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.

Urgent

There is trouble this morning. Please pray.

Thanksgiving in Nigeria

05:22 - I groggily open my eyes to realise Timothy is fussing. I get him out of his Pack 'n Play and bring him into bed, where I nurse him, and he goes back to sleep. (The advantage of these really early mornings is that he goes back to sleep and sometimes sleeps past 08:00.)

 

06:50 - David shakes me awake. "I'm eating breakfast. Do you want me to make you some tea?" (Tea = hot Milo.) I debate: Either I sleep with Timothy and feel more rested, or I have breakfast with David, which happens even more seldom. I get up.

 

07:28 - David leaves for ward rounds. I light a scented candle our friend Laura gave us as a wedding present two years ago. Lime cilantro...what a strange but delightful combination!

 

07:48 - Timothy wakes up. I get him out of bed. He runs around with two small Vaseline jars and my glasses case while I get dressed. I get to wear jeans today - very exciting!

 

08:03 - I put on a CD collection of Contemporary Christian Music. Timothy starts to dance.

 

08:16 - I sit down with Timothy to give him a pumpkin muffin and apple juice for breakfast. (I remember the days when you couldn't get apple juice, and that was all I ever ordered on the flights to the States!) Of course, he makes a royal mess. Note to self: When looking for an apartment, if you have a choice, get one with no carpeting in the dining room.

 

08:35 - Finished breakfast! Timothy takes the washcloth I used to wipe him off and wipes the floor, his toys, his mouth, a remote control...

 

08:41 - I sit down with Murder Must Advertise, and Timothy climbs all over me. He's whiny and keeps squirming. I wish his cold would go away once and for all.

 

09:48 - David returns from ward rounds finally. We chat, and he sits down at the computer to browse the news and find friends on Facebook, which he's just joined. Timothy breaks another key (Ctl) on the keyboard. (He already broke the Alt key earlier this week, just tore it right off.)

 

10:55 - David goes back to the hospital for a surgical procedure. (He's on call today.) Timothy climbs into the footlocker where I keep his too-big clothes, and he plays, throwing the clothes around. I go back to my book.

 

11:14 - Timothy and I have a snack of canned hot dogs. I have salt craving a lot these days, not sure why. Timothy loves hot dogs! Someday he'll taste real ones, not tinned ones.

 

11:57 - It's warm, so I take off Timothy's trousers and let him run around in his Busy Bugs T-shirt. We start over to Mom and Dad's for lunch. Mom's made tuna pasta salad, one of my favourites. Yum! Timothy won't eat it but instead eats a huge helping of yogurt with strawberry jam.

 

13:20 - Timothy and I get ready to head home and start cooking. I put on his shoes and shorts just as David returns from the hospital. We watch him eat lunch. Now Timothy eats the pasta salad! I tell David he should feed Timothy more often.

 

13:45 - All three of us return home. Timothy will go down for a nap if I'm lucky, and I can start cooking for the potluck tonight. I said I'd bring Thanksgiving Corn Pudding... But the Internet isn't connecting, which means I can't access my recipe. Aargh! Furthermore, Timothy is refusing to sleep.

 

14:05 - I sit on the porch to see if I can get a wireless signal. It works - yay!! Timothy walks around the porch carrying our blue mop (as opposed to the  red and brown ones). There's also a handy-dandy child's handle on our front screen door, so he loves to open the door and let it bang shut. I copy the recipe into a Word file, save it, and Timothy and I go back inside.

 

14:20 - I lie down on the living room floor to encourage Timothy to nap. After seven minutes, he's fast asleep between two throw pillows, the empty DVD case he was playing with by his side.

 

15:34 - I finish putting together my corn pudding and hand it off to Mom to bake in her already-hot oven. (Why waste gas?) She had to come over to bring me four eggs for the recipe, and Timothy is still asleep, so I couldn't go over there. The recipe calls for milk, so I had to open a new bag of Dano milk powder for the occasion. (We can't get fresh milk.) While Mom bakes the pudding, I'll cook the glaze...and hope Timothy keeps sleeping!

 

15:55 - The glaze is finished and ready to go on the pudding whenever it's baked--and after Timothy wakes up. I suppose there's no rush. Silly me: I used a liquid measuring cup to measure out my 1/2 cup of butter, but I used boiled drinking water, which of course got all mucked up with buttery grease. Next time--when I know it's going to boil--I'll have to remember to use tap water from our buckets. Timothy is still asleep!

 

16:07 - David comes home and sits down to eat two tangerines and an orange. Timothy is still asleep. I gather items into his diaper bag, unhook his sassy seat from the table, and wait for Timothy to wake up so we can go to Grandma's house and put the glaze on the corn pudding before we leave for the potluck.

 

16:26 - I wake Timothy up by putting on a Kids' Praise tape. David and I carry all our stuff over to Mom and Dad's house, where I put the glaze on the corn and help load the car. David takes Timothy down to the hospital.

 

16:51 - We leave Mom and Dad's house and pick up David and Timothy at the hospital gate. (Daddy almost forgets to stop for them!) We enjoy a yummy potluck supper of the usual Nigeria-Thanksgiving fare, including roast chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, corn, salad, deviled eggs, rolls, and lots of fruit. (No turkey, maybe some cranberry sauce, but it's the canned kind and very expensive, no Martinelli's...) Timothy especially likes the crescent rolls and mashed potatoes. I share my lemon meringue pie with Timothy but not my apple tart.

 

18:45 - or thereabouts, Timothy is finally let down from his sassy seat outside in the yard. He follows around some of the friendly neighbour dogs, wanders around the outside of the house, and knocks over a tiki torch. Heather screams as the torch falls to the ground near her table and sets the dry grass ablaze. It's a tiny fire, and someone tells one of the boys to put it out by stepping on it. The boy does, and the fire goes out, but all of us are rattled. Fortunately, most people didn't notice. Timothy goes back into his sassy seat for the rest of the evening.

 

18:56 - Randy begins our worship time with prayer. Then Meredith leads us in some praise choruses, and Timothy tries to sing along, even though he's got a pacifier in his mouth. Mark gives a devotional and Meredith plays a few more songs. By this time, Timothy won't sit still in the sassy seat anymore but wants OUT. I let him down and follow him around while Peter gives a closing prayer. We pack up, after a little trouble finding our [clean] dishes.

 

19:41 - We get back to Mom and Dad's, and David and I take Timothy home. My little boy is tired and goes to sleep as soon as I feed him and put him in his Pack 'n Play.

 

20:11 - David follows suit, leaving me at the computer to upload photos and finish my blog posting. It's been a long day, and there's work tomorrow. Plus David is on call, so he needs to sleep while he can. I'll follow soon! But the Internet isn't connecting, so this will have to be posted at a later time.

 

We thank God for all of His blessings to us in our lives!!

Nighttime surprise

I woke up in the night and turned over to get more comfortable. Then I sat up in bed and poked David.

 

"David, what's that on my pillow?"

 

He turned over, glanced at my pillow, and said, "It's nothing. Turn on the light."

 

I reached over and turned on the bedside lamp while David leaned forward for a closer look. "It's not a fuzzy caterpillar?" I asked him.

 

"It is," he said, grabbing the pillow and heading outside.

 

I had trouble sleeping the rest of the night, worried about fuzzy caterpillars crawling on me. Every time I woke up, I'd check my pillow for another intruder. But we were safe the rest of the night. I just felt so violated by a crawly critter in my bed!

 

For those of you unfamiliar with fuzzy caterpillars, they are 1 to 2 inches long and look, well, fuzzy. Their "fur" sticks out and makes them look nice and soft, but if you touch it, you get a terribly itchy rash. I've never actually been unfortunate enough to experience it myself--at least, not that I know of--but we steered clear of them climbing trees as kids. Yuck.

 

This morning I wanted to get some pictures, and I found THREE (count 'em) in the doorway between our kitchen and dining room. I took photos of two more outside on the steps. Someone rescue me!! I'm not safe anymo re!

 

 

This fuzzy is on the wall of our porch.

This one's actually on our front steps.

Nightnoises

I was coming home tonight from my parents' house, through a neighbour's yard, when I saw this picture:

 

I was trying to keep from tripping in the dark, so I wasn't really paying much attention. I saw this white thing to the right of the gate and thought it was just a bundle of cloth or a bag of grain or something someone had left on top of the fence.

 

I did a double-take when it clucked at me! I rushed home to get my camera and snap the shot. Here's a closer shot of my night-time friend:

Who ever said chickens can't fly? Lots of fun!

 

On another note entirely, David and I celebrated our second anniversary yesterday! We went out to eat while Mom and Dad watched Timothy, and we were back in plenty of time to put Timothy to bed and play Cities and Knights of Catan with my dad. And whaddya know--I won! I hardly ever win! It was a good day, and much less stressful than two years ago. :)

There and back again

We survived the trip to Lagos! And actually, it wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been, or as I'd envisioned. We're so thankful for a safe trip and a relatively good time there!

 

The only trouble blogging-wise is that most of the time, I was so engrossed in keeping Timothy happy that I wasn't being as observant as I otherwise would have been. (This is one of the downsides of traveling without your spouse!) So I don't have any interesting anecdotes or observations! What a bummer!

 

The flight down was as pleasant as any flight I'd been on in the U.S. (and more so than some). But I had a head cold to begin with, and during the descent into Lagos, I had a serious sinus headache (like someone showing shards of broken glass into my forehead) and an earache. And poor Timothy was screaming non-stop until we landed (when he promptly fell asleep). But aside from that, we were fine.

 

David and our friend Nanfa met me at the airport, and it wasn't quite as hot as I'd expected. (Don't get me wrong: it was very warm and humid--uncomfortable but not oppressive.) I couldn't hear anything out of my right ear for another four hours, but oh well! Luckily, Nanfa's car had air conditioning, and I mean luckily because we had to drive about 2-1/2 hours to get to his place. It's all within Lagos, mind you. But Lagos is a BIG city, and the traffic is atrocious.

 

It turned out that Nanfa lives in a beautiful, luxurious, wealthy neighbourhood called Victoria Garden City. His own place is one bedroom and bathroom in a little cottage behind one of the main houses in this community, but he had air conditioning and running water, so I told him honestly that the accommodation was better than most places I'd stayed in Nigeria! Nanfa himself vacated to a friend's place, leaving David and me to the single little room (maybe 10'x8'). We slept on sleeping bags on the floor, since Nanfa doesn't own a bed (which is actually pretty common here) and felt like king and queen!! Nanfa took us to a nice chicken place for dinner, and we all enjoyed our meal. Timothy even got a balloon to play with while we ate.

 

On Thursday, while Nanfa was at work, David and I ventured out to a specific clinic to run one of our errands. Nanfa had suggested we take a taxi, but we knew it would cost 10 times the price of taking a bus, and I said it would be exciting to take the bus. Now, you must understand that "bus" does not mean one of those big transit buses they use in big cities like London and Chicago. It means a run-down van--mostly VW vans in Lagos, for some reason--squeezing four people onto each bench seat. I'd never been in one of these with Timothy before because I generally insist on his being in his carseat. But of course, I hadn't brought his carseat to Lagos, so we took the bus. And it was fine! The wind felt good. It was cloudy. David and I enjoyed trying to understand what the caller was saying as we drove by people standing on the side of the road waiting. (Buses here have callers that shout out the bus's destination so people standing on the roadside can opt in or out.) It was fun listening to the pidgin around us, and I realised I was picking up more than I would have if it were Hausa, but I still had to struggle to understand a lot.

 

We had a nice--and very expensive!--lunch of Nigerian cuisine next-door to the clinic, and we relaxed there for awhile. Their eating area is upstairs in a covered balcony, so the airflow was perfect. Then we went to the clinic, and while David did his thing, Timothy amused himself by climbing on the coffee tables, climbing up and down the three steps at reception, trying to get out the front door, grabbing and ripping the leaves of potted plants, pulling the window blinds, and attacking the water coole--thus getting us both soaked. I was exhausted just trying to keep him out of the next bit of trouble! After two hours, David was finished, Timothy had fallen asleep on my lap, and we decided to go back to Nanfa's by taxi. When we got back, Timothy slept for almost two hours, and then we visited the park in Nanfa's community. It's beautiful! There are lots of trees, a grassy area for football, a basketball court, a little playground, benches, and walking paths. We sat for awhile and let Timothy play in the dirt and leaves. (He hardly ever get sto play outside because we don't have a yard, and Grandma has plants in her yard that Timothy likes to shred.) Then we went for a walk a few times around the park and decided to go back to the chicken place for dinner.

 

We retired early Thursday night. For one thing, the heat and humidity had made us exhausted. For another thing, we were planning on getting up at 4am the next morning. It was a rough night. Both Timothy and I were sick. By 3:30 we were all awake and ready to get up. Nanfa picked us up at 5:20, and we loaded the car to run our last errand and head to the airport.

 

Even at 5:30 in the morning, the traffic was bad in some places on the road. Nanfa told us that many people have to leave before 5:00 to get to work on time, depending on where they live and where they work. (I heard once a story about a family that lived in Lagos. The daughter was about three years old. Her dad worked a busy job seven days a week, and he had to leave before 6 to get to work every morning. He never returned at night before 8 or 9. It was so bad that one day, he returned home mid-morning to retrieve something he'd forgotten for a big business meeting, and his daughter came running from the gate, telling her mom, "Mama, there's a strange man at the gate, and he wants to come in!" Now I believe this story!)

 

We ran our errand, which took about three hours, and then Nanfa came to get us and take us to a motor park where we could catch a taxi to the airport. We knew the flight to Jos would probably leave around noon, and we hoped to catch it so we wouldn't have to fly to Abuja and get a bus to Jos. We arrived at the airport on time, miraculously, and there we ran into my former employer Jonathan! He's a world traveler and knows the Lagos airport well, so he helped us get our tickets, check in, and find the waiting area. I was having conniptions because I was hot, damp, and tired; I had a cold and was sick; Timothy was screaming bloody murder because he was tired and I wouldn't let him play on the ground. (Hello! There were mobs of people going to and fro, like I was going to let him get swept away in the crowd?!) And David just disappeared for huge chunks of time, trying to get our flight sorted out. It was miserable. I hope I never have to go through it again. And then our flight was delayed two hours, so David and I took turns--grudgingly--in chasing after Timothy to keep him out of trouble. Oy!

 

We were extremely glad to get home, dropped off personally by Jonathan. I don't know what we would have done without him!

 

So all in all, our trip to Lagos was a success. We accomplished our main tasks, didn't lose too much sleep, enjoyed good accommodations and company, and didn't get lost, mugged, raped, murdered, molested, robbed, or even verbally abused! I'd say that's a success. :)

 

David will have to go back in a few weeks, hopefully only once, but I'm glad at least that Timothy and I can wait here at home. (The trip is very expensive!) So thanks for remembering us while we were gone!

Traveling

The one thing I can say for sure about today's trip to Lagos is that it will be something to blog about!

 

The original plan included our going together on a bus to Lagos this past Sunday. However, David decided that we didn't all need to go that early, so he went on ahead by himself, leaving Timothy and me to fly down today. He's already taken care of one errand, and we'll go together to do Thursday and Friday's errands. I sure am glad that I'm going to be in Lagos with my husband instead of alone, or with a stranger! Even better, we have a good friend who works in Lagos and lives in Jos, so he's been taking care of David and will hopefully help us get around. Phew.

 

So I'll go out to the Jos airport around 10am. I've only been there twice--once in 1995, when Mom, Jonathan, and I flew in from Lagos; and once a year or two later when Laura and I went to meet Jessica, whose family was flying in from the U.S. via Lagos. I don't remember much about it, except that it's pretty darn small. I've been told I can show up a few hours early, buy a ticket there, and then just get on the plane whenever they say to do so. Works for me!

 

I hope that when I come back on Saturday, I'll be brimming with a wonderful tale of adventure in the big city! Wish us luck!

Not in a blogging mood

I'd been meaning to wait until after Timothy's birthday and the U.S. elections to blog, but now that those events are past, I find myself sighing and dragging myself to the computer. I'm exhausted. I'm not sure why--maybe it's Timothy's rough night last night. Or maybe I'm just tired of looking at computer screens all day.

 

The older I get, the younger people seem to be when they die. Perhaps that's just stating the obvious, but it's hit me in the past week more than ever. In the eight years since I graduated from high school, four Nigeria missionary men have died of cancer--all family friends and fathers of my schoolmates. They've ranged in age from early forties to early sixties, but it's still somehow overwhelming to me. I wasn't close to any of them (at least, not recently), but I have happy memories about them all. And the saddest thing: two of them died just weeks before their children were married. Yikes. Talk about timing. It's a real reminder that we have absolutely no say in our coming and going.

 

I realise I haven't said very much in this post, and I'm sorry for that. But I've said my bit, and that's that.

Fear and trepidation

For the past four months, at least, there has been a huge elephant residing in our living room. It eats a lot. It costs a lot. It causes a great deal of worry and discomfort. But oops! We're not supposed to talk about it!

 

So I can't tell you why I'm probably making a pilgrimage to Lagos in the next two or three weeks. I can only tell you that I have hardly ever been more apprehensive about anything in my life. And that's saying a lot because I'm an obsessive-compulsive worrier. I could win prizes for the amount of worrying I've done in my quarter+ of a century.

 

I remember seeing a photo once, taken in the Atlanta airport, of a sign that proclaimed the Lagos international airport as unsafe for the wary American traveler. Fortunately, we're not going to the airport at all. On the contrary, we get to brave the big city itself.

 

To be honest, I know very little about Lagos, and I've blissfully enjoyed that ignorance. I realise that there are many Nigerians--resident in Lagos, of course--who would say you haven't been to Nigeria until you've been to Lagos. Well, my passport says otherwise, with stamps proclaiming my exits from and entrances into the Federal Republic. I've only been to Lagos once--13 years ago--and then it was just an overnight with my mom and brother. (The reason my dad was not with us is a story in itself, but I'll save that for another day.) We stayed in the Baptist Guest House between our flight from L.A. and our flight to Jos the next day. And it was pretty miserable.

 

This time we're going for a week. And we're going by bus. (David made this bus trip in May for his exams, and the 12-hour trip took 24 hours because of a huge church revival blocking the only road between Ibadan and Lagos--a one-hour drive in normal traffic.)

 

You could say I'm apprehensive. In fact, I think I said that myself. But really, that's an understatement; to acknowledge my true feelings would be to admit defeat. Lagos is big. It's crowded. To get where we're going by 7am, we'll leave our hotel by 4am. There's crime. There's noise. The weather is wretched. It's just not my ideal place to spend a week. But hey, this is important enough for me to make the trip regardless of the city's ill repute.

 

And it will take me a full week to get emotionally prepared for the ordeal! ;) So help me, I'll make it a trip worth telling about!

Through the eye of a needle

It felt like we were trying to pass through the eye of a needle this morning as we drove to church. For the past two days, there has been some sort of religious meeting at the next-door polo field, blaring words that are unintelligible to monolingual ol' me. It went on all last night, too. I know because Timothy woke up screaming and wouldn't go back to sleep, so I was up at 2am, and the loudspeakers were still on full blast.

We left for church at 9:40, which would normally have gotten us to Hillcrest five minutes before the service started, with plenty of time to take Timothy to the nursery and sit down in the chapel. But by 9:55, we were still stuck in traffic around the roundabout by the polo field. Only once before have I seen such a to-do there. Nine years ago, on a religious holiday, my friend John mis-stepped into a 10' hole, breaking his arm and a rib, plus banging up his face pretty badly. On that day, it took us an hour to get from Hillcrest to Evangel Hospital--a distance of about 3 miles. That's the only time I'd ever seen it like it was this morning.

Vendors, hawking cloth, food, shoes, clothing items, etc. More motorcycles than I've ever seen in one place, and that says a lot. Vans full of men and women all trussed up in their best. People in brown uniforms and green berets directing traffic. Thousands of people on foot thronging the street. Noise everywhere: loudspeakers in cars reciting passages, people yelling, the loudspeakres from the polo grounds, policemen directing cars, horns blaring. David saw vans from at least three states, and I saw ones from another three. There were buses, lorries, vans, trucks, cars, taxis, motorcycles, and pedestrians--all congregating at the polo field. Cars were double-parked all along the main road and in the roundabout, barely giving room for moving cars to pass single-file. The van we were in was hit once by a motorcycle and then rear-ended by the car behind us. But we just kept going, inch by inch, until we were finally through the congestion. We arrived at the chapel only ten minutes late, which is actually quite amazing. I was glad, at least, that we were in time to hear the sermon by a special guest preacher (the man who officiated at David's and my wedding, in fact).

Needless to say, we took a different route home.

Going postal

I was so delighted on Friday when David walked into the house carrying a Priority Mail flat-rate box. Wow! We actually got a package: Cheerios and a cross-stitched bib for Timothy. It was so exciting! So thanks for that!! I know I must have sounded pretty pathetic in my posts asking for packages. *insert sheepish grin here* But it's always nice to feel loved. Admit it: You love getting packages, too!

Ode to my right foot

Earlier this year, I had a foot injury, and upon relating the story to someone, I suddenly realised that my right foot has quite a history of injury. So I decided to one day write a post about it. If this seems at all silly to you, I heartily agree. But perhaps you'll understand once you hear my tale.

 

I have never broken a bone in my life--at least that I can prove. The two times I've had X-rays of my right foot, there were no fractures. It's the times I haven't had X-rays that I suspect my foot was actually broken. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

 

We lived at Fay Avenue when was in second and third grade, and we had a chair that my brother had salvaged from a dumpster behind our student housing complex at UCLA. (Yes, even then, my family were dumpster divers!) This blue chair was a swiveler, and I used to love to sit in it and...well...swivel. One day, alas! My right foot got stuck under the chair while someone else was in the chair (swiveling), and my foot got injured. It was just a flesh wound, but I can still point out the ibuprofen-sized circular scar on the top of the foot. Battle scars. And so it began.

 

I've always detested athletics, so I didn't have any injuries during my school days. Okay, I did have a possible stress fracture in my big toe once, but that hardly counts. No, my next injury came at the beginning of my sophomore year of college. And I can feel the excruciating pain even thinking about it. We'd been allowed to store two 70-lb boxes in the college storage facilities during that summer, and I had to move my two boxes from my freshman dorm to my sophomore dorm. It was a fair walk, but my friends and I managed, with my two boxes loaded onto a dolly. My new dorm, however, had no ramp access up the front steps and no elevator, so we stopped outside the building to contemplate the dilemma. As one of my dear friends let go of the dolly handle to stand it upright, the cart rolled on top of my right foot. I was in immediate agony. Not only did the goose-egg on the top of my foot swell up until it was literally the size of a chicken egg, but I had to ask my friend to go in my stead on a downtown-Chicago excursion with a group of freshmen that evening. After icing my foot for awhile and getting crutches from the health centre, I followed another friend to her cousin's apartment several blocks away to have dinner there. We walked, I hobbling on my crutches. I decided then that I would rather walk in anguish than use crutches for several weeks. So even though the health centre had encouraged me to go into a hospital for X-rays, I ignored them. (And Heather's cousin was sweet and gave us a ride back to campus that evening.) Woe is me! I should have listened to the health centre. I just knew I'd be humiliated if I went in for X-rays, and they said, "Ha, it's barely hurt. You're such a baby." It was at least two months before I could wear closed shoes again--just in time for winter. But my foot was tender to the touch for over a year afterward.

 

My next incident was the day after I graduated from college. My dear sister had come to the dorm to help me collect my absurdly numerous belongings, and we'd decided to pick through the dumpster before the trash truck came. (Lucky for us, the person driving the trash truck that day was an MK friend of ours from Nigeria.) I'd just found a futon for my sister and thrown it down to her. I jumped down after it and landed on the curb edge, twisting my right ankle beneath me. Ugh. My sister helped me hobble back upstairs to my dorm room, where I sat on a chair and watched my roommate continue to pack feverishly. A friend of mine stopped by, and I discovered to my delight that he had basic emergency medicine training. Yay! He wrapped my foot in an ACE bandage, told me to take an anti-inflammatory of any sort, and half-carried me downstairs to my sister's van. What a guy! Later that day, my sister took me to urgent care, and the X-rays showed no broken bones. But they did charge me an arm and a leg for the time spent and an air-cast, and they rented me a pair of crutches. This time I really did use them. The trouble was that you're not allowed to drive if you have crutches in your car for your use. So I lay on my sister's couch for a week, reading books, watching movies, talking with her, and enjoying being pampered. I was crushed to miss the dancing at a folk dance/sing the week after graduation--the last big folk bash I attended. By the time my friend Amanda got married four weeks later, I could hobble around in my strappy white sandals. No one even knew about my ankle. But that was a bad idea. I wrenched it again during the wedding, and I was back to wearing the air-cast for another few weeks.

 

My next incident was almost two years later. I was helping people at my church in San Diego set up for a special Renaissance party when the boys carrying a table behind me dropped it. The table landed against the back of my right foot. Everyone immediately took care of me, but I was in a lot of pain, and I sat out for most of the party that night. My host family made an appointment for me to see their orthopedic surgeon, and she took X-rays, but proclaimed that she thought I had only torn my tendon. Only. That's all! So I was back in an air-cast and got to wear flip-flops to work for my last few weeks of employment before I left for Nigeria for two months. Oh, and I highly recommend not injuring your foot right before a long journey. It's just a bad idea.

 

Well, it was almost two years after that that I hurt my foot this spring. Oh, well, the first thing I did was mis-step off the stairs at church and sprain my right ankle--the day of my little brother's 9th birthday party. Poor Mom had to cope mostly by herself with six little boys all yelling and screaming about one thing or another. But that healed well, and then, when I was carrying something in my house in late March, I knocked over a chair onto my right foot. Now, I know that doesn't sound like it would do much damage, but it hurt like you wouldn't believe. I couldn't touch the top of my foot--not even to wash it--for over a week. Even when I got into bed at night, I couldn't bear to put the sheet over my foot. Again, I had to wear flip-flops for literally months. The first time I put on sneakers after that was the end of May--two months later--to see if I could wear them while we were traveling in the States. By then, the pain had reduced enough so that it just kind of throbbed instead of panging.

 

So there it is, the story of my right foot. It's been through a lot in its day. And I'm sure it won't end here. But maybe now the curse will lift, and I won't have any more nightmares of hobbling around on crutches.

 

Thus ends the ode to my right foot.

Passing the time

I exercised tonight for the first time since I can't even remember when. Okay, sure, I get daily exercise hauling Timothy and his carseat around. And I take walks with David sometimes. But this was 100% intentional and entirely my own idea. This hardly ever happens!! I am awful at exercising. I come from a sedentary family, so I didn't grow up with sports at all. And I have so many excuses not to exercise--reasonable excuses, even--that I can almost always convince myself to pass.

But three things made me think of it tonight. One is that I actually like the size I'm at right now and would like to stay this way. Another is my friend Lisa's blog post about exercising. And the third is a conversation I had yesterday with my husband. (Note: David enjoys exercise, especially playing football, but he doesn't make me feel guilty for not exercising myself--at least, not usually.)

I'd been thinking about trying it tonight, once Timothy was in bed. But then he decided to be naughty and stay awake until 9:45. I was tired. I decided to go to bed instead. While I was sitting on my bed, brushing my teeth, I suddenly realised that a big fat honkin' mosquito was perched on my hand having a grand ol' time. Nope. Not bedtime yet. I got out one of our several cans of insecticide and doused my bedroom with it. I pulled the door shut to make sure all the mosquitos died, and I thought, Well, what the heck? Who needs sleep anyway? So I put on Rebecca St. James' God with the volume down low, did some stretches, and then just started doing whatever seemed to make sense. I'm no aerobics master, nor am I a dancer except in the privacy of my own home. But I moved my arms and legs, and now I am sore. To me, this signifies exercise! I just have to figure out a way to make myself do it regularly. Is anyone interested in an exercise accountability program?

And now my bedroom is clear of the insecticide smell, so I can go to bed! Bon nuit.

Storm of the season

Something woke me up at about 3:15 Friday morning. I'd been dreaming of being somewhere with my family, and in my dream, my friend Adena had run through pouring rain because she wanted to show me a Sunday school lesson...

 

When I awoke, wind was gushing through the house. My first thought was to close the doors to the toilet room and shower room, since they creak like no man's business, and I was afraid the noise would wake Timothy. I jumped out of bed and wrestled the wind to shut both doors, to no avail. Neither one has a working door handle, so we usually just shut them by wedging them with towels. When the wind is blowing as hard as this was, though, there's nothing we can do to keep them closed. After stumbling several times over the empty bucket we use for flushing--and making a horrendous noise--I gave up and went back to bed. Nothing, I realised, was going to keep Timothy from waking up in this storm except the grace of God.

 

David woke as I got back into bed, and I told him I was too scared to go into the living room. The wind had picked up and if possible, was even stronger as time went on. And the rain had begun in full force. I knew I hadn't closed the louvered windows in our living room, and that the wind was blowing straight in--as usual--from the northeast. I dreaded what I might find.

 

But then the lightning started--mostly just the rumbly kind among the clouds rather than the sharp ground-to-cloud kind--and I knew I had to unplug the computer and anything else we valued. I groaned, flung back the covers, and ventured into the living room.

 

What a sight!

 

The wind was buffeting the curtains, and one rod had already fallen completely off its supports, leaving one of the supports dangling with perhaps half an inch of screw still in the wall. (Remember that our wall is extremely crumbly, so it's hard to make anything stay in it.) I hurried over to the outlet where our electronics are plugged into a voltage stabilizer and surge protector, and I reached out my hand. The coffee table blocking the electrical stuff from Timothy's play area was wet. I cringed, prayed I wouldn't get electrocuted, and yanked the surge protector plug from the voltage stabilizer. The cord was only slightly wet, and I hadn't been shocked. Phew.

 

My next task was shutting the living room windows. Some of them are really rusty and don't shut easily, so that was a huge task in itself. I finally got most of the louvers shut, breaking one pane and cutting my hand on another. By the time I'd finished closing all the panes, the carpet was thoroughly soaked near the windows. As I walked back to bed, I realised the carpet was wet in the whole room, and that meant everything else was wet--furniture, chairs, Timothy's leather shoes (oops!), toys, even a few of our books. Everything in the whole living room was likely to be wet.

 

I just couldn't take it. I refused to think about it and climbed back into my cozy bed to listen to the wind and pounding rain. The storm lasted for another three hours. Timothy woke up scared at 4:15, so I brought him into bed with us, and he went right back to sleep and slept the rest of the night.

 

When we got up in the morning, it was still overcast, and I assessed our living room. The carpet was drenched, The curtains--both hanging and fallen--were soaked. The curtain rod would go back up, but I'm guessing it won't last more than a day or two. The cover of the book that I'm reading was wet but not soaked through. Everything else was merely damp. So all in all, we didn't do too badly. But it was quite a storm--the strongest storm of the season!

Transparency

Sometimes I think that I'm brutally honest in writing my posts, but maybe sometimes I need to step out just a bit more. I read a friend's blog recently that challenged me (indirectly) to occasionally be truly transparent in my blog. What she shared in her vulnerability so touched me that I felt I wanted to do something similar. Maybe there is someone--even one person would make this post worthwhile--out there who can identify with my struggles and feel encouraged that she is not alone.

 

*deep breath*

 

I'm mildly afraid of a lot of things that most people fear. You know what I mean: snakes, tight spaces, armed robbery, rape, an accident occurring to my baby, my husband's death, hitting a pedestrian while driving, that sort of thing. And I have some very strange fears, too, like the fear of my teeth falling out, losing my sight, never having running water again, being pulled underwater by a rip tide, telephones, athletic balls coming toward me, scorpions climbing into my bed. Yeah, okay, so I'm a little eccentric.

 

But my biggest fear of all is of being alone. Oddly enough, this manifests itself in sometimes polar ways. For instance, I was at a concert once at Wheaton--not in attendance but looking for someone--and had a panic attack...in the middle of the crowd. I was surrounded by people, lots and lots of people, and I didn't know any of them. I was there all by myself, a theoretically stable adult, and I panicked. My heart raced, I couldn't breathe, and I could feel my palms sweat while my throat went dry. On the other end of the spectrum, when I house-sit, I get anxious, especially after the first day or two. I turn on the TV and just leave it on so that I don't feel totally alone. I play music. I keep the lights on in several rooms. And--if possible--I sit down at the computer and chat with someone. I'm on edge the whole time.

 

Now that I'm married and have a baby, this fear is somewhat less than it used to be. But some nights, especially when David is on call, I climb into bed and wish that I could just cling to Timothy rather than have him sleep in his own bedroom. I crave something tangible to remind me that I'm not alone.

 

I'm no psychotherapist. I can't analyze this fear and explain its inception by relating it to a childhood trauma. I've been alone a lot in my life, so maybe this is just my reaction to it all. I have no idea. But the fact remains that I am terrified of being alone, and this permeates my entire being, especially my social life. I don't want to go to parties or large gatherings because I know I'm more likely than ever to feel alone, even though I'm surrounded by people. I avoid crowds. I use Timothy as a security blanket. Yes, my ten-month-old is one of my best companions. It's pathetic, perhaps, but it's reality. Crippling? Very possibly. I know I ought to remind myself that Jesus is my best friend and that I'm never ever alone, so I'm probably extremely unspiritual for being afraid, but there it is. Do with it what you will.

Saturday stroll

Today is the beginning of a five-day weekend here, thanks to the end of Ramadan falling right before Nigerian Independence Day (October 1). David was on call last night, but today was our first day of schedule-free relaxation. Yay!

 

So I was thrilled when Timothy got up at about 6:45 and wouldn't go back to sleep. David was at the hospital doing rounds already, so there was hardly any point in not getting up with the son.

 

It was an uneventful day, as days go. Mom made tabbouleh for lunch, and I've finally acquired a taste for it. Delicious! Now I just have to encourage Timothy to enjoy it as much...

 

But when Timothy woke up from his all-too-short nap, I put him in the stroller, and the three of us Neges took a walk. It had just rained a little bit--enough to cool off the air but not so much that the road was extremely muddy. We often walk to the hospital and back--which is only a third of a mile or so--but today I suggested we walk to the nearby football stadium, which is probably 1-1/2 to 2 km with all the windy turns.

 

I'd never tried pushing the stroller on the street before. There aren't any sidewalks, and usually, it makes me nervous walking along the shoulder by myself. Walking with a stroller, as you can imagine, is worse, between heavy traffic, motorbikes not paying any attention to traffic courtesy (laws? what are those?), and huge potholes. But most of the way to the stadium is on back roads that are pretty quiet. So I figured it was worth a try.

 

And what a beautiful day for it! When David and I were engaged, we used to take that walk a lot after he finished work in the afternoons. It was this time of year, too. Here are some of our observations from today's walk:

• The huge pothole in the main road that wasn't there a month ago. It's two or three feet in diameter and looks at least 9 inches deep!
• A pile of sand on the shoulder at one of the narrowest parts of the main road, so pedestrian traffic is one-way single-file and only when the car-and-motorcycle traffic ebbs.
• Jerry cans of kerosene sold along the shoulder.
• At least five churches, including Seraphim and Cherubim (white garment), Seventh Day Adventist, Baptist, and something without a sign but definitely a church.
• Santa Bakery. Seeing the sign and smelling the lovely aroma from within launched me on a long explanation of "Santa," which took me all the way from Catholic saints to American Christmas celebrations!
• A large tractor with "Jones" written on it. David remarks on this every time because my aunt and uncle--some of his favourite people--are the Joneses.
• A lame chicken hopping around on one foot.
• David's friend Flora, a nurse in the hospital, lives near the stadium, so we dropped in to say hi. David saved me from decapitation when I failed to notice a clothesline strung across the yard. Husbands are definitely invaluable, especially for those of us who are visually impaired!
• A police truck full of uniformed men.
• Lots and lots of motorcycles.

That's all. Not too exciting, but it was pretty different from walks I've taken in the States. Actually, it reminded me of the two months I spent in Thailand seven years ago. But I can't think why...

Send me packages!!

I'm only kidding! We're not desperate for anything, but some things are always nice to get: sauce mixes, pepperoni, candy, Crystal Light (or whatever is generic) drink mixes, crackers, Oreos, sugarless gum, Cheerios, cotton socks for David...haha.

 

Anyway, someone asked for our address, so I'm gonna make it all public for ya. Actually you can use one of two addresses for us:

 

ECWA Evangel Hospital

PMB 2238

Jos, Plateau State

Nigeria

 

or

 

ECWA/SIM

PMB 2009

Jos, Plateau State

Nigeria

 

Good luck, and happy hunting!!

The mail must go through

I remember when we first moved here, people would try to send us package, and--more often than not--we didn't benefit too much from their generosity. Either the package would sit in the post office and get consumed by rats, or it wouldn't arrive in the first place. Very occasionally, we actually received a complete package...and proceeded to pay an arm and a leg in duty for our chocolate chips and cake mixes. Eventually, people just gave up, I think. I don't blame them at all, but it sure became depressing when our neighbours were pulling out Now & Laters and M&Ms, and we were stuck with the local Buttermints.

But things have changed--or so I hear. I just talked to a missionary friend here who says he and his wife have received 24 out of 25 packages mailed to them in the past 14 months. My first (silent) response was, "Holy cow! They've gotten 24 packages in just over a year?!?!" I admit I was pretty shocked. We've gotten exactly four packages in our almost-two years of marriage, and three of those came through SIM in Charlotte. (The fourth came DHL from a very special friend!)

So my next (spoken) response was, "Wow! That's amazing! You only lost one!"

And it made me realise that maybe things have changed for the better here, as far as mail goes. But since everyone has given up on mailing us care packages, we would never know! If it really is better, maybe it's time to make another attempt. But what shall I do? Email all my friends and family and say, "Hi! Please send us a care package!"??? Hardly. That just isn't done. So I'll have to be creative and manipulative--crafty. [insert Cruella DeVil laughter here]

Doctor Zhivago: Why I hated it

Warning: This post includes spoilers!!

David and I watched Doctor Zhivago this week, and although he seemed to find it a decent film, I was disgusted.

Let me first mention its good points, as I see them:

+ Great music. I've never heard much balalaika before, and it's quite pretty.

+ Wonderful cinematography. It's not quite like Seven Years in Tibet or The Return of the King, but it's pretty good for its era.

+ Historical background. Now, I'm no historian, and I know very little about the Bolshevik Revolution, so I'm not saying this movie is accurate. But I'm saying the story is well-situated in a historical setting that gives you a good impression of what life may have been like for a wealthy family during the revolution.

+ Good acting. I will admit that the actors and actresses were quite good: realistic, dramatic, emotional, etc.

So actually, on the whole, aside from the plot, the movie was pretty good.

BUT how can you say, "aside from the plot"? In my opinion, the plot is the most important part of the movie. If the plot stinks, the movie stinks. And I was disgusted by the plot. Not only is it extremely depressing--which I suppose makes sense for the time period in which it's set--but it also romanticizes sexual immorality.

What do I mean?

Okay, let's look at Tonya. She's wealthy, gorgeous, a faithful wife, and gives sacrificially to make her husband comfortable and happy. When the war comes, she sells her things to buy meat for his first meal home. She burns precious fuel to keep him warm because she's too selfless to tell him there's not enough fuel to keep the fire going while he's at work. She doesn't complain about losing her house, her things, her lifestyle, her social connections. Even if she isn't happy, she puts on a happy face for her husband. She breaks her back making him a home in a tiny cottage, and she slaves over a garden for their food. She is doting--the ideal wife.

And what does Zhivago do? Runs off to his lady-friend Lara in the next town. His wife is putting in 200% of her time and energy to make him happy, and he makes regular trips to the nearby town to sleep with another woman.

Yeah, makes perfect sense to me.

And then when Tonya and her father and the children get shipped off to Paris while he's effectively a prisoner of war, does he go after them when he's recovered and free? He never even mentions the possibility. Lara says, "He'll never leave Russia." Hello?! Why not?? Instead of trying to find his family, he just shrugs and moves in permanently with the blond chick, Lara. And does the movie seem to point out this isn't really a good idea? No, it glamorizes it. Great.

But does Lara even stay with Zhivago? No, she has to run for her life with her daughter--and unborn child, who's Zhivago's--off to the Far East. But is she with her husband? No, she's running away--albeit reluctantly--with Kamarov, the man with whom she had a secret love affair while she was engaged to someone else!! Yeah, okay. Right.

So we never find out what happens to Zhivago's family. He never sees them again, presumably never hears from them again. I guess they're not important. Lara we see once again, but Zhivago never sees her again after she goes off with Kamarov--except right as Zhivago is dying of a heart attack. (But she doesn't see him, of course.) And then Lara goes off and disappears, presumably dies.

So this love-pentagon-disaster thing never gets resolved. Everyone just dies, and that's that. But Lara and Zhivago's daughter, whom Kamarov had "lost," is the one character with any hope. But what good is the story to her? To find out that the man she called father was not only not her father but also not even married to her mother, that her mother slept around, that her father slept around, etc? Was it a comfort to her to know that her father loved her mother, even though both were married to other people?

Good grief. Who would want to inherit such a family debacle? No wonder she didn't want to own up to being their daughter.

Well, enough ranting. You can watch it and judge for yourself. But I'm staying away from it, thanks. This movie doesn't top my "must-see-again" list.

Seeing Sara

I first met Sara on my honeymoon. She was standing outside the hospital on the compound of which David and I were staying in a guest house. David had heard of her, and she told us she'd been at our wedding. Surprise! (You have to understand that here, everyone and his second-cousin's niece's best friend shows up at your wedding. Invitations are just a formality.) She told us that she was getting married in January to a Nigerian, and that she'd gone to our wedding to have some idea what it could be like.

Well, how was I to know then that our paths would continue to cross until we became friends?

Tonight I got to see Sara and her husband Sunny, who moved to Abuja in February. Considering Abuja is only 3-1/2 hours away, we sure haven't seen much of each other in the months since they moved. Both Sara and Sunny work for IHV and travel a lot. Plus we don't have a car so can't exactly pop down to the capital for a quick visit.

Anyway, we hadn't seen them since the day before we left for the States, May 31, and it was so absolutely wonderful to visit tonight! Since we'd last seen them, we'd been to the States, and so had Sara (alone, alas!), so there was a lot to talk about. Plus we're both working on immigration stuff at a similar pace, so we can talk about that together and vent our frustrations.

Oh, it was just such a good visit. I do so miss seeing friends, and this week for some reason I've really missed my sister especially. Sara isn't my sister, of course, but she's a friend, and it was just refreshing to share a few hours with her. Thank God for revitalization!!

Grand-mama visits

David's mother visited yesterday. She's been in town for about 10 days, staying with David's sister Hannatu, and we'd gone to see her there the evening she arrived. But this was the first time she'd ever come to our house, and only the second time she'd seen Timothy (10 days ago being the first).

I'd been dreading it for over a month. I have nothing against David's mom--don't get me wrong. She seems like a really nice lady. But we don't have anything in common. She's a farmer, a villager who has had no formal education (not even primary school), and a widow. And the most notable thing we do not share is a common language. She speaks Tiv and a little bit of Hausa, and I speak English and a little bit of Hausa.

...Which wouldn't have been too bad if she'd come with Hannatu, or if David had been around the whole time. But he was on call yesterday, so he was at the hospital for at least half of the over four hours she was here. Oh my gosh. It was awful.

Okay, so it wasn't that bad when Timothy was awake and cheerful. He's really the main reason she came to visit us anyway. And with babies, you don't need to share a language. You can just play. So that was fine. Awkward, sure, but we survived.

David came home, and we had peanut-butter sandwiches for lunch. I'd thought of making something nicer, even rice, but David insisted that his mother needed to have peanut-butter and bread. I think he was trying to make me feel like I didn't need to go out of my way to impress her, but it only made me more uncomfortable, knowing I wasn't working hard to give her something special, or even something with which she was familiar.

After lunch, Timothy went down for his afternoon nap, and David was called back to the hospital. Great. So there I was, alone in the living room with David's mom. I had no idea what to do. (When I'd asked David as he was leaving what I was going to do, he'd said, "Nothing." Really helpful.) So what did I do? Played Spider Solitaire for 45 minutes until Timothy woke up.

I'm telling you: it was one of the worst afternoons of my life. And then in the evening, after she'd gone back to Hannatu's house, I got berated for not trying harder to get to know her. How am I supposed to get to know her? Sign language? Even sign language isn't universal!!

So the next time my mother-in-law comes to visit, and David finds out he's on call, I'm just not going to be home. Leave me out of it!!

Work begins

So I started my new job on Wednesday! I don't have a desktop yet, but I'm so used to using a laptop that it doesn't really make a difference. They say I'll get a desktop week after next. Yay! Here's a photo of my office after I rearranged the furniture.

(Beforehand, the cords were really easy for Timothy to follow and chew. It's a nice little place, and I like it. In the lower right is Timothy's makeshift bed, made of a stack of four or five blankets overlaid with a soft blanket as a "sheet." Hey, don't knock it; it works! As you can see by the sleeping babe thereon:

 

I'm glad to be in this new work, and I'm eager to start getting things done!

The rains: what I won't miss

I thought maybe if I made a list now of the things I don't like about the rainy season, then when the harmattan comes and I'm desolate, I can look back and think about these things and be thankful! So here is a list of the things I won't miss about the rainy season:

• mud...enough said;
• not being able to wear slippers (flip-flops) because they kick mud up the back of my legs;
• carrying Timothy and the diaper bag and an umbrella;
• Timothy's dropping his pacifier or Jack-the-dog in the mud;
• flying termites;
• not being able to hear the music playing above the drumbeat of driving rain on the roof;
• mold...also enough said;
• slipping on the moss on our front steps;
• having to keep the living room windows shut most of the time so the rain doesn't blow in;
• wearing three different sets of clothes in one day as the temperature changes;
• smelling the fragrant chickens at Chickenville even more vividly after the rain;
• unplugging the computer (to keep it safe from lightning strikes) and forgetting to plug it back in;
• wet socks;
• stink ants;
• getting wet in unexpected storms;
• leaky roofs (though, we thank God, not our own);
• mildewed clothes when the dryer can't run because the power is out;
• David's allergies;
• mud...oh wait, did I mention that already? UGH.

Well, to be honest, the things I will miss hugely outweigh the things I won't. But life goes on, and at least now I'll have some things to be thankful for when dust covers every surface of the house and is in our hair and mouths and eyes and noses... *sigh*

A few answers

Okay, lots of people have asked me what my new job actually is, so I guess I'd better sum up.

I'll be working at Hillcrest School, my alma mater, but I won't be teaching--which is actually a real blessing, since I've discovered that although teaching can be fun, I don't have the talent it takes!

My position is Recruitment and Development Director, which is a huge title but is much simpler than it sounds! I'll have three main tasks, as I understand it:

1. To recruit--teachers from outside Nigeria and students from inside (mostly, anyway);
2. To develop a network of financial support; and
3. To keep up with alumni and encourage good relations between the school and her graduates.

It sounds difficult but also exciting. I worked all my years at Wheaton College in the Development Office, so I'm hoping I picked up a few important lessons, whether or not I realise it now. The job is only part-time, and we're hoping it will work to have Timothy come with me, but everything is fluid right now, since this is a new position. There's a lot of room for error and growth. I'm sure I have a lot to learn!

Another new job

Does it say something about my personality that the longest I've been in a job since graduating four years ago is 18 months?

Yep, I'm starting a new job next month. I'm both excited and anxious about it for lots of different reasons. It will be a welcome change of pace from writing, editing, and--above all--formatting Word and Publisher documents. (I didn't get a $100,000 education so I could create text boxes!) And it will definitely be stretching in some pretty important ways. But obviously that'll be hard, too. I'll have my very own office--for the first time ever. (I had a cubicle at my first job in Oak Brook, IL, but it's not the same.) And it's a brand-new job, so there'll be a lot of learning for both me and my supervisors. It's really a breath of fresh air. I know my work has really benefited Joint Project for Sunday School Materials, and I 100% agree with the work and its significance. But I'd fallen into a rut there that I don't think I could have gotten out of without quitting. And after coming back from the States, everything in my life has just seemed so colourless. Maybe this job will add a bit of spice and anticipation.

Anyway, I'm sure I'll write more about it once the work starts. It'll certainly be a new experience. So far I haven't found a nanny for Timothy, so I'll take him to the office with me and see how that goes. If I get desperate, Mom can watch him for small spells. I'm not worried.

Pray for me!!

No Internet

I don't realise how much I use the Internet until it's not available as much. What was the score for the quarterfinals match for the Olympics men's football between Nigeria and Cote d'Ivoire? When is the next match? Where does the phrase "book it" (as in to hurry) come from? I need a clipart image of a hand for the lesson I'm working on. Et cetera.

And I'm adjusting. But I miss having the Net at my fingertips. So much to blog about and never enough time online to do it!! But I'll be back when our connection returns (It's already been a week)--I promise.

A PLEA - Dust off your VCR!

Well, the 2008 Olympics have begun in Beijing, and we're going to miss almost all of it. Is there anyone out there who'd be willing to tape us some gymnastics, diving, etc., and send them along so we can see the events after the fact? We'd be much obliged!

Misanthropy

It's weeks like this past one that make me wonder if I'm a misanthrope...or just going through a depressed period? Most of my blogging friends will go weeks or months without blogging when they're depressed. Not me! What is a blog for except to express emotions and ideas? Why would I only show my happy-go-lucky side and not my painful struggles? Strap on your seatbelts 'cause here we go!

Last year I attended two Bible studies for ladies--one for foreign women married to Nigerians, and one for missionary women. But at the end of the year I decided I'd probably drop out of both. Sure, I guess you could say I need the "socialization," but to me, two hours a week (or a month) does nothing for my social life. If anything, it makes me realise more than ever what I don't have: friends.

Okay, yeah, so I have people come to me and say, "hi, how are you?" But no one really wants to know anything more than "fine, thanks." Feels pretty lousy. Even my friends from college who I hoped would stay connected have slowly drifted away. I mean, it makes sense. Our lives are so totally different now. We've gone down very separate paths. How can I expect people to really care and keep in touch when we're just so...different now?

And have I been very good at reaching out to try to make friends? Do I extend love as much as I want it extended to me?

Of course not! I'm human. Duh. At the same time, I have made efforts that seem wasted. I have invited people over (and been stood up). I have written notes and emails. I have even sent texts. (You will never get me to make phone calls.) So am I just trying to connect with the wrong people? or what?

In any case, the coming days will probably see me sitting at home more than ever, staring off into space or trying to find abundant joy in my little boy. I don't think I'm a misanthrope, but in my loneliness I may become a recluse. Is that the same thing?

I miss my sister.

*cough* Yet another exciting day at work

I was working merrily away yesterday--okay, so not quite merrily because, honestly, who works merrily at his day job?--in my board room-slash-office when Adena came bursting in. I'd had the door shut because I didn't want Timothy finding out the hard way that we were in an upstairs office, and Adena whipped it open and shut again.

"I'm going to keep this door shut very tightly, Saralynn," she told me. "There are noxious smells in the hallway." And she bustled out again, pulling the door shut tightly behind her.

"Oh," I said to the closed door. "Okay." And then I smelled a little bit of something yucky. I couldn't identify the smell, but I agreed with Adena that it just smelled "noxious." But I shrugged it off, opened the windows, and went back to work.

Less than five minutes later, Pastor Nore came in, closing the door carefully behind him, and announced that all the staff were going home because the place smelled so bad. I laughed and teased him that he was trying to get out of work. I thought he was just joking. I could hardly smell anything in my office at the end of the hall, with the door shut and the windows open. Pastor Nore said that they'd called Jonathan (our Big Boss) and that Jonathan was on his way. This puzzled me, but oh well. So Pastor Nore left the room and shut the door behind him, and I picked up Timothy, who was fussing.

I'd just put my work aside to watch a music video on the computer to calm my fussy baby when I heard Adena calling my name from outside and downstairs.

"Saralynn! Put a hankie over Timothy's nose and come down right now! Can you hear me?"

"Yes! We're coming!" I yelled back, alarmed. Then Jonathan was at the door, taking Timothy from my arms. I peered out into the hallway, which was filled with billowing blue smoke. The nasty smell was almost overpowering as I followed Jonathan down the steep stairway and outside into the sunshine and fresh air.

Timothy and I didn't go back in. Even after Jonathan OKed our re-entry after a half hour (just to gather our things so we could go home), my baby and I were told to wait downstairs. ("It could get in your milk, Saralynn," Adena told me. Who am I to argue?)

As it turns out, the workers in the adjoining factory--which is actually still under construction--had been using an old forklift to do some work. And it was this forklift that was putting out such terrible exhaust, which came through the open window adjoining our buildings and caused us to evacuate. Jonathan promised us they wouldn't use that forklift anymore, and he apologized profusely that we'd had to flee.

What can I say? Life here is never boring.