Bonus survival tips

I thought of two more:

Keep a pair of shoes in every room.  You never know when you will need to grab one to squish an insect that does not belong alive in your home.

Vitamin B may repel mosquitoes, but it doesn't stop bed bugs from biting.  And bed bug bites are ugly.  I speak from a wealth of experience in this matter.  [looks down at well-decorated legs]

West Africa: a few survival tips

Always carry tissue and hand sanitizer with you.

Bleach is your friend: use it to wash dishes, soak produce, and more.

Learn the phrase “Je ne comprends pas.”  (“I don’t understand.”  It’s my favorite phrase right now.)

Keep water on hand (a few days’ worth at the very least).  You never know when you’ll be without.  Or for how long.

Drink, drink, drink!  You can lose a lot of water very quickly in this heat, and dehydration is no fun.  And it’s dangerous.

If you’re going to use public transportation (e.g. buses), squelch any expectations of personal space.

Don’t eat or hand someone money with your left hand.  (Harder to remember if you’re left-handed, of course.)

Take your anti-malarial medicine.  Seriously.

Be flexible.  Your plans will be changed, possibly multiple times, whether you like it or not.

Be patient.  Things will likely take longer than you think they should.

Eat all the cheese you can before coming.  There are only a few varieties available here, and most of them are less-familiar ones.  You may even consider hiring a cheese-making expert (whatever they call those).

Be able to laugh at yourself.  Because you will have plenty of opportunities to.  Example: When I went to church last week, one of my sandals broke just after I got off the bus.  I still had to walk about 10 minutes to get to the church, so I tried taking a couple steps with my sandals on, but the broken one would not stay on, and of course I had nothing with me to fix it.  So I did the only thing I could: I took my shoes off and marched down the street barefoot.  I must have been a sight – all dressed up, bag in one hand, pair of shoes in the other – as if I don’t stand out enough already!  But I could laugh at myself and hey, it makes a good story.

When you're down to nothing

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The current water shortage has lent a new meaning to “scraping the bottom of the barrel”.  In spite of careful rationing, I’m getting close to the end of my water supply and there’s no telling when the water will come back on again.  It could come on for a couple hours in the night.  It could come on tomorrow.   Or Sunday.  Or next Thursday.

I don’t know about you, but I’m not used to having to think about where I’m going to get water if I run out.  Actually, I’m just not used running out of water.  Ever.

* * *

I left home 38 days ago, and it seems like both yesterday and an eternity ago.  I was prepared for the heat.  For the dirt and swarms of flies and being jostled around mercilessly on bumpy roads.  For begging children and overflowing sewers and exhaustion.  For standing out no matter where I go.

But there is an emptiness, a not-enough-ness, a nothing-ness that I was not prepared for.  I know so little.  I can do so little.  Things I was competent in back home are suddenly irrelevant.  Being in an environment so completely different strips away much of what I have seen as my identity.  My first instinct is to run away and hide in a corner where I can be left alone.

It didn’t happen all at once, but since I’ve been here, I feel like I’ve been drained.  Physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually.  Yes, I feel like I’ve been drained right down to empty, and here I’ve discovered something.

Something I’ve known in my head but hadn’t experienced lately:

Being empty can be the very best thing to happen to you.

When I feel the crushing weight of my not-enough-ness, I experience God’s complete sufficiency.  When I feel like nothing, I remember God has promised to be everything I need.  When I’m empty, I learn that His purpose is “that [I] may be filled with all the fullness of God” (Ephesians 3:19b).  Filled with all the fullness of God.  That’s pretty incredible, isn’t it?               

Remember how Paul compares us to jars of clay?  Unspectacular.  Fragile.  Empty.  Yet that very unspectacular-ness and emptiness is what makes them perfect to hold the treasure – the fullness of God Himself.  “…That the excellence of the power may be of God and not of us.”  (2 Corinthians 4:7b)

I am emptied to be filled.

No, it doesn’t feel good.  No, I didn’t ask for it.  Yes, if there was another way to grow, I’d pick that.  But I know this is the place God wants me to be at: down to nothing.

And at the end of the day, not one of the things I’ve faced (or will face) can overpower me.

Nothing will be able to separate us from the love of God.  Nothing, nothing, nothing.

When the brush strokes aren't all rosy

My first week-and-a-half here went by without many bumps.  It was hot and smelly and tiring, but nothing really seemed to jar me.  I think my two trips to Mexico (although short) took a lot of the edge off of third-world culture shock.  The traffic jams, the potholes, the poverty - none of it shook me.  It was as though my senses were processing the fact that I was in Africa, but the fact that I had left home didn't "click" in my mind.

Until last Sunday.

For the first time, the miles between me and home - all that was familiar - were no longer just a number, but a reality.  I felt small.  Alone.  Unprepared.  "What am I doing here and I'm actually half a world away from home and I'm starting French classes tomorrow and I'm totally not ready for that..."

Homesickness was never something I really experienced at the MTC, but there was no mistaking when it hit.  I missed (and still miss) my home.  My friends.  My family.  The familiar.

The week was exhausting.  Studying French tired my brain (although, up until this point, most of the material hasn't been new to me).  We went to the market and I inwardly swore off meat a hundred times.   Crowded buses passed by, people staring at my white face - which of course, is impossible to hide.  Children pressed up against the car, begging for money.  Others who were handicapped sat by the side of the road, also begging.  I felt both miserable and helpless.

I can barely say more than "Bon jour" to people I see.  I don't know how to get around on my own.  Things I was confident in doing back home are suddenly irrelevant and even some basics might need to be re-learned in this new environment.  (Shopping, for example.)

I will not try to paint the picture in all rosy hues for you - or myself - because to do so would be to leave out the other colors God may choose to use.  They may be gray.  They may be dark.  He sees the whole picture, and I do not.

Not yet.

He didn't promise His children ease or comfort or everything going the way we like.  He did promise His constant presence and His completely sufficient grace.

And He is more than just the God of might and power and knowledge.  He is the God of comfort, a safe place to run to, no matter what.

He is the same God who fed the Israelites in the middle of the desert, for forty years.  One day at a time.

He will always be enough for today.

This...

"This..."  The perfect title for a random conglomeration of pictures. :)



 

This was my airport send-off 

 

 

 

This is the view from the living room of the house I'm staying at right now

 

 

This is one for you, Esther :)

 

 

...and this is another

 

 

This is Milkshake

 

 

This is Mouse

 

(Aren't they adorable?!)

 

 

This is my first Sunday in Africa, ready for church

 

 

This is fabric for two skirts

 

Fabric is my one weakness.  (Name that reference!)

 

 

This is our water filter - something I'm quite thankful for :)

 

 

This is my mosquito net (another thing I'm very thankful for)

 

 

This is the president's palace

 

 

This is a view of the ocean 

 

 

This is looking down over the city

 

 

...and to the other side

 

 

This is the Westernmost point of Africa (see that tiny little sliver of land in the middle of the picture?)

 

 

This is the ocean again

 

 

This is the sandy, shelly beach

 

 

This is right before I leaned out, trying to reach all the way across the ocean, only to realize my arms weren't long enough

 

Just kidding.

 

 

This is a retreating wave

 

  

This is looking out to the horizon...