the beam of light and, sure enough, there they were - 2 little orange eyes peering at me. Elder Luis and a couple of other guys were hanging out at the church next door and called out to me, asking what I was doing. I told Luis that I desperately wanted to get rid of the alligator and asked if he knew anyone who'd be willing to come get it out (since Villa is obviously as much a fraidy-cat as I am). Luis asked if I had a bat or other heavy object (which I did) and said he could take care of the problem himself. So I ran to the gate to let him in. Fifteen minutes later, after a good whack on the head with a metal rake, Luis scooped the unconscious reptile out of the water, took further measures to ensure it was dead, then picked it up by the tail and promptly carried it out the gate with him and over to the church for everyone to see. And that was that.

Of course, when Villa found out the next day, he turned on the machismo and said he would have been able to get it too if he'd been here at night (at which time I reminded him that he spent 3 weeks of nights here while I was in the U.S. in September). He just laughed that silly little giggle of his and shrugged his shoulders. So now we're on to worrying about bigger and better things, such as how to make El Jardin more secure for me after the string of break-ins on this block over the past week. How's that for a cliff hanger?

Froot Loops and a Hummer

I leave Peru for a three week jaunt to the U.S. and return to find Iquitos has gone American! What??? Yesterday I finally ran out of what few imperishable food items that were left in the house prior to my trip (not to mention I've grown tired of odd combinations for meals, i.e. steamed rice and mushrooms w/soy sauce) and headed to the supermercado. As I walked into the once familiar tienda, I was greeted with sights of imported food items. There I was, surrounded by boxes of Froot Loops, cans of Hunt's Four Cheese Spaghetti Sauce, jars of Ragu Alfredo Sauce, packages of Old El Paso flour tortillas, cups of Jell-O Pudding (chocolate and vanilla), bottles of Hunt's Barbeque Sauce, bags of frozen chicken nuggets waiting to be tossed into the hot oil of a frying pan - all things I've never seen here before. I was so excited that my first urge was to grab 5 of each, whether I needed them or not; the reality around here is that just because something is in a store once, does not mean it will be there again (and there's always the possibility that it will never be there again). But I refrained, reminding myself that I have neither the money in my budget to purchase large quantities of pricey imports, nor the space in my kitchen to store such inventory. I will confess, however, that I did come home sporting Froot Loops, 2 cans of spaghetti sauce, and a jar of alfredo sauce.

While enjoying the sights and sounds of the city's streets on the motokar ride home, I was blown away yet again. There, in Iquitos, parked right in front of the El Dorado Hotel (five star that is) on the Plaza de Armas was a lustrous black Hummer with a wax job so perfect I could have used the driver's side door as a mirror. Unbelievable. To comprehend the shock value, one must have been here, or at least understand that this is a motorcycle/scooter/motokar city. In the past, only the wealthiest of people here could afford to own a car, and those were few and far between. One difference I had already begun to notice when I returned here in June after nearly a year's absence is that there are more cars on the streets than ever before. But when I say cars, I mean older model Toyotas, 70's era VW bugs, an occasional beat-up Nissan - that kind of thing. Only once or twice before have I seen what appeared to be a "newer" car here, and even so, it still was of the economy class of autos. Never a Hummer!

As I ate my lunch while watching a rerun episode of Two and a Half Men (in English with Spanish subtitles - YAY!), my previous excitement faded and my heart started to sink as I pondered my morning. Now, I know change is inevitable, and North American influence typically arrives everywhere eventually, but one of the fascinations this city holds for so many who come here is its lack of "connectedness" with the rest of the world. Iquitos is the largest city in the world that is not accessible by road; there are two ways in/out of here - plane and boat. Surrounded by rainforest, it is both difficult and expensive to ship imports here, and most major businesses find it more cost effective not to try. Evidently that is changing - rapidly. But I don't want to see a McDonald's here (what fun would there then be in getting to the Lima airport after 4 months of fish, chicken, and rice and running straight for a quarter pounder with cheese?), or an Ace Hardware, or a Gold's Gym (but say the words Target or Wal-Mart and I might be open to suggestion). I want the jungle to stay the jungle. Yes, it's hard to live life in a different culture; yes, there are times when I crave foods from home; yes, I miss the U.S.; yes, I wish I could shop in a 'regular' grocery store without making stops at 6-8 different little markets in order to get everything I need. BUT, all of these longings, these creature comforts, are part of what makes coming home for a visit so special, and the lack of these is what has always made Iquitos so mysteriously attractive to me. Here, in the middle of a city of nearly half a million people, you can feel so isolated, so far from what we gringos call civilization. Yet in some ways, there is more real life here than I have ever experienced before.

In his book Three Cups of Tea, Greg Mortenson details the many lessons he has learned while living in and adapting to the Middle Eastern Islamic culture of Pakistan. Though he does not write from a spiritual point of view, he bluntly, unapologetically repeats the exact ideas that every book I've ever read on cross-cultural missions asserts. Mortenson says, "On their warm, dry roofs, among the fruits of their successful harvest, eating, smoking, and gossiping with the same sense of leisure as Parisians on the terrace of a sidewalk café, [I] felt sure that, despite all that they lacked, the Balti still held the key to a kind of uncomplicated happiness that was disappearing in the developing world…" (120). Frustrated with Mortenson's egocentric, North American notion that his way was the best and only way, the man who came to be his Pakistani father-figure chastised him saying, "If you want to thrive in Baltistan, you must respect our ways…We may be uneducated. But we are not stupid. We have lived and survived here for a long time." Mortenson follows this up with, "We Americans think you have to accomplish everything quickly. We're the country of thirty-minute power lunches and two-minute football drills…Haji Ali taught me to…slow down and make building relationships as important as building projects. He taught me that I had more to learn from the people I work with than I could ever hope to teach them" (150). I could copy similar quotes from dozens of books; the recurring theme makes a point we would be wise to pay attention to.

Mortenson's book, the Froot Loops, the Hummer, and my life here in Peru all mesh together in an odd sort of way. While I don't want the Peruvians to be denied good and right progress, I also don't want to see U.S. culture invade the jungle. Like the Baltis, the Peruvians in the Amazon are survivors - they don't need us to tell them how they should live. Perhaps we should follow their lead in slowing down and focusing on relationships. Ironically, many of the 2009 summer mission teams were privy to unsolicited lessons in this area when inclement weather or a lack of supplies brought their projects to a screeching halt, and they were left with no option but to spend time with each other and their Peruvian friends. Nevertheless, as I attend meetings of mission boards, missions committees, and mission trip leaders, I listen as, with renewed fervor, they plan their next projects. Not that projects are bad, mind you, but said projects act as the backbones for recruiting individuals to be part of the 2010 mission teams because, without work to do (and lots of it), churches and missions organizations find it difficult to entice people to give up a week of vacation to simply come and be. But in our U.S. culture, we (myself included) can no longer find the time to sit on the porch with our grandparents, or turn off the TV (and all other electronic addictions) and play board games with our kids, or play tag football with friends then sit, sweaty and tired, for the rest of the afternoon just talking - if we can't slow down for our families and closest friends, how could we be expected to make time for relationships with those whose enlightening perspectives we desperately need? Does this make anyone sad other than me?

Funny Feeling

It is 10:23 a.m. local time and I am a little better than 12 hours away from boarding my international flight to the U.S. I'll be States-side for 3 weeks doing a little visiting with family and friends, and a LOT of work for AMF. I am officially in awe of those before me who have started and maintained non-profit organizations. Doing so takes an unbelievable amount of time and even more patience (which I don't always have a surplus of). Of course, the load has felt a little less demanding since I gave up teaching and now work full time for the mission.

The biggest surprise of the morning, as I pack and mentally prepare myself for 24 hours of traveling, is the heaviness in my heart; I am a little sad today. If you've been reading my blog since June, you know that I arrived here under duress; I was already counting the weeks and days until my first visit home, as the pain of saying good-bye to my family and friends was greater than I ever dreamed it could be. Then the mission teams landed and the busyness began and I didn't have time to think about missing home. But I dreaded the day the final team left, for then I would be all by myself and real life for me in this country would begin, like it or not, and I assumed homesickness would set in and I would again be urging time to pass rapidly. Fast forward 13 weeks and the time certainly has passed rapidly, yet not at my insistence, and other than a few random moments when loneliness has gotten the best of me (though I'm not sure why because I am NEVER alone here), I "settled in" without realizing that was what was happening.

To combat today's melancholy, I keep telling myself that I'll be back in a very short time - not like the previous summers when I would arrive in early June, leave at the beginning of August, then, other than a brief 2 1/2 day jaunt in November, not return until the following June. Even Villa and the dog have been acting funny this morning. For awhile now Villa has been telling me that he would be glad when I left for the U.S. because he would finally get a day off; he says I'm a slave driver - that I forget he's Peruvian and work him like a gringo. But today, he came to work early (odd, because I can typically count on him to be at least 30 minutes late), and when I asked the reason he said, "To be here for whatever you need today since you are leaving." Tamy (my German Shepherd) has started moping too, tail between her legs, refusing to eat this morning. Villa said, "She knows in her heart you're leaving." For all practical purposes, this is home now. I put clean sheets on my bed and clean towels in my bathroom in anticipation of my early morning arrival on October 11 - I am coming back soon.

Throughout this whole process of hearing God's call, trying my best to obey, quitting my teaching job, working at fundraising, and taking the leap of faith and actually coming here to live, there has been a constant battle in my mind and heart. More than in any other situation in my life I've had to learn to stay the course regardless of how I felt (and let me assure you that my emotions have been off the chart in every conceivable direction). I've had to focus on that night in July 2008 when I absolutely, unmistakably heard God tell me, "It's time," and press on. It is a powerful experience to stand firm in the decision to trust God when your only instructions are to follow Him (nothing more, nothing less), then watch Him faithfully deliver everything you could ever need, one day at a time. It is a lesson I hope I don't forget any time soon.

A Day In The Life

Boy was I wrong! I moved to Peru with the mistaken assumption that, once all the mission teams had come and gone for the summer, I would have a lot of down time - time to rest, to get settled, to think, to pray, to decide what step to take first in establishing my life here. So far that has not happened.

Of course I have my endless to-do list, written neatly on index cards, which are then paper clipped together in order of importance. I get excited when all the items on a particular card have been crossed off and I get to admire, with satisfaction, my squiggly ink lines worming their way through the list as I toss the card into the trash. Then there are the times when all but one or two items have been crossed off on several different cards; that, naturally, calls for a new card, combining the as yet unchecked tasks onto one, and deciding where the new card fits into the rotation. But I digress…

It seems that my index cards are hanging around longer than I expected them to - a phenomenon I've begun to examine. And so last Thursday, after a particularly busy day, I decided to retrace my steps to see exactly how my time had been spent. My alarm went off at 6 a.m. (yes, I know that's a ridiculously early hour given that I am no longer on a school schedule) and I hit snooze 3 times (at 5 minute intervals), at which time (6:15 a.m. to be exact) I got up. I made the rounds through the house and outside around the grounds turning off all the lights that stay on at night to alert would-be wall climbers that someone is actually living in here. I fed the dog, I fed the bird, then I fed myself. While eating breakfast and lingering over my coffee, I watched the last 15 minutes of Melrose Place (reruns in English are a beautiful thing, no matter how bad the show, when you live in a country that doesn't speak your language). At 7 a.m. I put in my exercise DVD (because I promised myself I would get healthier while living here). Midway through my workout, Villa arrived at 7:30 and sat down in the rocking chair outside to wait for me to give him his marching orders for the day. At 8 a.m. I finished the workout, grabbed a bottle of water, and plopped into the other rocking chair to make a plan with Villa. At 8:30 I showered, dressed, turned my computer on and had grand aspirations for the morning - I needed to continue working on my AMF board meeting agenda, the AMF brochure that is incomplete, and the beginnings of a missions newsletter. I also needed to reply to several emails and return a phone call to the lady at the print shop in Spartanburg who is working on some mock-ups for me of potential logos, letterheads, and business cards for AMF. By 9 a.m. I was concentrating on the task at hand when Villa appeared at my window, asking the first of many questions that would continuously interrupt my train of thought as well as my projected work schedule. By 10:30 a.m. I had gotten up from my desk and gone outside to tend to Villa's pressing needs (such as whether I thought the table he just painted needed another coat or could be fine the way it was) 4 times. At 11:00 a.m. I was on a roll because I'd now had 30 peaceful minutes at my computer; but that would end when I looked up to see Margarita standing in my doorway announcing, "I am here." Translated, that means "It's your job to come to the porch to sit and talk to me until the accountant gets here." So that's what I did - for the next 30 minutes, because Joel, the accountant, was Peruvian-style late for his meeting with Margarita. I left them to their own to work, having provided them with all the information they needed from me, and came back to my computer, where I spent a glorious 20 minutes working before I was summoned to show them how to work the printer Margarita purchased. At 12:30 p.m. I heard my name yet again - this time I learned that today was the day Margarita had designated to organize and clean out the pharmacy and that I would be helping her (this being the first I'd heard of said plans). Drenched with sweat, because Margarita was cold (it was an overcast, albeit humid day) and had forbidden me to turn on the ceiling fan while we worked, at 2:00 p.m. she pronounced us finished - for the moment. My breakfast had long since been digested, so I went for the quickest fix in terms of lunch - a ham sandwich with some fresh pineapple (yes, I bought it, yes, I cut it up) on the side. At this point I realized that I had neglected to spend time with God and combined lunch with quiet time. Villa returned at 3:00 p.m. without the supplies I gave him money for a few hours earlier; seemed he opted to go home for lunch first instead of shopping, knowing good and well that the stores would be closed for siesta time when he was through eating and would not reopen until 4:00 p.m. - so he decided he would just hang out here and wait. At this point I had two choices: I could go back to my room and try to pick up where I left off that morning (with the near 100% chance that Villa would interrupt me at least twice) or I could sit down and talk to him for the next 45 minutes; I opted for the latter in order to spare myself a stress-induced migraine. At 3:50 p.m. Villa determined the paint store would be open by the time he could walk there and told me he would see me on Friday morning, because by the time he could make his purchases and transport them to El Jardin it would be at least 4:30 p.m. and the end of his work day. Alone again at last in my house I walked back to my computer to make the phone call to the U.S. I intended to make that morning. I dialed; it rang and rang and rang, but no one answered. That's when I noticed the clock on my computer; it was not 4:10 p.m. in the U.S., it was 5:10 p.m. and business for the day was over. I said a bad word out loud. Well, at least I could try to make a little more progress on the brochure, which I did until 5:30 p.m. when it began to get dark and I needed to get up to make my rounds through the house and around the grounds turning the all-night lights back on so that my space was, once again, well illuminated and free of intruders (except for the neighbor's cat which sits on the wall for no other purpose than to torment my dog and make her bark until she is hoarse). If I hoped to eat dinner before 7:00 p.m., my work day had to draw to a close so I could begin cooking - an art I'm having to re-learn here. The absence of prepackaged, frozen, and microwave foods, the lack of a car and a drive-thru to hit even if I did have a car, and living on a budget that doesn't allow for much in the way of restaurants (and who wants to eat alone in restaurants all the time anyway?) necessitates regular cooking on my part. Fortunately, one of the previous day's activities had been to make the rounds to the 5 markets I shop regularly (each having its own special items that none of the others has), and so I had another piece of fish in the fridge, some fresh vegetables, leftover lunch pineapple, and enough rice for one more meal (then it's off to the market again). By 8:00 p.m. I'd eaten, the dishes had been washed and put away, and I was perched on the couch in front of a muted television, watching the quarterfinals of the last tennis tournament before the U.S. Open, and enjoying my nightly phone chats with my family. A little channel surfing at 9:30 p.m. encouraged me to make better use of my time reading in bed until I fell asleep, somewhere in the neighborhood of 11:00 p.m.

And that, dear friends, was my day.

A typical day.

The life I have signed up for.

It is significantly different than the previous 18 years. It is not highly structured; there are no bells, no class changes, no curriculums. But there is an odd sort of rhythm to life here. The times, activities, locations, and interruptions to my planned schedule vary from day to day. There's still laundry, and yard work, and appointments, and grocery shopping, and meetings, and a host of what I would term "normal, U.S. routines," but it's not the same, and it is difficult, maybe even impossible to explain. Many gringos would look at my day and determine that it was a total waste - that I got nothing of significance accomplished, because my schedule and list of accomplishments (refer to the aforementioned index card to-do list) didn't conform to the North American notion of productivity. I was actually feeling frustrated and unproductive myself, but my dear friend and fellow missionary, Jeni McLane-Barrantes later added her seasoned perspective to that day. She pointed out the numerous opportunities I'd been given to work on my Spanish, the all important relationship building time I'd had with two of the most important people in my life here, the new experiences I've enjoyed in learning to cook again (by new rules and recipes), and, when all was said and done, I had logged nearly 3 hours in front of my computer (a major feat by Central/South American standards). She reminded me that I wasn't in the U.S. anymore and that Latinos don't play by the same rules as North Americans. She was right - and if I detailed "a week in the life" here, you'd see exactly what she means. Perhaps Duane Elmer, in his book Cross-Cultural Servanthood - Serving the World in Christlike Humility, says it best: "Most Westerners manage their lives using PDAs, daily planners or computer pop-up reminders. Little room remains for the unexpected or the ambiguous. We work hard to avoid uncertainty and to live an ordered, predictable life. The unknown, the unexpected, is an unwelcome intrusion in our schedule. We believe it to be dangerous to the order we have built into our existence" (53). Nothing here is predictable; everything here gets interrupted. PDAs are pointless, and you might as well get used to intrusions, welcome and unwelcome alike. So much for my index cards...

Celebrating Education

On Tuesday of this week I had the privilege of a trip to Tamshiyacu for the official opening ceremony of a new school for handicapped children. The SCOTA School (Special Children Of The Amazon) meets the educational needs of deaf and blind children, as well as children with significant physical and mental disabilities. A host of local celebrities, including the Governor of the Region of Loreto, and our own beloved Engineer/Architect Jorge Foinquinos, who is also a Congressman, attended the festivities. Eight students were present, along with their parents and/or other family members. From what I understand, the word has spread to the surrounding jungle villages about this school, and enrollment is expected to increase rapidly. Though both the government and educational systems in the U.S. can often be a royal pain in the behind to deal with for families with special needs children, at least there is a system that tries to provide opportunities for them. In Peru, unless a private organization provides the facilities and necessary materials, the government is generally not interested in the well-being of those who cannot speak for themselves, agreeing only to compensate (and I use that term loosely) the teachers. Regardless of my personal feelings about the Peruvian government and the total lack of importance it places on education for the masses, there was an air of excitement surrounding the festivities and I couldn't help getting caught up in it, mainly due to the attitude of the teacher who has agreed to move to Tamshiyacu (an hour away on the river - on a fast boat - a 'we'll see you whenever you manage to get there' on a slow boat/river taxi) to live in the school in order to work with these children. Her optimism, enthusiasm, and dedication are contagious; she is living her call and it is obvious.

Ironically, Monday was the first day of the 2009-2010 school year for faculty members in Spartanburg County, SC. While sitting in the screened porch, sipping my second cup of coffee, pushing away a stray strand of hair blown forward into my face by the early morning breeze and watching the sunbeams stream through the trees here at El Jardin, I pondered the opening of school. I have to admit that there was no part of me whatsoever that wanted to be rising with the alarm clock once again, heading off to brain-sapping in-service meetings, but there was a piece of my heart that felt empty. You see, I knew that I wanted to be an English teacher as a mere 11 year old in the spring of my 5th grade year at Ware Shoals Elementary. Unlike most of my classmates, whose professional ambitions changed with the wind throughout elementary, jr. high, high school, and even college, my career path never waivered. One of the most exciting days of my life was about a week into my student-teaching at Woodruff High School; I passed a student in the hall at the end of the day who said to me, "Have a good afternoon, Ms. McAbee; see you tomorrow." I walked out the door that day with the biggest smile on my face (and a glow that was still to be observed more than 30 minutes later when I got out of my car at Wofford and walked into my dorm) because I felt like I had 'arrived.' I was finally fulfilling my heart's desire; I was born to be a teacher. Until a few years ago I could never imagine myself doing anything else.

God has a sense of humor - at least He does in my relationship with Him, and He enjoyed a large chuckle at my expense on Wednesday. Many of you know that a point of frustration for me in moving to Peru has been not really knowing what my life would look like and exactly what my work would be. As this job has never existed before, it is really up to me (with the guidance and supervision of both the Medical Missions and Amazon Mission Fellowship boards) as to how it all shakes out. I've known from the beginning of this venture that I would be involved to some extent in the business of MMI and wholly in charge of the ministry of AMF, which would include working with the pastors regularly, as well as developing relationships with their wives with the prospect of becoming part of whatever women's ministries exist and eventually writing and leading some Bible studies of my own. But the Big Man upstairs threw me a curve ball that I didn't see coming. As I was going about my planned morning activities (doing laundry, studying Spanish, making sure Villa was working vs. wasting time), a banging on the gate ushered in Pastor Santiago from a church here in town that is not currently affiliated with AMF, but perhaps will be in the future. After a very brief round of small talk (abnormally short for Peruvians), he got right to the point of his visit. He'd come to ask me to consider coming to his church one day a week to teach English. Well, knock me over with a feather! In the back of my mind I'd harbored the thought that one day, when I felt very comfortable with my Spanish, I might begin tutoring some individuals in English, but never in my wildest dreams did I think the opportunity would literally knock so soon. I stuttered and stammered and searched my brain for every possible Spanish word that might be hiding there to explain why I couldn't do this. He countered all my arguments by telling me that doing this would help me with my Spanish (which it will, dang it - so much for that excuse), but more importantly, it will attract teenagers to the church first, because they want to know English and second, hopefully, for matters of a spiritual nature (holy cow - using teaching as a means of potential evangelism - meet the young people where they are and earn the right to be heard - sounds familiar!). When I told him that I taught literature and grammar to native speakers, not to second language learners, and that doing this would be very difficult he played the 'God Card' saying, "In Him all things are possible," (yeah, yeah, whatever - we all know the verse), and further drove his point home by saying that the announcement that I would be living here for 3 years was an answer to prayer, because God was providing some of the poorest people of Iquitos with another way to become educated - at least as far as learning English goes - and that might ultimately be a tool to lead them to Christ and to a church family.

I responded as a good missionary (and a good Christian for that matter) should and told him that I'd pray about it - which, in Peruvian Spanish, means "Yes, I'll do it." I had already mapped out the coming 5 weeks and set them aside for some intense Spanish studying. I informed Pastor Santiago of this and that I would be making a quick trip to the U.S. in late September/early October, but when I returned to Peru I would talk with him again and let him know what I believe God is leading me to do - which, in Peruvian Spanish, means "We'll get started as soon as I get back."

It seems education, in some shape, fashion, or form, is the theme of the week. And it seems this old teacher may not have handed in her chalk just yet. I'm not sure where this is going; I do need time to pray about it and talk it over with my trusted advisors. What is clear is that God has a plan for me here, and every day He hands me another little piece of this giant jigsaw puzzle I like to refer to as my missionary journey.

To all of the teachers around the world, particularly my friends at Spartanburg High School, thank you for living life in the trenches. Thank you for your dedication to the job that many critics believe they could do better than you (though you'll never see any of them actually giving it a try) and for sacrificing your time, money, and countless other resources in order to offer the children a fighting chance. The reality, however, is that whether we claim the field of education for our chosen professions or not, we are all teachers. This topic of many devotions throughout the mission team season here this year is that someone is always watching us, therefore we are always setting an example, good or bad, whether we know it and/or want to or not. And so this question should haunt us all: What kind of teacher am I?

Que Mas?

Buenos dias! It is 8 a.m. and I have been without power for the past 5 hours - at least. The silence from the absence of my fan blowing woke me up around 3 a.m. - well, that and the shrill humming of a mosquito near my ear. I have been unable to go back to sleep without some air stirring for fear that I would most certainly be a complex case of both malaria and dengue fever by morning if I didn't constantly fan myself to keep the biting insects away. Of course anyone who has seen me recently would say that was a waste of time, because there isn't any unbitten flesh left on my arms and legs at this point, so the bugs would chalk me up as a lost cause and move on.

Before I go on, I want to first say thank you to those who have been praying for Ina. She is currently in Lima awaiting a cornea transplant. It is my understanding that she may be there for as long as 3 months to recuperate, and for the doctors to monitor her progress. I was able to join her family last week to see her off and was blessed to be able to tell her that I miss and love her. As any mother would be, she is worried, anxious, and upset by the thought of being away from her daughters for that length of time. Valerie is 11 and Maria is 6 - they are staying with Ina's sister. Please continue to lift up Ina, her children, and the rest of her family through this very difficult time.

Three weeks ago (Wow! Where has the time gone?) the first of two groups from Huntington, WV arrived, and with them my good buddy Monty Fulton. I've had the pleasure of Monty's acquaintance for better than three years now, and I am always invigorated by his passion for this mission. Lest you begin to believe Monty is a saint, let me assure you he is quite a character. When he's not flooding my email inbox with blonde jokes, he's sending me sarcastic torts questioning why I have yet to post anything about him and his team on my blog - so Monty, this is for you.

The first Huntington group ministered to the physical well-being of Gallito with the medical team seeing patients and the remainder of the team installing simple water filter systems both in the church and in homes. The hope is that the people will begin to see the value of having and using clean water, which will, in turn, go a long way toward preventing some of their most common illnesses. The aforementioned Monty was part of the water team, even with his hurt leg, which he injured by falling off a ladder the day before his departure for Peru. I offered to shoot the lame horse; Sherry, his wife, was all for the idea, but the rest of the team had second thoughts; thus, Monty is still with us. The second group began their week in a most exciting fashion with Cal Kent displaying symptoms of a stroke during dinner on Saturday night. After several hours of tests and specialists at the Ana Stahl Clinic, Cal was diagnosed as having suffered a TIA (or mini-stroke) and medicated accordingly. Both the doctor here and Cal's doctor at home recommended that he return to the U.S. immediately for further tests, but "immediately" was going to be a problem because a transportation strike was taking place in Lima and one was threatened for Iquitos. The Kents were finally able to fly home on Thursday of that week and reported back that he did not suffer from a TIA but from TGA, or trans-global amnesia which can occur when travelers have experienced sleeping and eating patterns that significantly deviate from the normal with the added factors of equatorial heat and the effects of anti-malaria medicine. He gave us quite a scare, and I am very thankful that he is ok. Additionally, the second group was truly initiated into Peruvian culture through the medium of rain. Unless you have lived here, it is difficult to understand how rain affects life in the jungle - it stops. The most likely reason for the cessation of activity is because the Peruvians travel in rickshaws or by motorcycle with no way to remain dry, or because the work to be done is outside rather than inside. Regardless, Group 2 experienced daily downpours, keeping them from the grueling Gringo schedule that the mission teams maintain, but they adapted well and learned that it is, indeed, ok to just hang out and get to know people, and that they did most admirably. While they began construction on the new Sunday School building, they also found joy in playing with the children, taking naps on church benches, and following John Stephens (the younger version of Monty Fulton) into the Amazon for a swim. I find this refreshing, because our North American lifestyles are so driven by such an insanely inhuman notion of productivity that it is ridiculous. Throughout the two weeks of West Virginians I also had the opportunity to make some new friends among their first-timers who taught me a new card game and laughed uncontrollably with me (it is the best medicine). I look forward to seeing you all again soon (even Monty) when I visit Huntington during one of my trips back to the States.

More than once since I got here I've asked the question, "What else can happen?" The big occurrences like Ina and Cal, the not-so-big ones like multiple power outages (that have always managed to happen on evenings when no mission teams are here) and no hot water, and the smaller, insignificant ones like dial-up vs. high speed, wireless internet, when all added together seem enormous. It feels like a thousand little things go wrong daily, all leading up to the big whammies; and by the time the big ones join the mountains I've made out of mole hills, the climb is nearly impossible. But then I remember the summer of 2000 in Buena Vista, Colorado when I was having a hard time hiking to the top of 13,000 ft. Mt. Chrysolite with my arthritic hip. Just when I thought I couldn't take another step and was ready to give up, I looked up to see Steve Wise coming back down the mountain for me. No matter how many times I told him to go back to the top to be with his guys, he refused to leave me. Instead, he stayed with me every step, encouraging me, pushing me, never letting me quit. I recognized back then that this experience was significant and that God was showing a piece of Himself to me through Steve, but that mental image holds even greater importance to me today. It is in this memory that I see the present; God is always with me, never leaving me, as I climb the mountain of cross-cultural living and ministry. And His capacity for closeness is much greater than Steve's, for He is in the very air I breathe.

By the way, the power is finally back on...

He Never Said It Would Be Easy

To say there have been trials in these first two weeks would be a gross understatement.

I had just settled into a routine and become quiet in my spirit when it was time for the first group to arrive. My three guys from First Presbyterian, Sumter, SC came bounding in last Saturday morning, bright-eyed and bushy tailed and ready to work (well, maybe they weren't so energetic at first since they had been up all night in the Lima airport). They did a tremendous job of working with Pastor Rony in Quistacocha to begin construction of a Sunday School room behind the church. We had a lot of laughs, mostly at Jim Gee's expense (don't worry Jim, I won't publish the story about your college Spanish class here), but the week was successful both in terms of relationship building among sister churches and work projects. Jim and Robert had the bonus of a trip to the hospital with a 17 year old boy who was in excruciating pain. Initially they thought he had appendicitis, but it turned out to be a kidney stone, not that the diagnosis was any better for the poor guy.

My trials began on Monday last week. It seems there was a significant ant population living in the house, so Ina, my housekeeper, bought insecticide . She was careful and wore gloves, but failed to wash her hands once she took the gloves off. She later rubbed her eye, creating an abrasion with insecticide particles still on her hand, which penetrated her eyeball. It would be Tuesday evening before I found out this happened. I tried to talk Ina into going to the hospital, but she did not want to, explaining that she neither likes doctors, nor taking medicine. For impoverished families, such as Ina's, statements like that can often be translated into "I can't afford to go, so why bother?" By Thursday her pain was unbearable, she had lost her vision in that eye, and she finally acquiesced to getting medical attention. She has now been in the hospital for 4 days and the doctors are still uncertain about whether or nor she will be blind in her right eye, particularly since she waited so long to seek help. Her situation is also complicated by the fact that she is diabetic. Ina is not just my housekeeper; she is my friend, and I love her. She is upset and discouraged and needs to be lifted up. Please pray for her.

Meanwhile, the Sumter group was leaving, and the first of two Huntington, WV groups was arriving. Needless to say I've had to call a time-out and prepare to drop back and punt. Ina is invaluable here; she is the "jefa," or chief of the house; she makes it run. It is difficult to understand just how much she does around here until she is not here to do it. It has been challenging these past few days to figure out how to function without her, but we are managing. I am so grateful to have Sarah Beth Mulet here this week. She spent two summers here as an intern while she was in college, is the secretary of AMF, speaks fluent Spanish, and is one of my very dear friends. She arrived just in time to step in and say, "Don't worry. I'll help you, and we'll be ok."

As a knee-jerk reaction, I have found myself questioning God. Why is this happening at all? But especially why is it happening when I just got here? And why now, when I need her most? Did I completely misunderstand God about coming here? Have I done the wrong thing, quitting my job and moving to South America? Fortunately my sweet Mamacita and my beloved Collins know me better than anyone and always say the right things to talk me down off the ceiling when I am going through one of my intensely reactionary phases. They've gotten a workout recently!

At my moment of greatest discouragement, I opened Streams in the Desert and read the day's devotional, which had obviously been written for me: "'Never dread any consequence resulting from absolute obedience to His command…Dare to trust Him! Dare to follow Him! Then discover that the forces that blocked your progress and threatened your life become at His command the very materials He uses to build your street of freedom'" (F.B. Meyer, 248). What else is there to say?

So, Here I Am…

I'm now one week into my tenure as a missionary in residence in Iquitos, and I'm still tired.

The past couple of weeks have been the most mentally, physically, and emotionally draining of my life. It is an experience like no other. In my wildest, most outrageous dreams, I could never have imagined the depth of the grief of leaving my family, friends, church, home, job - I can't explain it and I don't even want to try. But, once again, God has shown up in a most timely fashion. Knowing that I would need the kindness of strangers at this juncture, He gave me a sweet-spirited waitress who never said a word, but simply smiled at me with compassion in her eyes while I ate my lunch in the Miami airport last Monday, crying the whole time. He provided an understanding Peruvian immigration officer who, when I explained that I was a missionary and requested a 90 day tourist visa (typically the longest one they issue), told me it would be best if I had a 6 month visa - "just in case." He put a kind-hearted woman at the LAN airlines counter who counted my luggage as part of the group checking in beside me so I wouldn't have to pay for my extra and overweight bags to fly from Lima to Iquitos. Yet most importantly, He placed me here in this jungle port city for the past three summers to develop the relationships that I would need to sustain me during my transition - Ina, Margarita, and Villa have gone so far above what is required of them to make me comfortable and to help me begin to feel like I am at home that I can never repay their kindness.

My first major lesson has been one of focus. I admit unabashedly that upon arrival I did not want to be here. Such feelings were difficult for me as I have always had a strong attachment to this place; I did not understand myself, but what I did understand was that I wanted to be on a northbound plane, headed straight back to Sparkle City, SC. I cried all day last Tuesday as I half-heartedly unpacked, tossing things in tandem into the closet, on the chair, across the bed; and I cried myself to sleep that night. The next morning, I cried again when Margarita showed up at El Jardin to give me the "gift" of the bank debit card. Being the absolutely wonderful woman that she is, she cried with me. Her words soothed me as she said she understood that I had come here at great sacrifice, but that she loves me, that her family is my family, that she will take care of me, and that September (and my first trip home) would arrive quickly. I am not exaggerating when I say the tears dried up immediately; my snap realization was that my focus was too large. Instead of thinking about getting through one day, one week, the 7 weeks of mission teams, then my return to the U.S. for an early fall visit, I was allowing myself to be overwhelmed by the idea of 3 years here. The nation of Israel learned a similar lesson when God refused to allow them to get swept away in the big picture by providing manna one day at a time.

I'm reminded of my favorite Laura Story song - the same song she sang to/for me during Westminster's Lay Renewal back in February - whose lyrics read, "…and You answer, "My child, I love you, and as long as you're seeking My face, you'll walk in the power of My daily sufficient grace." So at this point I'm only allowing myself to focus on today - no more, no less. If you do not own the daily devotional Streams in the Desert, by L.B. Cowman, get it. June 18th's entry spoke renewed life into me this week with these words: "Pay as little attention to discouragement as possible. Plow ahead like a steamship, which moves forward whether facing rough or smooth seas, and in rain or shine. Remember, the goal is simply to carry the cargo and to make it to port."

So, here I am. My path to this point has been nothing less than spectacular. To those who have taken this walk with me thus far, thank you; and to those who are joining me now, welcome. Hold on tight. You're in for the ride of your life.

A Week Later

Culture shock - the past week has redefined that term for me. Re-entering North American life has been more difficult this year than ever before. It has literally been a grieving process. I miss waking up to sunbeams on my face at 6 a.m., having coffee and quiet time in the screened porch room while absorbing the sheer beauty of the preserved jungle within the Jardin walls, running around getting the groups ready for a day with a sister church, sitting at the kitchen table updating my spreadsheets, planning dinners and going grocery shopping with Ina and Maria, sitting in my rocking chairs chatting with Villa, laying on my couch listening to the rain fall. I miss all these things and so much more about Iquitos.

So here I am, trying to adjust to a life I've always known. It feels strangely like I left home in Peru and am in a foreign place now.

Once again, I am totally dependent on God to lead me. If I am to live in Peru, He will open the doors, as He has done every step of the way for the past 6 years.

French Fries and Ketchup

Whether or not we pay attention to the Peruvians, they pay attention to us. I understood this when, out of the blue, Villa asked me why gringos like 'papas fritas' so much, and then he added, 'with lots of ketchup.' I couldn't offer a reasonable explanation (I could only laugh), but he helped me by saying gringos like french fries the way Peruvians like rice. It is a legitimate comparison. How funny that he would notice such a detail. I wonder what else he and many other Peruvians have noticed but not had the nerve to ask about.

At this point I have said my good-byes and begun the process of getting back to the States. The term 'gut-wrenching' pales in comparison to what I'm feeling. When I had the last of my things packed that are actually coming home with me, I walked into the kitchen to see Villa and Maria sitting outside in my rocking chairs while Ina fussed at the children for something or other. I had taken the time to fix my hair and put on a little make-up (something I rarely do there) and the first thing Villa said was, "en ingles, 'You are beautiful.'" I immediately burst into tears, not because of the sentiment, but because he said it in English then looked away. Maria and Ina cried with me; Villa wouldn't look at me because pools were beginning to collect in his eyes, and the macho in him wouldn't actually let him shed a tear (especially after asking me a few days earlier why women cry so much - another question for which I had no reasonable explanation). Minutes later the four of us and a slew of kids stood on the street corner just outside the Jardin gate saying how much we love each other and promising that the time would go by fast and soon it would be time for me to return.

I wish I could say I was able to collect myself after the motokar pulled away, but I would be lying. Maria insisted on accompanying me to the airport, which only made walking through the security gate that much harder. The whole crowd of people just stared at us - two women sobbing almost hysterically, holding onto each other for dear life. Everything in me wanted to tear up my boarding pass, turn around, get back in the motokar with her, and go straight back to the house. But it was not to be - this time…

The plane took off and I could barely see the jungle through my tears. I was leaving home.

Now, in transit, I want to go back home - not to my house in the States, but to the home I just left. I said in an earlier blog that the fear of moving to Iquitos to live and work was gone - that feeling was reaffirmed through my departure. I left most of my possessions at the Jardin. The only things I am bringing home are clothes. Somehow it creates a tangible connection to know that my personal stuff is still there, waiting for me when I get home again for my brief visit in November. Now I begin the process of praying and waiting for God to open the final doors for my move, as I know all too well that if I try to make things happen in my time rather than His, nothing good will come of it. I pray that He will move me soon.

For now, if I can't be in the jungle, I just want to hurry up and be in S.C. again. And I look forward to hugging and kissing my mom at the end of my journey...

T-Shirt Testimony

Nothing says 'gringo' like a group of white people standing on a street corner, looking both helpless and lost, yet not too lost because none of them need look very far to find another individual proudly sporting the exact same t-shirt advertising the love of God for all the Spanish-speaking world to read - in English. Does this mean I truly have become a local? Whatever it means, I couldn't help but chuckle to myself as I traversed the main thoroughfares of Iquitos running errands this morning; that's when I saw them. They stuck out like sore thumbs. Having just read a book on cross-cultural ministry (which I highly recommend in my 'Good Reads' section below) the thought occurred to me that, as Christians, we like to announce our presence, drawing as much attention to ourselves as possible, whether intentional or not. In our culture, t-shirts are cool, especially when they identify us as part of an elite group such as a sorority/fraternity, athletic organization, or, yes, a mission team. I'm certainly not bashing t-shirts, as I have been an avid collector myself in years past, but I am giving voice to a frustration I experience with greater frequency in direct proportion to the amount of time I live here that begs the question, 'Would Jesus wear a t-shirt?' Trite, I know, but valid nonetheless. Please forgive my cynicism - it is my current struggle. Have no fear, God is working it out in me in sometimes very painful ways, lest anyone would think my sarcasm is going unchecked!

Another truth that is becoming more and more apparent is that you can't really get to know people unless you can talk to them. I have been building relationships here for 7 years now and each time I return they are strengthened a little more, not by virtue of the fact that I am here, but because I have a greater ability to communicate than ever before. Learning Spanish and being able to sit down with people and have conversations without the aid of an interpreter has changed the dynamics of every relationship I have here. It has peeled away many layers of surface judgments (on both sides) to reveal the depths of the humanness of us all. For example, I went to Pastor German's house this week for what would be my final visit of the summer. Enith, her 3 daughters, and I all sat around the table laughing and talking about how we need to lose weight and how hard it is to do. At Maria's house for my farewell lunch, her husband excitedly showed me the trophy he'd received the previous weekend for winning a tournament with his, as he called it, 'old men's soccer team,' while her daughter described her agony as a mother whose 11 month old baby will be having surgery in Lima next week because she was born without bowels. At Margarita's house, during my surprise dinner last night, we laughed at her daughter talking about the boy she likes. Later I was fussed at for taking her daughter's side regarding the benefits of sleeping late, which Margarita says is just plain laziness. We take conversations like these for granted at home, because if we don't talk to people there, it's because we don't want to. But when you live in a foreign city with an unfamiliar language, you begin to realize how valuable little chats are to the process of relationship building.

I have relished the moments over this past week that I have been here alone, during which time I've been able to get outside the 'commercial district' (so to speak) of Iquitos and spend more time in the true neighborhoods, observing families going about their everyday lives. I have seen families all sitting down together at the dinner table, parents disciplining their children, little ones arguing over whose turn it is in a game of marbles on the sidewalk, and adults sitting in their rocking chairs enjoying the company of neighbors. I am eternally grateful for these opportunities, because they have been invitations into real life here, not just the practiced scenes acted out for groups of gringos (and, yes, as much as we like to think otherwise, during the one week per year that our mission teams are here, what they see are carefully rehearsed scripts which allow us, in some ways, to see what we want to see rather than what is real). But these are all things that one can't possibly begin to understand without coming here to live, minus the clock-breaking, arduous schedule the mission teams are on.

My light skin, blonde hair, and blue eyes belie the fact that I am not a native of Peru - I have no need of duplicated garments to announce my presence. And I don't ever want to yearn for or need an audience in a church to share my knowledge of and love for my Savior; I hope the simplest of my everyday words and actions indicate that my true home is not of this world. Nathan exemplifies this in his Peruvian legacy. During the course of his time as an intern here, he had a conversation with Villa and a few others in which they tried to convince him that it is acceptable to have girlfriends in addition to his wife. Without being the least bit judgmental, Nathan explained to them that he loves only one woman that way - his wife - and he is committed to her because he believes that is what God wants. It was a quick conversation with high impact; Villa has not stopped talking about it. I cannot count the number of times he has said to me, "Nathan really loves his wife." I've tried to follow that up by saying he should imitate Nathan and love his own wife to that degree. Whether he hears me or not, because I am a woman after all and naturally I would say that, he definitely heard Nathan. There was no t-shirt, no announcement that he was the gringo here to teach the ways of God to the unsuspecting locals, no showy church service - there was simply a conversation between two men in which one man set the example for the other in a non-condemning, yet convicting way. Nathan has taught me more than he realizes.

Certainly I have gained greater acceptance from the locals, because time, language, and a shared love for the culture is making me one of them. The gringo groups, however, who come here now as part of the Amazon Mission Fellowship are slowly beginning to reap the same benefits. I have watched returning individuals from all over South Carolina, West Virginia, Missouri, and Pennsylvania being embraced more openly this summer in their respective sister churches, because they are no longer participants in the 'get in, build something, get out' school of missions. Instead, they are choosing the messier, more difficult way; they are getting involved in the lives of those they seek to serve and by whom they are served. The road they are traveling now will absolutely have some rough spots - maybe more rough than smooth lengths - but aren't those stretches of unpaved, muddy, hole-laden road the ones that really teach us who we are, who those we live and work with are, and ultimately, most importantly, who God is?

No Water, a Strike, and the WPC Team

Two Monday's ago, after a long, hot day, I could already feel the warm water running over me as I prepared to take a shower. It was a feeling that was not to be, however, because when I turned the faucet there was no hot water; in fact, there was no cold water either. We were waterless. I grabbed my cell phone, called Villa and told him to get over here ASAP, which he did, but the news was not good once he arrived. It was 5:30 in the afternoon and there would be no more water at El Jardin until around 7:00 the following morning. It's not unusual to have water problems here from time to time - thankfully it was a week that Nathan and I were the only people living in the house; our guests were staying at the Hotel Maranon. Being the resourceful person that I am (as well as disgustingly dirty), I decided bottled water would have to do in this crisis. One bottle for soaping up, another for rinsing, and all the important places were clean until I could take a real shower on Tuesday.

(Photo - me, Todd, and Margarita)

That Wednesday the entire city shut down - no motokars were running, no businesses were open, the whole city was frozen - we were in the midst of a strike. The Saxe-Gotha ladies, Nathan, and I had hoped to continue working in the Iquitos church in spite of the strike, but as it turned out the morning was rainy, and when it is raining, there might as well be a strike, because most Peruvians aren't going anywhere. So the group spent the morning relaxing in their hotel until lunch time when Nathan and I walked to the hotel to get them. The streets were littered with shattered glass and other debris used for road blocks to keep any renegade motokar and motorcycle drivers from being able to get through; bonfires were also built in the middle of some of the streets as the people of Peru used the strike to air their grievances against the Peruvian federal government. Being the honorable people that they are, Ina, Maria, and Villa walked great distances to and from their homes that day to make sure we gringos were taken care of; I wonder how many of us would do the same…

Saturday, July 12 brought my Westminster mission team to town. What a treat to see those familiar faces emerge from the airport. Thus began a very busy week. Daily trips to Santa Clara included some incredible team devotion time, lead by Paul each morning, helping paint the church's exterior and windows, beginning an addition to the pastor's home which will house a screened-in kitchen and dining room for feeding the congregation, Bible school, playing with the children, nature walks, classes on being Presbyterian, and another round of spiritually stirring evening devotions. It was a perfect week - until Friday. At 7:15 a.m. I was standing at the hotel desk paying the final bill of the mission season, preparing to take my home team to the airport. This has been the year for flight problems, and today would be no different. I stepped out of my motokar only to be told that the 1:30 p.m. flight had been cancelled. Alice and I stood in line for what seemed like an eternity to get the group rebooked on the 6:10 p.m. flight to Lima so they could still make their connection to the U.S. at midnight. With a stack of passports and newly issued boarding passes in my hand, I lead my crew back to El Jardin for a luggage deposit and walk back to the Plaza de Armas for some lunch at the Antica Pizzeria. Shortly after 5 p.m. I kissed, hugged, and waved good-bye to my WPC team. Exhausted, I threw myself into one more motokar, nearly falling asleep on the ride home.

The weight of five consecutive weeks of mission teams descended on me; I was beyond thankful to go to bed that night without first setting my alarm for 6 a.m. I woke up just before 9 a.m. Saturday morning with the incredible feeling of being rested - a feeling I haven't had since I left home on June 9. After a bowl of the Peruvian version of Cocoa Puffs for breakfast, I sat down at my computer to catch up on the accounting that had piled up on my desk over the course of the past week. Ina and Maria arrived and began the unenviable chore of degreasing the kitchen and the gas grill after more than a month of continuous use. What happened next caught me completely off-guard

With my spread sheets as complete as they could be for the moment, I decided to get ahead in the packing process so the coming week wouldn't be so hectic, but as I pulled the suitcase out of storage, the flood gates opened and I collapsed onto my bedroom floor sobbing inconsolably. When I could breathe enough to talk, I called my mom, but by the time she answered I was crying so hard again that she couldn't understand a word I was saying. I blabbered to her for a few minutes and thought I had gotten myself together, but when I walked outside to pay Ina and Maria for the final time this summer I fell apart again. Being the true, considerate women that they are, they cried with me, assuring me that as long as they were alive I would always have someone to take care of me here, that they would count the days until I got back in November, and that they would be praying for the day when I didn't have to leave anymore.

Now, don't get me wrong, I knew leaving was going to be emotional; however, I did not expect the emotion to kick in until closer to my departure time. I think it is probably best if I bring this blog post to an end for now, because I really need to sleep tonight without being a congested, snotty mess, which will be the case sooner than later if I continue talking about this right now. (Photo - Tammy, or Tamicita as I call her, my Peruvian pup, napping outside the kitchen door)

Crazy Weeks

Life in the jungle has been extremely busy for the past two weeks. Last week's group required my constant attention and so does this week's group. Of course this week's crowd is my own WPC group and I'd much rather spend my time with them than sitting at a computer. We've had an absolutely fabulous week in Santa Clara so far. El Jardin is currently enjoying one big week-long pajama party as all the girls are living with me, while the boys reside in the hotel.

The Westminster crowd heads home on Friday afternoon, so soon I'll have more time to think, reflect, and write. There is a sadness to their leaving - not that they are leaving, though I will miss them; but, their departure is a warning bell that my time here is almost up.

Hopefully those of you who have become blog addicts will forgive me for taking so long to post again - but hang on, help is on the way this weekend!

Hasta el fin de la semana...

Day from Hell

Saturday, July 5 - 5:30 a.m. I am supposed to already be on a motokar headed to the airport with the departing group to get them on their flight. Instead, I sit straight up in my bed upon hearing Nathan knocking, telling me to wake up. I won't tell you exactly what I muttered to myself when, through the fog of interrupted dreams, it registered with me that I had overslept. Not to worry, though. Nathan had already put the five people staying here at the Jardin on motokars and was headed to the hotel to get the others. I threw on some clothes, swished a little Listerine around in my mouth in an attempt to kill the worst part of my morning breath, spit it out on the ground as I went out the gate, and off to the airport I went.

Here is what was 'supposed' to happen: Nathan and I would drop off one group (wait for them to get their boarding passes and say our good-byes), then run outside to pick up the incoming group. We would deposit the 'newbies' at the hotel until lunch time and return to the Jardin for a little morning siesta ourselves.

Here is what 'actually' happened: The Huntington, WV group checked their luggage, received their boarding passes, and bid us farewell. Nathan and I watched them pass through the security gate. We went outside, awaiting the arrival of the Saxe-Gotha group from Columbia, SC (they were disembarking the plane the others were to return to Lima on). We heard the plane approaching, then we saw it pull up, circle around, and disappear; it was too foggy to land. Immediately we go back inside the airport to retrieve the group to whom we said 'adios' only moments earlier. After standing in line for what seemed like an eternity, we learned that they had been rebooked on the 9 p.m. flight. WHAT??? Tired and frustrated, we picked up their luggage, put them all on motokars, and headed back to the Jardin. All the while my anxiety level is escalating because I am worried for the four people who were supposed to get off the plane that never landed. None of them have been to Peru before and I panicked for them, hoping they would just follow the crowd once they were back in Lima, get rebooked, and make the best of an uncontrollable situation.

Meanwhile, no one has eaten breakfast and it is nearly 9:30 a.m. at this point. So most of the group headed out to a restaurant for brunch, while others opted for more sleep in any space deemed suitable for propping up at the Jardin. Ina and I began stripping the beds, collecting dirty towels, sweeping, mopping, and cleaning bathrooms. There were a million things to do and I was trying to figure out how to accomplish it all with 13 unanticipated people underfoot. Nathan and I went to the Lan Airlines office to find out what flight our Saxe-Gotha group was rescheduled on, I swung by the restaurant to pay the bill, and returned to the house to continue the day's work. Ashley, the Huntington group's translator, went back to the airport just prior to the 1 p.m. flight to try to bargain their way onto the outgoing plane. She was successful in getting one person on it. At 4:30, the rest of us return to the airport. Ashley is still bargaining and manages to get five more people on the 6 p.m. flight, leaving seven of them still here. Bill, their trip leader has my cell phone and is talking to every known American Airlines and Travelocity representative on the planet trying to get the seven of them rebooked, because they are going to miss their flight from Lima to the U.S. Nathan and I stand outside waiting for our S.C. group - only two of them emerge from the airport. As it would happen, the other two managed to get on an earlier flight, unbeknownst to us, and are already at the hotel. Nathan rides the van with the two S.C. ladies, and I stay at the airport with the final Huntington seven until it is time for them to board the plane, after which I race to the restaurant where Nathan has taken the current group for dinner. It is 9:17 p.m. After dinner, we get Tammy, Julie, Sylvia, and Ken settled for the evening, and Nathan and I finally head home. Nathan isn't feeling well, so he loads himself up with cold medicine and goes to bed. As a means of releasing some of the tension and anxiety of the day, I do a little more house cleaning, since I'm still too wound up to go to bed. The one thing I can say for the Huntington group is that they were troopers; in spite of their plans being totally interrupted, they endured the day and the constantly changing travel arrangements with grace and patience. If I had to be in limbo with anyone, I couldn't have asked for a better bunch.

Just minutes after 11 p.m. I am sitting on the edge of my bed, setting my alarm clock, when my cell phone rings. Margarita is on the other end and she is frantic. She is around the block at the Fanning house (one of our rental properties) and tells me I need to come immediately. With no time to get out of my pajamas and into regular clothes, I step into my flip-flops, grab my keys, and out the gate I go, traipsing into the middle of the raucous crowd of teenagers who hang out on the corner every night, drinking at the bodega across the street, hoping none of them decides to accost me. I round the corner past the church and see two large tree branches lying on the sidewalk. As I get closer, I can see enormous scrape marks down the front of the building and the sidewalk is further littered with chunks of stucco. As it would happen, a 15 year old kid (most likely drunk) lost control of his car and plowed into the front door of our rental property. Margarita and I stand there and talk with Mr. Meza before hopping a motokar to the police station where they've already impounded the wrecked car and arrested the driver. Let me tell you, now THAT'S an interesting place to be at midnight on a Saturday night! As for the Fanning house - I'll have to let you know after a trip to the lawyer's office.

The clock glows 1:12 a.m. as my head hits the pillow. I start laughing as I think back over the day that was doomed from the beginning. Three trips to the airport, two different groups in limbo, and a car through the front door. That's when it happened - I heard a voice speaking. In my head? Out loud? In my spirit? I don't know for sure, but it was an audible voice and I recognized it, because I've heard it before - always at major turning points in my life since I decided to follow Jesus. Two simple words were all I heard: "It's time." I've known for six years now that the Lord was calling me to serve here. When I've allowed myself to actually think about living in another country, I've become frozen with fear. Other missionaries I've talked to have always told me not to worry, because when the time was right - the Lord's time, that is - I would know and I would no longer be afraid. They were right. I still don't know the exact time table for when I will quit teaching and come to live here; it may be as soon as next summer. But the fear is gone, and I know that with the Lord's help, nothing is impossible. How ironic that my moment of clarity came at the end of a day of uncertainty, full of events that were completely and totally outside my realm of control.