As we get ready to leave (9 days!), I was trying to think of answers to the most common questions we will receive.  I was, in one sense, trying to justify my existence as a missionary in Kinshasa.

I stumped myself.  I couldn’t justify it.  My daily life, at least as I was trying to ponder things I did and goals I have, is ordinary.  I cook, do laundry, home school, and try to keep and manage a household.  And the things I could list that make my daily life different from my American counter parts, such as having house help or prying larvae out of my children’s faces, aren’t actually specific to mission or ministry.

So, I concluded that I clearly am doing something wrong.  I am following the call to be a wife and mother and live in a place I wouldn’t choose to call home on my own, and I am completely content and joyful in that.  But I have no awesome stories of leading people to Christ.  I don’t lead a Bible study.  Let me be honest with you: I do not have any Congolese friends outside of MAF or missionary connections.  

As I realized that my missionary role here was clearly nothing to write home about, I got a little down.  Matthew does amazing work.  I listen to my friends who talk about their relationships with the people they’re ministering to or how how their ministry is going.  Why wasn’t I involved in something more? 

I realized a lack of time was an issue.  Where was my excess time going?

Then I noticed that my time outside of my home and family was spent on people.  We were under the weather last weekend and early last week and I realized that not having guests suddenly freed me to be able to focus on getting healthy.  Which we did.

And just in time: Thursday I took a new missionary wife grocery shopping to show her the ropes.  An hour after getting home, our family was in the pool in the compound where another MAF family lives.

Friday night we hosted that new missionary and her family, including four kids for dinner.

Saturday morning we had brunch at our house with a family (three small kids) that had just arrived back in town after a summer in North America.

And an hour later were spending time with another family (three kids) at their house for the afternoon.

And each Sunday we host an afternoon fellowship time with a potluck, hymns, and a Psalm.  Today we had nine adults and seven small kids.  Plus a guest arrived to stay in our guest room until Wednesday: an MAF pilot from our program in the east.

Tomorrow we host a family of four for dinner.

I’m not bragging, or trying to one up anyone at how awesome we are.  I think that I’ve decided for right now, God is using me and my available resources right where He needs.  

I have had the privilege of helping new missionaries ease their way into Congo life.  I have been at the receiving end of encouragement and good medical advice and treatment (one of the families is a couple of doctors, another where one is a nurse).  I am happy to host and have been blessed with an amazing space to do so.

In the end, I concluded that my ministry is unique in that I can offer Western hospitality to people who might need it.  Maybe that’s not “good enough” for Missionary of the Year and maybe I’m “supposed” to do something directly with Congolese people, but right now, I work and rest where I see God has placed me.  And I’m good with that. 

Life savers. Probably not a great cocktail…

I don’t often feel like I live in a place that doesn’t have everything I could possibly need.  Because, in this city, one could find almost everything, for a price.  But when it comes to healthcare, sometimes it’s hit or miss with local doctors.  Sometimes, it’s fine.  Tropical medicine is their sweet spot and often they are able to treat cuts and breaks.  But diagnosis and problem solving are not well taught in medical school, so it can be difficult to find quality healthcare, leaving us expats with the weight of self-diagnosis.  Thankfully, we are supported by Western doctors, who live here, who know that their skills are invaluable.  And they’re happy to help, as friends.  And we are SO GRATEFUL.

So, this story has a happy ending, okay?  Because of our doctor friends.  All of whom we woke in the middle of the night.  And, surprisingly, they’re still friends!

Saturday, Matthew’s foot was hurting and all signs pointed to infection.  He began taking the antibiotic we had on hand, Cipro, at the advice of one of our doctor friends.  Cipro is a pretty good kill-all and Matthew had taken it before, without side effects.  Late that night, as we were getting ready for bed, he complained of feeling itchy.  Being the good wife I am, I brushed it off and blamed it on an abundance of bug bites obtained earlier in the day from being outside in a buggy area.

At 1:30am, I woke to Piper’s hungry cries and as I fought the groggy state and sat up, Matthew, in a voice that indicated he had not been asleep, told me to wait.  He was having trouble breathing and the internet told him that this combined with the itchy feeling was an allergic reaction.

Again, in my awesome wife-ness, I said uh-huh and proceeded to get up to feed the baby.  Matthew stopped me again, but I realized he was on the phone with our doctor friend, who lives in another village.  At 1:30 in the morning!?  With that, I was awake and realized how serious he was.  No man asks a doctor anything, especially in the middle of the night, unless it is serious, am I right?

Our awesome friend said that it, indeed, sounded like a classic anaphylactic reaction to the Cipro, but since Matthew wasn’t wheezing or coughing, it would probably slowly digress, just don’t take anymore.  We were out of benadryl, but found a different class of antihistamine in our random supply of Dramamine.  It would help a bit, at least.

Cool, so I got up to feed the baby and Matthew crawled back into bed.  About five minutes later, I heard Matthew’s hushed voice, muffled coughing, and the classic sound of jeans zipping.  More muffled coughing.  I quickly put Piper back to bed (she stayed asleep!) and ran into our bedroom, where Matthew was fully dressed and explained the plan: he was going to have Nick (our boss who lives down the street) take him to the doctor.  He had begun coughing and wheezing.  He was afraid of going into anaphylactic shock and having nothing to help – no Epipen, since we have never had any allergies.

On his way out of the door, he asked me to call our in-town doctor friends to see if they possibly had an Epipen.  I ran inside and called our friends, who had only come back into town after a summer “home” earlier in the week – we hadn’t even really had a chance to say hello yet – and she immediately answered “Lisa.  What’s wrong?”  Because she knows that we would only call at 2am if there was a medical problem.  I explained what had happened and she said she had an Epipen and would wait for them to come as quickly as possible.

I couldn’t go back to sleep, of course, and the rest of the story is pretty straight forward.  By the time Matthew arrived at our friends’ house (the couple are both doctors) his symptoms hadn’t worsened and likely wouldn’t because of how long it had been since his last dose.  She said she has had the same reaction to Cipro.  But they found some Benadryl and gave him an Epipen to take home, just in case.  Thankfully, it remains unused.

But, it certainly gave me pause to be thankful for what we have: doctor friends who are able and willing to help us, friends willing to drive in the middle of the night, children who sleep through it all (ironically, the following night was up and down all night long with various children), and medicines if and when we need them.  Because the what-ifs and various outcomes from that night are too scary to ponder, when the preventions and solutions are so simple.  Serving here is not without ups and downs, and moments of excitement.

Thanks for your continued prayers.  I have a feeling some people were praying at 2am, Congo time, early Sunday morning…

On August 20, 2014, after pulling an all-nighter packing our Congo shipment AND our bags for France, we got on an airplane and haven’t been back since.  Today we celebrate two years outside of our passport country.  While half of it was lived in France, where we had many of the same conveniences as in the US, it still wasn’t a familiar place.  The language, money, and culture were all different and we needed to constantly navigate those differences.  Then moving to Congo where it seems almost every piece of “normal” life is different in some way, and, well, we are rather tired.  If you haven’t lived outside of your native country, please know…it is often equal parts enjoyable and exhausting, sometimes in the same moment.  But, the exhaustion does begin to take its toll – rest is a good thing!

That being said, we are very much looking forward to beginning our first break next month!  A few months back in our passport country to rest, see family, and show our kiddos a bit of the culture that they have forgotten (or perhaps have never seen before).  Three of our four kids have spent more time outside of the US than in it, and this blows our minds and makes us want to be sure to give them the opportunity to experience as much as possible while we are stateside.  I mean, not to overwhelm them, as we are going to stick to a rest mode for this trip, in the middle of what we do best: a road trip!  (While we would love to stop everywhere and see everyone, we are sticking to family-based locations on this short trip.)

Two years is just enough time to feel the pull of something familiar and comfortable and miss so many things the most.  MAF changed their furlough policy last year to allow more families rest time and a separate long furlough for visiting supporting churches and families (more like a working time, stateside).  So, we will be back for a report in two more years, but this trip is mostly to re-up our energy and, probably, our cholesterol (because American food is terribly delicious).  So, bring on the amenities central to American life, going places where people speak English, all in the middle of a chaotic election season, and I’m pretty sure when our time stateside is up, we’ll be ready to head home.

24 days until takeoff…

Yesterday was my birthday.  It was the third birthday I’ve celebrated here in Congo (not consecutively) and it was, for better or worse, a classic kick in the pants from this city.

First of all, we have had a predictable power situation for more than three months.  I knew when it would be out and on and it has happily followed that routine.  It’s been awesome.  But, Tuesday night, something broke and the power went out across the whole quarter.  It came on sometime in the middle of the night, but in the morning it was turned off again, presumably to fix the problem.  That’s fine.  It came back on around 3:30pm.  But, as per the “schedule” it went off around 4:30, for our routine evening outage.  (It alternates daytime and evenings, power sharing.)  However, after being out for most of the previous 24 hours, our batteries called it quits and we had to turn on the generator.  This normally isn’t a big deal, plus it probably needed run anyway since it has been so long since we’ve used it, but we were about to head out to dinner and leave our sleeping kids to our friend, so his duties also included a quick electrical box tour, as one does here in Kinshasa.

The day of my birthday was fairly normal, the kids and I hung out, watched the Olympics, I ran to the grocery store and left Levi at home (we had two trusted workers here), during that time he made a sweet banner for my birthday, and many cards.  I broke up fights, changed diapers, and even got a little catnap.

After the kids were tucked in bed, it was time for our dinner date.  We hit the road.  There was traffic leaving our neighborhood and we got stuck for ten minutes just getting out.  Okay, fine, that’s actually fairly normal.  We saw the normal route, turning right, was blocked, so we turned left.  That was fine until we rounded the corner, then it, too, was jammed.  Ha ha, oh Kinshasa traffic, we pushed through, another ten or twenty minutes and got onto a back road after seeing the normal route was blocked.  A few hundred feet down the road and that, too, was blocked.  Actually, the entire route, no matter which route we tried, was blocked.  Then, the gas gauge on the car we were using (not ours, because it is having some work done on it) suddenly went from half full to empty.  Ummm, there aren’t gas stations on every corner and we were in a jam, literally.  Cars on all sides, people out everywhere, and there we were.  We made some calls and literally calculated (with our phones, ya’ll) how much gas was probably in the tank, worst-case scenario.  We would be fine, especially if we turned the car off on the downhill and coasted a bit.  Finally, still in a jam, we decided not to go downtown, but to a restaurant closer to where we were that had been recommended.  We were still about half a mile, but that half mile took roughly 45 more minutes.

We finally broke through the final jammed intersection and parked at 10pm, two and a half hours after we left the house.

We were both so tired, after long days and a relatively stressful traffic jam, that dinner was good, we were hungry, but it was almost too late to truly enjoy it.  Thankfully, the restaurant was otherwise empty and the service was quick.  A little over an hour after we arrived, we left full and hoping the traffic had cleared.

It had.  And you know how long it took us to get home?  Twelve minutes.

And that sums up life in Kinshasa.  It’s either 12 minutes or 2.5 hours.  You never know and there is no why.

So, thank you, Kinshasa, for going all out on my birthday.  I certainly feel celebrated….in your own special way.  Hee hee…

I jerked awake at the loud noise.  I heard nothing but the steady hum of the air conditioner and the [guest] dog snoring at the foot of our bed.  What woke me?  It was loud, like a bomb being dropped on the roof, but no follow up noise?  Ah, yes, that’s what it was. Except the “bomb” is a tiny mango.

The mangoes are growing and will soon be ripe.  Mango season, if you ask me, is actually super annoying.  Mango trees are huge and grow waaaaaay too many mangoes.  The varieties here tend to be either quite stringy or so mushy that they are called “juice mangoes,” because instead of eating them, you bite the end off and squeeze the juicy flesh out, like nature’s juice box.  So we’re not even able to get terribly excited about eating them.  They attract the dreaded mango fly as they lie in great quantities, rotting on the ground.

And then there’s the fact that they just drop suddenly from as much as thirty feet in the air.  And at night, on your metal roof, it’s a startling way to wake up.

So, next time you enjoy a mango-flavored anything in the middle of your day, think of those who live in the land of mango bombs…

Just out our front door…

You know that moment in movies about astronauts where they lose radio contact with Earth for a few moments as they pass behind the moon.  Or in a tense final scene where a character is out of sight and then reappears in triumph.  Somehow, in a very much less dramatic fashion, that is how I feel about this weekend.

You see, we are alone this weekend. Our entire team, six other families total*, are ALL in the US or Canada this weekend, until the first person gets back Tuesday night.  I mean, it’s not that dramatic, really, because there are a few other missionaries and ex-pats.  And, of course, this is a city of around 15 million people.  So, we’re clearly very much not alone.  But, at the same time, it feels a little strange not to have any teammates around.  And I feel like by Tuesday night, when the first person gets back, it will indeed be like that moment in the film when the hero makes contact with Houston, or when they pop back from out of sight in triumph!

It will be a while before our team is complete again, since there are a few long furloughs taking place, but missionary life is like that.  And I’m glad we have a team we can cheer about, each time someone comes home.

*There are also two families in language school in France who are most definitely considered part of the team, but who haven’t arrived yet.  One arrives next month, the other in January.  Woo hoo!

Last night, and the night before, the streets were full of noise.  Here, where we live now, it is because of completed and passed exams.  College degrees are highly valued and difficult to obtain – they are expensive and results are hard to come by – so a completed degree is valued, and a passed exam is partied in the streets.  There are whistle blows until the early hours, along with whooping, hollering, and horn honking.  The graduates’ heads and faces are covered in flour, a stark contrast to their dark skin, for this achievement may well be the highlight of their lives.  Jobs, even with a degree, are few and far between.  And whether or not they pay a living wage remains to be seen.  We are having a sudden shift toward inflation here, and fear is bubbling just under the surface.  The exchange rate has been a steady 930 franc congolaise per US dollar for years.  It hadn’t changed between our terms here, and suddenly it is over 1000.  But, the past two nights, the noise in the streets has been joyful.

Last night, in the last place we lived, there was an exuberant fest as France footballers brought their country to victory in the semi-finals.  I really know nothing more than the next step is to beat Portugal in the finals and win the cup.  Yeah, I don’t know which cup, but I can imagine the noise.  So much rejoicing in the streets, all night long.

Then, there was the noise last night in our passport country.  The past three nights, the streets are filled with fear and confusion.  The good guys and the bad guys can no longer be defined, but some would say they are defined by race.  Are white cops bad?  Are black guys bad?  I wasn’t there, I can’t say.  But it is the unknown that strikes fear into everyone.  Every black guy has to wonder if he should fear that one white cop who lumps him with an imagined group of thugs.  Every white cop has to fear whether he will be shot for a cause by a hurting individual.  The noise in the streets in the US is there, it may not be heard out of every window, but it troubles the hearts of so many.  And what does it mean for the future?

Every place we’ve lived experienced something in the past two days to shout in the streets about.  The streets have been flooded with emotion and noise.  I only wish it were all for good reason.  I turn my eyes toward Heaven, where golden streets will be filled with the same level noise, but not over a football victory, or an exam passed that may or may not lead to a more sturdy future in an uncertain land, or the questionable death of people in the public spotlight because justice is lost on the system…but because we will be praising a loving God, who has rescued us from the depravity…God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God.  ‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”  He who was seated on the throne said, “I am making everything new!” (Revelation 21:3-5-ish)

I looked out my bedroom window and squinted at the pile of leaves ready for composting, freshly topped off with a plastic bag. Ugh. And a tea bag envelope. And a piece of plastic piping. Trash. I rolled my eyes and recommitted myself to having a talk with our worker.

Then I took a deep breath. I didn’t need to be frustrated, I needed to remember that this is a 40-year habit (age is estimated, because guessing the age of a Congolese person is nearly impossible for me). It wasn’t going to be broken overnight.

It was described to me this way: the Congolese have always thrown their “trash” on the ground because, until recent history, all they had was natural. Banana peels, mango skins, leaves, etc. It is still mostly this way in the small villages. Here, if I buy something that is bundled, it is done so with dried grass. Village ways haven’t been forgotten or abandoned, even in the city. But, then products from other parts of the world were brought in. Products encased in metal, glass, and, of course, plastic. These products are often helpful and necessary, but what didn’t get brought with them was the instruction of what to do with trash. So, for the most part, trash still gets deposited on the ground. Everywhere. It is used to fill potholes or dumped onto an empty lot. Or it is burned. And burning the trash is not a selective process. Glass, plastic, tires…burn it all! People who don’t live downtown (like us) must choose between burying, burning, or paying to have the trash taken away. We have it taken away, but I have no idea where it goes (minus this, which I had blogged about earlier).

When we arrived last year, we began to compost. We wanted good dirt for a garden, and since we live mostly on sand, we made our own dirt. I don’t think I need to explain compost to you, but let me tell you, it was not easy to teach to our workers. First of all, they didn’t believe Matthew when he described the process of keeping it wet, turning it, and it will break down into soil. Then, to continuously teach the difference between trash and compostable items has been difficult. We were just getting into a rhythm with our workers when we moved. And the new house had a guard here that we hired (he was working at this empty house without pay before), who is still learning the difference between trash and compost. It hasn’t helped that we have had construction workers here on and off since we moved in, who throw their trash in any pile they see (or just leave it on the ground). But, they haven’t been here this particular week, so I knew this new plastic bag came from our worker.

So, I explained to him that plastic, in any form, must go in the trash (I pointed to the can outside for “poubelle”) and leaves and banana peels, for example, can go in the compost.

The next day he worked, he took some trash that I had left on our kitchen counter and took it to the can outside that I had pointed out, totally bypassing our kitchen trash can. I think I managed to confuse, rather than teach.

Is it the language barrier? We have recently discovered that this worker’s French is much less than ours. But, culturally, he will agree and say he understands everything, even if he doesn’t. So, we really have no way of knowing for sure how well we’ve communicated. And because he is quite good at many things, we rarely have negative outcomes…sometimes just unexpected results.

Another factor is the rote education model that is practiced throughout Congo. Learning here is by the memorization of facts or processes, instead of the critical thinking process that is emphasized in the US and elsewhere. So often, when we try to teach a new concept, we aren’t successful at teaching within a model the Congolese are used to. So when I say to throw something in the trash, it is absolutely understandable that he took it to the trash I pointed out to him, instead of assuming that all trash cans are equal. Because he wasn’t sure and it isn’t cultural to ask for clarification. And because I am indeed saying that not all trash cans are equal – the difference between my kitchen trash can and the compost can are minimal.

I must remember that the process of teaching what is trash and what is biodegradable to someone who has never before considered the difference or why it might be helpful to know, is not a one-day lesson. And that is where I must be patient and understanding. And teach it again. Because how could I be impatient with someone when God is so patient with me? Once again, I must be the learner, more than the teacher. And we still might end up with plastic in our compost.