“We can’t stop! Someone might see me…and I have jeans on!” it wasn’t a calm thought, it was almost panic.   Fortunately, almost instantly my brain executed the needed flip.  “Oh, that’s right.  I’m in Oregon; most other people will also be in pants.”

They pop up at the most unexpected moments.  Some of them definitely follow a pattern, others are random.  They may be a thought, an action, or an involuntary word.  But all of them have something to do with changing cultures.  Re-entry.  Or reverse culture shock.  Or whatever you choose to call it.  It is my life right now.

Not all bad.  But not all good.  Some of them cause me to appreciate American culture, while others provoke a laugh at either myself, the Oregonians, or the Mozambicans.  Still others induce a biting the tongue or rolling the eyes incident.  But for the most part, I’m able to use this re-entry experience to count my blessings.  Blessings that are a hundred times more enjoyed because they’ve been absent (family, friends, and hot showers), blessings I feel I’m literally soaking up (quietness of the Oregon farm, the smell of hay, and fresh fruit), and blessings I’m still getting used to (I can call my friends instead of emailing them!  Though I still automatically start writing them emails).

Driving has been a bit of an adventure.  I still have to think about which side the driver sits on, and turning onto a road takes a second thought.   Do we drive on the right or the left side in this country?   (When I was proudly commenting that I haven’t messed up on this item, Rebekah kindly reminded me that actually I did turn into the wrong lane that one time.)  And it would be better if the subject of red lights were avoided…

I now find amusement in eavesdropping.  Or maybe astonishment is a better word.  There’s something strange about the fact that everyone around me is speaking a language I understand.  And perhaps something troubling about the fact that they can all understand everything I’m saying!  Warning to self: conversation in the blueberry field is likely to be overheard and understood.

For now, sewing projects, books, and sorting awaits.  A job is looming on the horizon.  And randomly I feel like speaking Kimwani.

I never knew that witch doctors had to pass tests.  Not until I met Abraham and Majuma.  They lived across the street from us.  She was a hard woman; he had been a witch doctor in Tanzania.  They seemed militant in their religion, and were bound tightly in spiritual bondage.  He hoped to save enough money to pass the “witch doctor” test in Mozambique.  As we got to know them, I really didn’t like Majuma.  She was a harsh woman, deeply steeped in her way of life.

Then, one day, I realized I didn’t mind being around her.  Somehow, Jesus’ love was working through me, because now I could love her.  We shared the Gospel with Abraham and Majuma.  They began to ask questions.  They told Ana (my housemate) about demons visiting them in the night; horrendous dreams of almost unbelievable proportion.

They had a baby girl, and named her Amina.  Constantly reminded of their first baby, who had died two years ago, they lived in horrible fear that Amina would also be taken from them.   Time and again we told them that Jesus is the only way.

But they visited the witch doctor, performed all the “right” ceremonies, followed every instruction to the letter.  Still they were petrified.  (Picture: the man in red is the witch doctor.)  We prayed.  We urged them to turn to Jesus, that He is the way of freedom from fear.

Amina grew and became a chubby baby.  We prayed.  And marveled at how far they’d come.  No longer was Majuma a hard woman.  God was working.

A month ago I said goodbye to Abraham, Majuma, and Amina.  Their hearts are far more tender than two years ago, but they have not yet turned their lives over to Jesus.  I don’t know if I will ever see them again.

Africa may be half a world away, but I must not forget.  Abraham, Majuma, and Amina are not part of my life any more, but they still are searching.  Searching for peace, searching for Him.  I pray that I will see them in heaven someday.

Right in front of me they chatted about their month-long stay in Africa, while another couple nearby shared stories of their two weeks visiting the continent.  Someone asked me where I’d been; my answer sounded as strange to him as it did to me, “I’ve just finished up two years in Mozambique, working with a missionary team.”  Two years suddenly seemed like an eternity.

Later, seated in the airplane, two fellows behind me chatted about the social issues surrounding poor, African children.  How some of them get less than one meal a day, and when they eat their food is “this stuff called shima.”  One of them commented that he’d just taken his first hot shower in two weeks; well, to be more exact, he shared that he’d just taken four hot showers in one day to make up for the cold, slow-drizzle of a shower he’d had while in Africa.

And I’m not sure how to respond.  Because I’ve tasted shima, I know that those social issues are incredibly complicated, and even by taking ten hot showers a day for the next month I wouldn’t catch up on all the hot showers I’ve “missed.”

Earlier I found myself staring at people in the London airport, taking in the sheer difference between the styles of the Western world and the styles of Africa.  I caught myself judging girls wearing shorts, thinking that I’m better than them because I’ve lived in Africa.

I don’t know if I can do this.   I don’t know if I can adapt back to American culture.  It is so very different compared to the last two years of my life, and my reaction to it scares me.  I don’t want to be proud and judgmental.  But I also don’t want to forget all I’ve seen and learned while in Mozambique.  I don’t want to forget to pray for Fatima, Majuma, and Rokia.  I don’t want to forget that five times a day millions of people worldwide gather to pray, trying desperately to earn their salvation.

It will be an extreme balancing act.  One I can’t do on my own.  I’m so thankful that I have a family and friends who will support me, encourage me, pray for me.  That I have a God who will never leave me nor forsake me.  Otherwise, I’d probably change my ticket and turn right around.  But for now, I’m heading toward the USA at 542 mph and I’m definitely excited to see what this next adventure holds.

To a patriotic American, anyone who regularly visits a mosk is an enemy.   Stereotyped a certain way, known to be hatching plots regarding airplanes and buildings.  A crazy people, who are all…

They aren’t.  Whatever you finished that sentence with, they aren’t all that way.  Just as all Americans aren’t rich or all Americans aren’t skinny as the Hollywood “beauties.”  My neighbors visit the mosk regularly.  And my neighbors are fun, caring people.

They shared their food with me; even though they rarely experience the satisfaction of full tummies.   They watched out for me when I might be in physical danger.  They’ve coached me through various facets of cultural and language learning, laughing with me at my mistakes, but patiently encouraging me not to stop.

They have not threatened me with bodily harm when I’ve mentioned Jesus’ name.   They sat and listened to New Testament stories, sometimes questioning, sometimes bored, sometimes interested.  No, they are not perfect, but they are a fascinating people.

I have to admit that before I arrived in Mozambique I was slightly scared of Mu$lms.  That might be rather strange, but I was a bit unsure of “those people” and who they actually were.  I wondered if it would be possible for me to become friends and talk to a Mu$lm.  I knew I was in possession of the Truth, but didn’t know how one of “them” would react when I shared it with them.

That was two years ago.  Today, they are my friends.  I’m even more certain that Jesus is the Way, the Truth, and the Light.  Even more certain that they are a lost, burdened people living in fear and bondage.  But they are my friends.

Am I a patriotic American?  I like to think so.  I doubt I will kiss the ground upon my return to USA soil, but I may come quite close.  There are so many things about America that I love.  So many things that make it my country.

But not the hating of Mu$lms.  Hitler may have thought hating Jews was the way to be a patriotic German; some Americans may think you must hate Mu$lims in order to be a patriotic American.  I’m here to say, it is not true.

I’ve just said goodbye to people who have become extremely dear to me.  They don’t yet follow Jesus; they are blinded by Satan through I$lm.  But I pray that I will see them in heaven; where it won’t matter if I was a patriotic American, but it will matter if I loved them.

“Eat your food; some starving child in Africa would be incredibly happy to have that little bit!”  The starving children in Africa have become a byword in the USA.   They are a joke.  Parents may try to use it to encourage their children to clean their plates, but all too often more than scrapings are thrown away at the end of a meal.  Of course, if you do finish your meal in Oregon, it won’t make a bit of difference for those starving children in Africa; so why even bother?

I’m afraid I shall slap anyone who jokes about starving Africans in my presence.

Today I spent hours with Fatima and her family; hauling water from the well, visiting, and participating in a local beauty treatment (the incilo stick is in my suitcase ready for show and tell in Oregon).   I joined them for a bit of matapa and shima (greens and a starchy dish similar to bread dough), then watched as Fatinya and Madu carefully scrapped the pan and laughingly devoured the last bits of shima.

My neighbors are not starving.  But neither are they satisfied with a full meal three times every day.  Breakfast may be a cup of tea; an early afternoon meal of shima and tiny fish will finish off the day.  Other days they eat well; freshly made bread in the morning, and a chicken sauce over rice for their mid afternoon meal.  But even on the days when they eat well the children eagerly finish off the scraps in the pan.

We threw a goodbye party a few days ago; complete with huge pots of rice, beans, and goat meat.  People were satisfied with heaping plates.   Later, as we washed dishes, I noticed a bowl of burnt rice.  It was the bottom layer from the gigantic pot, that bit that sticks to the bottom and comes away in one huge piece.  I asked Agatha if I could throw it away.   “No, the kids will eat it!” she assured me.  And they did.   Happily.

If I start to draw a comparison between my African kids enjoying burnt rice, and American children who will barely finish the last three bites of their lovely macaroni and cheese words fail.  My African kids may not be starving.  But they are definitely thankful for every little bit of food.

And if I were you, I would be very careful not to joke about starving African children in my presence.

“I really wish I could see a big snake on the road before I leave here.”  The words were barely out of my mouth when Steve exclaimed, “There’s your snake!”  Ahead of us a long, black stick stretched across the road.  I figured Steve must be joking, as the timing would have been too perfect, but when a head reared up angrily I realized that this was no stick.

Then there was a thud, and we’d hit the thing.   A babble of voices erupted inside the car.  “Did you see that snake?”  “I think it was a green mamba!”  “It must have been six feet long!”  Behind us, Tim’s car added to the creature’s destruction.

Suddenly, with a “Maybe we should go back and see it!  I wonder if it is still alive?”  Steve turned the pickup around and we headed back to survey the crime scene.   Slowly we drove through the area, not quite sure exactly which corn field was the location.  A black pile at the edge of the road drew our attention.  The snake was curled in agony, read fluid marking the tire marks.

“It’s definitely a black mamba!  Let’s get him again!” Steve maneuvered the pickup around, to the tune of Krista’s, “No, Dad!  The poor snake!  Leave him alone!”  In any other situation Krista would not have felt for such a creature, but her tender heart couldn’t bear to see him suffering.

Another thump, thump, and then the pickup halted; Steve jumped out camera in hand.  I wasn’t sure I wanted to tangle with a black mamba, so watched from a distance as Steve approached the writhing snake.  Sharon added the information that the black mamba is the fastest snake on earth; the combination of its deadly poison and its swiftness means that it is considered the most dangerous snake.

Before too long Steve had grabbed a stick, and now with an audience which included two local fellows, proceeded to convince the dying mamba to uncurl.  A cornstalk, wielded by one of the locals, helped the situation, and soon the snake was stretched out.  As we speculated on its length, Steve took three steps back, and lay down in the road, using his height as a comparison.  Although longer than seven feet the snake was rather skinny, which contributes to its swiftness.

As a final touch, Steve grabbed the now-dead mamba’s tail, and held it above his head.  I couldn’t quite bring myself to touch the ugly bleeding creature.  (The red liquid creeping down the cool scales did me in.)   Even stepping near enough for a picture seemed tampering with fate.  No matter that the thing was now thoroughly dead, I much prefer a mad cow over a black mamba any day!

We finally clambered back into the pickup, leaving the dead snake to startle future travelors, as tying it to the pickup’s roof seemed a bit morbid and senseless.

What do microlights, hippos on motorcycles, and geckos in airplanes all have in common? They have all puzzled the minds of my students at one time or another these last two years.

Multiple times every day my students would pop out with random, fascinating, or down-right funny comments.  The following are just a taste, (they are individual comments and are in no particular order); you would have to meet these kids to really benefit fully!

Katie: First, I would have to learn how to fly a plane! (re: flying a microlight through the desert)

Josiah: Flying an airplane is just like riding a bike.

Katie: Can’t we just do school ’til we go? (My reply: No, I have to have time to sort & clean the schoolroom) But why?

Abby: Whenever you are happy you fall down! (re: my definition on consumed by happiness)

Katie: Is rabbit one word? (during a “write a story and spell words the best you can” job)

Josiah: The only way to kill a dragon is to stick it in the throat! (and was concerned because the book about knight and dragon didn’t show that particular method!)

Abby: She’s kind of nice. She’s the best teacher I’ve had. (re: Miss Jennifer)

Josiah: All of school wastes up so much of my energy!

Abby: When do you go back to Oregon? Please don’t go! Let’s do another school.

Katie: She’s not strict. (re: Miss Jennifer)

Josiah: Oh no! Coloring makes all the decisions hard. (re: coloring while I read aloud)

Krista: Josiah, I don’t know anything about anything! (just what a teacher likes to hear from her students)

Josiah: I feel like I’m dreaming. I just never thought I’d loose a tooth!

Abby: You are mixing your languages! You are using Kimwani & Swahili & even English!

Josiah: People in Africa don’t dress like that! They have clothes like we do, just with more holes. (re: picture in book of men in grass skirts)

Josiah: I suspected it was 12. (re: estimation)

Abby: The ‘s’ is sleeping! (re: the sideways s she’d written)

Abby: You know, if you count, two days is a long time!

Josiah: Let’s work with this one, not the number one…it’s pretty kid-ish! (re: weighing activity)

Micah: Is that an Oregon saying? (re: Don’t break the bank!)

Josiah: That is what I think Satan looks like. (re: King Tut’s mummy)

Abby: What is this word? It used to be ‘into.’ (while reading a book…it still is the same word it used to be!)

Josiah: You know, it’s really cool that Mr. Daniel took that gecko all the way to America. It went up in an airplane and everything. I bet it was really freaking out. (re: visitor and the gecko friend he took back to America…of course the fact that this comment was made in the middle of history reading showed his rapt attention to the subject at hand)

Josiah: Now he’s ready to get married. (re: my brother, Matthew’s 18^th birthday)

Micah: Teachers are like parents; you have to obey them, but you can’t live without them.

Katie (with disgust): That is a silly question! (re: 0+0=0)

Abby: If you put it on a motorbike it will tip over. (re: hippos are heavy; apparently the sure-fire way to decide if something is really heavy or not)

Katie: It does hurt to die; but then when you’re dead… (overheard while kids were playing outside; re: falling from the guava tree)

Krista: Miss Jennifer, you have an interesting personality! You want to kill cockroaches with a shoe! (re: killing a cockroach on her desk)

And my personal favorite is Josiah’s very puzzled, “Do you know when I was born? Was I born in the past?”

June 24, 2011…

Two years ago today we crammed my large suitcases in the corolla, and then survived the drive to Portland airport, a drive that was both far too long and yet not near long enough. I had no idea what Mozambique would hold for me; nor that these two years would be so amazing, tough, wonderful, and stretching.

One year ago today I was enjoying Dad’s visit to Mozambique.

In one month I’ll be in transit between Africa and America. Which means emotions are running high as I’m sorting and packing, fitting in many last minute activities, and standing in awe at the incredible ways God has moved here.

For the next month my internet will be very intermittent, so if you don’t see me online, don’t worry.  I’m not in some jail cell for refusing to wear my helmet, nor have I decided to throw away all modern conveniences and forget my family and friends in America.

I shall see you all in just a few weeks!

Throwing things away takes a lot of thought.  Not only must one go through the normal, “Can I really live with this?” rigmarole, but one must also consider whether one’s neighbors are likely to want it.   And sometimes one answers such questions wrong.

Because, to consider such a question properly, one must look at the item from the neighbors’ point of view.  Instead of, “I broke one flip-flop, and the other is no good by itself.  So I might as well throw it away!” one must consider that likely there is another lonely flipflop somewhere.  Instead of, this box is too small for anything, one must think about the fact that it would make a good toy. Instead of, “I don’t want to haul this magazine back to Oregon, and none of my neighbors can read English…” it is vital to consider that it is a picture book, albeit a picture book with captions that won’t be read.

So I hand over old seeds, old magazines, and lonely flipflops.  Blouses that have a tiny hole (courtesy of Mr. Rat), or strips of fabric.  Sound harsh, horrifying, or awful?  Or even maybe condescending?  Nope, it is just the plain facts of life here.  Because if I just throw these items away, the neighbor kids go dumpster diving.  (Unless I carefully burn our trash pit after each time I chuck something.)

Case in point: this morning I unlocked the gate, and the neighbor kids brought their water buckets to fill.  A few minutes later, I realized that the back yard was strangely quiet.  I spotted Ntoto and Madu standing by the trash pit, obviously giving directions to some unseen diver.   Pi soon emerged, and handed a couple items to Ntoto.   I wondered what in the world they might have rescued, as yesterday I was very careful as to what I threw away, and even gave their mother a couple things that seemed useless.

Suddenly, Ntoto grabbed a plastic bag, and bending double, snuck through my backyard, and out the gate.  I shook my head.  That bag contained about two cups of ancient, bug-filled corn.  I’d bought it months ago, planted part of it (didn’t grow very well), and the rest had been sitting in my cupboard until yesterday.  It’s weevil-riddled contents did not seem in any way appetizing, so I tossed it.  Apparently, that was uncalled for.

Later, I sat on my back step, Abo playing next to me, the two batteries (likewise rescued from the trash) becoming race cars and soldiers in turn.  Pi and Madu amused themselves with an old plastic glove and broken razor.    Not wanting to throw anything else away they might want, I questioned Ntoto about a small pot with a hole in the bottom.  She barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes, as she instructed me that, no, that pot was not something they wanted.  I turned it over to Pi, who took great delight in chucking it into the trash pit.

Once again I’m inside, trying to navigate the difficult decision making job, what to throw away and what to give away.  And I know, sure as not, I’ll mess up again today.  And once again, my neighbor kids will delight in their African version of dumpster diving.