The Al-Phe-male of SWIM

I thought my last post was a ridiculous story (though a true one) about Laki, who is the Alpha Male of Lungga. Then I started writing this post and checked back on my blog realised that my last post hadn't published. oh brother - internet connections in a developing country. I wonder how many other posts haven't been published...

So For Your Information, Laki, our dog, is the Alpha Male of Lungga- the area we live in. Whenever I go for a run, I take him with me for security and he runs proudly down the road, urinating about every 40 meters. At first we come upon three dogs next door. They're just small, so Laki runs past them, growls them here, teaches them a few tricks, and then carries on. Then there's another mangey dog that always emerges from the bushes at the end of our road just before we run past. Laki barks and continues.

Then we have a long stretch of straight where the dogs have learnt not to come out anymore. When we get to the Lose Coin Corner (so named after a store there. At first the store was called Loss coin and then Lose coin, because they didn't know how to spell Loose. To be fair, Loose is a ridiculous way of spelling the word Loose.  It should be luse, or, no wait, that wouldn't work... Seriously, it does my head in. The idea of the store was that if you had some loose coins, spend them here.) 

At Lose Coin Corner, there's a few dogs who try their luck against Laki. One day Laki had seven dogs on him, Laki pulled out his "Dog-With-Rabbies" face, which was pretty scary, bit, and chased a few of them, dodging their blows and jogging proudly with his head up, and just carried on. 

A hundred meters later there are a few more dogs out and if they haven't already heard that Laki is on the road and thus gone to hide, boy, they're in for a hiding. Laki spots them and sprints off to show them who is the Alpha Male. If the dogs are lucky, they will remember which day it is and hide under their house until after 7am, when Laki and I are back home. 

Then on the stretch of road past the short cut, there are another two dogs. Laki entices them from their home, and they take the bait. And then they take a hit. Laki has this, "Yes you can smell my doggy cologne" kind of expression on his face as they sniff and bark and he carries on. 

After that no other dogs bother us. I run to the gate of the Taj Mahal, touch the gate, at which Laki gives me this expression of "Oh bother, why not just turn around at the driveway, Lauretta", and then we go home.

On the trip home, the other dogs are too busy licking their wounds and nursing their broken pride to come out again. Now they know. Laki is the dog.

 Inside the gate however, he is a harassed, frightened dog under the despot Rocky.

Rocky is an old, arthritic, hairy, mangey, tick infested dog who ate a cane toad when he was a puppy. That explains a lot about him. He looks like he's constantly hungover. But he is the oldest male dog on the base and he has psychological control over Laki. I say this because Laki could whip him in a fight. Rocky can't even walk down the road, let alone stand up to Laki in a fight. But Laki feels like he's the underdog, like he's the runt of the pack whenever Rocky is around. Rocky runs the pack of dogs at SWIM like an autocratic ruler with an iron fist. And Laki cowers in submission.

That was what the last post was supposed to say, but our internet must have glitched before it got published.

2 months later... Today's post: 

Outside SWIM Base Laki is the dog.

Inside SWIM Base Laki is a bit pathetic. 

And then we got a cat. 

The cat made Laki even more pathetic. 

I couldn't capture it because I wasn't quick enough, but Laki was literally quivering in fear of the kitten, Quece. Quece (though properly spelt Kwis) is the Kwara 'ae language name for cat.

She may be small. She may be only feline. She may be only female - but she is the Alpha female of SWIM Base.

However, Theresa is the Protector and Defender of Cats. She thinks the dogs want to eat Quece (which is true - but we don't always get what we want, do we) so if Quece is outside, Theresa rescues her. We've told her (but she refuses to believe) that one scratch from the cat is enough to bring any dog (even Rocky) to its knees.

On other matters, as I am sure you are aware, I haven't posted a blog for a long time. I'm still trying to decide how far up the priority list blogging is. Anything after a number seven is pretty much doomed to the "When-I-become-Elasti-girl" category. Obviously, being Elasti-girl would mean I would have enough time to do anything after number seven on the priority scale, because the numbers one to six would be way more easier. (For example, Theresa, stop holding pussy by the neck -stretch my arms from my chair at the office down the hallway into Theresa's room to ensure this is done - wah lah! It would make life so much easier).

So either I need to become Elasti-girl, or I need to be convinced that blogging is higher in the priority scale. 

Then again, maybe with posts like Laki the Alpha Male you might be happy that blogging has been shuffled further down on the priority list.

Leaving Fields

We've been here now for three years and one day.

Three years.

We've slowly eased our way into the category of expats who have been here a while. I mean, it's not that long, but most people stay here for under three years. Besides, we'll still be here for a few years yet.

It's been a long, arduous, difficult at times three years. The rewards seem few in comparison to the work. Few, but very precious. And totally worth it. I wouldn't change the last three years, despite the rocky uphill climb. I wouldn't change it for the changes I've seen.

Nevertheless it's taken a whole three years for God to finally get through to my numbskull of a brain, that I've left. Not that I've left family and friends, my culture and the way of life as I know it, comforts, food, hobbies. No I've known for a long time that I've left and in some ways lost those things.

I've finally realised that I've left my fields.

You see as a missionary, I'm a "volunteer". I would hate to consider myself as employed - because that would make me being paid grossly under the minimum wage. I'm a volunteer. We get enough money to cover our needs and we are very grateful for that. We are so thankful to God for his provision - even a volunteer provision, because it's his hand that multiplies the fish and bread we hold in our hands. And our volunteer provision reminds us of the people who love and support us back home and sacrificially give so that we can continue to serve God here on this field.

Nevertheless, it's been a mind battle for me the last few years - I work hard, harder than I've ever worked before in my life, yet it doesn't show in my paycheque. The director used to joke that he'd half my pay. Ha ha. You can't half zero. I told him I'd double his if he did an errand for me in town. Which he did, and I doubled his pay too. Still zero.

We have food to eat and enough food to share. We can buy clothes at the second hand clothing stores here (which I must say, people go to exotic places to buy clothes - honestly, you don't need to go further than the bale shops in honiara!); we save up for our twice a year weekends away. But it bothers me that I can't have long term saving goals. I can't work extra hard, scrimp here and there and wahlah, we can knock something off our mortgage, or buy that new electronic device we've been eyeing up for ever so long, or buy a pair of shoes. And then there's the problem of toys and books, or even just presents for Theresa (ok, it was nice not having any presents at Christmas time, but her adoption day is literally around the corner.) Anything of quality that I want to buy needs to be purchased overseas, but obviously, I'm not overseas. (Insert a comment here - writing this is really boring. It feels like I'm complaining, which I'm not really, it's all part of a long convoluted story (my signature style, as always). Believe me - there is a point to this). I remember someone once saying she always wanted to have matching underwear so that if she was in a car accident she wouldn't be embarrassed when they had to cut her clothes off. Believe me, matching underwear is the lest of my underwear problems. (ok, this is just getting crazy).

I think you get the point. Being on a volunteer allowance is wonderful for growing your trust in God for everything and seeing how simply you can live life. But it's not so wonderful when you're part of a material culture thats on high speed to get more stuff. better stuff. or just stuff that you like and need.

And then I read again the verse in the Bible, I stumbled upon it. Matthew 19:29. When I read this verse, a dear friend of mine comes up. She's a missionary here - she's single, she's given up the comforts of life back home, she works so flippin hard. Maybe coming here has closed the door on possible relationships for her. She gives tirelessly to the poor, the downtrodden, the prostitutes, who are scorned, the illiterate, and gives them hope, the hope that comes from having the word of God and being able to read it. She is amazing. She is the most effective missionary I have ever met in my entire life. I wish I could be like her. And she embodies this verse. She has left her family. She has left her home. She has left behind the possibility of marriage and a family of her own. She has left behind her job. She has left behind her life. To serve God here. Wow. She is the person in Matthew 19:29. And one day she will receive a hundred times what she has given up. And I am so happy that God will give that to her for her sacrificial service in love for him.

I mean, I left my family, but hey, I had Jair. And now God increased our family - now we are three.

But as I read it again I stumbled upon one further clause. Leaving fields. This list of things people leave for God includes leaving fields. "Everyone who has left... fields for my sake will receive a hundred times as much..." Hang on, I'm in here too. I have left my field. As in what earns me money, what helps me to survive and prosper and make a living and gain satisfaction and sit back at the end of the week with a beer in my hand (a beer? did I say that?) and say, "aah. Another day, another dollar." I have left that. I left it three years ago. It's ironic in a way that with my qualifications I could walk into any school here and get a job. Heck I could probably walk into the international school and get a job. A well paying job. And get remunerated for my hard work. But actually, I realised the other day (see I told you I was a numbskull) I have left my fields, for the sake of serving God.

Now probably at this point, you're thinking I'm boasting. Honestly, I'm only boasting in God that somehow he's managed to get that point across to me, through that numbskull head of mine. You've left your fields for me Lauretta? Great. Now let's get over that, don't get your knickers in a knot (as my friend Jasmine would say) and get over the hardships that leaving your fields might bring, and focus on the task at hand. Namely, the task he's doing in my heart. Get over it. You've left your fields. I mean, look at the fields - or rather, oh boy, how do you describe it. Look at what Christ left for me. How could I ever look back? See what I mean. There's nothing to boast about in me. It's all Jesus. All Jesus.

But I must say, now that I've realised that I've left my fields, it's easier to accept things. Now there's a reason for not eating chocolate. Now there's a reason why I can't have feta cheese when I want it. Now there's a reason I get nits when I go to a village. It has hallowed my underwear (excuse the pun). Now there's a reason I own no whiteware - including the dress. Now there's a reason I don't even have a beloved piano. It's all for Jesus. It's for Jesus' sake. And that's the sweetest reason to do anything.

Let that reason motivate me.

Let that reason motivate you.

I'm not the only one who has left my fields. Some of you have too. I have the deepest respect for my brother-in-law who chose not to take a certain good job in order that he could take a different not-as-good job. For the sake of Jesus. For the sake of having the time to be a loving husband, a devoted dad, a servant in his church. I deeply respect his choice to leave his field for the sake of Jesus and I pray that God would bless him for that.

I deeply respect my sister - and all those other Godly women I know - who have left their fields. Who have left their fields and the satisfaction that paid employment, adult conversation, accomplishing things that have significance brings. I mean really, sometimes it's hard to see the significance in wiping babies bottoms. Or spending 25 minutes getting your toddler's (or barbarian as my friends and fellow mums here like to call them)  teeth brushed, dry caked on weetbix chin clean, hair brushed, clothes on, new clothes on because they wet their undies and they're still getting the hang of this whole potty thing, socks on, and shoes on, yes both socks on. Different feet, and bag packed and somehow out the door. There's very little uplifting and inspiring about sitting around hearing the same childish stories all day. No wonder so many mums are frazzled, starved for contact with adults who can move beyond topics like the sandpit, potties, more chocolate please, and hop on pop. And I know women who've given up good jobs, satisfying jobs, lucrative fields, the feeling of importance and professionalism and the money all those things bring for the sake of Jesus.

They could earn more than they are now, and pay the nanny, or at least day care and have someone else worry about the bottoms and the socks and the sandpits. Then they could have whatever they want. But instead, they've left their fields, the career, the money, the satisfaction, for the sake of Jesus. For the sake of the future. To raise children who are going to be strong lights in a dark, dark world.

Leaving your fields means sacrifice. But don't think you have to go on the mission field to leave your field. We have many fields. Which do you need to leave for the sake of Jesus? Because Jesus left a hang of a lot more than our measly fields for us.

The Mighty Big Chook that Redeemed My Culture

I bought a Mighty Big Chook, well, I thought, before it arrived, but after I had paid, it had better be a mighty big chook. It cost me a total of SBD$90! What a rip off! (In truth it wasn't, because, as I have said, it was a Mighty Big Chook).

So the Mighty Big Chook came, freshly butchered and went straight into the freezer awaiting it's destiny - the oven. Today was the big day and I took the chook out in the morning and it's been sitting on my bench all day.

And then it happened. A friend gave me another chook - freshly butchered. And then his wife said something to him in language and he gave me another one - also freshly butchered, with the comment, "they've just been killed, so use them today or tomorrow."

Ah, but you don't know about refrigeration - I have a freezer in my house, I thought, as I took the two chooks inside. In this culture, the lack of refrigeration means that when you have fresh meat, you eat it - you eat it and you share it till it's gone because otherwise it spoils. But in my culture, because we do have refrigeration, if you have fresh meat, you freeze it and use it at your leisure, for yourself (usually). It stifles generosity.

As good as it is to preserve things for ourselves and our households, as much as it epitomises the wonder woman in Proverbs 31, this thing about the way we lives (I'm still talking about refrigeration here), which has greatly shaped our culture, so often stops us from being generous. Sadly, those of us who have full pantries and full fridges, usually don't have full arms to give to others.

Myself included - as I have already explained (the two birds went straight to the freezer). Here I am in Solomon where most people would eat chicken once every two months or so (and apart from fish, that's the extent of their carnivorous diet), and the poorest people I know now (by western standards of material poverty, that is) are giving me free chooks yet I, in my self-preservation type of western mindset, am happily chucking the chooks in the chiller for the future.

All this flew through my mind in the short time it took to walk from the driveway with the two chooks in hand, inside the house, towards the freezer to shove (literally - my freezer is full - mostly bread. Sorry, no ice cream) the chooks inside.

I had a twinge of guilt about my lack of generosity that is so convenient because of my fridge/freezer. But it wasn't enough of a twinge of guilt - or rather the deep prickings in my conscience - to overcome my equally deeply cultural attitudes towards providing for myself before I provide for others.

So with the new fresh chooks in the freezer and the Mighty Big Chook totally thawed, I set about to preparing the roast. First I got out the scales to weigh the chook - she was a whopping 4.1kilos! What? That's turkey sized! True to my friend's word, she was a Mighty Big Chook. I quickly got out the calculator and did some figures and it turns out if I shoved my bird in the oven within 10 minutes, dinner would be ready at around 7:22pm. Eek.

Another cultural problem. I'm a Westerner. A dutch westerner to be precise. I eat on time. And on time is 6pm. Sharp (I didn't used to be so bad but now we have a routine toddler in the house. Hence we eat on time, or suffer the consequences of a tired, hungry toddler.).

Dilemma. If I keep to my western culture, which is so deeply ingrained in me, and keep this chook, which I already have doubts and prickings in my conscience about, then we'll eat on Solomon time - when the food is ready. If I give up my western culture to take up Solomon (or I would argue Kingdom) culture and generously give the chook away and cook up one of the smaller new chooks, which are fresh so are already thawed, then we'll on Western time - 6pm sharp.

So now the Mighty Big Chook has been the cause of two major prickings to my conscience.

Suitably pricked and prodded by the Mighty Big Chook (or, rather, the Holy Spirit gently working through events in my life) I pick up the Mighty Big Chook, walk over to my neighbour's house and say,

"Grace, what are you having for dinner?"

Grace didn't really have any plans. "Ok, well, here's a chicken. I don't need it so you can have it."

"Oh, Lauretta, Mighty (there's that word again) big blesing nao yu givim mi! Olketa ring kam lo mi and ask, wat nao bae yu bringim for kaikai lo sios tumoro. Bat mi no save tu. No eniting mi garem lo haos. Bat nao, yu bringim sikin, mi save kuki dat wan and bae mi bringim sikin fo mifala lo sios. E. Tenkiu tumas fo dat wan."*

I explain, that someone blessed me by giving me another chicken when I already had one, and I can't use them both, so you can have the big one.

She was very thankful for the blessing - and so was I. But I was even more thankful for the humbling lesson in generosity.

It will take a lot more than a Mighty Big Chook to redeem the strength of the greedy materialistic self-preservation attitude of my culture that is in me, that runs through my veins and arteries, thicker than blood, like fat the clogs and causes strokes and heart attacks (the strokes and heart attacks of course, being the failure to be generous and bless others).

But it's not too much for the Holy Spirit, who has promised to complete the work He has begun in me. God loves a generous giver and I want to be one. There's nothing like being in a country that is materially poor to learn about what generosity is really all about. Two things, when poor people are greedy about stupid things like clothes and pegs, you realise how awful that kind of greed is in yourself. And when poor people are so overwhelmingly generous with things - their food, their last bit of flour their time, their knowledge - you realise how awful your own stingeyness is.






*you get bonus points if you try figure out the pijin before looking at the translation below.





"Oh Lauretta, mighty big blessing you have given me. They rang me an asked me what I was going to bring to church tomorrow for shared lunch* and I said, I don't know! I don't have any food in the house. But now you've given me a chicken and I can cook it up and bring it* as our food for church. Oh my word. Thank you so much for this"



*When you see shared lunch in Solomon culture, don't think, bring a cake on a plate, or a plate of delicate sandwiches. Think quantity. I was very proud of my container of 30 slices of curried egg sandwiches until I saw all the other women were bringing pots and containers after pots and containers of meat curries, and roasted chickens, and tonnes of rice and pots full of cassava. I was ashamed!

*told you so.

the Long Last Step

Finally, the long last step has been completed! The long last step, both in Theresa's legal adoption and in her citizenship application has been completing the elusive Section 19 of the 2004 adoption act - registering her name as an adopted child in the Adopted Children's Register. 

A few weeks ago we found out that yes, they really wanted this part to be completed before they would make a decision on her citizenship application. So... I went to the Lawyer - NPF Plaza down in town to collect the Court order. Then I went to the Ministry of Home Affairs, where they write birth, death and marriage certificates and where they file Solomon Island citizenship applications. I mean, it seems like the natural place to go, right? So I went to their office, up on Vavaya ridge, only to find out they'd moved to the Anthony Saru building. 

Back down the hill. (BTW going up and down the hill sounds like an easy task, but you have no idea... it is no small feat going up and down that hill (even in a vehicle). Needless to say, it took a while). Enter into Anthony Saru building (which is very close to where I started - right next door to the NPF plaza!!). The first meter of the foyer was pleasant, after that it smelt like urine. Tentatively enter the lift, but considering that the Ministry of Home affairs is on the top floor (level 6 I know it's not that high - it's practically the highest building in Point Cruz!) I took the lift. It's kind of funky (and this time I'm not referring to the smell) because there's a hole in the ceiling of the elevator so you can see it being pulled up. Kinda cool. Kinda freaky. 

Get out on 6th floor, turn left, Ministry of Home Affairs. (Let's call it MHA for short). The guy, after some confusion, took the court order and accompanying cover letter and said he'd pass it on to the relevant lady and that she would make the enter in the register when she came back later on that day.

Wednesday Morning. Just after nine, Theresa and I are back at MHA to pick up the form... where I am kindly informed that MHA doesn't have the register of adopted children... it must be at the magistrates office. Other side of Point Cruz. Oh dear, plus there's roadworks on this road - and no signs so everyone's driving down this road, just to turn around right where I'm trying to get out of the car park. Argh! Puttered along in roadworks for a while then I remembered that taxi short cut - so I snuck through and jumped the cue by about 30 cars who would probably remain stationary for quite some time because of taxis (and people such as myself) taking the secret short cut. (If you want to know where it is... well it's privileged information but I might tell you ... for a price). 

Magistrates office. No one wants to acknowledge my presence, but eventually I make eye contact - hold that eye contact and then that person will help me. Which they eventually do, begrudgingly. She eventually refers me to the Magistrate (or someone) who after length (and private) discussions with her, tells me that, no the magistrates office does not have the register. Go to the high court. So back in the diabolical honiara traffic to the High Court. At this stage, Theresa's not too happy about being lugged around town (nor am I, though of course, I'm the one doing the lugging). But at the High Court, she was happy because I let her run around - so she tries to sneak into the "staff only" area, shuts and opens the door for everyone, tries to climb up the desk and grab the ink of the man that is signing and stamping statutory declarations. Luckily, I know a friend of the guy so I make small talk with him and then he's not too upset by Theresa's antics. After quite some further discussions with the people at the High Court, I'm told, go to the Ministry of Home Affairs! I've already been there, they told me, via via via, to come here!!! So back to MHA, through the foyer (still smells like urine), up the elevator and into the office of MHA, where they tell me, oh yes, this is a problem, no one seems to have the register. You don't tell me. All along, I thought that this elusive register must be in someone's bottom draw in an obscure government department in an obscure suburb of Honiara - like Lengakiki of all places. The closer (or further as the case may be) we come to finding out, the likelier this seems. 

By this stage, I'm busting to pee - having skulled a litre of water after doing laps before embarking on this adventure. So I kindly ask, and they kindly provide, the key for their toilet (no water, or toilet paper inside -mental note to self - ensure that I make an effort to carry tissues and hand sanitiser in the future). Despondent, I'm ready to go back down the lift and look who knows where for this jolly register, when I'm summoned back into the office where a kind man (from Western Province, I think) tells me, again, that yes it's a probably that no one seems to have the register, but you wait here for a while, I'll ring around and try find out. 

So Theresa and I wait - Theresa delights and entertains all the staff who don't seem to have any work to do (which is significant considering there were 4 of them - I mean four women in this government department with no work to do??! ) Eventually after a significant amount of phone calls to and from the magistrates office and other people, he tells me go see "Haelo Pelu". Mmm. Haelo Pelu. "The Deputy Registrar General". Maybe he knows and if he doesn't, go back to the Magistrates court and maybe by that stage, they'll know something. Ok, so I get directions to Haelo Pelu's office - the Ministry of Lands (what on earth would the Ministry of Lands have to do with adoption??) and since it's relatively close to the Anthony Saru building, Theresa and I walk there. I follow the directions, get more directions to go up stairs where there's a door - no entry except by appointment. I disregard the sign and no one seems to concerned that I just walked in. At the aforementioned office, I find a lady and when I explain my situation, to my utter surprise (and relief) she says, "oh yes, the register of adopted children is here. Let me look at those papers!". By this stage it's 11:30. She's go the court order - I'm still hoping to get it in the diplomatic bag by noon but that wasn't to be. 

The next day, I find out from her that the court needs to sign a schedule. Even though that's a job my lawyer should organise, I dutifully take it on in the interests of time. I return to him with the information he needs and he says he'll process it at court. I ring him every day to check the progress and each day he says, "I told you, I'll call you." Every day I say, "yes, I know, but I'm just checking - you know me. I'm white". 

Eventually (two weeks after this journey began) he rings and says, "its' ready, signed, come get it." So Jair picks it up but it's too late to take to the MOL so then the next day I go and drop it off 1 km down the road from the lawyer at the Ministry of Lands. There's a spelling mistake in the schedule, but I kindly ask them to ignore it and please spell the name like this etc etc etc. 

Thankfully the MOL follow my advice and not the court signed schedule, and the next day, last Thursday, they give me three original copies of Theresa's name in the Adopted Children's Register. I cannot be more happy. As I take them, the lady says, "so it's all finished now!" Indeed. We have now fulfilled every single obligation under the law of Solomon Islands. 

The first thing that came to mind was an old hymn, "Hallelujah, Praise Jehovah, O my soul Jehovah praise."

Theresa is the 71st person entered into this register. 

That day I said to Theresa, "Theresa you are totally, 100% adopted now. Yay! You're adopted". She was very chuffed. She kept going around saying, "Reesa adopted!" 

Yes, Reesa is adopted. And though that last step was so very long it was so very worth it.

daily water

It only took a day of not having water, less than a day in fact, to make me so much more sympathetic for the neighbourhood folk who come to the mission base each day to collect water for themselves. More sympathetic towards all the people around the world who daily gather at communal wells and taps to collect water. Jesus was in the same category, but he didn't even have a bottle or a jug!! 

 One of the wooden wood bits that hold up one of the water tanks by our house had snapped, so the water tank was emptied, pulled down so that the wooden wood bits could be replaced with new, unrotten wooden wood bits. So we had no water. At first it was fun - I had my shower,  Solomon style, in a lava lava outside with good pressure from the tank as it was being emptied. But as the day wore on, I began to appreciate so much more the convenience of having water coming out of a tap inside the house. 

For a day, I joined the queue of people lining up to fill their water bottles.

It made me realise how we've built our lifestyle around the convenience of instant water from taps inside the house. I wash my hands 28 times a day, at least. Filing up the bottle is effortless when the water's on tap. Rinsing veggies is easy when the water flows. Got a dirty nappy to clean before you soak? No worries when there's water in the tank. But when there's no water, you're carrying buckets of water to flush the toilet, you're carrying baskets with bottles to store in your fridge to drink. And you're carrying dirty laundry to the communal tap to clean. 

There's lots of people there - kids carrying 10 litre jerry cans one their small boney backs, mums carrying bags filled with 1 litre Szetu bottles with rain water from the humble tank at SWIM. Usually people seem to come in lots of 2 or 3 and they take turns to fill a bottle.

In a sense, it's kind of social. But in another sense, I'm glad that usually, I can just be "social" in my own house.

With my own tap.

Grounded.

Well, it's been way too long since I've blogged. We went to NZ on holiday/sort out things with our house etc. It was way too cold, but lovely doing life with friends and family - even if it was only for a few days at a time. And then we came back and hit the ground running. With the director of SWIM and his wife leaving in less than six weeks, our workload is increasing to compensate for the loss. We're hoping and praying that God will provide a replacement soon (maybe you...?) - there's only so long that we'll be able to do our load and theirs! But as I'm reminded daily, God gives us strength for the things He calls us to do. I'm reminded of Martin Luther, who said when he had a busier day, would spend more time in prayer. If he lived now, I hesitate to guess he'd spend more time praying and less time blogging - hence no blogs of late from me.

Anyway, I wanted to write about feeling grounded. You see as lovely as it was to be in NZ and buy chocolate and eat grapes and have all the ingredients you needed when cooking, no pot holes in the road and all those things I generally complain about here, the novelty wore off pretty quickly. It was so special to be able to meet up with people we love who live in NZ. But you're always living out of a suitcase. Always unsettled. Always thinking about the next journey to the next destination. Always remembering that this is only temporary. Always thinking that though you've had a great dinner with your sister tonight or a great day with your friend, it'll be the last one for more than a year. I think more than any other time, we both really experienced reverse culture shock. Culture shock is when you go into a culture other than your own and everything about that culture and their way of life is so different that you experience intense emotional exhuastion and anxiety etc. Reverse culture shock is the same thing, but happens when you go back to your own culture. As an example, I'd go into a supermarket that was ten times the size of the kinds of store we have in the Solomon Islands and I'd be so totally stunned and confused and immobilised by the overwhelming choice. It was too much. Or Jair gave the example of going out to Subway in Brisbane airport. All he wanted was a Foot sub and he gets bombarded with questions (and all of them said at a pace of 198 words per minute)

"What type of bread do you want? Italian, Cheese and Herbs, Oats and Honey?"
"You've got choices? I just want bread."
"What sort of cheese? Cheddar, Swiss, Edam? Do you want your meat grilled?"
"Um, cheese. Wow, you've got cheese?"
"Lettuce? Tomatoes? Cucumber? Capsicum? Red onion? Olives? Pickles? Jalapeños?"
"Oh boy. Let's just go for the works."
"What sauce would you like? Mustard, honey mustard, bbq sauce, redwine vingarette, mayo, southwest, ranch?"
"Uhhh..... (a very long pause) what would you recommend?"
"Sure. Do you want to make that a meal?"

When Jair related the story to me I thought, it can't be that bad. Then when I ordered one day while we were en route to Northland I struck the same problem. Too many choices. I just didn't know what to do with them all. And there's no time to think. So yeah, we were culture shocked.

Then we got back to the sauna that we call home, stepped inside our house and breathed in a deep breath of musty air and I thought: "ahhhhh. The welcome smell of home." I still felt a bit unsettled and it didn't take long for my thoughts to slide back to NZ and whatever our future is there, but I, we all, actually, felt like we were back home. And thankful too!

But it got me thinking, that God might/will up-route us again some time. We're not going to stay here forever (well, at least I don't think we are...). In the course of our lives God could take us anywhere - and one day, He'll take us to our real home. The home where we'll always feel settled and where we won't have any culture shock. Neither will it smell musty.

I realised so powerfully that wherever we go, we've got to be grounded in God. Being with Him is being at home. Abiding in Him, my soul is settled. With Him there is peace amidst the chaos of life. If I'm grounded in Him, I won't feel uprooted, no matter where I am living. Well, that's the theory - now I'll have to try it out in real life. But it's a daily task, to live each day, grounded. in. God.

What a Mess!

When it comes to licking out the bowl, Theresa is an expert.

When you can't get enough on your fingers, go for this approach.

Trust Theresa - she's the pro.