A day in the life

Sometimes I wish I were Walter Mitty and had alternate lives that I lived in my mind. But I'm generally speaking a pretty down-to-earth person, so yesterday wasn't too exciting. Still, compared to your life, maybe it was different enough to be interesting. I got a cute email from my friend Lisa two nights ago about her typical crazy day and how different her life is from mine. (Lisa, I wish you had time for and an interest in blogging!) So here's a glimpse of Thursday:

I woke up at 06:00 but had trouble falling back to sleep... which was weird because I was up late last night playing Spider Solitaire and hoping beyond all reasonable hope that the Internet would connect from our living room. (I'm in my parents' living room at present.) It was actually a quiet morning, relatively. No crying baby from next-door. No goats bleating mournfully outside the window. I don't even remember hearing a single cock crow.

But I didn't get up until just before 08:00. I fed the cat (a gruel made from beans, maize, guinea corn, crayfish, bouillon cubes, & palm oil), put on a new dress (that I bought yesterday specifically for these next few "maternity" months), and ate a banana muffin. (Bananas are something you can always get here, and they always seem to ripen faster than the two of us can eat them!) Call me gross, but I didn't brush my teeth. I have a hard time not throwing up when I brush my teeth these days, between our toilet's not being flushed regularly due to no water, and just the act of spitting out toothpaste. Ugh. So I chewed a piece of treasured sugar-free gum instead. David had taken the car today, so I made a peanut-butter sandwich while I waited for my ride to come get me for work. He arrived around 08:40, we piled my computer, backpack, and California Raisins lunchbox (from a previous decade) into his car, and we were off in his beat-up old 196? Honda. (I love his car. The knobs have fallen off the window handles, and there's no handle on the inside of the door to open it, so you have to stick your hand out the window and open the door from the outside! Plus the fuel pump klunks up a storm.)

The road to our office is pretty...well...Let's just say when my morning sickness was bad, I could not go over that road without feeling sick. The last mile or so is dirt, rutted and full of pot-holes. It's like a video game trying to steer along the clearest part of road and avoid the deepest holes. I was glad Pastor Ben was driving! Finally, we turned through the steel gate into the compound where our office is situated (the guard had to open the gate for us). The car park is just an area with some loose gravel and fewer weeds.

We went inside, climbed a flight of very steep and uneven stairs (I clinging to the rail), and were greeted by, "Sannu da zuwa," (loosely, greetings and welcome) and "Sorry, you can't use your office this morning." Our 2nd-in-command, Pastor Nore, explained further that our chief boss, Jonathan, had scheduled a meeting in the conference room in which Pastor Ben and I usually work. Well, I'm not really picky. I just needed a chair and an outlet for my computer (David's computer, actually). So I moved in with my supervisor, Adena, who even has a standing fan in her office. (YAY!) I spent the next six hours entering changes onto WordPerfect documents, a separate document for each of 52 Sunday school lessons in the Young Children (pre-school) book. The power was on the whole time, which is always a pleasant surprise, and there was even water coming out of the tap when I went to wash my hands before lunch!


I finished my work around 14:20 and told Pastor Ben (who was working in a different room without a fan) I was ready to leave when he was done. Adena had just left, so I turned on my Phantom of the Opera CD in my computer and flipped through an outline I'd made of the 4-year teen curriculum we're developing. We have to come up with snazzy titles for each lesson, but that's hard. Titles have never been my forte; I usually have to create a title after I've already written the piece. Oh well. Maybe Adena can help me.


It was just after 15:00 when we left the office. I was parched, not having drunk anything all day. (I'd left a bottle of boiled water in the fridge the week before, but someone had taken it, and I can only drink boiled water.) About a half-mile along the dirt road back to the asphalt, we were stopped by a huge truck broken down across the middle of the road. It was impossible to go around it. So we turned around and found another way to the main road, also along rutted dirt paths that took us past a natural gas bottling company, a pharmaceutical factory, and a beer-bottling plant. (Those Guinness trucks are huge!) Finally we passed the biscuit (cookie) factory and were back on the main road. That road isn't too bad... except at the train tracks, where the asphalt has worn away from the steel rails... and a pothole a few feet from the tracks, that's at least 4" deep and 2' wide.


I finally got home around 15:40, fed the cat, and brought the computer over here to my parents' to read email. The path between our houses, which winds around a duplex, is treacherous these days, strewn with rotting mangoes that have dropped from the overhanging trees. One of these days I'm going to fall and break my tailbone!


Mom put a casserole in the oven, said she'd be back in an hour (and to take it out then if she wasn't), and left for a wedding shower. At 18:00, I braved the oven. Mom's oven door has fallen off its hinges and lost a lot of its insulation, so it's perilous to open the oven. The door doesn't shut all the way either unless you brace it with something. So Mom had it shut with a broken towel rod braced against a crate of glass Coke bottles. I figured out how to get it open and shut again, and we ate dinner as soon as Mom was home. (Luke helped me set the table.) The casserole was a real treat: rice, chicken soup, shredded chicken, and--the two special ingredients--broccoli and shredded cheese. Mmm!


After supper, David and I came home, watched the second half of No Deposit, No Return on our 10" TV, briefly entertained a visiting classmate of David's from med school, fed the cat, and went to bed on our mattress on the floor, turning on the floor fan.

Remembering Coach (Part II of II)

There was a slight hitch (aside from our getting lost on the way to the church). Our luggage had been on the first bus to leave Cincinnati, for some reason, and had made it all the way to Charlotte on the Greyhound without us. So not only did we arrive at the church (a half hour late) wearing Thursday’s clothes (jeans and a t-shirt for me), but we also had to figure out how to get our luggage. Marj made a phone call to a friend, who graciously offered to drive all the way to downtown Charlotte—thus missing most of the service—to collect our bags. What a blessing!

The service was a long and emotional one. Hundreds of people from my mission and Hillcrest, and even the greater Jos community, had flocked to this little church in South Carolina to remember Coach. What a testimony that was in itself!

But to me, the next story was the best of all. The Beachams’ middle daughter, Carol, had been planning on marrying in June, but the doctors had highly recommended she move up the wedding, knowing Coach would probably not be around until June. So Carol had rescheduled her wedding for 26th March. Her younger sister Laci, who was finishing her senior year at Hillcrest, staying with family friends, was scheduled to fly into the States the week of the wedding, arriving the 21st. But when she tried to get a booking on the flight, she was informed that it was already overbooked. So her parents decided to fly her out a week earlier. Because her original flight had been booked, Laci arrived two days before her father died. If she had been on that flight, she would never have gotten to say goodbye.

The story doesn’t end there. After Coach died, Laci’s dear friend Micah—the one I mentioned earlier—and his parents decided that he should fly from Nigeria to the States to support the family. He got a seat on the same flight that had been overbooked when Laci had tried to get a seat, getting him to the States in time for the memorial service and Carol’s wedding. Coincidence? I don’t believe it for a minute. How much clearer can God’s orchestration get?

So Micah was part of the Beacham family that weekend, and I was ever so glad to see him. After the service there was a spontaneous reunion dinner at a nearby Mexican restaurant. It was a perfect opportunity to visit with friends and “family” and reminisce about Coach and our days at Hillcrest. I found Laura, who was my best friend throughout my nine years at Hillcrest, and she offered to let me share her hotel room with her and her sister. Her brother Daniel had paid the bill, but when I went to give him my reimbursement check the next morning, he ripped it up in my face and refused to let me pay for it!

Carol’s wedding on Saturday was beautiful. Her mom, Aunt Beaj, gave her away and said a few heart-breaking words on Coach’s behalf. Almost everyone who had attended the memorial service stayed in town for the wedding, so we were quite a crowd, and the Beachams were happy. The reception included Nigerian food and group photos of the Hillcrest alumni present. It was fun, relaxed, and beautiful.

I had been hoping to find a ride back to Chicago, so I hadn’t bought a return Greyhound ticket. But no one was returning until several days later—too late for me, since my classes began again on Monday. So in the mid-afternoon, Marj and I got back in her white rental car and drove back to Knoxville, arriving in time to catch the midnight express bus back to Chicago.

Exhausted, we slept most of the way back home, arriving just before noon on Easter Sunday. I hadn’t planned a ride back from the Greyhound station as Marj had, so when her husband came to pick her up, they offered me a ride home. What a blessing! I arrived home in time for my sister’s family to collect me after church on their way to my brother-in-law’s parents’ for Easter dinner (through most of which I slept).

The trip had cost me only two meals (Lisa had given me some food) and a one-way bus ticket from Knoxville to Chicago. (Greyhound had refunded my entire Chicago-Charlotte ticket in Knoxville when we’d been over two hours late.) Marj had not let me pay a cent for the rental car, insisting she would have paid for it anyway if I hadn’t come. And Daniel had paid for my overnight at the hotel. God had saved me over $200 that I could now put toward getting a replacement car.

It was a long trip. There were many unforeseen obstacles. And yet it was crystal clear to me that God had had His hand in everything that happened surrounding Coach’s death—from Laci’s early arrival to my meeting Marj on the Greyhound bus in downtown Chicago! And whenever I doubt God’s goodness, I will remember this story and praise Him for His mighty works and His enduring love.

Remembering Coach (Part I of II)

There I was, sitting on the Greyhound, wiping my eyes and waiting for our departure to Charlotte.

It was Thursday, 24th March, 2005, and I was on my way to a funeral.

I’d gotten the call from my sister Lisa the week before, on St. Patrick’s Day, telling me that our dear friend Steve Beacham had died earlier that morning. Steve “Coach” Beacham was a missionary colleague of our parents (in our mission) and coach/Bible teacher/discipleship-leader at our school, Hillcrest. He’d returned to the States the year before when he’d begun to have medical problems, and he’d been diagnosed with a particularly aggressive type of cancer. Coach had once-upon-a-time taught me to rappel, which came to be one of my favourite things to do in the world. He’d also taught me about Aichan’s sin and the “ripple effect” (in the book of Joshua). The morning of 17th March, he had died suddenly while driving to the doctor’s office from chapel.

I had the next week off school for spring break, so I informed my employers that my “uncle” had died and that I would be attending his funeral. I didn’t have any idea how I’d get there without driving by myself the whole way (15+ hours), so I debated for a few days about going. My parents finally convinced me to go, so I took my car, Annie, in to Midas on Wednesday to get her oil changed and just get checked up.

After his exam, my mechanic said bluntly, “I wouldn’t drive this car back home to Wheaton [20 minutes away], let alone to North Carolina.” Great. Not only did I now have to find another way to Charlotte for the Friday memorial service (plane tickets were over $1000!!), but I had to worry about getting a new car when I got back. I can’t describe the next 24 hours other than to say that I cried a lot.

On Thursday afternoon, I was at my sister’s, crying, when she said, “Okay, Saralynn. Get in the car. We’ll grab some of your clothes from home, and I’m taking you to the bus station downtown. You can just make the last bus to Charlotte if we hurry.”
I was one of the last people on the bus, having packed my bag haphazardly and rushed to Chicago with Lisa and both her kids. I bought my ticket two minutes before the bus was scheduled to leave and ran to my gate. I made it on just in time and sat down, only to cry.

Across the aisle, a woman asked if I’d gone to Wheaton. (I realised I was wearing my Wheaton sweatshirt.) I told her I had. She asked where I was going, and I told her to Charlotte for a funeral. She said she was going there, too, for the same reason. When I asked to whose funeral she was going, she told me Steve Beacham, and so began our adventure together.

She introduced herself as Marj, and she was not only a Wheaton grad living ten minutes from me, but she had also attended Hillcrest and had grown up in my mission! For the next several hours, we chatted about our connections and the Beachams. She told me that my friend Micah (then 18) was flying all the way from Nigeria for the memorial service. That was welcome news, and I became eager to reach Charlotte, if only to be surrounded by my friends and mission family.

In Cincinnati, our connecting bus to Knoxville was delayed. One bus came and got a load of passengers. A second bus came and got another load of passengers. Marj and I were in the next batch. We had waited three hours for a 45-minute layover, experiencing the delights of an urban bus station (for example, the man urinating in the middle of the terminal and being arrested). Ahead of us in line were an older couple and a man who looked to be a late teen. They were traveling separately but had struck up a conversation in line, so we joined in to keep from falling asleep standing up. It turned out that the boy—a student at the Chicago Art Institute—was on his way to his father’s surprise birthday party in Charlotte later that day (this was 3 a.m. Friday). The couple lived near Asheville and were on their way home from visiting their daughter’s family (and her ADHD children).

As we boarded the bus that finally arrived around 03:30, Marj and I were worried. As our original schedule had worked out, we would have just connected to our Charlotte bus in Knoxville; as it was, we were over two hours late. So we brainstormed about what to do and finally agreed on a plan. When we reached Knoxville, Marj would rent a car and drive us the rest of the way to Charlotte. We invited the older couple and the young man to join us if they so desired.

When we reached Knoxville, we all got our tickets refunded at the counter, and Marj called Hertz to pick us up. Within a half hour, all five us had piled into a white sedan and were on our way. Once we got on the road, we introduced ourselves—not having even known our passengers’ names before we’d started out! We dropped off the older couple near Asheville and the young man in central Charlotte, then drove to the South Carolina border, where the memorial service was to take place.
There was a slight hitch (aside from our getting lost on the way to the church).

A trip to the VIO office

If you're from California, it's "the DMV" (Department of Motor Vehicles). In Illinois, it's the "Secretary of State." I have no clue what it's called anywhere else, but here, it's the VIO (Vehicle Inspection Officer) office. And yes, it's called "the VIO office" even though "office" is part of the O. Go figure.

I'd only been once, and that was many years ago, to get a learner's permit when Dad had the notion of teaching me to drive. Unfortunately, his attempts proved unfruitful in that he decided it was just too dangerous to teach me to drive a stick here, of all places. Too many chickens and goats, etc.

Well, David's learner's permit expires this week, so we went in to see if we could get him a license. The problem was that he'd "misplaced" his permit. (We know exactly where it is, but for the moment, it's irretrievable.)

There were three men in the small, high-ceilinged office - in addition to an empty desk and several broken chairs. One of the men was sitting at a second desk cluttered with papers. On the edge of the desk was a calendar. Faintly interested, I stepped closer and read "The Beauty of Plateau State 2005" at the top of the calendar. The month was set to September. On the other end of the desk was a radio blaring R&B on Radio Plateau.

David slowly explained to the officer that he had misplaced his permit but would like to get a license. The officer asked David's name and then proceeded to look through a folded stack of permit applications stuffed into his top desk drawer. He thumbed through the stack, glancing at each filmy carbon copy. When he did not find David's application, he looked through two folders on his desk. Finally, he asked David's name again and looked through the first stack, coming to David's application almost on top.

"What do you expect me to do?" he asked. "You don't have your permit, and I told you that you were to bring it with you in six months to get your license." David was silent. "Have you read the rule book?" the officer asked. David shook his head. "Well, you've only done half the preparation then," replied the officer. "You've done the practical driving but not the theory." So we bought the rule book, and David promised to look it over. The man asked us to return in a week, having read the book and preferrably with the found permit.

"What about my license?" I asked. David reminded the officer that six months earlier, he'd said I could drive on a foreign license for a few months after arriving. Now, the officer told us, I would need a Nigerian license. He asked me to bring in three "passports" (photos) and copies of my American license to start the paperwork.

So today I have to go out and get some more passport photos (which are a different size here than in the U.S.). And next week we get to return to complete our business at the VIO office... I hope.

Just one more post

Okay, okay, I know this is a little crazy, posting four different things in one day. Those of you who read my blog today or this weekend will have a lot of catching up to do; sorry! But I'm just overwhelmed by thoughts this week, and it helps to get them "on paper," out in the open. (Are we going to make a new phrase, considering hardly anyone writes on paper anymore?)

My computer died last night, just gave up. Il est fini. Oh, not that I was particularly attached to it. I'd only had it for a little less than two years, whereas I'd had my college computer for five years and had even named him Milton. (Not because I have a fondness for John Milton, mind you. Quite the contrary.) So it's not that I'm sentimentally pining for my lost computer.

But I'm a huge dork and hadn't backed up most of what was on my computer. Granted, most of it wasn't important. I'd backed up the major things like the file with all my mailing addresses... but not my email addresses. Urgh. And all of my saved email correspondence is lost. Ah, well, such is life. So now I'm using David's computer, which is nicer and newer anyway (and faster). Should I get a new hard drive in my computer, or just continue to use David's?

David had a really frustrating week at work, and we're faced with making some big decisions. I can't discuss them online just in case someone from the hospital reads this, but needless to say, this was just the last straw in a series of frustrating incidents. We're both sad and disappointed. I don't know where our lives will go from here, but we can trust that God has plans higher than ours, and that He'll guide us in our steps as long as we put our faith in Him.

On a lighter note, our neighbour and my doctor, Aunt Bev, is returning from the States today and should be bringing a box my host family in California packed for me last October, which has been sitting in the States waiting for a traveler since then. I'm not even sure what's in it, but I hope I'll at last get my cutting board!

My parents' househelper found a scorpion in their house on Wednesday! I'd never seen a scorpion before. Dad killed it and put it in a jar to show every visitor they've had. It's scary to think something like that could be crawling around without anyone noticing at first. And it terrifies me that our mattress is still on the floor, so a scorpion could just crawl in with us at night!!

Mom and Dad are still taking care of baby Lydia. No news on when she'll be adopted. I think the process is just going more slowly than anyone anticipated, but the family who originally asked for her is still interested. Yay! It's always hard to part with a foster baby, but it's easier to send them to a loving adoptive family than back to their abusive parents.

That's all for now, folks!

The missing bridesmaid

So my college roommate and best friend Heather Munn got married last Saturday... and I missed it.

Heather spent six months in Nigeria last year working with Mashiah Foundation, a Christian organisation ministering to women and children affected by HIV/AIDS. It was partly so she could be around that I decided to get married last November instead of this spring sometime. (It ended up to be a good thing anyway.) So Heather was one of my three bridesmaids.

She'd been dating this guy named Paul for almost three years. She met him through her church in Illinois, Reba Place, and they'd talked about maybe getting married someday, if they were sure it was God's plan for them. So in January, Paul--knowing Heather needed to work through some things--told her she should ask him to marry her if and when she was ready. In February, Heather finally proposed to Paul, and they set the wedding date for May 5.

There was no way I could be there. It was simply impossible. Heather joked that they could make a full-size cardboard image of me and have it "walk down the aisle" as a bridesmaid... or photoshop me into all the photos of the wedding party. It made me laugh.

...And it made me cry. I always thought I'd be at Heather's wedding, if not in it. It's a girl thing, I guess, to be so intent on friends' weddings. But it was truly heartbreaking to have to miss out on the festivities, on celebrating the biggest day in Heather's life.

But it wasn't meant to be. So congratulations, Heather! Best wishes on your new union, and I hope you agreed to let him take your name! :)

Hail hath no fury...

It started like any other rainstorm. I was debating about driving over to a friend's house as I'd told her I would before 4pm. I looked at my watch and then at the rain pounding down. It was after 3 already, but I've only been driving in Nigeria since Wednesday, and I hate driving in the rain, regardless of my country. So I sent a short text to my friend explaining and asking if I could come by later.

There was a crash on the roof just then. A light pitter-patter, and then the sound of hundreds of small bangs on the corrugated zinc overhead. I've lived here long enough to recognise the sound of hail, and I peered outside. Hailstones the size of cherries were littering the yard. Cool! I got out my camera, but just then I saw Zoë dart past me into the bedroom and under the empty bedframe. Poor thing!

So I knelt down, grabbed her, and held her close, trying to reassure her. I don't think it worked very well. Her eyes remained wide, her ears perked and slightly flattened back. So I let her go. She scrambled out of my arms and ran back under the bed, and I went to fix her some milk. (We only have powdered milk here, not fresh milk.) She remained hidden, so I finally went onto the porch to take photos. By then, though, the hail--which was still falling but more intermittently--had begun to melt. I snapped a few pictures and went back in to keep my camera dry.

David came home from the hospital just as the hail seemed to be entirely dissipating, and just before a downpour of heavy rain. Now he's tending to our buckets under the eaves, getting soaked while trying to catch as much water as possible. What a hero!

(written Saturday, 5 May 2007; 15:51)

Bees and Bs

I can add a new entry to my résumé as of today: Spell Master.

This morning was the annual 4th Grade Spelling Bee at Hillcrest, the school I attended from grades 4 to 12. And since the woman who has been Spell Master for several years is in the U.S. right now, she recommended me to the 4th grade teacher, Rachel.

I'd never been in a spelling bee in my life! Sure, I'd heard about them, and I'll always remember how to spell "chrysanthemum" from watching Anne of Green Gables a million and one times. I was in a multiplication bee when I was in second grade. But that was just a small affair held in our classroom. (I got second place, and I am still bitter about it because my opponent didn't have to answer his problem after I solved mine incorrectly!)

But I was flattered and thrilled to be part of the spelling bee. My mom raised me to be an excellent speller (thanks, Mom!), which reminds me that I spelled "bologna" wrong in my post about Mom. Oops. Anyway, I agreed to be the pronouncer at this year's spelling bee.

There were 24 students at the beginning, 12 from Hillcrest and 12 from a nearby boarding school, Kent Academy. We did two practice rounds, and then we started the real match. It was lovely! I was nervous, but the kids were even more nervous, so we had a good time. Just a few times I had to consult with my judges before announcing "Incorrect," and that was hard every time because one judge had heard it as correct and three of us had heard it as incorrect.

The weirdest situation was when I pronounced--very clearly, I might add--"parachute" and had both contestants start to spell the word "parakeet," which was also on their word list. Ha! I wasn't sure what to do, but both teachers agreed the one contestant had spelled "parakeet" correctly, and so we'd accept the word even though it was the wrong word.

In the end, Kent Academy students placed four out of the top five, with a Hillcrest student coming in fourth place. They really knew their stuff. It was a relief at the end of the bee, but I think we all had a good time, even the many disappointed kids. Now I can say I went to my first spelling bee when I was 25!

I can drive!!

(First let me just say it's been a real adjustment not having Internet in my house for the past few weeks. We really do hope to get it up and running again soon so I can blog regularly again! I miss writing!)

We got a new car last week! Okay, so it's hardly "new," seeing as it's an '86, but it's an automatic transmission, so I can drive it! Talk about freedom. It's just such a liberating feeling to be behind the wheel of a car. I can go anywhere I want whenever I want. Wow! I hadn't driven since September, so it's been fun getting on the road again. A bit nerve-wracking at times, what with the hundreds of motorcycles crowding the streets. But I'm glad I don't have to rely on David anymore. Yay!

No name for her yet, but it's a she. I was thinking of Cherry, but it's just an idea. I'm open to suggestions.

Mom

When I was in primary school, my mom packed me special lunches—all three of us kids, in fact. Every day my lunch was in a brown paper bag with my name carefully printed on the front in wax crayon or magic marker. Sometimes Mom used block letters, sometimes bubble letters, or calligraphy, or whatever mood she was in. But always, there was “Sara” on my lunchbag. Often, she also added a sticker or two.

I didn't always like my lunches. They usually included a sandwich, a banana or other fruit, maybe a yogurt cup, and a dessert. Very rarely did I get a juice box with the little straw that always squirted me right in the eye when I stabbed it through the foil circle on the box top. Those were special days. Usually we had peanut-butter and jam. Mom put butter on the bread before the peanut-butter, and that always made it taste richer. Plus it kept the bread from getting soggy from the jam. Once in awhile, I discovered a special sandwich—my favourite: balogna and mayonnaise with alfalfa sprouts. Yum! And the dessert was almost always home-made. None of this Twinkie stuff, or Hostess donuts, or even Oreos. Nope, my mom always gave us fresh cookies, lemon bars, brownies, cake, or whatever she'd happened to bake that week. It irked me sometimes, to watch my friends bite into the store-bought delicacies I never got in my lunch. It also annoyed me that I couldn't buy lunch in the cafeteria as my friends did. I wanted the pizza, the Mexican taco bake, the lasagna, but especially the chocolate milk.

On Valentine's Day Mom put a card in my lunchbag, which had extra stickers that day. Usually it was home-made out of construction paper, decorated with markers and stickers; sometimes it was store-bought. But always, it said in her clear printing—and later script, once I could read cursive—“I love you, Sara. You are special to me!” And there would be something special in that lunch, something Mom knew I particularly liked, such as a pear instead of a banana. Birthdays were similar. A little note always accompanied my lunch on special days, and I could always expect a little treat inside.

Now I make my own lunch every day. Some days I don't even bother and just snack on groundnuts (peanuts) or crackers. Now I buy my own food and know it's cheaper to make a lunch than to buy one. Now I understand that peanut-butter is nutritious and cheap, while balogna is fatty and more expensive (or in Nigeria, non-existent). And that fresh fruit is healthier and cheaper than those little fruit cups, or applesauce.

And now I understand how much my mommy loves me. Happy Birthday, Mom.