Macaroni and Cheese (and other comforts)
I have found that when life is totally unstable and uncertain, little things that can bring comfort become very big things. Today I woke to electricity going out (translation- really quiet, really hot) and lay in bed wondering if grace would be enough today (it was, in case you were wondering. MORE than enough). Before 9:00 am, our plans had changed five times over, and at 9:30 I found myself sitting in a language lesson for the second hour of learning the alphabet. I look back on my kindergarten years with amazement and fondness now- why couldn’t they make picture flashcards for Arabic? Seriously. A is for Apple, B is for Ball- I mean, those make sense. By 10:30 am, I knew the alphabet about as well as can be expected and wanted nothing more than a long nap and a little stability. It turns out neither were in the plans for the day, but the Father knows what he’s doing (shocker) and in exchange for the nap I got fajitas. With salsa and sour cream and real cheddar cheese. And the best steak I’ve had in a long time (or maybe it was just steak in a place I didn’t expect it…always makes it taste better). I spent an hour in the kitchen making the salsa and preparing with my supervisor and had wonderful conversation while my other two sisters were out recovering lost baggage (TIA). Unexpected down time after washing dishes lent to a spontaneous pedicure party for all the females of the house complete with the first music from home I’ve heard since leaving it (oh Ipod, how I love thee). An hour later, our toes were sparkly, our heels were smooth, and the three of us were the only ones left. We lay on the cool tile and talked as if we hadn’t been together 24-7 for the last six days. Listening to Derek Webb’s “House Show” for the 600th time, I realized that despite the total instability that characterizes this season of my life, contentment comes in little doses that go quite a long way. The Father does not ask us to be lone rangers, picking the hardest thing we can find just to prove we can do it. Neither does he send us places just to laugh at us when the pressure almost breaks us. No indeed, we cry out to him and in return he sends his love and kindess (Ps. 57). In little things like fajitas, good music and conversation, and clean feet. These things are not guaranteed, they are just little gifts…a hand squeeze from a Dad who loves us a whole lot, sees us right where we are, and has promised to be faithful no matter what.
And if all that wasn’t enough, we had macaroni and cheese for dinner. Heaven.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Dance Dance Revolution
So despite being thousands of miles away from home, bits of home are never far away. Like dance parties, which is a good thing since dancing is one of my favorite things. My roommates and I were up in our room this afternoon working on straightening the seeming impossible mess gathering in our room, and a small head (belonging to a small person who also lives in the house) poked in and asked, “anyone want to play DDR?”
The revolution has reached Africa. Just in time.
The revolution has reached Africa. Just in time.
THEY'RE OUT (Part 2): Crossing the Street
This morning as I was slowly waking up, trying to open my eyes and think clearly (the usual thoughts “where am I? Why am I sweating already? What’s going on?), my roommate burst through the door with the most exciting news so far: the three of us were going to the market! All alone! I was suddenly very awake.
As I threw on a head covering and sunglasses and rushed out to the kitchen, our supervisor prepped the three of us girls, handing us money and carefully repeating our lines: “salata lee fein” “shu khran” “ma salama” (or however you spell those) .
So in our city, crossing the street is an art form. We approached the main street and were immediately hit with the dust of the speeding traffic and paused on the side of the road. As we surveyed the scene in awe, my wise, slightly insane, roommate Sarah said with deadening calm: “Well, if we don’t just go, we’ll never go.”
With that, she started walking into the street, followed by Maria. A brief glance in the left direction showed a white car coming towards us all at alarming speed. A glance back to the roommates proved they showed no signs of stopping. I shifted my eyes straight forward to the other side of the street and sprinted as daintily as possible after them (trying not to hear the car honking). By dainty I mean as fast as possible in a skirt and head covering.
We managed to make it across the street in one piece (amazing feat) and looked up to see the shopkeepers laughing at us. But then again, we’re stupid, we’re white, and they don’t expect much different from us. At the vegetable stand we all recited our carefully practiced lines to the vendor and he grabbed the tomatoes, onions, and salad greens from his wooden crates. Soon we each had a small plastic sack filled with vegetables but were at a total loss what to do next. Our supervisor had given us a little coin purse filled with several bills and handful of coins (coupled with a hasty explanation of how much we would probably need, a shrug, and a “well, come back with whatever you can”). At the time it had not made much sense, but as we gathered around the small purse (not obvious, right?) discussing how much we should be giving them, the shopkeeper began to become impatient. I handed him a large bill (or it seemed large to me) and but his hand did not move. We eventually handed him every bill in the coin purse, one by one until he seemed satisfied. We walked away, slightly defeated, but convinced that the supervisor wouldn’t have given us a whole lot of money—not on our first market outing. Surely they knew that newcomers get ripped off all the time. Surely she hadn’t given us more than we needed. Surely not. Whatev. We held our head a bit higher after crossing the street for the second time without an incident. I mean, crossing the street twice in one day without loosing a leg has got to count for something.
Or that’s what we’re telling ourselves. That salad was really good too, totally worth every cent.
As I threw on a head covering and sunglasses and rushed out to the kitchen, our supervisor prepped the three of us girls, handing us money and carefully repeating our lines: “salata lee fein” “shu khran” “ma salama” (or however you spell those) .
So in our city, crossing the street is an art form. We approached the main street and were immediately hit with the dust of the speeding traffic and paused on the side of the road. As we surveyed the scene in awe, my wise, slightly insane, roommate Sarah said with deadening calm: “Well, if we don’t just go, we’ll never go.”
With that, she started walking into the street, followed by Maria. A brief glance in the left direction showed a white car coming towards us all at alarming speed. A glance back to the roommates proved they showed no signs of stopping. I shifted my eyes straight forward to the other side of the street and sprinted as daintily as possible after them (trying not to hear the car honking). By dainty I mean as fast as possible in a skirt and head covering.
We managed to make it across the street in one piece (amazing feat) and looked up to see the shopkeepers laughing at us. But then again, we’re stupid, we’re white, and they don’t expect much different from us. At the vegetable stand we all recited our carefully practiced lines to the vendor and he grabbed the tomatoes, onions, and salad greens from his wooden crates. Soon we each had a small plastic sack filled with vegetables but were at a total loss what to do next. Our supervisor had given us a little coin purse filled with several bills and handful of coins (coupled with a hasty explanation of how much we would probably need, a shrug, and a “well, come back with whatever you can”). At the time it had not made much sense, but as we gathered around the small purse (not obvious, right?) discussing how much we should be giving them, the shopkeeper began to become impatient. I handed him a large bill (or it seemed large to me) and but his hand did not move. We eventually handed him every bill in the coin purse, one by one until he seemed satisfied. We walked away, slightly defeated, but convinced that the supervisor wouldn’t have given us a whole lot of money—not on our first market outing. Surely they knew that newcomers get ripped off all the time. Surely she hadn’t given us more than we needed. Surely not. Whatev. We held our head a bit higher after crossing the street for the second time without an incident. I mean, crossing the street twice in one day without loosing a leg has got to count for something.
Or that’s what we’re telling ourselves. That salad was really good too, totally worth every cent.
THEY'RE OUT (Part 1): Visiting
Today we ventured out of our temporary home for the first time. Our supervisors thought they had found a home for us in the city and decided to take us visiting to “check it out” and meet with our prospective landlady. A ten minute ride in the four by four and we pulled up into a surprisingly quiet street, exited the car, and walked through the gate into the loveliest of surprises: a beautiful garden.
We rang the doorbell, and surprise surprise, no one home (despite calling twenty minute prior to let her know we would be arriving- This is Africa). So we sat outside for bit, admiring the view of the, uh, wall, and uh, iron door, and then tried the doorbell once more. This time a young house helper came to the door and silently motioned for us to go upstairs. At the top of the stairs, a lovely, middle aged woman greeted us with the classic hand on the shoulder followed by a handshake. I, of course, did not know this was the classic greeting and fumbled my way through—first offering a hand as she lightly touched my right shoulder and then catching on too late—touching her right shoulder as she offered her hand. I couldn’t help but laugh at my awkwardness and she smiled graciously, even giggled a little with me. We toured the apartment for a time, then settle in on the couches to chat (or rather, for me to listen and the others to chat). The landlady left the room for several minutes, and the three of us looked at each other a bit confused, wondering if we had somehow offended her with our stupidity. She returned with a tray of tea and sent the house helper out for “biscuits” which I assumed meant cookies. With that, tea commenced. By “tea” I mean taking a cup, filling it half way up with sugar, pouring boiling hot tea into the remaining space, and adding an extra spoonful of sugar for good measure. Translation- really, really good tea. As I was sipping, the helper returned with a tin of little cookies, which the landlady passed around to us. We each took one, ate it way too quickly, and then were offered another. Just as I was finishing the last bite of the second cookie a memory flashed into my mind of a friend telling us that in this culture, it is customary to leave one bite left on your plate to demonstrate to the host that you are indeed finished and in need of no more. I froze in mid-chew pondering my options. Spit it out and put it on the plate –not an option. Take another cookie if offered—bad idea since it probably was already a stretch on a limited pocketbook for us to have had two. Pretend to be a stupid foreigner who doesn’t know anything but smiles a whole lot and seems pleasant enough –seemed like the best idea. So smiling broadly, I covered as much of my tea saucer as possible with my hand and tried to seem normal. The evening ended with our first ride on a rickshaw (I hope you all can come and ride one with me one day soon, it’ll change your life). Four grown women stuffed in the backseat of an African rickshaw. A great way to end a day
We rang the doorbell, and surprise surprise, no one home (despite calling twenty minute prior to let her know we would be arriving- This is Africa). So we sat outside for bit, admiring the view of the, uh, wall, and uh, iron door, and then tried the doorbell once more. This time a young house helper came to the door and silently motioned for us to go upstairs. At the top of the stairs, a lovely, middle aged woman greeted us with the classic hand on the shoulder followed by a handshake. I, of course, did not know this was the classic greeting and fumbled my way through—first offering a hand as she lightly touched my right shoulder and then catching on too late—touching her right shoulder as she offered her hand. I couldn’t help but laugh at my awkwardness and she smiled graciously, even giggled a little with me. We toured the apartment for a time, then settle in on the couches to chat (or rather, for me to listen and the others to chat). The landlady left the room for several minutes, and the three of us looked at each other a bit confused, wondering if we had somehow offended her with our stupidity. She returned with a tray of tea and sent the house helper out for “biscuits” which I assumed meant cookies. With that, tea commenced. By “tea” I mean taking a cup, filling it half way up with sugar, pouring boiling hot tea into the remaining space, and adding an extra spoonful of sugar for good measure. Translation- really, really good tea. As I was sipping, the helper returned with a tin of little cookies, which the landlady passed around to us. We each took one, ate it way too quickly, and then were offered another. Just as I was finishing the last bite of the second cookie a memory flashed into my mind of a friend telling us that in this culture, it is customary to leave one bite left on your plate to demonstrate to the host that you are indeed finished and in need of no more. I froze in mid-chew pondering my options. Spit it out and put it on the plate –not an option. Take another cookie if offered—bad idea since it probably was already a stretch on a limited pocketbook for us to have had two. Pretend to be a stupid foreigner who doesn’t know anything but smiles a whole lot and seems pleasant enough –seemed like the best idea. So smiling broadly, I covered as much of my tea saucer as possible with my hand and tried to seem normal. The evening ended with our first ride on a rickshaw (I hope you all can come and ride one with me one day soon, it’ll change your life). Four grown women stuffed in the backseat of an African rickshaw. A great way to end a day
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