As a follow up to the last chapter I put up, I wanted to share with you a few of the things some ladies have said on a private group I’m part of that is made up of a few of us who’ve recently returned from the same area that we worked in. I hope you can see the continuity of the feelings most of us are sharing and journeying through together. I thought each reflection speaks clearly to the struggles those who have served overseas face day after day that I’ve previously written about. Moreover, the similarities are so striking- the lack of deep friendships, the shallowness of most relationships and encounters here in the States, and the difficulty in defining our new roles as we set out on a new path.
“Some of my current difficulties would be: the American timetable (people are overscheduled and events are just so SHORT! Missing the Central Asian lengthy hospitality. . .), missing our history - being known and knowing others, being part of a large staff which means lots of policy and less flexibility, the high cost of living here, feeling unsure of my new role and how I want to define it…”
“We each have our days of sadness and loneliness. For me, I missing deep friendships...and haven't seen "potential" friends for me yet, but I know God has them for me...My biggest prayer request is for Abby. She seems to be having the most culture shock and trouble breaking into a group. So hard to watch as a mother...”
“That would be my low point- along with the other she mentioned: the total lack of deep friendships. I miss the transparency that came with the "hardness" of being on the field, the dependency on each other for needs, etc...”
“Also, periodically waves of "homesickness" will strike me at the weirdest times. I was really enjoying worshipping at church this Sunday, but then a wave of sadness from missing KZ came over me from out of nowhere. I also really miss the deep friendships I had on the field that were built over years of life together. There are some wonderful and amazing women here, but it just takes time to go to those places with them.”
Interesting, no?
Anyway, onto a new topic:
I’m not sure all over-seas workers would agree with me, but for our family the hardest part of being on the field was getting TO the field. The process that most of us who chose to work abroad in our capacity went through is one that most who are sending and supporting never hear about. They hear about the excitement of learning about the country they are going to, the foods they get to eat, and perhaps the vaccinations they are getting for the rare and fatal diseases they may encounter while gone, but what the vast majority doesn’t hear about is the years spent satisfying various academic requirements demanded by sending agencies, both the local church and the larger sending agency, the painful process of pulling away from family and friendships, or the prolonged season of waiting- waiting until those said requirements are fulfilled, waiting until all the support actually comes in, not just pledged, waiting for a house to sell or rent, waiting for job situations to open on the field. They will likely never hear about buying children’s clothing years in advance; choosing and buying school work, which may or may not be right for each student 3 years later; and even the smaller, seemingly less important, stuff like Christmas gifts meant for years down the road and last minute thank you gifts for those who promise to pray and give.
Something surely those who don’t go will never hear about is the process of selection. First off, let me be clear, being an overseas worker is a high calling, and certainly not one to be taken lightly. The costs need to be counted (but as I’ve already talked about, there are some that are hidden and can’t be counted before leaving) and there are prices to be paid. Therefore, it is wise and prudent that there are those who will hold those considering going to a high standard and be there to guide them through the long journey of going. But for a minute, let me shed some light on what that actually means. Remember the title of this series is: “The Hard Work of Living Overseas”; but perhaps this one should be titled “The Hard Work of Leaving for Overseas”.
Any reputable sending agency will make sure those going out have the tools to “make it” out there in tough, lonely, isolated situations. I can’t speak for all companies out there, but ours made sure that not one or two, but several psych batteries were done on us. It was totally nerve-wracking to know that a psychiatrist would not only soon be looking at those results, but that you would be sitting across from his desk in an office with your spouse and be subjected to HIGHLY personal questions about everything from your free time, to thought life, to intimacy with your mate. Really.
Our personalities were scrutinized and categorized, our family was watched, and we sat through no less than 10 interviews over the course of 2 years. Every aspect of our medical history was unfolded, and some things had to be revealed that you would never even share with your best friend. Our bank accounts and financial histories were uncovered and put on record to prove that we were fiscally responsible and honest and references were gathered from all areas of our lives. Really.
Every door that opened meant that another had to begin to close on our lives as we knew them here. One common self-preservation technique is to begin to pull away from the relationships you have to say good-bye to, including family and long time friends. Although everyone knows it’s not for forever, (or was it?) the frequency of contact and dynamics of those friendships began to change. Instead of, “Hey, let’s get together Friday night”, it’s, “We’ll make sure to write often, ok.” (And only a miniscule percentage of those who say that actually will.) Painful goodbyes on the front end of our service were just as pervasive. Leaving a house we’d lived in and loved for 10 years was hard work; leaving behind our earthly goods except what would fit in 20 Rubbermaid tubs was hard work (it’s not so much anymore- living light is something we learned to do well.); and standing there sobbing in the airport and halfway to Germany because you just broke your mother’s heart was hard work. Really, hard.
Let’s talk about support-raising. Living on the generosity of others is an incredible way to strengthen one’s faith, but does it ever take hard work! Hundreds of hours were spent typing up letters, making informational packets, and making phone calls. Really, it’s much like running a business. For those of you who’ve started up a company you know how hard that is. Being well taken care of by God through others is VERY rewarding, yet can be so exhausting. Month after month, we’d wonder if there’d be enough to cover the bills, and feel the weight of the responsibility of spending every dollar wisely; and of course you can’t please everyone all the time.
Of course, we did make it out to where God would have us be for almost 10 years, and looking back I doubt I would trade any of the “hard” of getting there; it prepared us well, strengthened our faith, and helped us succeed in a unique niche created just for us for that time.
Until next time…. Go pray for someone who you said you would.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Saturday, September 10, 2011
9/11 From My Perspective~ By Bekahroo
While I was talking with one of my best friends the other night via chat, the subject of 9/11 came up. That conversation has inspired this post.
He described it as “a day of hell for all of us.”
So what was it like for me, an eight year old, living overseas when 9/11 happened? I’ll try and explain it to you as best I can.
It started with a late phone call from our teammates, telling Mom and Dad to hurry over to their apartment as fast as they could get there. Something terrible, and world changing had happened, but we weren’t told what it was at that time. The next day, we four kids were told to go to our friends’ house instead of getting in a taxi and going to school like we usually did. We walked across town to play. But our play was strained for reasons untold. The adults were strangely quiet and worried. Oh well, my eight year old mind wondered something like “they must be tired.” I went back to playing. We had internet only for e-mailing, very limited phone service (and none that was untapped), and no TV. A few days later, I still I knew nothing aside from the fact that something truly horrific and terrifying had happened.
Eventually, Mom and Dad shared some details, and for the next few months everything was tense. It felt like a thunderstorm was about to unleash its vehemence upon the entire world. We took extra care to lock all the doors and windows. Despite the bars on the windows, we felt insecure. Police presence and “secret agents” followed us everywhere. We could hear other people’s voices on our phone lines. We didn’t know what sort of backlashes we would go through. How would our host country friends treat us after this? How would our American friends treat us? Would we be forced to leave our new home?
Then, 3 long months later, a friend and teammate went separately, and to different places, to conferences and brought back a few Time magazines with pictures full of flames, fear, hate, anger, and bereavement. I remember beholding the glossy pages with a horrified astonishment. It was mind boggling for a mere 8 year old. I couldn’t understand why someone would want to do such a thing, causing so much death, fear, and anger in a far away country. I only understand that they did. I kept hearing things that told me those planes had lit more than buildings on fire. They’d been the sparks for the flames of war against a Muslim country closer to us than America. They’d lit a deep, soul shaking fear in most Americans of anything connected with Islam or the East. They’d lit a hate for Muslims for what they’d done. But I felt no connection to this emotion.
What were the effects on me personally? To be bluntly honest, there weren’t many effects. I was spared the agony of watching my country be shaken like a mouse in a cat’s mouth. Being so removed from the emotion of the travesty, I couldn’t pick up on any of it. There was none where I lived to pick up on. It was all removed from my family, unlike my aunt who lives in Washington DC, and saw the smoke from the Pentagon and lost a neighbor that day. No, I was more than 6,000 miles away. I smelled no smoke, felt no fear, nor saw the death that resulted. Maybe this sparing was something good for me, or maybe not. I don’t know.
A long-term effect of this event in history is a part of my adjustment back into American culture. The same friend I quoted at the beginning of the post also said, “That for you and me and our generation, 9/11 is our Pearl Harbor.” This is true; every generation goes through a world-changing event. Not being able to connect to the “Pearl Harbor” of my generation has impeded my abilities to connect to the people on this level. Another good friend of mine put this issue to words better than I can by saying “you want to feel like it's yours, but can't quite get there, and it leaves a hole on top of all the hole that's already there… It's hard for you to relate to people who don't have to deal with the same daily struggles.” 9/11 may not be an every day struggle, but it is not a shared one either.
He described it as “a day of hell for all of us.”
So what was it like for me, an eight year old, living overseas when 9/11 happened? I’ll try and explain it to you as best I can.
It started with a late phone call from our teammates, telling Mom and Dad to hurry over to their apartment as fast as they could get there. Something terrible, and world changing had happened, but we weren’t told what it was at that time. The next day, we four kids were told to go to our friends’ house instead of getting in a taxi and going to school like we usually did. We walked across town to play. But our play was strained for reasons untold. The adults were strangely quiet and worried. Oh well, my eight year old mind wondered something like “they must be tired.” I went back to playing. We had internet only for e-mailing, very limited phone service (and none that was untapped), and no TV. A few days later, I still I knew nothing aside from the fact that something truly horrific and terrifying had happened.
Eventually, Mom and Dad shared some details, and for the next few months everything was tense. It felt like a thunderstorm was about to unleash its vehemence upon the entire world. We took extra care to lock all the doors and windows. Despite the bars on the windows, we felt insecure. Police presence and “secret agents” followed us everywhere. We could hear other people’s voices on our phone lines. We didn’t know what sort of backlashes we would go through. How would our host country friends treat us after this? How would our American friends treat us? Would we be forced to leave our new home?
Then, 3 long months later, a friend and teammate went separately, and to different places, to conferences and brought back a few Time magazines with pictures full of flames, fear, hate, anger, and bereavement. I remember beholding the glossy pages with a horrified astonishment. It was mind boggling for a mere 8 year old. I couldn’t understand why someone would want to do such a thing, causing so much death, fear, and anger in a far away country. I only understand that they did. I kept hearing things that told me those planes had lit more than buildings on fire. They’d been the sparks for the flames of war against a Muslim country closer to us than America. They’d lit a deep, soul shaking fear in most Americans of anything connected with Islam or the East. They’d lit a hate for Muslims for what they’d done. But I felt no connection to this emotion.
What were the effects on me personally? To be bluntly honest, there weren’t many effects. I was spared the agony of watching my country be shaken like a mouse in a cat’s mouth. Being so removed from the emotion of the travesty, I couldn’t pick up on any of it. There was none where I lived to pick up on. It was all removed from my family, unlike my aunt who lives in Washington DC, and saw the smoke from the Pentagon and lost a neighbor that day. No, I was more than 6,000 miles away. I smelled no smoke, felt no fear, nor saw the death that resulted. Maybe this sparing was something good for me, or maybe not. I don’t know.
A long-term effect of this event in history is a part of my adjustment back into American culture. The same friend I quoted at the beginning of the post also said, “That for you and me and our generation, 9/11 is our Pearl Harbor.” This is true; every generation goes through a world-changing event. Not being able to connect to the “Pearl Harbor” of my generation has impeded my abilities to connect to the people on this level. Another good friend of mine put this issue to words better than I can by saying “you want to feel like it's yours, but can't quite get there, and it leaves a hole on top of all the hole that's already there… It's hard for you to relate to people who don't have to deal with the same daily struggles.” 9/11 may not be an every day struggle, but it is not a shared one either.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
****Warning!****
As with last week's post this one also deals with mature subject matter and is not meant for those who are squeamish or sensitive. It is a first hand account of a tragic story with adult themes. I have tried to be very careful in my wording and description, but make no apologies for introducing some of the "hardest" work for us to you.
**********************************************************************
Last time I dealt with the very, very hard work of facing the emotional drain of raising kids overseas and seeing them struggle when returning home; today I’d like to talk about the hard work of ministering in a culture that is completely devoid of the value of women and to speak to the horrific pain and grief they deal with every day. Often times the effort that goes into this kind of work can be so overwhelming that it leaves one feeling physically drained and run down… let me explain what I mean.
I can only speak to the situation in our host country, but have heard that this kind of behavior exists all over that part of the world. So I think I can say that what I’m about to describe is widespread and very real. If you are squeamish or sensitive, please be warned that the following paragraphs will not be easy to read, and will perhaps be so utterly foreign that they will be hard to comprehend. The following stories (I’ll share a few over the next few weeks) were gathered from firsthand sources of very close friends of ours- those with whom we spent much of our time counseling, praying with, and mentoring.
“Gretchen” was perhaps one of my dearest friends. We spent many hours a day with each other, and over the years she opened her life story to me, partly to share as friends do, but also to help me understand the culture we lived in better. She was, in what overseas workers’ circles call it, my “culture broker”. As a young girl of 18, she had just finished “college” where she was trained to be a repairwoman of train cars. Her job would be to replace things like lightbulbs, repaint the sleeping cars, sew new curtains, etc… She never made it as far as getting a job in her field- which she had absolutely zero say in choosing in the first place. With most things in life there, you do what you are told without questioning authority, especially if you are a woman.
Late one night while walking home with some girlfriends, a car pulled up beside them. Two young men got out of the car, picked her up, and put her in. She was driven to one of the young man’s parent’s home where she was raped and basically held prisoner. The man who’d taken her as his wife had seen her on a few occasions and knew her a bit through mutual friends. There was no prior relationship or friendship.
Eventually, her parents were called and were told that the family would like to bring a tidy sum for the bride price of several animals and money to them for her. The option of her going home was non-existent, so she was bought like a piece of property. The shame of her being “stained” was too great for her own family to welcome her back, so there she was stuck in a remote village with no one she knew, no way out, the trauma of being assaulted on every level, and having to bear the burden of being thrust into the role of wife overnight.
Let me insert a paragraph here before I continue her story about the statistics of this exact same scenario playing out all over the country we were in. We’ve been told by anthropological researchers that studied this area that upwards of 80% of marriages begin precisely like this. But even before that, around 75% of young girls are subjected to incest in their own homes by relatives or friends of the family. So you can see that violence is no stranger to the women we dealt directly with every day. Most of this is suffered in silence as it is seen as a great shame and burden to these young girls. The blame is placed on them, and for their entire lives they feel dirty, unforgiven, and hopeless.
Over the next months, she becomes basically what amounts to the “slave” of her mother-in-law. Her days began at 4:00 AM when she was told to get up and begin the job of making the morning breakfast/tea for the family. That included making bread, tending the samovar ( a tea urn that is heated with a fire in the center pipe), and setting up the low table with seating pads around it, with jams, butter, bread, and perhaps leftovers from the night before. After her early start, her day moves on to include ALL the laundry done by hand, cooking at least 3 more meals, shopping at the bazaar, and caring for the older sister-in-laws’ children if necessary. Day after day after day. By tradition, this young woman will not be allowed to see her own family for about a year while she is “trained” by her mother-in-law. If she is the wife of the youngest son (which my friend was) she has a special title in the family, and although not translated as such, carries the meaning of “slave”. If she is a worthy wife a young bride will get pregnant right away, which my friend did. Now, not only was she saddled with feeling horrible from being overworked, lonely, shamed, and violated, she was made to continue all her normal chores and workload. By being beaten.
Not long after this barbarian stole his bride, he began to follow the cultural norm and took up drinking- heavily. Entire aisles of the shops are lined with bottles of wheat in the form of clear liquid; vodka, the decided choice of beverage among all citizens, but mostly men. With drinking comes violence in many cases, and for reasons far too complicated to go into here, the men of our host culture almost always took out their violence and anger on their wives. Black eyes, bruises, and even more serious injuries were VERY common to see and no one talked about them because once again, those were “her fault”. My friend had more than her share of this abuse, and put up with far more than any human being should ever have to.
Eventually, it was time for her to deliver her child, and in those days, as it continues to be today, the mother was checked into the hospital. There she was strapped down, gagged, and then berated for showing any sign of weakness or pain throughout the process of having her baby. The archaic medical system is unsafe for all involved and some cases deadly, as it was for her child that day. For some reason which was never explained, the baby’s neck was broken at delivery; she was never shown the child or allowed to hold and grieve over its body. Of course she grieved quietly, alone. But wounds such as those never quite heal.
After another year of living hell, she decided she had had enough. She somehow managed to call her parents, they took pity on her and came and got her with a few male relatives of her own. At that point, she was nearly useless to the groom’s family since she had not yet borne them a male baby, and clearly he did not love, or even like her, anyway. They let her go without too much fuss, but by then the damage was already done.
I wish I could say this was an isolated case of horror, but I cannot. We personally knew no fewer than 10 women who endured this exact same scenario (minus the tragic death of her infant), and this particular friend actually was stolen twice-once more not long after she got home from the first marriage. Her daughter from the second marriage was my girls’ best friend over there. That marriage too ended with divorce and brokenness.
So now you know the kind of deep hurt that most women where we lived and worked harbored. To bring a message of hope to those who had not heard the Good News yet was nearly impossible- the walls they had built around themselves to protect and hide behind were so high and thick they were almost impenetrable. There were others though who had a Living Hope within, but breaking the bonds of grief, resentment, pain and distrust were continual subjects of prayer in our work with them. To sit and listen to stories like these was certainly hard work, and work we are gladly taking a break from!
As with last week's post this one also deals with mature subject matter and is not meant for those who are squeamish or sensitive. It is a first hand account of a tragic story with adult themes. I have tried to be very careful in my wording and description, but make no apologies for introducing some of the "hardest" work for us to you.
**********************************************************************
Last time I dealt with the very, very hard work of facing the emotional drain of raising kids overseas and seeing them struggle when returning home; today I’d like to talk about the hard work of ministering in a culture that is completely devoid of the value of women and to speak to the horrific pain and grief they deal with every day. Often times the effort that goes into this kind of work can be so overwhelming that it leaves one feeling physically drained and run down… let me explain what I mean.
I can only speak to the situation in our host country, but have heard that this kind of behavior exists all over that part of the world. So I think I can say that what I’m about to describe is widespread and very real. If you are squeamish or sensitive, please be warned that the following paragraphs will not be easy to read, and will perhaps be so utterly foreign that they will be hard to comprehend. The following stories (I’ll share a few over the next few weeks) were gathered from firsthand sources of very close friends of ours- those with whom we spent much of our time counseling, praying with, and mentoring.
“Gretchen” was perhaps one of my dearest friends. We spent many hours a day with each other, and over the years she opened her life story to me, partly to share as friends do, but also to help me understand the culture we lived in better. She was, in what overseas workers’ circles call it, my “culture broker”. As a young girl of 18, she had just finished “college” where she was trained to be a repairwoman of train cars. Her job would be to replace things like lightbulbs, repaint the sleeping cars, sew new curtains, etc… She never made it as far as getting a job in her field- which she had absolutely zero say in choosing in the first place. With most things in life there, you do what you are told without questioning authority, especially if you are a woman.
Late one night while walking home with some girlfriends, a car pulled up beside them. Two young men got out of the car, picked her up, and put her in. She was driven to one of the young man’s parent’s home where she was raped and basically held prisoner. The man who’d taken her as his wife had seen her on a few occasions and knew her a bit through mutual friends. There was no prior relationship or friendship.
Eventually, her parents were called and were told that the family would like to bring a tidy sum for the bride price of several animals and money to them for her. The option of her going home was non-existent, so she was bought like a piece of property. The shame of her being “stained” was too great for her own family to welcome her back, so there she was stuck in a remote village with no one she knew, no way out, the trauma of being assaulted on every level, and having to bear the burden of being thrust into the role of wife overnight.
Let me insert a paragraph here before I continue her story about the statistics of this exact same scenario playing out all over the country we were in. We’ve been told by anthropological researchers that studied this area that upwards of 80% of marriages begin precisely like this. But even before that, around 75% of young girls are subjected to incest in their own homes by relatives or friends of the family. So you can see that violence is no stranger to the women we dealt directly with every day. Most of this is suffered in silence as it is seen as a great shame and burden to these young girls. The blame is placed on them, and for their entire lives they feel dirty, unforgiven, and hopeless.
Over the next months, she becomes basically what amounts to the “slave” of her mother-in-law. Her days began at 4:00 AM when she was told to get up and begin the job of making the morning breakfast/tea for the family. That included making bread, tending the samovar ( a tea urn that is heated with a fire in the center pipe), and setting up the low table with seating pads around it, with jams, butter, bread, and perhaps leftovers from the night before. After her early start, her day moves on to include ALL the laundry done by hand, cooking at least 3 more meals, shopping at the bazaar, and caring for the older sister-in-laws’ children if necessary. Day after day after day. By tradition, this young woman will not be allowed to see her own family for about a year while she is “trained” by her mother-in-law. If she is the wife of the youngest son (which my friend was) she has a special title in the family, and although not translated as such, carries the meaning of “slave”. If she is a worthy wife a young bride will get pregnant right away, which my friend did. Now, not only was she saddled with feeling horrible from being overworked, lonely, shamed, and violated, she was made to continue all her normal chores and workload. By being beaten.
Not long after this barbarian stole his bride, he began to follow the cultural norm and took up drinking- heavily. Entire aisles of the shops are lined with bottles of wheat in the form of clear liquid; vodka, the decided choice of beverage among all citizens, but mostly men. With drinking comes violence in many cases, and for reasons far too complicated to go into here, the men of our host culture almost always took out their violence and anger on their wives. Black eyes, bruises, and even more serious injuries were VERY common to see and no one talked about them because once again, those were “her fault”. My friend had more than her share of this abuse, and put up with far more than any human being should ever have to.
Eventually, it was time for her to deliver her child, and in those days, as it continues to be today, the mother was checked into the hospital. There she was strapped down, gagged, and then berated for showing any sign of weakness or pain throughout the process of having her baby. The archaic medical system is unsafe for all involved and some cases deadly, as it was for her child that day. For some reason which was never explained, the baby’s neck was broken at delivery; she was never shown the child or allowed to hold and grieve over its body. Of course she grieved quietly, alone. But wounds such as those never quite heal.
After another year of living hell, she decided she had had enough. She somehow managed to call her parents, they took pity on her and came and got her with a few male relatives of her own. At that point, she was nearly useless to the groom’s family since she had not yet borne them a male baby, and clearly he did not love, or even like her, anyway. They let her go without too much fuss, but by then the damage was already done.
I wish I could say this was an isolated case of horror, but I cannot. We personally knew no fewer than 10 women who endured this exact same scenario (minus the tragic death of her infant), and this particular friend actually was stolen twice-once more not long after she got home from the first marriage. Her daughter from the second marriage was my girls’ best friend over there. That marriage too ended with divorce and brokenness.
So now you know the kind of deep hurt that most women where we lived and worked harbored. To bring a message of hope to those who had not heard the Good News yet was nearly impossible- the walls they had built around themselves to protect and hide behind were so high and thick they were almost impenetrable. There were others though who had a Living Hope within, but breaking the bonds of grief, resentment, pain and distrust were continual subjects of prayer in our work with them. To sit and listen to stories like these was certainly hard work, and work we are gladly taking a break from!
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
*** Warning ***
This is not a feel-good, sugar coated post. This is from a deeper place of the heart, but if you know, support, love, correspond with, or are interested in an overseas worker, please, read with a commitment to pray for them more. Again, I am NOT writing these things to garner your sympathy or make you feel pity for us. I just want to offer a perspective on those who've given a portion of their lives to living and working overseas that you may not have thought about like this before.
Thank you for reading!!
**************************************************8
“An overseas worker’s life is one of perpetual grief”, someone once told me. Not the trouble kind of grief like when your dishwasher goes out, or the doctor’s office keeps hounding you for payment, but the heart-wrenching grief that comes with loss- over, and over, and over again. We did not experience this kind of grief-inducing loss the first time until around our 1st year when we went to our first out-of-country conference.
The kids had a wonderful, Spirit-filled week making new friends who “got it”. Ones they could talk for hours with about eating disgusting food with a smile on their faces, who understood what each other was going through in the painful process of learning how to do things all over- learning new rules, new customs, going without the luxuries they’d come from… all that. They laughed together, played in the pool, prayed for each other, sang familiar songs together, and then… cried together when it was time to say good-bye.
It wasn’t the kind of good-bye that comes with a “see you later”; in our world, you never, ever knew if you’d see that someone again. There was always the hope that they (and you) would be back to the next year’s conference, and in between there might be e-mails or a VERY occasional phone call, other than that, the kids were left with a photo or two, memories stored and treasured in their hearts, and a great ache in their soul.
This happened year after year after year. Sometimes Providence would indeed send a few of the same faces, but more often than not, the cycle would start over again; more good-byes, more pain, more scars. These are the things your overseas workers often never talk about. If I were to be brutally honest, I’d have to say that many are too afraid of their supporter’s (or family’s) reactions; sometimes they are an honest assessment, sometimes completely unfounded. Either way, the sad reality is that a lot of the pain never gets talked about outside the “agency family”- these are the things you will likely never hear directly from them.
The topic of “hard work” has so, so many facets- some of it is just plain hard physically, and that’s the easy stuff to adjust to over time. It becomes a new reality and, after a while, doesn’t seem so hard. The vastly harder work of living overseas is seeing your kids suffer the pain of loss, and trying to be a comfort when you’re attempting to deal with that same pain yourself.
With the permission of my older daughters, who are the ones who most acutely feel the sting of loss, I am able to share a bit of our struggles. Sometimes, overseas workers are not even aware of the extent of how deeply their children are affected until their return. I guess for some of us, we don’t recognize the scope of their feelings until the tears flow… sometimes months, and now even a year later- some things are just too painful to lose, or face, or change.
After some discussions lately on what triggers the deep-seated feelings of grief, we’ve identified a few. One is the very real feeling of having “divided” loyalties. They simply don’t feel entirely at home in either world, and at the same time are comfortable in either. Whereas some things they see as detestable in their current “world”, other things that most of their peers see as strange or “weird” is perfectly normal and part of who they are. Of course, as their parents we see a lot of good in this, but they are definitely feeling the pull on their hearsts to have the best of both worlds in their here and now, yet knowing that will never be.
They understand this outsided-ness they deal with day to day, and another thing that brings them sadness is the general lack of interest in a lot of the people around them to want to broaden their worldview. One thing we were warned to do when returning was to prepare a 1 minute, a 3 minute and a 30 minute answer to , “So how was your time over there?” 99% of the people who ask that really don’t care so much about the lives you helped bring change to, nor how it really changed us, so we find ourselves giving the 1 minute answer before the other person moves on to the weather, the latest sitcom, or the NFL scores. Learning about another worldview seems automatically discharged as heathen or “wrong” even if the Word of God gives room for a culture to have other priorities and values than what we currently embrace this week or year. It is frustrating to see such narrow-mindedness and unwillingness to at least entertain the thought that other cultures have some pretty amazing ideas and beautiful traditions.
Perhaps the most painful thing they face is the feeling that some of their good-byes were incomplete. Admittedly, in those last few weeks and days, there was simply not enough time to say farewell individually to each person, place and thing we wanted to. You may find it surprising that “places” are on that list, but it is likely that those beloved places they played in, shared friendships in, or even escaped danger from will likely never be seen again. And as many times as you say goodbye to your childhood pet, it’s just never enough times, is it?
To offer an example, one time a boy of about 13 was asked in a group to tell where he was from. His reply, given with a sarcastic "pffft", "Like you mean, where we were born, or where we're living right now, or where we lived before this....?" Obviously these kids have a real lack of rootedness and will often have wanderlust for their entire adult lives.
A life of grief- I think that’s a pretty accurate term to describe the one overseas workers lead. Of course, the pain will fade over time, but the scars will remain forever. They make us who we are, and we have a story to share made up of all those things we faced for 10 years. And it goes without saying that in that patchwork of our stories a weft of joy, victory, blessing, and perspective. The Lord knows what we store in our hearts and dwells there within!!
This is not a feel-good, sugar coated post. This is from a deeper place of the heart, but if you know, support, love, correspond with, or are interested in an overseas worker, please, read with a commitment to pray for them more. Again, I am NOT writing these things to garner your sympathy or make you feel pity for us. I just want to offer a perspective on those who've given a portion of their lives to living and working overseas that you may not have thought about like this before.
Thank you for reading!!
**************************************************8
“An overseas worker’s life is one of perpetual grief”, someone once told me. Not the trouble kind of grief like when your dishwasher goes out, or the doctor’s office keeps hounding you for payment, but the heart-wrenching grief that comes with loss- over, and over, and over again. We did not experience this kind of grief-inducing loss the first time until around our 1st year when we went to our first out-of-country conference.
The kids had a wonderful, Spirit-filled week making new friends who “got it”. Ones they could talk for hours with about eating disgusting food with a smile on their faces, who understood what each other was going through in the painful process of learning how to do things all over- learning new rules, new customs, going without the luxuries they’d come from… all that. They laughed together, played in the pool, prayed for each other, sang familiar songs together, and then… cried together when it was time to say good-bye.
It wasn’t the kind of good-bye that comes with a “see you later”; in our world, you never, ever knew if you’d see that someone again. There was always the hope that they (and you) would be back to the next year’s conference, and in between there might be e-mails or a VERY occasional phone call, other than that, the kids were left with a photo or two, memories stored and treasured in their hearts, and a great ache in their soul.
This happened year after year after year. Sometimes Providence would indeed send a few of the same faces, but more often than not, the cycle would start over again; more good-byes, more pain, more scars. These are the things your overseas workers often never talk about. If I were to be brutally honest, I’d have to say that many are too afraid of their supporter’s (or family’s) reactions; sometimes they are an honest assessment, sometimes completely unfounded. Either way, the sad reality is that a lot of the pain never gets talked about outside the “agency family”- these are the things you will likely never hear directly from them.
The topic of “hard work” has so, so many facets- some of it is just plain hard physically, and that’s the easy stuff to adjust to over time. It becomes a new reality and, after a while, doesn’t seem so hard. The vastly harder work of living overseas is seeing your kids suffer the pain of loss, and trying to be a comfort when you’re attempting to deal with that same pain yourself.
With the permission of my older daughters, who are the ones who most acutely feel the sting of loss, I am able to share a bit of our struggles. Sometimes, overseas workers are not even aware of the extent of how deeply their children are affected until their return. I guess for some of us, we don’t recognize the scope of their feelings until the tears flow… sometimes months, and now even a year later- some things are just too painful to lose, or face, or change.
After some discussions lately on what triggers the deep-seated feelings of grief, we’ve identified a few. One is the very real feeling of having “divided” loyalties. They simply don’t feel entirely at home in either world, and at the same time are comfortable in either. Whereas some things they see as detestable in their current “world”, other things that most of their peers see as strange or “weird” is perfectly normal and part of who they are. Of course, as their parents we see a lot of good in this, but they are definitely feeling the pull on their hearsts to have the best of both worlds in their here and now, yet knowing that will never be.
They understand this outsided-ness they deal with day to day, and another thing that brings them sadness is the general lack of interest in a lot of the people around them to want to broaden their worldview. One thing we were warned to do when returning was to prepare a 1 minute, a 3 minute and a 30 minute answer to , “So how was your time over there?” 99% of the people who ask that really don’t care so much about the lives you helped bring change to, nor how it really changed us, so we find ourselves giving the 1 minute answer before the other person moves on to the weather, the latest sitcom, or the NFL scores. Learning about another worldview seems automatically discharged as heathen or “wrong” even if the Word of God gives room for a culture to have other priorities and values than what we currently embrace this week or year. It is frustrating to see such narrow-mindedness and unwillingness to at least entertain the thought that other cultures have some pretty amazing ideas and beautiful traditions.
Perhaps the most painful thing they face is the feeling that some of their good-byes were incomplete. Admittedly, in those last few weeks and days, there was simply not enough time to say farewell individually to each person, place and thing we wanted to. You may find it surprising that “places” are on that list, but it is likely that those beloved places they played in, shared friendships in, or even escaped danger from will likely never be seen again. And as many times as you say goodbye to your childhood pet, it’s just never enough times, is it?
To offer an example, one time a boy of about 13 was asked in a group to tell where he was from. His reply, given with a sarcastic "pffft", "Like you mean, where we were born, or where we're living right now, or where we lived before this....?" Obviously these kids have a real lack of rootedness and will often have wanderlust for their entire adult lives.
A life of grief- I think that’s a pretty accurate term to describe the one overseas workers lead. Of course, the pain will fade over time, but the scars will remain forever. They make us who we are, and we have a story to share made up of all those things we faced for 10 years. And it goes without saying that in that patchwork of our stories a weft of joy, victory, blessing, and perspective. The Lord knows what we store in our hearts and dwells there within!!
Sunday, August 21, 2011
The Hard Work of Everyday Life.
So for me, Bekahroo, what was everyday life like while I lived overseas? It was totally different from yours. Mine was more like what you call camping. But I did it 24/7, hence the “everyday”.
For the first 6 years of 10, I didn’t have a bed. I slept Kazakh style, on heavy mats stuffed with raw cotton, which doubled as blankets in the winter. To this day I still prefer a firm bed to a soft one, and I enjoy the floor. I hated the bed I had even after I got it. After three months the nasty piece of junk started stabbing me here and there with wires. Springs sprouted out at the foot of the bed, shredding the sheets. I was glad to leave that item behind.
Another thing that was hard work was my schoolwork. Once I hit high school, Mom could no longer teach me the math and sciences I needed, so she put me on a DVD program, which I really enjoyed. Everything was taught from a Christian view. I loved it. It was peachy keen. Cool. Hip. Until late fall fell. By then the water in the reservoirs up in the mountains were low or out of water. There wasn’t enough electricity to cover the entire city. So the different neighborhoods around the city were put on a strict schedule of two hours on, two hours off. I couldn’t run our DVD machine or TV. I was worried all throughout the autumn and most of the winter about falling behind in my work. This happened with the power every year. How could I keep up year after year?? Would I graduate a year late because of this? The solution ended up being twofold~ When the power was out, I would go up to Dad’s office and use the English center’s DVD machine and TV. That meant walking half a mile with all the books I needed. IF the office had power. The other half of the solution was to slave through the summer. No summer break. 6 months of baking and sweating, sticking to your chair. And trying to study. It’s like something out of a Dickens or Bronte novel. Yeah, Studying wasn’t easy.
Another part of everyday life was how I did my chores. We were OFTEN without our five stars: electricity, or running water, or phone, or internet, or propane with which to cook. A five star day could easily turn into a three star day because of something as simple as a rainstorm. We found out that guests are jinxed. They make you run out of propane when you’re making pizza. But, I have found that the two most valuable of the stars are running water and electricity. They work in tandem to run a washing machine. Without one or the other, it doesn’t work. Without water you flat out cant’ wash your clothing. Without electricity though, you become the washing machine. You’re a robot. Your task is to do the same thing all day long. If it’s summer, you’re outside in 110 or hotter weather. But at least the liquid coming out of the hose is coolish. I found that a pair of jeans feel heavier wet. They don’t ring out so well. They drip on you from the line above you as you’re scrubbing the rest of the clothing. The soap doesn’t dissolve and rubs your ringers raw. Most importantly though, you get used to wearing the same thing for several days.
Another everyday chore that was made difficult was something bazaar, not bizarre- it was “everyday” after all, in the realm of “hard chores”. It was shopping. Shopping here is a treat. Understand, that we had no neat and clean aisles to walk down. We had no air conditioning or heat. We had no anti-odorous meat racks (or whatever they’re called). We had no cars of our own to drive. We had a bazaar we got to visit. Crooked row after crooked row of booths. Each seller had his or her things neatly stacked in bins or tied down to keep them from . There were broken “sidewalks” to walkover as we carried our sacks of produce. Not too easy with 12-15 kilos of food in each arm. In either 110 or -20 degree weather. Buying meat was the worst thing on the list. There were two meat halls. The religiously proper one, and the religiously IMproper one. The first had all it’s meat slaughtered with the animal in question’s head pointed towards Mecca, and blah, blah, blah, it had no pork…. And it stank. Bad. Really bad. The other was essentially the same, but it sold pork, was in a basement, and Russians and Uzbeks instead of Kazakhs sold the meat. All the meat, guts, brains, hooves, and other various edibles are hung up on hooks in a big room. The sellers hack away at ribs and other bones. There’s blood on the floor. There are sheep heads staring eyelessly at you. The corner over there has a cow udder for sale. There are flies everywhere. At least the fish are sold outside. You, as the buyer, are supposed to go into this stinking, slippery-floored slum for your weekly meat. Yup. Everyday.
So yes, everyday was hard. It exhausted me. Did I enjoy it? Absolutely. Would I trade my childhood for one in another country? Absolutely not. It taught me so many things I couldn’t have learned anywhere else. Just today we came close to needing to hand wash our clothing, I wouldn’t have been able to do it if I hadn’t been taught. Being able to shop in a beautiful clean place is a joy. Never running out of propane is a relief! I can cook endlessly! The power only goes out occasionally. Life overseas taught me how to be a better troubleshooter. So much travelling with my family prepared me to travel alone so I could help my grandpa. The life God gave me has put me where I am now, He has given me the friends I have now, and I love them all. I wouldn’t wish myself in a different place in a million years.
So for me, Bekahroo, what was everyday life like while I lived overseas? It was totally different from yours. Mine was more like what you call camping. But I did it 24/7, hence the “everyday”.
For the first 6 years of 10, I didn’t have a bed. I slept Kazakh style, on heavy mats stuffed with raw cotton, which doubled as blankets in the winter. To this day I still prefer a firm bed to a soft one, and I enjoy the floor. I hated the bed I had even after I got it. After three months the nasty piece of junk started stabbing me here and there with wires. Springs sprouted out at the foot of the bed, shredding the sheets. I was glad to leave that item behind.
Another thing that was hard work was my schoolwork. Once I hit high school, Mom could no longer teach me the math and sciences I needed, so she put me on a DVD program, which I really enjoyed. Everything was taught from a Christian view. I loved it. It was peachy keen. Cool. Hip. Until late fall fell. By then the water in the reservoirs up in the mountains were low or out of water. There wasn’t enough electricity to cover the entire city. So the different neighborhoods around the city were put on a strict schedule of two hours on, two hours off. I couldn’t run our DVD machine or TV. I was worried all throughout the autumn and most of the winter about falling behind in my work. This happened with the power every year. How could I keep up year after year?? Would I graduate a year late because of this? The solution ended up being twofold~ When the power was out, I would go up to Dad’s office and use the English center’s DVD machine and TV. That meant walking half a mile with all the books I needed. IF the office had power. The other half of the solution was to slave through the summer. No summer break. 6 months of baking and sweating, sticking to your chair. And trying to study. It’s like something out of a Dickens or Bronte novel. Yeah, Studying wasn’t easy.
Another part of everyday life was how I did my chores. We were OFTEN without our five stars: electricity, or running water, or phone, or internet, or propane with which to cook. A five star day could easily turn into a three star day because of something as simple as a rainstorm. We found out that guests are jinxed. They make you run out of propane when you’re making pizza. But, I have found that the two most valuable of the stars are running water and electricity. They work in tandem to run a washing machine. Without one or the other, it doesn’t work. Without water you flat out cant’ wash your clothing. Without electricity though, you become the washing machine. You’re a robot. Your task is to do the same thing all day long. If it’s summer, you’re outside in 110 or hotter weather. But at least the liquid coming out of the hose is coolish. I found that a pair of jeans feel heavier wet. They don’t ring out so well. They drip on you from the line above you as you’re scrubbing the rest of the clothing. The soap doesn’t dissolve and rubs your ringers raw. Most importantly though, you get used to wearing the same thing for several days.
Another everyday chore that was made difficult was something bazaar, not bizarre- it was “everyday” after all, in the realm of “hard chores”. It was shopping. Shopping here is a treat. Understand, that we had no neat and clean aisles to walk down. We had no air conditioning or heat. We had no anti-odorous meat racks (or whatever they’re called). We had no cars of our own to drive. We had a bazaar we got to visit. Crooked row after crooked row of booths. Each seller had his or her things neatly stacked in bins or tied down to keep them from . There were broken “sidewalks” to walkover as we carried our sacks of produce. Not too easy with 12-15 kilos of food in each arm. In either 110 or -20 degree weather. Buying meat was the worst thing on the list. There were two meat halls. The religiously proper one, and the religiously IMproper one. The first had all it’s meat slaughtered with the animal in question’s head pointed towards Mecca, and blah, blah, blah, it had no pork…. And it stank. Bad. Really bad. The other was essentially the same, but it sold pork, was in a basement, and Russians and Uzbeks instead of Kazakhs sold the meat. All the meat, guts, brains, hooves, and other various edibles are hung up on hooks in a big room. The sellers hack away at ribs and other bones. There’s blood on the floor. There are sheep heads staring eyelessly at you. The corner over there has a cow udder for sale. There are flies everywhere. At least the fish are sold outside. You, as the buyer, are supposed to go into this stinking, slippery-floored slum for your weekly meat. Yup. Everyday.
So yes, everyday was hard. It exhausted me. Did I enjoy it? Absolutely. Would I trade my childhood for one in another country? Absolutely not. It taught me so many things I couldn’t have learned anywhere else. Just today we came close to needing to hand wash our clothing, I wouldn’t have been able to do it if I hadn’t been taught. Being able to shop in a beautiful clean place is a joy. Never running out of propane is a relief! I can cook endlessly! The power only goes out occasionally. Life overseas taught me how to be a better troubleshooter. So much travelling with my family prepared me to travel alone so I could help my grandpa. The life God gave me has put me where I am now, He has given me the friends I have now, and I love them all. I wouldn’t wish myself in a different place in a million years.
Monday, August 15, 2011
The "Hard Work" of Living in a Developing Country- Pt. 6
As I look back on the various tolls living overseas exacted on body and soul, it might be good to take a brief glimpse into the heavy wages paid in terms of “items lost”. Physical trinkets may immediately come to mind, but there is such a variety of other, more costly effects, that were so much more precious to be lost.
The first thing one must give up when living abroad is his sense of control. That goes out the window in about the first 3 hours of landing. Control over how fast your taxi will drive you into town, and whether or not he will have chosen beer or vodka as his liquor of choice; control over having the washing machine of your choice- heck, even having one at all for the first month might be an enormous luxury; control over whether your children will have vaccinations, enough fresh fruits and vegetables to eat (for the first 3 winters, we ate ONLY carrots, onions, potatoes and cabbage for 5 months straight) or enough children’s Tylenol when the fevers got too high. If you think control over who was listening to your phone, who was watching you outside your window, or who was following you onto the train for a ride across the country, forget it. They controlled all of that. One area of control that was particularly hard to endure was control over censoring information that might make loved ones (especially parents/grandparents) overly concerned or worried. News media can paint a frightening picture of the real stories and, on the other hand, it’s hard to make the kids, especially if they are young, understand that not everyone needs to hear everything.
We were told very clearly to “count the costs” by many trusted and close friends before we left, but some things just can’t be anticipated, nor can one even begin to imagine all that could be demanded living away from home, culture, family, friends, and personal, treasured things and comforts. Not only is that ever-elusive “control” lost, but one’s sense of belonging is quickly snatched away, only to be bought back through hard work, rivers of tears, and an over-abundance of embarrassing mistakes and misunderstandings. Gone within minutes of landing is that safe, comfortable sense of “place” and security. When one is rooted in a certain set of “rules” and standard of behavior, it is nearly impossible on every level to find a new norm and be completely at home in it. Daily we struggled with everything from the simple ‘How do I talk on a bus (in our cases not at all)?’ and ‘How should my legs be tucked under me while sitting on the floor at someone’s dinner table?’, to the more complicated like, ‘What would be appropriate to say to my neighbor at a public wake who has just been widowed?’ and ‘What do I do when my neighbor comes to the door holding her child who is literally dying in her arms?!’
How can one “count the cost” when neither a pregnancy nor a revolution in the neighboring country had been anticipated? How can one come back to a country that has gone through its own crisis? Our family has almost no common or shared emotional connection to the rest of America who has witnessed 9/11 ; we saw none of the images, spoke to no one during that time, and only read the headlines weeks later in a borrowed magazine. While we were struggling to make a new normal, we utterly missed an entire decade of the “other” that made America a completely different place to come back to. We suffered the hard work of trying to relate to those who’d call and try to communicate the changes, but just could not. Another “item lost”…
It may be strange to say, or rather maybe even hard to believe, but I, in my heart of hearts, think our bodies took a much greater physical toll than if we’d lived here for the same 10 years. I won’t go into the litany of issues for fear of sounding like a whiner, but summer sun, heavy bags to and from the bazaar, the stress of everyday living, various falls on ice, constant stomach issues, and lack of nutritious food all add up to less healthy people. That was one cost we counted, and I have nothing to grumble about. It’s a reality we live with, and we count it as gain.
There were, of course, those “physical trinkets” we had to say good-bye to for a season. Some, over time, lost their meaning or dearness; others we yearned for year after year. Christmas was an especially melancholy time as almost every tradition was left behind. Dinners with extended family were impossible, fabulous meals with all the trimmings were suddenly gone, beloved decorations that held special meaning were not there. Instead was a 4 foot plastic tree that fell apart more and more every year, candy garlands hung on the tree in a lame attempt to make things colorful, and we listened to the same music over and over and over on the only 2 CDs of Christmas music we had. Of course, not all was lost. We eventually made friends and had Christmas dinner with them and our teammates. Care packages full of goodies arrived once in a while full of nice gifts like peanut butter and silk flowers, and we learned to make our own music to fill the gap.
At first everything was new and exciting and we didn’t miss our “stuff”. But as time went on, our home began to feel bare and Spartan. We really longed for a few familiar things to remind us of where we’d come from. Unlike a lot of other host countries, ours had really no beautiful arts or crafts to offer in order to make a home inviting other than rugs. Ours was a country that had only recently gotten their independence, and had not been open to free market trading for very long. The only goods that regularly came in were low quality and purely functional- not meant for making a house a home. I longed for pictures on the walls of my loved ones, vases of fresh flowers, even just a simple throw pillow to brighten up our floor (we didn’t have a couch and chairs until well into our 3rd year). I never thought I’d be one to dwell on “stuff”, but I found myself missing those boxes packed away, hoping that they were safe until the day we could see it again.
Continued Next Time….
The first thing one must give up when living abroad is his sense of control. That goes out the window in about the first 3 hours of landing. Control over how fast your taxi will drive you into town, and whether or not he will have chosen beer or vodka as his liquor of choice; control over having the washing machine of your choice- heck, even having one at all for the first month might be an enormous luxury; control over whether your children will have vaccinations, enough fresh fruits and vegetables to eat (for the first 3 winters, we ate ONLY carrots, onions, potatoes and cabbage for 5 months straight) or enough children’s Tylenol when the fevers got too high. If you think control over who was listening to your phone, who was watching you outside your window, or who was following you onto the train for a ride across the country, forget it. They controlled all of that. One area of control that was particularly hard to endure was control over censoring information that might make loved ones (especially parents/grandparents) overly concerned or worried. News media can paint a frightening picture of the real stories and, on the other hand, it’s hard to make the kids, especially if they are young, understand that not everyone needs to hear everything.
We were told very clearly to “count the costs” by many trusted and close friends before we left, but some things just can’t be anticipated, nor can one even begin to imagine all that could be demanded living away from home, culture, family, friends, and personal, treasured things and comforts. Not only is that ever-elusive “control” lost, but one’s sense of belonging is quickly snatched away, only to be bought back through hard work, rivers of tears, and an over-abundance of embarrassing mistakes and misunderstandings. Gone within minutes of landing is that safe, comfortable sense of “place” and security. When one is rooted in a certain set of “rules” and standard of behavior, it is nearly impossible on every level to find a new norm and be completely at home in it. Daily we struggled with everything from the simple ‘How do I talk on a bus (in our cases not at all)?’ and ‘How should my legs be tucked under me while sitting on the floor at someone’s dinner table?’, to the more complicated like, ‘What would be appropriate to say to my neighbor at a public wake who has just been widowed?’ and ‘What do I do when my neighbor comes to the door holding her child who is literally dying in her arms?!’
How can one “count the cost” when neither a pregnancy nor a revolution in the neighboring country had been anticipated? How can one come back to a country that has gone through its own crisis? Our family has almost no common or shared emotional connection to the rest of America who has witnessed 9/11 ; we saw none of the images, spoke to no one during that time, and only read the headlines weeks later in a borrowed magazine. While we were struggling to make a new normal, we utterly missed an entire decade of the “other” that made America a completely different place to come back to. We suffered the hard work of trying to relate to those who’d call and try to communicate the changes, but just could not. Another “item lost”…
It may be strange to say, or rather maybe even hard to believe, but I, in my heart of hearts, think our bodies took a much greater physical toll than if we’d lived here for the same 10 years. I won’t go into the litany of issues for fear of sounding like a whiner, but summer sun, heavy bags to and from the bazaar, the stress of everyday living, various falls on ice, constant stomach issues, and lack of nutritious food all add up to less healthy people. That was one cost we counted, and I have nothing to grumble about. It’s a reality we live with, and we count it as gain.
There were, of course, those “physical trinkets” we had to say good-bye to for a season. Some, over time, lost their meaning or dearness; others we yearned for year after year. Christmas was an especially melancholy time as almost every tradition was left behind. Dinners with extended family were impossible, fabulous meals with all the trimmings were suddenly gone, beloved decorations that held special meaning were not there. Instead was a 4 foot plastic tree that fell apart more and more every year, candy garlands hung on the tree in a lame attempt to make things colorful, and we listened to the same music over and over and over on the only 2 CDs of Christmas music we had. Of course, not all was lost. We eventually made friends and had Christmas dinner with them and our teammates. Care packages full of goodies arrived once in a while full of nice gifts like peanut butter and silk flowers, and we learned to make our own music to fill the gap.
At first everything was new and exciting and we didn’t miss our “stuff”. But as time went on, our home began to feel bare and Spartan. We really longed for a few familiar things to remind us of where we’d come from. Unlike a lot of other host countries, ours had really no beautiful arts or crafts to offer in order to make a home inviting other than rugs. Ours was a country that had only recently gotten their independence, and had not been open to free market trading for very long. The only goods that regularly came in were low quality and purely functional- not meant for making a house a home. I longed for pictures on the walls of my loved ones, vases of fresh flowers, even just a simple throw pillow to brighten up our floor (we didn’t have a couch and chairs until well into our 3rd year). I never thought I’d be one to dwell on “stuff”, but I found myself missing those boxes packed away, hoping that they were safe until the day we could see it again.
Continued Next Time….
Saturday, July 30, 2011
The "Hard Work" of Living in a Developing Country- Pt. 5
Mid-summer came; the weather was blistering as it usually is from June to mid-September. Construction was in full swing, and the in-laws decided to come for a visit…. Begin the hard work of long days of translation, playing tour guide, explaining proper etiquette, finding accommodations, and supplying their daily needs, all while trying to build a home. Using a foreign language. Without any knowledge or understanding of local construction methods or laws.
Don’t get me wrong, Dear Reader! Having a visit from ANYONE was a VERY rare occurrence. Speaking English outside our own home happened once every couple of weeks during Team Meetings. Having a visit from family was like roping the moon. But it certainly came with its large load of hard work. In addition to the requisite gifts of peanut butter, taco seasoning, and vanilla, Mom and Dad brought some amazing things like American movies, new books, and a box of goodies to stash away until Christmas. But they also brought an unpleasant visitor with them as well. Shingles. And with Shingles comes Chicken Pox. None of my kids had gotten them before we had left, despite my best efforts to expose them to numerous friends long before. So one by one, they fell, including NariLoo at only 3 months old. Each one suffered horribly in the 110 degree heat with no remedy except the ones recommended locally, like having the dog lick them, or calling the local Shaman to cast them out.
But the children weren’t the ones who suffered most. My dear mother-in-law was in tears much of the time during their visit due to her excruciating pain. I did manage to find a Canadian EMT on duty for the oil company who happened to have an anti-viral, but it was far too little, too late. Blistered and in agonizing pain, she made the most of her visit, and we will always remember her incredible fortitude in that awful situation. Again, hard work by all who live overseas.
Eventually, the house was finished, and we enjoyed some semblance of rest. Of course, there was always the hard work of dragging the drunks home who happened to throw up and pass out on our front sidewalk. One time a gang of teenagers carrying iron pipes and rocks came marauding through our neighborhood, and I, as a mom, enjoyed the hard work of worrying about whether our home would be targeted for violence. Only a few times did we ever feel physically threatened; once an angry slur was thrown our way in a restaurant in reference to Bush, and once when a neighbor asked for money and threatened The Water Guy when we refused. More often than that we felt uneasy by the presence of “those who would want to know”. Countless times we were “observed” by the random guy in the sedan pretending to read the paper, followed on the sidewalk while shopping or going to and from the office, or simply stopped and interrogated while travelling. Our phone was always assumed (and in reality was) tapped and listened to, and once we were harassed for not informing the city of our move to the point that my husband was hauled down to court for a hearing. When he demanded to be shown the law, they backed down and gave him a warning. It was hard work, my friends, trying to understand our rights, and guessing if we had any at all. And even if we did, if they’d be honored. Or if we’d be deported or worse yet, jailed.
Some of the most wearisome hard work was the irregularity of the utilities. Every Fall, each neighborhood would take a “turn” with the roving black outs. For 2 weeks each year, the power would be off and on every 2 hours. The planning it takes to get everything done from washing and ironing, to video school lessons was extremely difficult. The rest of the year, the power was simply off about 3 or 4 days a month… sometimes in a row. When the power goes out for 4 or 5 days you can count on losing ALL of your frozen and cold items. You can count on doing the laundry by hand. You can count on going to bed at 7:00 when it is too dark to do anything by sit by a candle and read aloud- which we actually did quite often. Treasure Island never got old. If the power wasn’t out, the water was. Hauling water from a neighbor’s well, or from across town where they DID have water was HARD WORK! If the water was not off, the heating was. It is really hard work in the winter keeping ice off the windows, the kids dressed warmly enough, and the front door unfrozen enough to open in case of a fire. Yes, our front door actually froze shut regularly. On the inside.
If you haven’t sat down and prayed for an overseas worker for a while, it might be time. They are working hard for the Kingdom of God somewhere and they need your prayers and letters of encouragement. Every day, they work hard just to make a comfortable life.
More coming up!!
Don’t get me wrong, Dear Reader! Having a visit from ANYONE was a VERY rare occurrence. Speaking English outside our own home happened once every couple of weeks during Team Meetings. Having a visit from family was like roping the moon. But it certainly came with its large load of hard work. In addition to the requisite gifts of peanut butter, taco seasoning, and vanilla, Mom and Dad brought some amazing things like American movies, new books, and a box of goodies to stash away until Christmas. But they also brought an unpleasant visitor with them as well. Shingles. And with Shingles comes Chicken Pox. None of my kids had gotten them before we had left, despite my best efforts to expose them to numerous friends long before. So one by one, they fell, including NariLoo at only 3 months old. Each one suffered horribly in the 110 degree heat with no remedy except the ones recommended locally, like having the dog lick them, or calling the local Shaman to cast them out.
But the children weren’t the ones who suffered most. My dear mother-in-law was in tears much of the time during their visit due to her excruciating pain. I did manage to find a Canadian EMT on duty for the oil company who happened to have an anti-viral, but it was far too little, too late. Blistered and in agonizing pain, she made the most of her visit, and we will always remember her incredible fortitude in that awful situation. Again, hard work by all who live overseas.
Eventually, the house was finished, and we enjoyed some semblance of rest. Of course, there was always the hard work of dragging the drunks home who happened to throw up and pass out on our front sidewalk. One time a gang of teenagers carrying iron pipes and rocks came marauding through our neighborhood, and I, as a mom, enjoyed the hard work of worrying about whether our home would be targeted for violence. Only a few times did we ever feel physically threatened; once an angry slur was thrown our way in a restaurant in reference to Bush, and once when a neighbor asked for money and threatened The Water Guy when we refused. More often than that we felt uneasy by the presence of “those who would want to know”. Countless times we were “observed” by the random guy in the sedan pretending to read the paper, followed on the sidewalk while shopping or going to and from the office, or simply stopped and interrogated while travelling. Our phone was always assumed (and in reality was) tapped and listened to, and once we were harassed for not informing the city of our move to the point that my husband was hauled down to court for a hearing. When he demanded to be shown the law, they backed down and gave him a warning. It was hard work, my friends, trying to understand our rights, and guessing if we had any at all. And even if we did, if they’d be honored. Or if we’d be deported or worse yet, jailed.
Some of the most wearisome hard work was the irregularity of the utilities. Every Fall, each neighborhood would take a “turn” with the roving black outs. For 2 weeks each year, the power would be off and on every 2 hours. The planning it takes to get everything done from washing and ironing, to video school lessons was extremely difficult. The rest of the year, the power was simply off about 3 or 4 days a month… sometimes in a row. When the power goes out for 4 or 5 days you can count on losing ALL of your frozen and cold items. You can count on doing the laundry by hand. You can count on going to bed at 7:00 when it is too dark to do anything by sit by a candle and read aloud- which we actually did quite often. Treasure Island never got old. If the power wasn’t out, the water was. Hauling water from a neighbor’s well, or from across town where they DID have water was HARD WORK! If the water was not off, the heating was. It is really hard work in the winter keeping ice off the windows, the kids dressed warmly enough, and the front door unfrozen enough to open in case of a fire. Yes, our front door actually froze shut regularly. On the inside.
If you haven’t sat down and prayed for an overseas worker for a while, it might be time. They are working hard for the Kingdom of God somewhere and they need your prayers and letters of encouragement. Every day, they work hard just to make a comfortable life.
More coming up!!
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