The ghost of New Years Past

[Yes, that's grammatically correct: The ghost of past New Years (pl)]

I can't actually remember the way I've spent very many New Year's Eves, but there are a few that sure stand out in my mind. While I'm waiting for my dad to finish installing a new light fixture so that we can play games, I thought I'd reminisce about these evenings past.

When I was little, living in L.A., we had New Year's Eve celebrations at our church. I remember going once and playing a game that had a lot of balloons. But that's about all I can remember. I do remember when we lived at UCLA student housing on Sawtelle Blvd (between 1986 and 1989) that we brought in the new year with Martinelli's, and we listened to the popping of firecrackers. I remember loving the bubbles in my drink. Who needs champagne when you can drink Martinelli's?

For the New Year in 1998, I spent an evening at our neighbours the Kirschners' house. Our families all had dinner together, and I stayed--along with an Australian medical student--to watch a movie. Maybe it was It's a Wonderful Life. We also played some game I can't recall and ate lots of Christmas cookies.

One of my absolute favourites, though, was New Year's Eve 2000. I was at the Urbana '00 convention in Champaign-Urbana, Illinois. It was below zero outside, with piles of snow on the ground. But inside the stadium 19,000 of us were worshipping together, singing Christmas carols, and partaking in holy communion. I prayed for Nigeria that night, and God was in our midst. There is nothing more awesome than that.

New Year's Eve 2002, I went to a party with my roommate Heather two suburbs away. I didn't really know anyone, and it wasn't a particularly fabulous party. I was pretty bored as I watched the others eat pâté on crackers, drink their wine, and talk about philosophy. It was after two when Heather was ready to go home, and she offered to drive, having drunk two glasses of red wine. I gently told her that no, it was okay, I would drive her home. After I told her good night, I wrote out a will in my car before continuing on home. I was so paranoid that I'd get hit and killed by an idiotic drunk driver before I reached home! Okay, so that was pretty ridiculous, but it was there on the seat beside me just in case!

It was either the next year or 2004 when I enjoyed a party at my sister Lisa's house with her friends Rachel et al. She happens to be cursed--or blessed?--with a birthday on New Year's Eve, so it generally does not get nearly as much attention as it deserves. That year though, we did plan a party, and we played Cranium until late in the night. We were goofy and had a great time!

And perhaps the worst New Year's I can remember is New Year's Eve 2005. I was living in San Diego and had agreed to housesit for my friends from church. It was a lovely chance to get out of my own home for a few days, and to enjoy their two cats (and their selection of movies!). It was peaceful and quiet. I'd invited my friend Jen over to play games or watch a movie with me. Sometime in the afternoon, as I was watching Star Wars (I'd had the idea of having a marathon that day), my dad called from Nigeria. He told me that the four-year-old son of some fellow missionaries had drowned that day. I didn't actually know the little boy, but it was still devastating news. I didn't feel much like partying after that. So when Jen called to say that she'd been invited to another party, did I want to come? I said I'd rather stay home, thanks. I didn't know any of those folks anyway. Just after Jen called, I got a prayer-chain message on the answering machine where I was staying. Someone in the church--not knowing that the home-owners had traveled--asked us to pray for a young man in the church, Bryce, who had fallen off a ladder and broken his wrist rather badly. He needed surgery right away. So i prayed for Bryce, and for the missionary family in Nigeria, and I just wallowed in self-pity as the minutes rolled over to 2006.

This year, we're hoping to play games. Luke's watching Peter Pan, and Timothy's in bed. It's a relief and a joy to be with my family, warm and safe, celebrating the end of another full and wonderful year, ready to welcome the start of a brand-new one. Here's to New Years past, and to New Years of the future!

The case of the missing diploma

Okay, so we've been waiting and waiting for David's medical school diploma to be ready for us to pick up. He passed his exams in December 2003, and his diploma was finally ready in July 2008. Yep, almost five years. We need the diploma for David to register to take his medical licensing exams in the States. When the diploma was finally ready and signed, David's sister Vic, who lives in the same town as David's university, went to get it from the school...

 

...oh, except, whoops! His name is misspelt as "Ndge" instead of "Nege." So she took it back, and David had to actually go to the school in person to apply for a corrected diploma. They told him it would be ready in three months...

 

...which takes us to October. Well, haha, just kidding. It wasn't ready in October, but then we hadn't really expected it to be. Vic went back at the beginning of December, and they told her to come back after the Muslim holidays for Sallah...

 

...and, what do you know? It was actually ready when Vic went back a week or two later. We were so excited that we'd finally get the diploma. It was even spelled correctly and everything. Once we had it in hand, we could start applying for David's exams...

 

...so I thought it was a little strange that Vic didn't call when she arrived in Jos on Wednesday. She'd said she would be bringing the diploma, and I for one was on edge waiting for it. David finally sent her a text last night, and she replied that she'd come to visit us today, Boxing Day...

 

...And they did come just before lunch--Vic and three more of David's siblings. We had a nice chatty conversation, and then right as they were leaving, David told me that Vic hadn't brought the diploma. I didn't ask, just waited. He said that she had lost the bag containing the diploma on her way from Zaria to Jos (by public transport). Ah. What he actually said was that "the bag went missing." So really, no fault of Vic's at all. She didn't lose it. It went missing on its own accord. Yup. Well, I love Vic. She's my sister-in-law...

 

...but I still want to scream and tear my hair out. What are we supposed to do now? ALL of David's medical career hangs on that diploma. Without it, we can do nothing. And losing it could put us back a whole year in our plans since it will probably take several months to get a new one. AARGH!!

The shape of our future

It's true: We're moving to the U.S. in January. The truth is that we'd been thinking and praying about this until this spring, when we had the opportunity to hire a lawyer to make it a reality. Since May, we've been filling out forms, gathering documents, and fervently praying for David to be granted an immigrant visa to the States. On 4th December, he had a successful interview, and a friend will pick up the visa this week. We already had a tentative booking for a flight leaving January 27, and now we hope to confirm it and buy the tickets this week.

 

"Wait...what?"

 

The first thing I want to say is that I am not coercing my husband into this. I have been supportive of his decisions, and I would have been happy to remain here forever. He didn't decide to go on his own; we made the decision together. But we are not moving because I can't hack it here. We're not  leaving because I'm tired of not having running water or because our apartment is falling apart, or even because I'm sick of the dust. No, I'm not a tough old-fashioned missionary who has washed her clothes by hand all her life and hauled water from the nearby stream. But I've lived here most of my life, and I'd like to think I could have stayed here until I died. And hopefully we'll be back in a few years.

 

So no, we're not leaving because of me. At least, I hope not.

 

We're leaving because David plans to undergo more medical training in the American system. Specifically, he is hoping to start a residency in family medicine in the fall of 2010. For this to be possible, we must go to the U.S. for him to take the required licensing tests and go through the application process. If he can get the testing done by August, he can apply for programs next fall and start in 2010. This is our hope.

 

In the meantime, what? Well, we're flying into southern California, my "village," where most of my extended family live. For the first month or so, David will study for his exams. At the same time, he'll be looking for work to begin after the testing is over. (I'm not sure about my work situation yet...) So for the foreseeable future, we'll be in greater San Diego. After David gets into a residency program, who knows? We're open to living anywhere except Florida and New York City, pretty much, so I guess we'll just have to wait and see where God leads!

 

David's already begun studying for his exams, now that he has the visa, so I get to do all the dirty work of finding housing, jobs, and a car (with my Aunt Pamela's help--thank you!!); packing; buying our plane tickets; and selling all our belongings! (We can only take two 50-lb boxes each.) Needless to say, I have my work cut out for me.

 

So that's our news, in a nutshell. Our leaving comes at a good time, as this Christmas, we can concentrate on giving instead of on receiving. And we do have lots to give. ;)

It's raining!

Rain in December hardly ever happens! And, oh no! I think the Niger Creek hostel has its roof off to be redone. Oops!

 

But it sure feels nice. And sounds lovely on the roof. I'd forgotten how much I love the sound! It mixes quite nicely with Christmas music--not a normal combination in Jos!

Moving on

Thank you to those of you who prayed for David's big interview this morning. It went well, as far as I can gather. I haven't heard any details, but David said that it went well...

 

...which means that we will be moving to the States next year! More details to come.

Waiting

No offense to Americans, but we are an impatient people. Perhaps this is a good thing in some ways, for it seems to have produced a system in which efficiency is important. Time is money, and therefore, things must move quickly or someone loses cash. It's got its downsides, though, too. We hate queuing, delays, traffic, tardiness. We don't value the things we do but rush to get them done so we can move on to the next thing. Instead of enjoying, for example, a snow day, we worry about the delay in the work we could be doing at the office. While stuck in traffic, we could listen to uplifting music, pray, compose poetry, or use our expansive imaginations to create tales about people in other cars. Waiting in a queue on Black Friday, we could strike up a conversation with the woman behind us about her purchases or her Thanksgiving feast.

 

Yes, that's idealistic. I myself am guilty of impatience. I feel for Inigo in The Princess Bride: "I hate waiting." I want things done now, not tomorrow, and certainly not two weeks from now.

 

Africans, my husband included, have a lot to teach me about waiting. I'm not sure whether they're good waiters because the system is so slow in general, or whether the system is so slow because people don't mind waiting; it's the chicken and the egg. But either way, Africans know how to wait patiently. I'm not saying people don't grumble. But somehow, life goes on, even when October's salary isn't paid until January, when the traffic police cause an hour's delay in a long journey, when the electrician who says he's "coming right now" doesn't actually show up for three days... I see it all around me: people who know a thing or two about waiting.

 

David and I are waiting for something, too. David has a hugely important interview on Thursday, 4 December, at roughly 08:00 GMT+1 (02:00 Eastern U.S.) in Lagos, and I find myself waiting. I get worried about absolutely everything (I get it from my mom), but this will cause me to lose sleep. As I type, David is on a night bus to Lagos, which in itself makes me cringe. Night buses are notoriously unsafe, between armed robbery on the road and traffic accidents. But I trust he'll arrive safely. In the meantime, I'm waiting for a text message to say he's safely at Point A along the journey. And then tomorrow I have to wait here while he waits there, just sitting and waiting. Thursday morning will be the worst, waiting for his message about how the interview went.

 

I hate waiting.

No longer a refugee

We came home yesterday afternoon, before the 18:00 curfew. It felt wonderful to be in my own home again, with David. I'd never really entertained the thought that I might not be back, but it still was comforting to see my familiar things--even the crumbling walls and burnt out kitchen light.

 

Yesterday was a long day. In the morning, the gunfire started again at 06:20, just after the curfew lifted. It went on for several hours on the other side of town. We heard nasty rumours about the way Christians were reacting to the previous day and ill-treating Muslims. I don't know how much is true, but I suspect a great deal of it is, and that saddens me more than anything else about this whole ordeal. Somebody mentioned the possibility of a 24-hour curfew, so we thought we'd likely be staying quite a bit longer.

 

By noon, the gunfire had almost stopped altogether, and a group of men from our compound returned to their homes to gather some more food and assess the situation. When they returned and reported to Dad--who had stayed at the other compound, watching Timothy while he slept--Dad decided it would be all right for us to return home. The other families stayed in town, but we packed up our belongings, listened politely to admonitions to stay, and left around 17:15. On the way home, we passed by two destroyed motorcycles, and when we saw the place where we'd seen flames on Friday, Dad told us that it was a mosque, not a shop. I couldn't help but cringe. There were several armoured vehicles near the hospital compound, and lots of soldiers and police.

 

We surprised David, who was visibly glad to see us. Mom and I made pizza for dinner--our usual Friday night fare, since we'd missed it on Friday--and watched a Star Trek Voyager episode. David told me later that he'd been upset when he'd found out we had just up and left on Friday. Mom had told me not to bother calling David at work because the man calling the shots was working with David at the hospital, so David would be appraised of the situation. Well, he hadn't been, and he hadn't gotten my texts until awhile later, after we'd left, since he'd been in surgery when we left the compound. In retrospect, I should have talked to him personally, made sure he knew what was going on. If there ever is a next time, we'll get a chance to discuss it, and maybe I won't have to leave without my husband.

 

This morning has been relatively quiet, with only a few sporadic gunshots. Even most of the churches--probably empty--are quiet, which is extremely rare for a Sunday morning. Usually they'd be blasting their worship music and preaching for the whole neighbourhood to hear. But not this morning. Perhaps this morning we can take a sobering few moments to mourn the dead and seek God's forgiveness.

A day to remember

I fled my house today.

 

David woke me up at about 06:45 to tell me he thought there was trouble. I'd heard the sirens in my sleep and realised with a start that I also heard gunshots. And the sirens were going on and on--one after another. There were local elections here yesterday, and the governor had deployed troops to keep the peace. But that was yesterday. For all we knew, the troops had gone back to the barracks to catch some sleep after an uneventful day.

 

We didn't say much to each other, as David headed off to the hospital and told me that there was no way I was going to work today. There was smoke rising from several different points in nearby neighbourhoods, and the gunshots kept coming.

 

At about 08:15, I went over to my parents' house, thinking maybe I could do work there. None of us were going to leave the compound, but I figured I could still work. Then we heard that school was canceled at Hillcrest, that there were roadblocks, and that travel was restricted.

 

My parents' driver/gardener came around 08:45, and we reproached him for trekking all the way to our house. He told us of youths on the streets, of burning tires, of soldiers, of people out with knives and big sticks. We sent him back home as long as he thought he could make it back to his children all right.

 

Dad kept on the radio with the other compound missionaries and others in different compounds around town. We kept hearing gunshots, but they seemed to get fewer and farther between. The shouts we'd heard earlier seemed to have dissipated somewhat. But smoke still rose from several parts of town. David came to Mom and Dad's house around 10:15 wanting breakfast. I made him an omelette sandwich, and he left immediately after finishing. He seemed perfectly calm.

 

At some point, one of the missionaries on our compound decided that we'd better evacuate. We hurriedly packed "flee bags" and loaded the car. Dad didn't seem too worried, but we were obeying orders nonetheless. After about a half hour, all the missionaries had gathered by the back gate to the hospital--which is normally kept shut religiously--and caravanned to another mission compound farther from the trouble. We passed several road blocks, lots of marooned vehicles along the shoulder, and one or two shops in flames along the roadside. There was only one other car we saw on the 10-minute drive to the other compound.

 

We'd had to leave David behind, doing surgery in the hospital. My heart almost broke.

 

Once we arrived, around 12:10, the men got together to discuss our next steps, while we women gathered in a missionary's home for cold water and snacks. Each lady told about her own experience of the morning, and we prayed. My neigbour Stacey prayed for David.

 

It was a restless afternoon. We got all sorted out into people's homes, and I put Timothy down for a nap and read my mystery book. But Dad was in meetings, and we didn't know what would happen. Eventually, it was decided that we'd spend the night here. Later this afternoon, the radio announced a 6pm to 6am curfew.

 

At 18:00, we all gathered in a backyard gazebo--with the kids in chairs around a bonfire--and had a potluck supper. It was a cheery affair, and Timothy enjoyed himself thoroughly--eating gravel, banging a casserole dish lid, touching baby Hayden's soft blond hair, and generally making his presence known. I missed David.

 

So tonight we're in someone else's house. Thankfully, they were out of town, so we don't have to be awkward by crowding in with them. They were told not to return home today as they'd planned, so we have the house to ourselves. Timothy had a nice bath, and then he took 40 minutes to go to sleep. *sigh* It's been a long day. I miss my husband.

 

But we are thankful for safety for all of us, even for left-behind David. God has been good to us. And so we pray for peace today in our town, which is--after all--the home of peace and tourism.