Countdown to Baby
As we look ahead to the next month, there is a lot to line up and get ready, considering another person will be joining our family!
10 days from today we plan to fly to Vanga, where baby will be born with Dr. Shannon Potter taking charge of that process. We are all very excited to meet this little one, having finally picked out names (but not saying), and are still accepting guesses for what gender this one might be.
We also have different plans in place in case baby decides to do their own thing, like having a birth kit here at the house and having some doctors in town who are on stand by and know us and why we might call them in the middle of the night.
But, we hope things go well and that baby is born just after 37.5 weeks. Levi was born during the 37th week, Amelia during the 38th, while Axel took his time, showing up on his due date. The fun part is that Shannon will be leaving the country the day after my due date, but none of us are too worried that this baby will delay that long.
I have reached the point of discomfort. Standing is tiring, as baby is rather huge and all out front. Sitting is no longer fun, since baby is now so low that the only comfortable position is what we call “criss-cross applesauce” and that isn’t always practical. Laying down is fine, but how often is that really an option, not to mention getting up and down is probably akin to running a marathon. I’ve never run a marathon, but I imagine it is similar in level of energy output and resulting exhaustion. Either way, I’m not complaining too much, but I am certainly ready to be done being pregnant!
At least with baby dropping, I can breathe better and eat as much as I’m hungry for, though bathroom trips are definitely more frequent. And this baby is very active, so we look forward to seeing how that plays into his/her personality.
We appreciate your prayers as we enter this home stretch. We have a few projects to get done around the house before we leave, but nothing too critical.
When It Poured [Tar]
The last two weeks have been crazy. Mostly in a good way. We were busy preparing for and holding our open house (we had about 40 people!), hosting people traveling through town, and welcoming our Vanga family to stay here during a week of business in Kinshasa (and had nine different people sleeping here at different points during that week, on top of the five of us). We also hosted a pirate-themed murder mystery party, went without water, had our car need further maintenance (still getting it up to speed, not finding new problems – yay for that), but not discovering it until we were driving downtown, and little things that come up in the middle of it all.
While I would definitely say it was stressful at times, it was so great to have our friends visit and the parties and dinner guests were so much fun! By the time our last guests were preparing to leave, I was glad that the kids decided to go hang out outside, so we could visit and get some computer work caught up.
So, as we chatted around the table in between typing and browsing, I heard the water pump keep coming on. I poked my head out the back door and saw my three sweet angels, playing happily together, painting a piece of cardboard, but using water from the outside faucet. I asked them to stop using the water, since we had been short this week, but that they were fine to continue “painting.”
I sat back down and was surprised when Levi knocked at the back door a few minutes later. I opened the door and looked down at what appeared to be my child. Except, this child was covered in black paint. His hands were completely black, as were his feet, his shins had spots all over them, his clothes were smeared, his arms speckled, and a huge smear from his nose straight up into his hair.
But upon closer inspection, it was not paint. It had an odor. A very strong odor. Motor oil, maybe? But from where? I freaked out and had him lead me to the source of this black substance…but we only got as far as his two siblings, who by now were less angelic and more sheepish. The cardboard was entirely coated, as was the grass around it. Hands, clothes, feet, everything was deep black.
I ran inside for my phone and called Matthew.
“Oh, hey, honey, yeah…what is the black stuff in a bucket behind our house? … Mmhmmm, tar, you say? … Okay, yeah, and how do you remove tar? … Oh, from anything… Skin? Clothes? Hair? … Oh them? … Mmmmm, yeah, they’re covered.”
Innocently, this plastic bucket had been sitting behind the house, tar from building our animal pen, to keep the wood posts from rotting in the ground where they had been placed. It had been warmed by the hot African sun and was as liquid as paint. And so fun to paint with, as my children discovered!
So, removing tar from the skin is normally done with gasoline. You know, when you get a smudge on your hands from a project, use a dab of gasoline. Somehow, the internet is lacking instructions for what to do when your small children practically bathe in the stuff. Strange.
Matthew said anything with an oil base should work. Then you just have to get the oil off.
I went back inside (after having the three tar-covered ones sit in the grass with only permission to breathe) and distractedly told our friends what was going on. Thankfully, he is a handy guy and also said gasoline. But he is also a pediatrician and said, maybe not gasoline on small children. But palm oil should do the trick.
Palm oil here is not the same as what you buy in the states. There, you buy processed oil byproduct. It’s just vegetable oil, usually mixed with soybean or sunflower, no big deal. Here, though, the palm oil is truly pressed oil out of the palm nuts. It is neon orangey-red, stains everything, has a delicious taste, and is supposedly very good for you.
I had a big jug I had bought when we first arrived, but had hardly used. Our workers, as we moved our kitchen things a few weeks ago, said I shouldn’t use it because it was too old, but I kept it anyway. And I dragged the huge bottle outside, along with the dish soap. It was time to wage war on the tar.
I helped each kid strip down to their underwear (or diaper) and tossed their clothes in a pile. I would worry about those later.
Next, I stood up the first victim and began the oil application. It was so thick from sitting that I turned the 5 liter jug on its side in the grass, knelt on it with a knee, and it oozed out like Vaseline. I scooped some off the spout with my fingers and applied liberally to their hand. It worked! It turned the neon orange to black and spread it around. Up their arm and up mine as well, but it was at least doing SOMETHING.
I applied as much as I could stand. The problem was, mostly, that I couldn’t stand. I could squat, but only for some time because this baby belly is rather large and the baby is in the way and blood was not getting to my toes. I could kneel, but it wasn’t much more comfortable. So, up and down I squatted my pregnant-self, applying oil to each kid. By now, I was blackish-orange up to my elbows, and it had transferred to my clothes as well.
And everyone knows how good oil is for your clothes, right?
Next it was time to try removing the mixture…I went over to the water spigot, got a ton of dish soap on my hands, selected the first child and went to town. Thankfully, the water was mostly cool, because I was sweating and not minding getting soaked. I did occasionally think…what if I run out of water, right now, with my arms covered in this?
It didn’t happen, but what was happening was a miracle: the soap removed the oil, which had clung to the tar in a cool scientific experiment that I would have appreciated much more had it not been under these circumstances.
But, being the homeschool mom, I did try to explain to them the science behind it as much as I could between bouts of gritting my teeth and trying not to laugh at the absurdity.
Eventually, I had soaped and rinsed all three kids, my legs were burning from lack of blood flow, my knees were embedded with rocks and grass, and oh my pregnant back, but we weren’t finished yet.
Tar still remained, so we repeated the entire process…back to the oil, back to the dish soap and the rinse cycle. Then I had them sit in the grass while I went inside and prepared the bath tub.
Thirty minutes later, we had washed off most of the tar and oil and the kids were ready for lunch, and I made some quick tuna salad, sat them down at the table, where my friends (who had offered to help, but I declined, citing their need to stay far away from this version of chaos as they were hours away from a plane ride across the globe) tapped away at their keyboards and probably tried not to laugh.
Then I left for my own shower, so desperately needed.
And the clothes will never be the same, but they’re still wearable for outside play (but not in the back…ever again). My shirt recovered and my skirt was too dark to tell. The shoes that two of them had been wearing will remain to be seen, but oh well. And now we have a story and maybe something to laugh about…later. Oh, and Levi’s hair is much shorter, because I slathered on so much oil that after two showers and lots of shampoo, it was still not coming out…
And, seriously, this makes that time two weeks ago when they found their third razor blade in a week (because this had been a construction site for so long) and someone FINALLY cut themselves enough to leave a blood trail into the house while screaming, but then they learned their lesson…well, it makes it seem not so bad. Because, TAR.
The past two weeks have been insane: when it rains, it pours. Hopefully the next three weeks will be a little calmer, because then it is time to head out to Vanga to await the birth of this baby. And hopefully his or her siblings will teach them not to ever touch anything ever. Or something like that.
Parenting is fun, on any continent.
The only photo I took…enough evidence, though I don’t think it fully captures how much tar was involved.
Choices
My friend, Ashley, who lives in eastern Congo and is also a MAF wife, tagged me and Shannon (my friend and OB who lives in Vanga and just gave birth to her son there on the 15th) in this article. It compares, via photographs, the different things women bring to the hospital for delivery in developed countries versus rural Africa.
Shannon commented that most of her patients bring exactly the same things as the photo from Tanzania, but she points out, “We do have two sources of clean water close-by and the maternity has a faucet that works well enough to fill a basin for cleaning if left there for about 20 min. We wash over a drain in the floor. But definitely don’t need to bring our own medical supplies.”
If you’re panicking for my sake, please don’t. I will get to take a shower at the house where we’ll be staying. It will even be a hot shower if I want (which I doubt…because goodness knows it’s hot there, sans air conditioning, like we have here in our spoiled city living…when the power is on).
But, my upcoming baby birthing is not the point. The thing that was most compelling for me as I scrolled through the messy article filled with ads and waited for the photos to load, is that the women in the Western countries, like most, if not all of you, reading this, have a choice. The women in Africa featured in this article who are giving birth in the hospital only have one other option: to deliver at home, without medical help. And that’s not really an option worth taking, is it?
In the US, we have constant conversations about best birth practices. Which drugs are safe, if any? Which interventions are necessary and when? What protocols are best for baby and which should be avoided – eye ointment, vaccinations immediately after birth, skin-to-skin contact, the list is endless… Even where to have our babies is a choice – hospital, which one? Home? Birthing center? Tub? Table? Ball? Stool?
What if we didn’t have those choices? What if we didn’t even know those choices existed? Because that is the case for millions and millions of mothers around the world…and reading this article caused this fact to dawn on me in a new way.
Our family is choosing to stay in Congo to deliver because we made a choice based on a list of pros and cons. But it was still a choice. It always was. And it continues to have the freedom of a choice.
We decided that since there is an obstetrician here that we know very well, with a hospital where she’s comfortable (and, yes, even just delivered her own baby), and the pregnancy has been normal, as have the previous three births, the choice was “easy” for us to make.
The alternatives had fewer pros and more cons…traveling internationally while immensely pregnant while toting small children was enough to kill the pros list immediately. Even though the draw of being around family was big, it wasn’t enough to tip the scales. Not this time, with these circumstances.
But, the choices – we had them and we made them and we are confident in them. But what about the ladies in these photographs who don’t get to choose? We are blessed, or spoiled, or privileged – I can’t even pick a best word – beyond measure for having those options.
And it’s not just about birth. It’s about the everyday things. Did you choose what you had for dinner? And breakfast? And lunch? And whether or not you should snack today…and what it would be? The constant debate on nutritious food for better health is nauseating when considering that just outside my gate there are people who are only hoping to eat once today, and it had better be fufu so they feel full for a while.
Don’t wonder if those conversations are worth having – they definitely are. What foods are best? Best to be avoided? Gluten, refined sugar, carbs, meat, non-organic, non-GMO…I think if I tried to describe this to your average Congolese person, they would shake their heads and wonder if I was mad. And probably not believe me anyway. But when you’re making the choice, it is most definitely important.
And we are constantly choosing. We choose what we wear and where we shop to get it (we choose between name brand, off brand, used, new, stylish, practical, even hand me downs are chosen whether we keep them or not). We choose how often to eat out versus eat in. We choose how to make our bodies healthier – gym, running, sports, oils, supplements, and right back to food.
So, my point? My point is that when I engage this culture, I must remind myself that I almost always have a choice, and I have always had the choice. It is the privilege of being born into the culture that I was. But, here? In most cases, the freedom to choose has been absent, even from the moment and circumstances of their birth. And our goal in being here, is to remind them that there is one area where they, and all of us, can ALWAYS choose…we can choose Jesus. For me, choosing to live a life designed after Christ, really, is yet another choice I’ve made. But, maybe, for some here, it is the first truly free choice they’ve been able to make. What a weight. What magnitude. What importance. How am I living to show that this choice is available to everyone, not just another privilege I get to select from a shiny, proverbial shelf of lifestyle choices? Ugh, what a question. I’m going to choose prayer, praise, gratitude, and probably some chocolate as I think on my choices and our call to live here in Congo…and how I can be the salt and light for Christ amongst people who aren’t always able to choose.
Six Months In…
I haven’t written yet this year because we’ve been so busy moving. Well, we’ve been so busy waiting to move. I mean, there’s nothing like the thrill of deciding on a move date, then changing it last minute…twice!
The first time was last Saturday, but about half way through the week we decided to delay, since it looked like some of the remodeling wouldn’t be finished. The last time was this Saturday and there had been a big push to finish the projects, even lasting until Friday night. It included Matthew being there for most of Thursday and Friday to help, though he was working on some personal things. You know, normal moving agenda items – generator, battery back-up, 12v water pump so the house has actual water pressure. Well, normal for here, at least.
Saturday morning, Matthew went to check on the last details as I waited at the house preparing for our friends to show up to help. And he called me, “cancel people and I’ll give you details later, but we’re not moving right now.”
Turns out, as he got there with cleaning supplies to start mopping, they had decided to put down a last layer of grout. Right then. And as he pointed out a spot on the ceiling that needed a bit of touch-up paint, they informed him that the painters were on their way because they were going to do a second coat on the ceiling and the walls. Surprise!
So, here we are on Monday morning…not moved. But, still excited about the new house and how it is turning out. There hasn’t been much rain, so the damage to our current house has remained stable since the holidays.
We do plan to move this week, but we won’t pick a day until, probably, the night before and after we’ve certainly seen that things are done. But, we really can’t complain about having a house where everything in the interior is brand new, now can we? Especially here! We’re spoiled by it!
In other news, last week marked six months since we arrived in Kinshasa. I can hardly believe half a year has gone by already! And next month marks a year and a half since we left US soil. So strange! We mostly think of the long absence in terms of the food we’re missing. This week it was hot wings and cheap delivery pizza (thinking of the moving process, of course). And friends and family…but mostly, food.
Lastly, a side note to say that my dear friend and OB doc, Shannon, gave birth to an adorable little boy last week, in the same hospital where Lind Baby #4 will be born. The birth was great and everything went well (since she couldn’t exactly deliver her own baby, a friend and OB, who also delivered her daughter, flew in from the US to attend the birth). This was the first American baby born at that hospital in 18 years! And that almost-18-year-old is currently a lovely young lady who lives here in the city with her parents, who are our teammates with MAF. So, we are rejoicing with our friends as they get to know their son and now we get to be next on the list of Americans to deliver at the hospital in the jungle. 11 weeks to go, two months until we head out to Vanga to wait.
Congo Village Christmas
25 hours of travel time, 7 nights in the village, countless and memorable river swims, games played, meals eaten, topics discussed, and one goat that fell off of a truck: the summary of our week in Vanga for Christmas.
We had a lovely adventure. After realizing that flights to Vanga during the week of Christmas would not work out, we decided to drive there. We wanted to spend Christmas as a bit of time away as a family, plus our dear friends there were really hoping our presence would at least make Christmas more special for them (at least, that’s what I THINK they meant…ha ha).
We had recently found the perfect vehicle for us – and the perfect vehicle to tackle the road to Vanga. While the first half is lovely pavement, the second half makes us question the definition of the word “road.” It is mostly sand, with scary moments of clay and swamp thrown in for fun. Matthew was up for the challenge of the drive, the kids seemed excited, and our friends recommended a protocol – someone who could help us through the checkpoints and navigate any strange situation.
We loaded up and headed out at 4:45am. We made it across Kinshasa in 20 minutes (in normal, daytime traffic, this can take anywhere from 45 minutes to several hours). We left the city, turned right, and were on the road. There are many villages, both big and small, along the route and we enjoyed the scenery, napped (well, not Matthew), and ate the snacks we brought. Each checkpoint was a bit frustrating, because each one required us to hand over our passports (with our protocol handling the logistics) to be registered, then waiting while they filled out the forms while our vehicle was slowly surrounded by the curious. A bright yellow truck full of white people is not exactly a common sight in remote places in Congo. The kids and mamas loved seeing our little blond children, and the vendors tried to sell us a wide variety of things, some of which I could not name. But, thanks to our awesome protocol, each checkpoint was less than ten minutes and didn’t require more than a few cents as a thank you Coke.
The main problem we encountered was that my memory was failing (pregnancy brain, ya’ll, is serious) and our protocol gave distances in very cultural ways – whenever we asked how much farther, it was always the same answer…another 30 kilometers, or so. Ugh. But, after 12.5 hours we made it to Vanga, exhausted and happy to finally be out of the car.
The days in the village were a lovely collection of relaxing, naps, good food, great company, and really hot, sticky weather. Christmas was fairly traditional, with a Christmas Eve dinner with our three families plus one other Swiss missionary family that lives there, including singing Christmas hymns and reading the Christmas story.
Christmas morning the kids opened presents and we had a big dinner with our three families plus two doctor couples and their sweet babies. It was a fun mix of French and English and they brought local food while we served a traditional Christmas ham with all the normal fixings. Matthew and I brought two large bins of food along as our contribution to the week, especially focusing on things that are not available in the village – like apples for apple pie, whipped cream for said pie, and two flats of eggs, frozen chicken, etc.
Sunday they hired a boat to float the river. Most took a hike to the meeting point, but one of the wives and I, along with Axel, opted to ride the boat up and back. I have never been to a rural, African village river port before. As we stood for several minutes waiting for our boat (a dug out tree, of course), again the curious lined up behind us to stare, mostly at the blond little boy and his rather pregnant mama. Some people were bathing (with necessary clothes on) and others were doing laundry, some were collecting water to take home (of course, on their heads), some were waiting for a taxi to cross the river to the village on the other side, and many others were just there to visit and watch. I love the opportunity to experience difference slices of life in this vastly diverse country.
I also had my mid-pregnancy check up, complete with ultra sound, gestational diabetes testing (using a chai tea with 50g of sugar, since the normal Glucola drink is not available here), weight, measurements, and just overall health exam. I got to see the labor and delivery room and we talked about what the next 14 weeks would look like. My OB, Shannon, is one of my closest friends (we also attended language school together) and she will deliver her own baby (with a visiting doctor from the US) there in just a few weeks – I’m glad she will “test the waters” for me, ha ha.
Finally, it was time to head home and get back to the busy-ness of starting 2016. We began the drive back at 6:30am, with two extra passengers – our protocol’s wife and Nancy, the daughter of the couple we stayed with who was coming back to Kinshasa to visit friends for a few days. It was so great to have the help with the kids in the car, though. All three kids had a quick 24 hour fever, which, as sad as it was, was actually quite helpful on the drive since all they wanted to do was sleep. They are all fine as of this evening.
The check points went very smoothly this time since it was almost New Year’s, the biggest holiday for the Congolese. They wanted a bit of Coke money to celebrate, but nobody wanted to check our passports. Eight smooth stops. The funniest moment of the trip was watching a goat, piled high on top of an over-loaded truck, which is a normal sight on the road here, suddenly go flying off and onto the side of the road. It got up immediately and the truck managed to pull over as we went zooming by. It was quite surprising and hilarious – it fell from at least 20 feet in the air, going 45mph or so!
We hit a bit of traffic heading back into the city. We dropped off our protocol and his wife, then Nancy at her place to stay, and finally got home at 7:30…after a quick dinner, we all hit the hay, exhausted.
Now to get on with 2016. We are ten minutes in and I’m ready for bed. Happy New Year!
New Year, New House
We have moved every year since 2011. And not little moves. In 2011, we moved from Alaska to Washington State to begin support raising for our one-year term in Congo. In 2012, we spent six weeks on the road and then moved to Congo. In 2013, we moved back from Congo and spent five months traveling to raise support for long-term ministry in Congo before settling in Idaho for training. In 2014, we moved to France to begin language school. Finally, this year, we excitedly settled in Congo. So, 2016? Well, clearly it’s time to move again…but this time, thankfully, it’s only to a new house.
When we arrived, we learned that some structural problems had begun to develop with the 100-year-old that MAF owns – their only owned property in Kinshasa. We hoped to be able to stay in the house for our entire first term (about two years) and then find a new place when we got back from our furlough. However, as the rainy season started and really got going, especially this past month with record rain fall, the house began settling faster than anticipated. And we were given the green light to begin finding a new place to live. We felt like we should probably move sooner rather than later, not really knowing how long the house will remain stable.
So, this week we began the process of house hunting. In Congo, renting a house is more of a privilege bestowed by the homeowner to you. In other words, you rent the house, in whatever condition the owner chooses – and the houses in our price range often come with just walls. During our first year here, Matthew helped two MAF families move into new-to-MAF houses. They both required several weeks and several thousand dollars just to make them inhabitable. New plumbing and fixtures, kitchen cabinets, electrical installation – the works – let alone paint and air conditioners and appliances. This was not something we really had time for!
And this was my mental state last Monday as we looked at how to begin the house-hunting process. I love our house. I love its location, our neighbors, the familiar neighborhood (we live across the street from where we spent our first year). I didn’t want to move! I may have spent a few minutes in frustrated prayer. I may have moped about the house a bit. And, oh the stress. Our goal was to move within in a month! What girl doesn’t dream of suddenly adding moving to her list between pregnant and Christmas?!?!
So, with Matthew very busy preparing for the audit at work, I tasked myself with getting the ball rolling. I asked around about trusted realtors. I got a decent recommendation and gave him a call.
Tuesday evening, once Matthew got home from work, we set out to see his first houses. He was great – he listened to our budget, our size, our neighborhood, and the fact that we needed something nearly ready for move in. We saw six houses the first night. Only two really fit well, one was very very small but close and the other was in the neighborhood next over and a bit over budget, but very new and beautiful.
Wednesday night we saw a few more houses (I lost count) and found one that seemed to fit “best”: it was small, but big enough, it was actually closer to our MAF teammates than our current house, it had a pool, but zero yard (the pool was completely walled, so kid-friendly), and it was move-in ready, even though the style was what we can only describe as “ugly and dark.” The price was in our range, so we decided it was probably the best we were going to do.
Thursday evening, we saw another house and then went back to the one with the pool. We sat down to discuss the details. Suddenly, the manager said the price was higher than we’d been told. This is common when you’re white. It just is. We talked him down to something reasonable, but still a bit above what MAF pays, so we’d be paying a bit out of pocket. Not surprising, but unfortunate.
As we pulled out of the driveway, not exactly feeling excited, but grateful to have found SOMETHING, our realtor said there was one more house, but it needed just a bit of work, but he thought we might want to see it. We were skeptical, since Matthew doesn’t have time to do house repairs and we needed to move fairly quickly, but whatever, one more can’t hurt.
It was close…as in, walking distance from our current house. We pulled in and noticed the yard was overgrown and there were construction materials around the yard. We internally rolled our eyes. Nope, this wasn’t going to work. But, the yard was huge. That would be nice.
As we walked through the house and saw the parts that were unfinished, we noticed what HAD been done was done very well. A modern, clean style, very well put together. By the time we got to the end, though, there wasn’t enough done in the house to warrant us getting it – we simply didn’t have the time to finish. The guardian of the house laughed a bit and said, no, the owner would finish the work and hoped to have it done in just a few weeks.
After learning more, Matthew went with the realtor to the owner’s house to discuss the goings-on at the rental. We were curious – it was a great size for us, with a nice yard, and it was simple and bright, unlike the other house with the pool.
The owner talked about how his last renters had destroyed the place, so he was having it redone. He prioritized having good renters who appreciated the house, versus renters who promised to pay more (and often didn’t pay at all). He desired to see the house in perfect condition, because it had been his family’s house. He explained all he had planned and immediately, with Matthew sitting there, got on the phone to make sure necessary things could still be completed before the end of the year.
Finally, price was discussed. It was a big house, with everything redone and fancy things like kitchen cabinets and air conditioners included, surely it was out of our price range. Nope? He was totally fine accepting what we offered, because he knew we would be consistent and timely renters.
Saturday morning we met with him at the house to go over more details and prioritize projects. Some things will still need done after the next few weeks, but what was most important to us? He even asked if I had preferences for wall colors or kitchen cabinets? And what rooms would the kids be sleeping in, so he could make sure those air conditioners got in first.
While there is, of course, still the possibility of this not working out for any number of reasons, my week started out pretty hard pressed and discouraging. However, by Saturday, I was excited about this new place and how it almost fits our family better than our current house. Sure, work needs to be done – what if it isn’t? Sure, we might not stay there long term, because whatever is next planned for the MAF property might fit our family better than another MAF family (though this property isn’t ours – it is MAF’s, so the goal is that whatever is planned next fits the ministry and team best…nothing has been decided yet, still in the think-tank stages). Sure, lots of things could change between now and the next few weeks, but I look and see how God has provided and, more importantly, I learned something very valuable this week…
The last half of our time in France I looked so forward to being settled. I had been unsettled and living out of boxes or in temporary situations for four and a half years. I was so over it and really put a lot of confidence in how settled we would feel once we got here. Suddenly having to move really uprooted that, so I looked to God for answers. Skeptically. But, I am reminded that Matthew 6:20 says …”but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal.” My treasure should not be in my Earthly home, nor should my comfort. So, even if things fall through with this house that seems so exciting, I will seek the Lord, His comfort, and His joy provided for me. And maybe they won’t fall through and I will stare in awe and wonder at how God provided more than I deserve…once again.
Trash, Treasure, or…?
What do you think about when you throw something away? I suppose that depends on the item…a dirty diaper probably can’t get in the trash (and out of the house) fast enough! A wrapper, an empty food container, anything recyclable – all these things leave our home and we’re done with them! Hopefully, if you’re able to recycle or compost where you live, you feel like you’re also contributing to a process at least a bit less wasteful.
But, I’m not talking about that…I’m talking about WHAT you’re tossing. Does it still have value? To anyone? Obviously, if you’re tossing it, you’re done with it, but does it have any value at all? What about to someone who cannot afford anything surplus?
In Alaska, we had what we called the “Borough Mall.” At most dump sites in town (we lived in a suburb just outside of Fairbanks, right in the middle of the state), there was a covered, paved area for “reusable” items (we took out our own trash, as there was no pick up service). The “goods” left there ranged from complete junk to really useful things. Our baby swing, kitchen sink, and even a piece of furniture came from that Borough Mall! Once I pulled up behind two college girls who obviously had more money than I did, based on their very oversized truck and fashionable clothes from Outside (what Alaskans call the Lower 48). They were dumping two large bags of clothes…some still had tags on them! Gap, Banana Republic, all sorts of great stuff – I scored big time! I really didn’t care why they gave it away because there I was, super stoked about a new wardrobe for free!
Well, here in Congo, we compost anything that can become dirt (paper, produce, etc.). There is no recycling (there wasn’t in our part of Alaska at that time, either) and trash gets picked up, but I’m not sure where it goes after that. I also pay per bag…when I buy the empty bags from the garbage guy!
But, before my trash even leaves the kitchen it is inspected. The guys who do the dishes and clean the floors and cook some pantry items that are huge helps to me, my sanity, and our home staying functional, also take the time to make sure I didn’t throw out something they find useful.
Mostly, I’m glad to know that things aren’t always being uselessly tossed, but sometimes, when I throw something away, it’s for a good reason. Like food that has gone bad and, at least culturally, is inedible. I say “culturally” because I realize that, generally speaking, what is edible and what has passed its prime differs in different places. Some of those cheeses we saw in France were DEFINITELY past their prime in my book, but obviously not to others.
So, before I throw something away, I have to think about several new factors: is it obviously useful? Glass food jars or plastic containers are definitely useful, but I try to only keep a few at a time. I don’t throw them away – I set them on top of my washer and leave them for several days (long enough for the guys to all have worked and have the option to take them if they want). I do this to reassure that I am not wasteful as much to give them the option – I understand the value, even if I don’t want it.
I also look at if it is dangerous (old food) or inappropriate. I had a pair of underwear that were past THEIR prime, and anything out of fabric is repairable, but I really didn’t want my old underwear anywhere but the trash. Call me a snob, but I do draw the line somewhere. But, Amelia’s holey leggings or an overly stained t-shirt? Have at it!
I also look at what will be seen. I hate hate HATE being wasteful, but sometimes food goes bad before we eat it, especially if the power’s been out for several long days. If it’s dangerously bad, I simply time when I throw it away, so at least it’s buried or even wait until the trash is almost full, then tie it up myself. However, just because I tied it, doesn’t mean it stays that way.
And once it leaves our house, it is once again picked through to determine if anything useful or valuable was left behind. I know this because I’ve seen it on the side of the road – the bags are dumped in a pile and sorted.
Do I feel pity or disgust? Honestly, both of those sentiments have crossed my mind on more than one occasion, but then I remember that my cultural bias is why I feel that way. There is nothing objectively wrong with going through something someone else threw away. Even if it makes me feel weird sometimes.
So, next time you throw something away, remember that living cross-culturally literally adjusts EVERY aspect of your life, your thinking, and pray for your Congo missionary friends, who spend far too much time thinking about their trash and where it goes after the can and the various tactics to make sure something has the best chance of being thrown away. If you live somewhere other than the land of curb side trash pick up and sanitation companies, what do you do with your trash?
Haggis & Malaria: Date Night!
Thanksgiving was a fun festivity with all of the foods we wanted. The kids had a great time and we were happy to see so many people show up at the gathering our friends and MAF teammates hosted (over 60 people!).
Friday was a normal work day, well, it was scheduled a normal work day. But, it was a challenging day and Matthew didn’t get home until 7pm. He wasn’t feeling well, but we attributed it to a long (13 hours gone!), stressful day, without much to eat. A good dinner and a night of sleep would fix it.
Saturday was Matthew’s first Saturday not working in some capacity in over six weeks (we lost track of when the last Saturday he hadn’t needed to be out of the house for work but we could recount the last six)…so we were excited to have him home. Except he woke up like death. Except not death…malaria. He had the classic symptoms: headache, nausea, back ache, fever, and feeling like death.
We pulled out the local cure: a three day pill pack that is especially effective against the local strain of malaria. It is, literally, a lifesaver. And it is only around $7 ($3 for the children’s dissolvable ones).
Matthew took the first pill and pretty much alternated between only feeling mildly deathly and sleeping soundly.
That evening we had planned to go out to a lovely event put on by the club at the British Embassy. The second pill had been consumed and Matthew insisted that he was well enough to go. No skipping date night here!
Our fabulous friend showed up after the kids were in bed and away we went. Malaria and all.
The British Embassy has a lovely club, run by a sweet Scottish couple, who planned a Scottish Ceilidh (I don’t know how to pronounce it, either), complete with Scottish folk dancing, whiskey tasting, and traditional food. So, we danced, we got to meet interesting people, we ate haggis and other tasty foods and malaria only made Matthew sweat a lot. The dancing was super fun, much like the dancing we did before we were married (we met at a folk dance – this story is better in person). The international crowd is always fun. The British Ambassador gave a funny speech about St. Andrew, who the party was celebrating, and he and his wife danced – good sports, I’d say!
It was a lovely evening and a great date night before Matthew headed out early Sunday morning for a week away at another MAF base in south Congo, in Lubumbashi.
Pray for his time there, that he is able to accomplish all he’s down there to do. And praise that the malaria meds worked and he is all well! And, of course, pray for me and the kids here at home by ourselves. We have lovely neighbors and a strong team support system, but the days can be trying without Daddy coming home to break up the flow in the evening.
The Miracle of [Feathered] Life & Electricity
If you read my Very Long Post About Chickens, thanks. If you didn’t, the only part you need to know is this: a chicken died after laying a clutch of eleven eggs and sitting on them for 24 hours, rendering them inedible. So I attempted (or am attempting) a little homemade brooder to hatch eggs.
If you read on the internet about hatching eggs at home, it can quickly becoming overwhelming, so I read a little of this and that, but mostly I decided that God designed eggs and chicks just sturdy enough that even a chicken can do it. I put together a shoebox, a 40w lightbulb from an IKEA lamp, a washcloth with some ice cubes, replacing them every few hours, for humidity, and a meat thermometer to watch the temp and said…good enough!
Brooder with the seven eggs that made it the full three weeks (three were deemed rotten).
Meanwhile, three weeks went by, with the occasional power outage but nothing too much. Finally, it was a few days before hatching. And we began to loose power at night. Someone’s power line was overheating the whole street. It would come back in the morning because someone could monitor it, but of course my eggs! I didn’t experiment only to have them die now!
The day they were “due” to hatch I waited, but I knew, from reading a bit, that cooler temperatures could delay the hatching. Sure enough, that night, one began by making a little poke in the shell (called a pip). Yay!
This is a pip – the first external sign that the hatching process has begun!
And then it sat like that for 24 hours. I read this is normal. Then the power just to our outlets went out. We found one outlet on a different phase – in the bathroom – and moved the little brooder into the bathroom and went to bed. Matthew was not feeling well and wasn’t sleeping well, so I wasn’t either. He informed me that the chicken was starting to hatch. It was 4am on Sunday.
I went to have a look through a hole in the shoebox…and the rest of the power went out. Nooooo! A chicken who has hatched must have heat to dry off or else they die! Matthew turned on the generator (yes, for the chicken) and it finally emerged.
The first hatched!
The rest of Sunday produced two more miracle chicks. A fourth died Monday morning, after hatching. All of this and we had very little power. One phase worked for a while on Sunday and on and off on Monday. I got creative with my heat source and used a heated cast iron skillet, with some hot pads for layering, to heat the box.
This lasted about two minutes…the older two got bored and the youngest wanted to squeeze the fluffy chicken.
The second one hatched just moments ago (I cleared the shell away to make the picture a little less graphic, but you can see bits of shell on its back).
Three fluffy balls of cuteness!
It really is amazing that those chicks survived at all – but they are adorable and, even after 48 hours, seem healthy and active, doing all of things that little chicks do. They’ve had some adventures, like meeting our kitten. Or, like the kids and I taking them outside for feeding time with the rest of the hungry chickens.
Éclair the kitten meets her new friends. This also lasted about two minutes until she realized what fun toys these could be.
There are still three eggs and a slim chance that they could hatch, so they sit under the lamp in the box. Today we were without power since the middle of the night. It was miserably hot. However, the one phase that was left finally gave up and died (because we all used it for our whole houses) so they fixed it today. As in, they fixed the whole problem! Yay!
I am grateful for neighbors who came to my rescue (Matthew is currently out of town – yay for single parenting!), power and air conditioning for the first time since Saturday, and the three little puff balls that will either make tasty eggs or tasty dinners someday.
A Very Long Post About Chickens
Things have not been overly busy chez Lind, but every day I still find a lack of hours in the day, or at least a lack of interruptions. Ah well, between kids and people at the door, I suppose that’s normal.
So, how are we? We are doing really well, though tired. I’m tired mostly because growing one kid while caring for three other littles is actually quite tiring…I know it looks easy and effortless! (<– sarcasm) Matthew is tired because working in any cross-cultural arenas is simply that way. Working in a foreign language, even if you are comfortable with it, is exhausting. Working with a broken system and corruption at every external level is exhausting. Working in a place where fear and fatalism are the primary motivators is exhausting. (Like I’ve said previously, for up-to-date prayer requests for specific ministry things, please read our weekly email brief prayer updates written by Matthew – just send us an email if you’d like to receive them.)
Meanwhile, blogging kind of got put on the back burner. It’s really not a lack of things to share – of course there are plenty, and I try to share snippets via photos and little quips on Facebook, but it really isn’t the same. I hope to get back in the swing of all things blog-worthy and thought I’d start with an easy subject.
Besides the daily work of Matthew and homeschooling, my primary entertainment comes in the form of the chickens. If you’re following me on Facebook or Instagram, you already know this…you’re already sick of it, I presume. But, oh, the chickens and the follies of the little fluff balls and their caretaker (me).
There are twenty more eggs in the process of becoming chickens. TWENTY. I highly doubt we’ll actually get twenty more chickens, don’t you worry, but why this is the case when I PROMISED you (and myself and my husband and our poor workers who are tired of continuously raking the compost pile back into something less messy) is a giant set of misadventures.
You see, we planned on hatching two clutches…and clutches tend to be about ten eggs, with maybe six to eight chickens. Then we’d have about 20 chickens and hopefully enough eggs to eat ravenously and even a few extras to give away or whatever. So, we let the first hen who began laying set her ten eggs and, like she actually read the chicken’s textbook, nine hatched and eight survived. Bam. Done.
The second chicken to start laying laid twelve eggs, but only eight hatched and six survived initially..there are now five. Because one got so thirsty it dove into a bucket of water and forgot it cannot swim or fly…sad.
The third chicken began to lay, about one a day, but not every day, and we rejoiced at finally having our own eggs to eat! One a day! So close, but so far from the goal.
Then we had friends visit – and because they offered to take the blame, I’m taking them up on the offer – and for five days I was distracted from my normal housewifery and chickens, gabbing it up for most of every morning while they waited for their driver to take them out for the day to their ministry – because he was very much on Congo time – and forgot to notice that one chicken had begun laying for the first time and had found the most secret of locations.
The day I noticed she was “missing” was the day she began to sit on the eggs. And she was a terrible mother and was constantly moving her eggs out of the nest. Or perhaps some weren’t fertile, because she was a new/young layer. But, either way, out of nine eggs, one completely rotted out before its time and four hatched. One died last week in a rain storm. Oh the drama of having chickens. It’s like a feathery soap opera.
So, knowing that another of the hens was about the same age I became vigilant (obsessed). And sure enough, she was missing for about an hour every morning too. So, while she was “missing” I hunted around the yard for her. My guards helped. I wanted those eggs. We want to EAT the eggs! I tried every day, knowing that once we got to ten days, we would likely miss the “window” and her hormones would kick in and she would sit on them, beginning the process of turning delicious egg-i-ness into baby chickens.
Day ten – I found her and her secret egg stash. Right outside my back door. *facepalm* I waited a day, wanting to confirm they really were her eggs, and not the free loading guinea fowl we have loafing around, and on the eleventh day…she sat…for the day…and baby chickens began to form. Bummer. As I told Matthew, at least this is an edible error.
The following day, she left the nest and I couldn’t find her. The day after that my guard found her and she was very ill. It was quite apparent that this was it for her…but what of her eggs? One egg had been smashed – the shell was thin and it was likely one of her first ever eggs laid. It did, however, show that the eggs were beginning to transform into chicks. So, not comfortable with eating them, I did what any nerd would do – I stuck a light bulb in a shoebox and ice cubes in a wash cloth and made my own little incubator, complete with a meat thermometer. Why not? The only thing I can’t control is power, but it had been decent lately, so it was worth the shot in the dark and certainly seemed better than just throwing them away.
Due to the sick chicken, which died before the day was over, we put the rest of the birds on antibiotics. We aren’t sure what killed her, so we didn’t want to loose a whole flock if we could help it. However, the warning label on the antibiotics said not to eat the eggs they lay during or for a few days after the seven day dose. Yikes. Well, whatever, only that one chicken was laying eggs we actually ate. Three hens had babies to look after and were on a laying-hiatus and the fifth and final hen was still too young. So, I took the two eggs the chicken whose eggs we were eating and put them in the incubator as “controls.”
Then she stopped laying. She stopped. And she got broody. “Broody” is when a chicken’s hormones “kick in” and she decides to sit on her eggs and be a mama. Except we had eaten her eggs. But, I did have this batch in a shoebox incubator in my kitchen, along with her two “controls.” Should I give them over to a chicken who went broody a full ten days later?
There are too many variables on theses eggs to know what would have killed them if they don’t hatch…which I will be surprised if any do.
But, because we had power issues all this past weekend, I decided to try it and stuck them under her. And she sat on them. Incubation rules, though, demand that the eggs not be moved the last three-ish days before hatching. When you grow them inside an incubator you stop turning them (normally you turn them multiple times each day). When a chicken hatches them, she stops getting up for those last days (normally she gets up to eat once a day or so for an hour). So, because this bird’s clock would be off, I took them today and put them back in the incubator…because they should hatch this weekend, Friday maybe, but who knows…we have candled them and know a few were growing something. Maybe a mutant.
I left the two “control” eggs under their mama because I figure if she hatches them herself maybe she’ll stop being broody the normal way. Plus, if she wants to be a mother, who am I to deprive her?
Meanwhile, the first chicken who laid eggs and, like clockwork, hatched eight surviving birds went back to laying eggs. Her babies were six weeks old and the cycle has started again. But these eggs we can’t eat because they were still on antibiotics. So, we shrugged and let her lay. And now she’s sitting on nine eggs, due to hatch in less than three weeks.
Because we’re crazy. We have, literally, 21 chickens and get no eggs to eat. And more birds on the way. And today our worker cleaned up the compost pile and said the chickens immediately went to see what new things he unearthed while cleaning it up, thus completely destroying it again.
I shrugged and told him that was their work – they dig in the compost pile…and they add to it.
…to be continued…if something hatches…
The Lind Family 