Santa Claus is Coming...

Better watch out…. Better not cry…

Ok, Santa rule number two, and I’ve already failed. Yes folks, for the first time ever, Christmas has made me cry.  It’s trivial, I know. For goodness’ sake, I don’t even celebrate the holiday (for those of you wondering, I am NOT Jehovah’s Witness). And actually, that’s part of the issue. In the hustle and bustle of gift giving, parties, and packages from home, I am feeling isolated.

These feelings confuse me. I mean, I made this decision back when I studied the whole thing out, right? I’ve taken this stand before. This is what I BELIEVE….. isn’t it? But I’ve never been alone in it before. Always there was family and church and many, many friends that stood with me.

And I’ve realized that it is much easier to stand together, than to stand alone.

Suddenly I’m faced with decisions I’ve never had to make. Am I ok with receiving gifts? Will I attend the Christmas party if only for the sake of my fellow students? Will I participate in the Secret Angel gift exchange that brings so much joy to everyone this season? How do I feel about a tree in the house?

Honestly, I kinda feel like a jerk. This decision is not just my isolated stand; it is affecting those around me. My gracious housemates find it necessary to ask permission to decorate, and to play Christmas music. Instead of enjoying the pieces of tradition they can carry out on this foreign soil and finding comfort in them, they too must feel the pressure of seeking not to offend. And how gracious they’ve been! Yet it feels so hard.

I feel that in some ways the stand I’ve taken is depriving others of some of the comfort and joy they wish for this season.

I realize too, that this is a foolish thing to expend emotional energy on. There are so many MUCH BIGGER issues in the world. Perhaps the tears are selfish, and the sad feelings are self-pity or lack of courage. When I think of this, I am once again awed by my very humanity. A simple act of obedience to what God has asked of me, and I find myself emotionally distraught. Whatever happened to the strong and bold missionary I’ve dreamed of becoming? How can I pretend to be sure that I’d stand with Christ to the death, when this simple issue is cause for distress of heart? So once again I find myself admitting:

I need Christ.

I am not strong enough, or bold enough, or even courageous. I am weak, and broken, and poor, and without Him, I am nothing. I am not wise enough to know how to walk in a gracious way through this holiday season…. apart from Christ. In HIM I have the wisdom, courage, grace, and understanding that I lack.

And serving God is all about being different.

So while I’m choosing to say no to the gift exchange, the parties, and the Christmas movies that surround me, I’m also choosing to enjoy the joyful hearts of my housemates and co-workers. I’m choosing to laugh with them over the life-sized, light-up, salmon-colored camels that are currently parading wise men across the parking lot of the local Shell station. I am choosing to rejoice with them over exciting packages from home. And I’m laughing about all the Filipinos who are ‘dreaming of a white Christmas’. Christmas here starts in September. I’ll let you know when it ends. But I pray that the thing God is doing in my heart sticks around for a while.  So there ya have it. Like it or not, there are some true life confessions of a missionary heart.  A heart that is choosing to sing:

 “Joyful! Joyful, We adore thee!”

Bike Tales

Now that I have my new (to me) bike, I’ve been experimenting with all the ways in which it makes me independent. The one that particularly stands out in my mind, is the market run. 

Each market run, our house purchases 30-40 lbs. of fresh fruits and vegetables. The market is maybe about a mile away and consists of a series of stands and counter tops at which you can purchase all manner of fruits, meats, vegetables, rice, and a few items of hardware. It covers the area of maybe 3-4 city blocks, and is always bustling with buyers, sellers, and beggars. 

The day threatened rain, but I decided to brave the adventure, and head to market on my bike. Although I realized that it would be a bit of a challenge, I did not anticipate quite the fiasco that awaited me! I rolled into the market on my nearly flat bike tires, dodging people and dogs and vehicles.  Quickly I dismounted, and wheeled my bike to the first stand. As the man weighed the carrots and potatoes, I noticed that it had begun to sprinkle outside. Now at this point, it is important to note that the Filipinos are rain-o-phobic. Umbrellas go up at the slightest sign of a dark cloud, and anything/everything is used for shelter. What I would consider pre-rain or slight sprinkles, they run through, heads covered, screeching as though caught in a downpour. This said, I noticed increased chattering, stares, and shocked looks as I pushed my bike toward the next stand.

When I showed up at the fruit stand, Michelle was particularly chatty. She speaks English quite well, and had all sorts of things to ask and to say. I tried to be patient, but the rain was falling harder now, and I still needed to buy a basket. My bike only has a rack, and it was certainly not sufficient for the produce I was purchasing. Finally, transaction complete, Michelle let me run off to find a basket. I was able to find an inexpensive plastic basket very quickly, and I retraced my steps to pick up all the produce I had just purchased. As I loaded up, I noticed that the basket was much heavier than I had anticipated. Still, I thought, I could strap this on my back rack without any problems.

Finally I made it back to the vegetable man. He was very intrigued by the fact that I was planning to bike this produce all home.

“Mom, you are so beautiful to ride a bike.”

(embarrassed giggle) “Thank you”

“ Where are you going to? To M----- or to B----?” He asked.

“ Oh, I’m going to B----.”

 “Oh Mom! Can you peddle up that big hill?!”

“Yes, I do it every day.” I nonchalantly replied.

“Oh Mom, you have very nice legs.”

I smiled, though I must admit I was internally having a cultural conflict over whether to feel flattered by his intended compliment, or taken aback his forward comment about my legs! I decided it was meant to be harmless, and continued trying to strap my rather bulky bag of produce to my bike rack. Kind sir that he was, my vendor friend went and retrieved some used plastic twine to help. We pulled and knotted, and managed to get that basket strapped to my bike. Off I pedaled, feeling a tad smug with my independent success.

Smug, that is, until a few corners and screeching halts later, when the basket was sitting dangerously lopsided, my skirt was not cooperating, and I had now confirmed that only one of my bicycle brakes worked! Besides that, the rain was now a bit more earnest in its descent, so I was feeling a bit panicky. Embarrassed to return to my vegetable vendor, I walked my bike to another booth and bought some more plastic twine. My bike was precariously balanced on its kickstand, and I was strapping the produce on even more tightly, when a car showed up, trying to park where I was working. Impeccable timing! I shuffle-scooted my bike out of the parking space, trying desperately not to let my food hit the pavement.

Finally, I reasonably secured my basket, and set off on my merry way. Dodging cars, pot holes, and raindrops, I pedaled furiously toward home. I had to keep my right hand on the handlebar, because it controlled my only functional brake. As I rode along, the basket strapped behind me became increasingly lopsided. My left hand became occupied holding the basket upright as I struggled up the big hill. The rain fled, and the sun came out, scorching me with midday heat. All along my way helpful strangers made comments about my interesting situation. To make matters worse, my plastic twine hit the top of my tire, and as I rode, it gradually sawed through the twine, and one by one, the strings holding my basket in place frayed to a thread, and snapped!

 By the time I reached my gate, I didn’t even have the energy to unlock it. Thankfully, my housemates came to the rescue and helpfully documented the situation as well. I was weak from laughter as I recounted my adventures. I defiantly have to brainstorm a new method for transporting hefty amounts of fruit and vegetables in my future. It’s an adventure I wouldn’t trade, but also one I have no desire to repeat.

Got me Some Wheels....

I got me some wheels.

Two actually.

They are motorized…. By me.

Yep, that’s right, I got me a bicycle! And she’s  beaut! 21 speeds  (only 14 work), two brakes (only one works) , a rusty chain (it skips sometimes), a kickstand (I have to hold it up with a bungee cord while in motion), and best of all, a BELL!

I wish I could’ve taken each of you along with me to purchase this bike. Instead, my housemate, Nancy, went with me. Allow me to paint you a picture.

The day was sweltering, and we’d been up early to have our visa interview at immigration. The two of us, all dressed up in skirts, full makeup, and heels, decided to go ‘look’ at bikes during the two hours of free time we had. We overshot our destination, and had to walk back under an overpass. It seems that that specific block was the ‘vulcanizing’ block. In other words, everybody and his brother has a stand set up to change tires, repair tires, or sell strings of rubber pieces. So, we stepped over the streams of oil that slithered from open shop fronts, past sad looking dogs with various degrees of permanently altered anatomy, and around large trucks whose emissions are turning the weather from sunny to partly cloudy. Finally, we stood in front of the 14 foot tall chain-link fence topped with barbed wire that was the bone yard of bicycles.

As we entered, four heads went up, and eight eyes locked on us. The 4 ‘grease monkeys’ repairing bikes were fascinated by our white skin. A bit of swift chattering between them and one approached us with the standard, “Hullo mom, how are you today?” I have to admit, I’ve never seen anything like it. Bikes here, bikes there, stacks and rows of bikes EVERYWHERE! Horizontal rows of bikes pushed as closely together as was possible and vertical stacks of bikes far higher than my head. At least we had selection!

Eagerly, Nancy and I approached the rows and rows of bicycles. Ancient ‘cruisers’ and ‘day bikes’ with wide handlebars and a single speed, child-sized bikes with pink fenders, and a few mountain bikes in the mix. We began to question, and found that there are certain things to look for. They will not replace tires or chain, so if you want decent ones, find them now.

 “How much is this one, ma’am?” 

“Oh 2500 mom.”

“Oh Salamat. And this one?”

“Oh mom, 3000 mom.”

“3000?” I replied, “Why is that one 2500, and this one is 3000?”

“Oh mom, double suspension mom.”

Oh clearly. I alert Nancy that if we want to stay in our price range, we have to avoid anything that looks like it possesses the possibility of offering even a small amount of comfort. The three bikes we find that show some promise are conveniently located in the middle of the row. There is an ‘aisle’ of about 4 inches between the rows, and all the bikes are tied together. I guess we’ll leave the task of getting these bikes free to the employees.

Our bikes are freed and wheeled to the ‘test area’. We have about a 30 foot circle of gravel and large stones on a slope that we can test drive our bikes in. You have to miss the metal pressing machine on one side, and a row of vintage refrigerators on the other side. Three employees come out to watch us, and the bike chains are so rusted that they keep locking up. Our knee length skirts aren’t really helping matters. Finally, I take the plunge and just ride through the warehouse on the left. I find several optimal opportunities for testing the bell, as warehouse workers cross my path, little expecting that a white girl on a barely operational bicycle with ill-functioning brakes is flying toward them.

Nancy and I consult, and express a few concerns with the bikes we’ve chosen. I ask that they raise the seat so I can accurately judge how the frame size works for me. A little higher, just a little higher… Oh! The bike seat is so small, that the post just came flying right off! The guy runs off, and returns in a few minutes with a much taller seat that he scavenged off another bike. Nancy and I look at each other, having a collective ‘aha!’ moment… this is totally ‘build-a-bike’! Up and down the rows we trek, pointing to various pieces that we would like added to our bikes. Can we have this bike light? Will you put this reflector on the front of mine? Can we get a back rack?

 “Oh yes mom, brand new, local made bike rack!”

 “But I want THIS bike rack.”

“Oh no mom, original.”

“Really?!” I replied “Can’t you put this wonderful brand new, local made bike rack on THIS bike, and give me the original?”

“Oh no mom.”

“Why not? It would be worth more because its brand new and local made.”

“Oh no mom. Because of my boss.”

“Oh. Can I talk to your boss?”

Nervous giggling.

Ok. I guess not. So much for that. I end up with the ‘local made’ bike rack.

 Then there was the bell. I decided fairly quickly, which bell I wanted. Nancy , on the other hand….  This bell was annoying. That bell wasn’t serious enough. The bell over there was nice, but it gets stuck sometimes. This bell has too high-pitched of a tone. That one doesn’t mean business enough. She and I literally rang EVERY SINGLE BELL IN THE WHOLE BIKE YARD…. TWICE!!!! Bells on parked bikes, bells on stacked bikes, and finally, as we were standing there watching them tune up our selections, I pulled a bell out of a pile of various scraps, and rang that one too. I rang it once, and Nancy and I looked at each other. I rang it again, and we both bust out laughing. Of all things, the pathetic bell from the junk pile ended up being ‘the one’.  Our poor sales people just stared and stared. At last, selections made, and purchases paid for, they filled our tires with air, and sent us on our merry way. I have never before been SO thankful for a bicycle. It shortens my commute to clinic from 23 minutes each way to 6-7. Also, I feel so FREE! I have my own transportation! A dog leash and padlock for security, and a bungee cord for securing things to my bike rack (as well as keeping my kickstand up) and I’m all set!

If ever you want to purchase a bicycle in the Philippines, please let me come! It’s a world of fun!

Holding my Horses...

I'm kinda going crazy here.
Allow me to explain.
It has been a month since I saw a birth. Now while that may not seem so huge for you, it is VERY dramatic for me. I mean, it's pretty much like being a baker, but not being allowed to touch flour. Or being an engineer and never seeing blueprints. It's like being being a clown with no balloons. Like being a salesman with nothing to sell. Or like trying to be a Flamer with no flame.
Wait what??!!
What is a flamer anyways?
Let me tell you, I had the same question.
It was a Monday morning, and things were going as usual at the clinic. I was on prenatals that day, doing vitals, educating women about health, measuring fundal height, asking questions, and filling out forms. One woman came in with her paper work, and I couldn't help but notice that her husband was a flamer. A welder? A fireman? I began to ask questions.
Again and again she repeated herself and tried to explain. Suddenly, it dawned on me. In Visayan, F=P, vowels are a little wishy washy, and silly them, they don't have the wonderful silent 'p' we have in English. (note the dripping sarcasm). There it was. Flamer = Plumber. Clearly!

So back to the going crazy thing. I am surrounded by birth, pregnancy, and newborns. I take care of women at various points in their pregnancy. I work multiple shifts per week in a maternity clinic. I read about birth and pregnancy every chance I get. I give baby baths, and breathe through contractions with women, I clean up blood, amniotic fluid, and everything else that the body can excrete, and I sterilize and fold and stack and stock. Between my travels a few weeks back, and a series of slow birth room shifts, it has been a month since I actually witnessed a baby being born. So I'm holding my horses here. Trying to trust that these unanswered prayers are for a reason. Trying to be content in the ways I DO get to serve.
And waiting.
It's been a struggle, honestly. My friends are all far beyond me in experience, and I don't step foot inside the clinic without that yearning. My heart wants to question why 8 babies are born one morning, and that night, when I'm on shift, there are none. Sometimes I feel like asking God if He can hear me. Often my throat chokes up when we transport another woman to the hospital, or at the end of another uneventful shift. And though I'm happy with all my dear friends who are bubbling over with the joys of being part of new birth, sometimes I have to leave the room.
I have to speak to my heart.
Heart, I say, you must be content. You serve a God who IS GOOD. A God who hears and ANSWERS prayers. But you have given Him room to work as He sees fit. Now, my heart, rejoice in the Lord. Honor God for His great kindness toward you. The timing is not for you to know. This is what you must know: His faithfulness is everlasting. His mercies and justice are beyond our ability to comprehend.
So I'm trying to rest, and let God work.
I'm pretty sure my heart needs some fixing.

On Confessions...

Here is where  I live. Down the street from the vacant lot where this little group of kids was picking fruit one day.

This little doll has some greenery that will probably grace the soup pot tonight. Kids that have only ever lived hand-to-mouth... In a much more literal sense than Americans do.

I walk past this beautiful flowering bush that is situated right across from... well... the gate. I guess its true confession time.
I live in a gated community.

You can see the guard house on the right here, and the really nice condos on the left. Where houses like this and cars like this also live.

And honestly, although my standard of living is much different from some of my neighbors', I feel so rich.

Because I even within our gates, I walk past other neighbors. These are houses, and people live in them.

Some of my neighbors are not even human. One day I took my camera around the neighborhood to see the sights.

This fellow lives just two blocks from me. I encountered him one morning on a run.

And even within the walls of my community, there is the banana grove, and that random dirt road that wanders off mysteriously. Of course, I followed it. There at the end stood a little tin shack. Home for somebody.












The planks that are a bridge stretch over the puddle, and the typical 'slippers' sit outside waiting to take their owner for a walk. Right down the road is this cute little goat. I may buy him in chunks one day at the market.

And then, on the other edge of the community, there is the wall. Topped with barbed wire, it keeps the rich in, and the poor out. Yet here is the inequality and injustice, displayed for all to see.

Life from the other side of the fence.

When I climb my water tank in the back yard, I can see it all. I can see over the walls into a different way of life. And what floors me every time is that I live in a good neighborhood. The people whose lives I can peek into, many aren't even poor by Filipino standards.

But I'm glad to have them all so close. It is good to see the poverty and pain. To daily be reminded of how blessed I am. To reevaluate priorities with a bigger picture in mind. These things that are so important to us... earthly possessions... they have no eternal value. It is such a good reminder that my treasure lies elsewhere. A good chance to reflect, and make sure it stays that way.

Mommy Brain and God

I realized today, at a random moment in time, that I've been acting a lot like a busy mom of late. It's not that I have so many children to take care of, or that I have been overly domestic, it's because I did that thing that busy moms do.

Only I did it to God.

I looked out the window this morning, when I woke up, and saw the neighbors, harvesting a rice patty by hand. As I climbed down the creaky bunk-bed ladder and shuffled into the kitchen, I set goals in my head for all the things I would do today. I further stewed over my grandiose plans as I stirred my 3-in-1 and scrambled some eggs. Today would be a productive day.

And it was.

But at some point, between the paper I wrote and fetching myself some lunch, I walked through a doorway and realized that I was loosing track of the point. Just like the busy mom whose day is so filled with laundry, dishes, meals, and chauffeuring that she doesn't actually spend time with her kids, I have been so busy serving God, that I forgot to know Him. Like the mom who cannot find her child in the grocery store, I sometimes find myself on the mission field, still looking for God.

It's possible, you know.

But it's pointless. Yeah, sure, I'm living on the other side of the world, volunteering my finances, skills, and my life for God's kingdom, but sometimes a lot of times I actually am losing track of Him. It's not that I'm neglecting scripture reading or prayer, but that I'm so busy pursuing His work, that I forget to pursue God. Not just going through the motions, but knowing Him.

It's like mommy brain for Christians.

I'm going to need a lot of wisdom, actually. Wisdom to avoid repeating this mistake. Frankly, I don't know how to avoid this pitfall. I don't know how to keep my focus corrected. The service aspect is so tangeable. And seeking God? Not as much. But although I don't know how, I'm determined to find out.

Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you: For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened. Matthew 7:7-8

I Don't Know Why...

For some reason, I find it difficult to write about the things in life that impact me the most. Maybe that is why you hear about culture and food, activities and new sights. Maybe that is also why you DON'T hear much about birth and people groups, malnourished children and some of the things that are going on in my heart.

Maybe that's why the recent silence.

I'm sorry.
I know I've promised so many of you that I would keep up with you through this blog. Yet my heart doesn't always have words.

Maybe that is why I'm sharing pictures of starfish and snorkeling instead of the faces that call out to me every day. I cannot always find words, even to tell God what is in this full heart.

It is overwhelming to look out over the mountains that surround me, and to think of the hundreds of villages nestled in their rocky embrace. To think of all the work to do, and all the souls that have not heard. Or to walk through the city, passing house after house, alley after alley, and realizing how many people live right under my nose every day.

Sometimes I see it in their eyes.

They look at me, and its as if their eyes are asking me... won't you tell me? Are you the one who will show me light and life?....And I don't know the balance. I don't know how to spread my life around between personal time with God, learning, volunteering at the clinic, and time reaching out to my co-workers, the people we minister to, and our neighbors.

So I'm sorry for the silence.

Will you please pray with me? Pray that God will give this heart wisdom and words to speak. Pray that I will be a wise steward of my time and energy. Pray that I will know how to act on the compassion welling up within me.

I know He will.