introducing our new son...

Learning to Trust

I had a bit of a crisis over the weekend. A personal crisis of faith. You see I've been waiting and praying for an addition to our family for so long. I love my daughter so much, but if you don't feel your family is complete, it still hurts. And it hurts when your daughter is alone when you want her to have brothers and sisters around her. Some people when they're 9 months pregnant harp on about how they can't wait to meet this baby, this baby growing under their heart. Well, the my "pregnancy" has been a whole lot longer than 9 months and I so long to meet a baby, who hasn't been growing under my heart but in my heart.

And then on Saturday, it all got a bit much. The waiting. The waiting for something you don't even know will happen. In exasperation I said to God, "fine. I can't hold onto hope when it hurts so much. I'm not going to pray anymore. I'm not going to hope anymore. I can't handle that anymore."

And it was in that really low point that God was finally able to teach me something important. I was finally humbled. Finally listening. He taught me on Sunday that trusting Him meant letting go of my plan for my life, my dreams, my desires, my hopes and letting Him bring about His plan for my life, His dreams, His desires, His hopes. When the Bible talks about fulfilling the plans for us, the good plans etc etc as we so often hear about, it's not talking about my plans (doh!!) but God's plans, and evidently His plans are rather different than mine.

It's odd writing this and looking at it in black on white. It's looks so clinical. So formulated. But believe me it was such a moment to finally learn what trusting in God actually means. To say, "ok, God. I'll throw my plans out, and we'll go back to the real game plan for my life. Your plan. Whatever it is. Help me to accept it. Change my desires so that they are Your desires for my life." That decision to trust, to close my eyes and free fall in His strong loving arms, was such a real, with-all-my-heart moment.

So on Monday, I was beginning to think, Ok, perhaps God's plan doesn't include anymore children. That is ok. It really is. Because ultimately, I want God's plan for my life.

beautiful mountains

On Monday night I got a phone call from a counsellor passing on news from the social welfare that there is a baby up for adoption and we have been identified as prospective parents.

On Tuesday I rang the social worker.

On Wednesday I rang the guardian to talk about the adoption with him.

On Thursday I wondered how to prepare for a baby in a day.

On Friday, I am flying to Gizo to pick up our son.

Watch this space!

Something beautiful

This morning in my garden I found this:

These beautiful flowers blossomed just on the right day to cheer me up...

pushing through the mud. 

me or them?

flood

So, I just thought I'd upload some photos of the flood. I won't write much about it - don't really have much time in the cleanup!

Thursday night - this is the height of waters in our back yard. The water was rushing through underneath a fence near the washing line and running under our house.

In the back of the photo is the generator shed. Amazingly, the generator didn't get water in it so we still have power. What a blessing!

Thursday night looking on our front car port. Oops! Forgot to move the Landrover before the waters rose. Amazingly, it started the next day. 

Friday morning: The water receeded over night and this is the water mark on our washing that was left on the line! Eek. Embarrasingly, the washing is still hanging there - half muddied! 

Friday afternoon - for quite a few hours the water just flowed through the base but didn't get any higher than this. 

Well, you certainly couldn't try breaking the no parking sign now. Unless you were in a boat. That's a good point...

For those of you who knew what the Lungga river used to look like, this is it now. It's probably about a third wider than it used to be - has taken out a lot of houses in Burns Creek - on the left of the photo.

Sunday after church we went into town and had a look at the devastation. Apart from seeing a 20 second thing on CNN on Saturday night we really had no idea how bad it was in town since we were stuck on the base. This is where the Chinatown bridge used to be.

Crazy. There are so few houses here now where it used to be a bustling, crowded village.

It was crazy going into Honiara on Sunday and seeing that much of Honiara is normal. There are nice palm trees lining the road. Green fields. Shops that don't have mud slopping up the paths. For the first time I actually think Honiara is clean - because where we are is so dirty.

The weeks preceding the flood in my Bible reading I kept coming across verses that were about being steadfast and endurance. 

Hebrews 12:2 "Fixing our eye on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before Him, endured the cross, despising the shame and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God."

James 1:2-3 "Consider it all joy, my brethren, when you encounter various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness."

So I have that in my mind. It's pretty disheartening thinking about the clean up - not only at SWIM but throughout Honiara. This flood has resulted in homelessness, it will no doubt bring about shortages of food, of fuel as the town is split in two. As people stay in hopeless situations, living with grief, poverty, in unsanitary conditions, disease will probably spread. And the country is already fairly unstable politically. Some people already were discontented. So I can only imagine what the repercussions of this flood are going to be for this city. 

But for those of us that believe, we need to endure. Be steadfast. "And let steadfastness have its perfect result, so that you may be mature and complete, lacking in nothing." James 1:4

Ironing

Today I find myself ironing towels. 

Towels?

Yes. Because it's the rainy season and in the rainy season it's just too damp for anything to dry, even if it is 26 degrees celsius. I seem to recall that in NZ, in winter, I would put damp washing in the hot water cupboard, or in front of the fire on a clothes horse. Some people use dryers. But we don't have a fire here, nor do we have a hot water cupboard, or hot water to put in it or a dryer. 

So if I don't want my towels to mould away in the cupboard, because of lingering dampness, I've heard that you're supposed to iron them. 

Please note. This is in no way an advertisement for Black&Decker Light 'n Easy irons. In fact, this particular iron burns EVERYTHING if it is on the cotton setting. You can only have it really low if you don't want to burn anything. Which means:

a) a lot of my clothes have burn marks on them 

b) a lot of my clothes that need ironing, never really get all the wrinkles ironed out, because you don't get that far with your wrinkles ironing cottons on a polyester heat.

Anyway, while the generator was on (you need LOTS of power to run an iron) and there was something nice and reminiscent about winter, with the iron, the warmth of the towel, the bright light in a grey room.

Until I found myself sweating. That's right, it is still 26 degrees, after all.

      The rainy season never seems to stay with us long in the Solomons. January definitely at some point it comes, but the other months (Nov to April) it seems a bit elusive. But I like the rainy season.

 It means watching the drops run off the gutterless roofs. You can almost foster the feeling of curling up with a book and a hot chocolate. You can wear tee-shirts and some people even wear socks. You have to dash when you go outside. Frogs swim in puddles. 

Pussy cats leave footprints outside your door. 

The rainy season is a nice break from the relentless heat of the rest of the year. Everything is green and fresh and vibrant. 

And, like all seasons, it's only here for a season. 

Samasodu

One of the best things about living in the Solomon Islands is being able to go out of Honiara and spend some time in a village, seeing and living the way most of the people here live. It's easy to think Honiara is the norm when you live here, but when you get to go out a bit, you see the Solomons as it really is. 

And as it really is, I like it.

I was really blessed to be able to join a team who went to the village of Samasodu on the west coast of the island of Isabel. It is actually marked on the map so if you own one check it out.

I had never been on a boat for longer than maybe 5 hours, so the expected 16 on a good day or 20 on a bad day trip was a bit daunting to think about.

Turns out it was a bad day. A really bad day. 

We boarded in Honiara the ship at 5pm on a Thursday night.

When it got dark we slept, although it took a while to get Theresa to sleep in the cockroach infested cabin. I have to remind myself that sleeping in the cockroach infested cabin was better than sleeping outside on the deck.

It was pretty rough between Guadalcanal and Isabel. Jair didn't come with us, so I was trying not to vomit and trying to settle Theresa down to sleep. I was very thankful when she did sleep, because then I could lie flat, think about sleeping and try not to vomit. 

No vomit. Yay.

Then after a while I noticed that the ship wasn't moving. It was about 2am and in muffled voices I heard that we were at Kavanga - the bottom of Isabel, but that the ship was broken down so they were repairing it.

I drifted back to sleep and woke up while it was still dark, took a look outside, could see water running, so went back in, assuming we were happily sailing up the coast.

I woke up a while later, still dark and looked on the otherside of the ship this time to see - men playing cards by the light of kerosene lamps on the Kavanga wharf  - and to hear  - the unmistakeable sound of mechanics trying to fix the ship. 

The next morning I got out at 6 or whatever, went for a look around the buzzing (not) township of Kavanga. The streets were lifeless, but for a few chickens pecking the ground for food.

I think it was 8:30am when we left Kavanga and started the long, torturously slow journey up the coast. Every time someone wanted to get off, the ship stopped, waited while a smaller dingy powered out to drop them and their cargo off, and then chugged away. Really chugged because evidently it wasn't quite 100% so it limped up the coast.

At 3:30pm on Friday, Samasodu was in sight, and that same little dingy took us the village. 

So you see, it was a bad day for the ship ride, over the expected 20 hours.

Anyway, we were greeted by naked boys painted with red mud and wielding sticks, spears and axes. Theresa was terrified and for the next few days wouldn't leave the house without asking whether the warriors were going to come and attack us.

Anyway, I'm getting a bit side tracked because what I wanted to write about was some of the things I love about daily life in a village.

Morning and evening prayer services.

The brightly coloured inside of the church.

Children singing.

Children praying.

Children playing.

I love the outdoor showers. Obviously people swim (swim is the pijin words for wash) with their clothes on. The funniest little experience was that I was chatting to some women and I asked them whether it was true that when you hear the beating of the drum in the evening, you had to quickly go inside so that people could have their showers in peace. That's what the other expat had told me. The ladies laughed at this. Of course it wasn't true. I thought so, I said, because no where else in the Solomon Islands do you have to retreat into your house when the drum goes for shower time. I mean, it's not like people shower naked or anything. What a ridiculous idea. I explained that that is what the expat probably thought. 

The ladies thought it was hilarious. Couldn't stop laughing about it. And eventually as I went to leave, I said to them with a wink, "Well, I better go now, I heard the drum go." I left them in stitches.

I love that big kids grow up cuddling little kids. Older pikininis often have a responsibility to look after younger pikininis. Now there is a flaw in the system when it happens to often. A ten year old can't adequately discipline and train a four year old - the wallop the four year olds often tend to get from their older siblings doesn't seem to do much in the way of teaching obedience in the younger one. Nor does a seven year old always giving the two year old what they want help the two year old learn not to be greedy. 

However, to me there is something very special in this culture in the way children are taught to treasure and look after younger children. It brings maturity, teaches selflessness, encourages responsibility. I find in our culture, it seems to me, we teach our children to treasure themselves - their own experiences, their toys, their right to do what they want. If it's a hassle for them to find a way to entertain the two year old, oh well. They're only kids. Let them just be kids. If they don't want to have to play with that annoying neighbour next door who has no other friends but desperately wants someone to play with, ok, fine deary, go back to your crayons instead. Instead of sharing their time, we teach them to hoard it. Instead of sharing their toys, we teach them to hide them, in case they get broken. Instead of growing selflessness in them, we let them stay selfish.

Then again, maybe it's just that that's what we do as adults, so naturally that's what we teach our kids.

In any case, I love it about Solomon Island culture, that the girls will have a baby falling asleep in their arms, that older boys will play soccer with the little ones who have just learnt to run, that when a younger kid comes along, they don't run off to play, but take her hand and let her join them.

I love sitting down with someone just storying, passing them time talking. 

Like the time spent in this lady's kitchen, chatting, while she stripped the fern leaves off the stem for their dinner. The sun shone in hot, but the wind, blowing in the open sides, cooled us while we talked.

While we talked she told me about this nifty way of cooking.

This is a bucket, lined with concrete and it has a grate half way through. For people who don't have time or access to lots of wood for making a fire to cook with, and who don't have money for a gas cooker, they can take (or buy) a whole lot of wood, burn it, then motu then charcoal. Motu is the local oven - cooking on hot stones on top of the ground then covering the hot stones and the thing you're cooking. 

Once the charcoal is cooked in the motu it will be dry and a whole sack will last two months if you budget it carefully. When you want to cook, you put a few pieces of charcoal on the grate, add some fire and put your pot on top. 

Ingenious.

I love it!

And I love that in a village you pass the time just passing time. 

Those slow deep breathes of time infuse life into our swamped, harried days.

Mint and Not Mint

Jair is now the proud owner of a mid 70s Nissan Datsun Roadstar ute. It's a good resto car, and it's a good excuse for Jair to do something that's not "work" but rather fun, in a place where most of what he does it work. It gets him out of the cluttered, mugginess of the "office" and into the fresh clean air space underneath a car. 

So, the Datsun.

He towed her home from her previous storage facility - underneath a mango tree behind a house in Chinatown where it resided for 8 - 9 years.

It's mint - in colour that is. In condition? Well, not so mint. The Datsun is so rusty - Theresa had to balance on various bits still left in the floorpan to be able stand up for the photos.

But boy is she cute.

Well, Theresa too. But this post is about the Datto.

Look at this retro dashboard. Isn't it enough to make you go weak at the knees?

It's a good thing Jair married me. Where Jair's loves (understatement) cars (the rustier the better, it seems), I have a weakness for them. Especially geeky ones. Think back to the Holden Kingswood in wedgewood blue. Jair picks me up for our first almost date - well, not even a date, the occasion he's going to ask me to court him - in this ugly as anything Holden Kingswood, that has no carpet and sounds like a helicopter. I almost turned around and walked back into the house. No actually, literally. I almost did.

Thankfully I didn't. Because that was the day I fell in love.

With classic geeky cars.

And Jair. Well, mostly with Jair.

But while I'm a one man woman, I'm certainly not a one car woman. (Neither is Jair a one car man.  Unlike marriage, fidelity in cars is more about love for the whole race of cars rather than one particular model - well the whole race with a few exceptions, e.g. Fords).

There's been the Kombi. The Sunbeam Scepter. Honestly, I still wipe away a tear when I think of my parting with her. The Morris 1100 was pretty dashing in my eyes, even when she didn't start first pop on those cold Hawkes Bay mornings. 

Then think of my ultimate heart throb of a car - the 1963 Citroen DS. Not that that's one I've ever owned. 

Yet.

Ah. close your eyes and think about her.

Those curves in all the wrong places. Those awkwardly large eyes. The bumper that puckers like a frog's lip.

I love it. I just love it.

So when my latest baby came home... 

it was enough to make my heart skip a beat.

Even though she was full of rust.

*sigh*