My Favorite Day So Far

Greetings, faithful readers (now up to 4...). I know you're surprised to hear from me again so soon, and I'd like to remind you of the first post about low expectations before I launch into a description of what I did today. It's just so cool that I can't _not_ tell you, but I make no promises about the quality of writing...

Today I got to go hiking! I can't ever remember going more than 2 weeks without spending significant time outside, and this was a hike worthy of ending the month-long famine. Four friends and I trekked in the Ngong Hills, of Out of Africa fame.

It was Astrid's idea (Norwegian teacher, red hair), and she and Brenton (red cap) provided the transportation. Ann and Jeremy were able to leave their small boys with a friend, so they came as well. It was a fun group- 3 MKs from Ethiopia, Kenya and Brazil, plus two boring American girls and a whole lot of pancake batter. Hiking with an armed guard took a little getting used to- since we're so obviously white and therefore rich (?), we had to hire Steven to walk with us. His ease in navigating the landscape put us all to shame.

The hike itself was beautiful (and steep, as you can see!).
After 3 hills, we stopped for food, because what is a hike without snacks, I ask you? We drank coffee (yay!) and made Norwegian pancakes on a camp stove. Astrid and Brenton did a great job with the food, and the squeezable strawberry jam was a tasty addition. I contributed pre-pancake peanuts and witty conversation.

I can't even explain how encouraging today's outing was- I got to do something familiar yet adventurous, there were multiple cultures represented, and above all, I was off campus! I actually experienced Kenya, not Little America. The scenery was incredible, we had great views of the city and of the Rift Valley, and there was plenty of hard work involved; the altitude is about the same as the Los Alamos Ski Hill, but the ups and downs of the trail were similar to hiking from the parking lot to the top of Pajarito, then back down, then up again, then taking a jeep trail over to Camp May, then do it all over in reverse. I think I've earned my teacher-girl bedtime of 9:00 tonight!

So I hope your week holds unexpected joys as well, and don't freak out too much about the guard. Just remember: he brought safety, not danger! And we were smart enough to bring him. Pray if you want to, but don't worry. It's not biblical. =)

Coffee Cups and Heaven

I like coffee. Most people who know me know that. I was often found grading papers in coffee shops, I was on a first-name basis with Colin who makes mochas at Film Festival, and many of my dearest friendships have been formed while holding a hot drink. I inherited this love from my father, who, back when I was less than a continent away, often invited me over for coffee on Saturday mornings. My enjoyment is not about the caffeine (though my friend Robin who makes the best lattes in the world seems to believe it to be his moral obligation to only ever give me decaf... hm). Rather, I enjoy the peace and comfort of holding a hot drink, and my palate appreciates the terrific flavor imparted by the bean. So while I enjoy coffee with friends, my favorite cup is the one I drink by myself in the morning as I quietly start my day in prayer.

So of course I need a good mug. One that holds enough to satisfy yet not so much that I get made fun of, insulates the beverage so that it stays drinkable for 45 minutes yet releases enough heat to feel warm as I hold it, rests perfectly in one or in two hands, and can fit all 4 fingers in the handle. But those are not the only requirements. Oh no- it needs to be heavy enough that I can't knock it over easily (some of you are smiling knowingly), it should represent something I like in my life, it mustn't drip, it has to be unique/unusual, I'd prefer it be handmade, and I want one that is of course purple. If you think I'm being too picky, consider the depth of relationship I have with my coffee cup- it is my companion each morning as I interact with God. It is privy to tears, to joy, to secret crushes, to wakeup hair. It never complains about morning breath. It moves gracefully from kitchen to end table to carefully-balanced-on-a-cushion without incident. It must match equally well with yogurt, toast, or a green chile omelet. Really, the demands on this coffee cup are intense.

Which explains why there was no telling how long it would take to find it. At each market or mall, I'd stop at the pottery stalls and hold the mugs that seemed promising. And yet never did I find The One. I knew it would call out to me- "I will be your companion! I will never spill on you more than twice a week! I am a worthy receptacle for Kenyan AA! Choose me!" Yet for a long month, the coffee cups were silent. But that all changed in a Kazuri Beads store last Sunday. Kazuri is a pottery business that employs disenfranchised members of Kenyan society- single mothers, disabled men, etc. They make beautiful beads, jewelry, and dishes. I had already held and rejected every purple piece of pottery in the place when my eye was drawn to a brown mug with some sort of African creature painted on it. On further inspection, it turned out to be an impala. A Gregarious Impala! The cup met all the other requirements besides color, and so I decided that perhaps it was time for me to expand my very purple horizons. Nine dollars later (hey, Kazuri's a business worth supporting), I had my coffee mug.

While in many ways this is an inspiring tale of triumph, I can't help but feel that I'm being a bit materialistic. Are possessions my source of joy? Does the comfort I take in things overwhelm the comfort I know from God? Or is God working through the things? I'm a big fan of symbols, of tangible objects that remind us of deeper reality- communion that reminds us of Christ's sacrifice and of our unity as believers, colored bracelets from friends in Thailand that remind me that we are knotted together in Christ, an amethyst ring from my mother that reminds me of her love and constancy, a prayer chapel that reminds me that an hour with God is often worth more than an hour of sleep. Physical objects give handles to my heart's knowledge. And I daresay it's heresy to believe that all things physical are bad. We will have new bodies in heaven, no? We will live on a new earth, right? I believe there is God-given value in physical things themselves: freshly baked bread, giant orange flowers growing on the flame tree outside my home, the sound of my brother's belly laugh, and even the feel of just the right coffee cup in my hand. But how important should things be?

In a transition guide for missionaries, we were encouraged to bring "sacred objects"- things that provide a link between where we've been and where we are. I brought some and maybe wish I had brought more. But no matter how much I enjoy the things or depend on them for consistency, it's the relationships I miss. And I can't help but feel that they are forever changed. Many of the people who were my primary friends, well, I haven't heard from since I left. Several folks I didn't expect to continue a connection with have instead strengthened it. I find it all very confusing. But one thing I will say: my longing for heaven is pretty close to the surface during this season of my life. I'm very aware that neither New Mexico nor Kenya is completely my home. I want all my relationships united in one place. I want the wholeness of knowing and being known. I want proper perspective on the physical world. And above all, I look forward to experiencing life distilled from sin and its consequences.

Finally being completely who we were made to be sounds perfect to me- I'm pretty sure I'll fit into God's hands even better than my impala coffee cup rests in mine.

What's In A Name?

Now, with that title, I know a percentage of my readership (of a certain age and upbringing...) will immediately have a particular Petra song running through their heads. But we're going to move Beyond Belief (they got that too) and talk about names.

It's on my mind because school started this week, and I've been called "Teacher! Teacher!" an awful lot. It reminds me of when I was a 16 year old aide at the YMCA childcare program, and one little boy always called me "Mrs!" That's all. Not Jessie, not Miss Jessie, not Miss Gac, not even Mrs. Gac, but just "Mrs!" Anyhow, "Teacher-teacher!" has been my name this week. With the two new Asian girls who just started American school, I carefully explained that, though in their culture it was respectful to address all educators as teacher, in our culture we show respect by using the last name but putting "Miss" in front of it. I was proud until they referred to my coworker Paul as "Miss Bedsole." We've clarified that.

My last name presents a challenge even for native English speakers; I spent part of each class period the first day helping them say "Miss Gac" with confidence. And then I explained that since I was picky about how my name was said, I fully expected them to be picky with the pronunciation of their own names. Again, I was humbled. After seven years of Analisas, Ramons, Pedros, and only one Tianyi, I thought I could pronounce names. Il Gon, Eun Chung, Saemy, and especially Ouangatobi might beg to differ. On the other hand, I was told I am the only teacher to ever pronounce "Rodrigo Gaete" correctly on the first try. :)

Unfamiliar names are harder to remember, so I've discovered I can't do my seating charts this weekend like I normally would; I can't quite remember who's who. But in some ways that's a bonus- I've had more restful days off and spent them well. This afternoon some of the other teachers and I went to Hawker's Market, an open-air produce market about 10 minutes away. Here names are important too- if I buy from someone I don't know, I get called "madam" or "mzungu" (whitey) and get terrible prices. But if I buy from Michael, Lucy, or Eunice, they recognize me from last week, smile at me, call me Jessie, and give me a good price. In fact, if they do not have what I need, they will go to a neighboring stand owner, negotiate a fair price for me and introduce me to that person. Obviously, relationships are a pretty important factor here. I appreciate that.

Michael, the fruit stand owner we know, took us to the city park next to the market so we could feed the monkeys. We brought maize and bananas for them, and once I got over my fear that I one would bite me and I would catch a terrible disease, it was lots of fun. They hold your hand while they eat to make sure the food source doesn't go away, and they're obviously not shy! It's about a million times better than feeding the ducks at Ashley Pond, and I chronicled the event with a few pictures:

My friends the monkeys (though I don't yet know their names).

Michael and Jess, both monkey magnets.

A beautiful bouganvilla tree- they grow a little better here than in New Mexico.

Culture Shock, Meet Perfectionist

I used to be kind of good at my life. I was busy doing things I found worthwhile. I knew how to get from one place to another. I balanced big group time, small group time, individual time. I had friends who knew me and whom I knew. I could make phone calls, pick up a few things at the grocery store, and occasionally send a text message. I could plan lessons, find bulletin board paper, put posters up in my classroom. I felt like a good teacher, a good citizen, and a good friend. And overall, I felt God was probably pleased with my life.

As you can likely guess, this week has differed from the ideals described above. Bottom line, I'm not very good at life here. I'm incredibly inefficient, I'm not sure what to invest in and how, I feel swept from one activity to the next to the next to the next, and things that shouldn't be very important suddenly feel life-or-death. My usual extroverted and welcoming self seems to be on a leave of absence; I want to hide in my apartment by 3:00 each day. I can't solve the simplest problems: when someone wants to call me back, I don't remember my phone number. So kindergarten! (Actually, I'm pretty sure I knew my phone number in kindergarten! Ack!) At least I can text people- wait, no. I can't! They keypad is arranged differently! The default is all caps, and I don't want to be yelling! And now, when I go to send the message I slaved over, it won't go through because I used up all my credit yesterday calling my mom and crying! I can't find things in the grocery store; ingredients are not arranged according my cultural schema. I never know if I really will find what I'm looking for if I just persist, or if it's a hopeless mission because they don't carry it. Any trip to the store usually ends with me lying on my bed thinking, "Who knew grocery shopping could be an extreme sport?" It certainly hold the adrenaline rush, the suspense, the split-second decisions, and the letdown afterwards.

I guess the most frustrating thing to me is that I'm not meeting my own expectations. It's not like my life is hard. It's not like I have a language barrier to deal with. It's not like I don't have running water. It's not like I haven't lived overseas before. It's not like I had to move a whole family here and care for them. It's not like anything I'm asking myself to do is unreasonable- be an adult, do your job well, be hospitable. Yet those 3 things seem impossible tasks right now, even though a month ago they were as natural as breathing. I realize that all I'm thinking and feeling is typical for this stage of transition and culture shock, as pointed out to me so clearly in my staff manual... But it still feels like a rollercoaster of uselessness and frustration.

As a classroom teacher, I've long loved the following passage from 1 Thessalonians 5: "Now we ask you, brothers, to respect those who work hard among you, who are over you in the Lord and who admonish you. Hold them in the highest regard in love because of their work. Live in peace with each other. And we urge you, brothers, warn those who are idle, encourage the timid, help the weak, be patient with everyone. Make sure nobody pays back wrong for wrong, but always try to be kind to each other and to everyone else. Be joyful always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus. Do not put out the Spirit's fire, do not treat prophecies with contempt. Test everything. Hold on to the good. Avoid every kind of evil." Isn't that great for educators? Respect and love your administrators. Live in peace with your fellow teachers. Help your students. Test everything. :) But I had forgotten about the next 2 verses: "May God himself, the God of peace, sanctify you through and through. May your whole spirit, soul and body be kept blameless at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. The one who calls you is faithful, and He will do it."

In all my distress about how I'm failing, I forgot that God is the main character, not me. He is the God of peace. He is working to sanctify me; He has purpose in this discomfort. All these adjustments certainly bring to the forefront parts of my personality that I'd rather ignore than change- my fear of failure, tendency towards anxiety, yet my prideful belief that I can handle anything, that I can make good of any situation. I forget God's promises of peace. I forget that He is the one who "handles" everything. Mostly, I forget that God has indeed called me here, that He is faithful, and that He is the one who accomplishes His unthwartable purposes. So though there is no escape from the extreme sport of grocery shopping, I pray that I will have keen eyes to see what God is doing through this challenging time, a mind steeped in His peace, and a moldable heart that responds to His action.

For the Birds

I've met a lot of birds lately.

First came the ibises who roam the campus in the cool of the day, sticking their long beaks into the ground in our gardens and generally staying away from people. In contrast are the ever-present kites, which wikipedia describes as "raptors with long wings and weak legs which spend a great deal of time soaring. In general they feed on carrion but may also take live prey." We were warned in new staff orientation that the campus kites have been known to take keys from hands and barrettes from heads.

And finally, I recently met my favorite bird, the barbecued chicken. I was wandering across campus in the general direction of the computer lab when I saw a pillar of smoke. Since it was the middle of the day, I figured it wasn't the Holy Spirit... On closer investigation, I found my friends Chuck and Peggy maneuvering 44 whole raw chickens across a giant barbecue pit; they were providing lunch for the Kenyan workers at the school as a thanks for the blessing they are. They had quite the assembly line, chopping chicken wing-from bone, moving pieces into and out of the flame, and managing not to stab or burn each other in the process. Impressive. When I asked what I could do to help, Chuck requested that I bring each of them a coke and come back in a half hour to help serve the food. It was such a great opportunity for me- I really appreciate all that is done by the Kenyan staff, but I felt too new in my surroundings to appropriately express my thanks. This time I was admittedly piggybacking on someone else's good idea, but at least I could help. And so I got to serve two pieces of charbroiled chicken to each of the people who work so hard to make sure my students and I are able to do what we need to do. My fingers were burned, but my heart was happy.

Once everyone was fed, Chuck and Peggy gave me my own jipati (Kenyan tortilla) and piece of chicken. I was waiting for it to cool off enough to eat when a kite swooped down onto my plate, scared the crud out of me, and stole my chicken! The Kenyans got a good laugh out of the white girl who apparently doesn't know how to protect her food.

I laughed along with them and contentedly chewed my jipati.