love your toddler as yourself: a "normal" day

Today, loving the Lord my God with all my heart and soul and strength, and loving my neighbour as myself, here in rural Tanzania, looked like answering an emergency phone call at seven am; getting up and changing diapers instead of the hoped-for sleeping in; making a care package of blankets, clothes, bottles, formula and supplements for a friend struggling to feed her newborn twins; hanging long lines of laundry in the hot sun; answering questions like “what happens to spiders after they run away” and “if I get in the bath, will my hair melt?” while answering the door and answering emails; scouring books and websites and messaging friends for ways to help a neighbour who has chronic stomach troubles; paying school fees for clusters of shy and bashful students who come to our door hoping for help; reading through the Psalms on the couch, bible in my lap, while my boys sit next to me and watch a video about cows (and another about gravity); tying Kai to my back while standing over the stove and stirring caramel; problem-solving for Visible Grace from the small screen of my iPhone; fielding requests from maintenance workers on the back porch while Abram meets with a fellow teacher on the front porch; practicing David’s memory verse with him over a lunch of chicken and sweet potatoes; nursing consecutive babies while chatting with two of our college students; filling water bottles and charging phones for neighbours and workers without electricity; sending Kai to the clinic with our nanny to be tested for malaria, and sending David, James, and James’s baby doll along as well, because they want to "go bye bye"; laughing with joy when Mary reports that, at James’s request, the nurse gave his doll a malaria test, too; talking to our lawyer and social work about potentially adopting Kai; planning a certain four year old’s birthday party and inviting our neighbours; planning backup childcare for tomorrow because Abram is preaching and I cannot handle four young children by myself for four hours; and lying in my hammock with David during naptime. 

(I wrote this a couple weeks ago on a particularly busy day- so busy I didn't even have time to post it. Today, everything looks similar, but different.) 

PS- David turned four!

PPS- I have a few pictures that won't upload, and I am running out of time, and if I don't post this now, I never will, so here it is. I'll try to post pictures another time. Grr. 

Sundays

In contrast to my previous post, Sundays can actually be very quiet. Here's a quick picture of what our day looks like today:

Both of our boys are not feeling well, so we stayed home from church today. Only two people have knocked on our door. David is sitting at the table eating a snack, James is in his Johnny jump up (or jolly jumper, for our Canadian delegates), Abram is making sauerkraut, and I'm drinking coffee and ranting to him about politics. :) Oh, and I hoarded leftovers for a few days, so that we wouldn't have to cook.

Okay, actually, that all happened a few minutes ago- right at this exact moment, I'm nursing James and typing one handed, because if I don't get this down now, I never will!

Just wanted to get this in writing in the hopes that I can look back on this hectic season and remember the few peaceful moments. (When we do go to church, it's a very different story. I'll try to blog about that another day...)

Happy sabbath, friends.

A day in the life

I have wanted for a while now to give you guys a glimpse of our daily life. But it's so hard! It's hard to find time. It's hard to explain to people who haven't been here. It's hard to strike a balance between "real" and "readable".

First of all, life here can be really heavy. There are funerals in our village at least once a week. People come to our door asking for work or loans, or selling their chickens or produce. People are hungry. The rains are always late, or not enough, and harvests are small. The economy is slow and work is scarce. Or they ask for medicine and medical advice (thanks, webMD!), or a ride to the hospital, or help paying a doctor's bill. We give protein and supplements to nursing mothers, cough medicine to sick babies (we have a full supply thanks to David's cough-a-thon last year), bandages and clean cloths for cut fingers, drinking water to whoever knocks on our door.

David sharing a cup of soup with some of his favourites

But there's so much that isn't said in that paragraph. "Drinking water" sounds so simple and can be taken for granted, but the people coming to our door often don't have running water, and even if they do, it has to be boiled, filtered and cooled before it is drinkable. "Harvests are small" means almost nothing to people who buy the bulk of their food at a grocery store, as I did when I lived in the States, but our friends and neighbours live off of what they can grow, and there is no grocery store in our village. A doctor's bill is often $5 or less, but if you don't have an income, it might as well be $500. A bus ticket into Mwanza, where the bigger hospitals are, is about $4. But the average daily wage is $2. Imagine if it cost you $150 to get to the hospital.

The weird thing about life being hard here is that most of this isn't happening to our family. Thank God we have our health and our finances are stable. We don't lack food. We have a car and can drive to the hospital if we need to. These things aren't happening to us, but happening around us. But when you live in a close-knit community, when you really love your neighbours "as yourselves", then their problems become yours; your burdens are theirs. (We are so grateful for our neighbours and friends when one of us- any of us- is sick and we need an extra hand around the house!)

So. As I said. Life here can be heavy. Just living here is a full-time job. I thank God every day for the two women who help me around the house, washing dishes and diapers (BY HAND), and watching David in the evenings while I cook dinner. I don't know what I would do without them, and they in turn are grateful for an income to support their families. Even with help, getting through the day is a full-time job: cooking all our meals from scratch (90% of our diet is perishable and local!), changing diapers, nursing James, trying to keep David busy, and answering the door a dozen times a day.

Essentially, that's my day: cooking, playing with the boys, and answering the door.

"Answering the door". I am starting to take this for granted, then a quick chat with my sister reminds me of how different life is in the West, or even in the suburbs. In the US, you could go an entire day without someone coming over to your house, unless they are invited and expected. Give or take a UPS guy or a quick hello from your neighbour, your door is probably closed and quiet. Try to visualise this with me:

Because doors here are often left open all day, and doorbells are nonexistent, people say "hodi" (hoe-dee) when they come to your door- it's essentially the equivalent of saying "knock, knock!". This was, notably, one of David's first words. We get around 15-20 "hodis" a day. The hodis range from friends stopping by, to workers (we try to find work find as many people as we can, doing work for the school, working in our yard, fixing things around the house, watering flowers- anything that helps them provide for their families), people asking for a cup of water, people in the village asking Abram for advice or counsel, people asking to borrow money, people wanting to play with David or hold James, people asking for a ride somewhere, people selling us food (chicken, fish, fruit and veggies), people asking what time it is, students dropping off assignments or asking for help with their work. There are often a few extra people around the table at mealtimes, and mornings can often find Abram in the kitchen, doling out bone broth to whoever stops by...and on and on. And on. Some days it takes me an hour (or more) to do something that should take about 15 minutes. (Though I'm not sure if it's the visitors or David who is to blame...)

These girls ask to hold James almost every day!

Some days, it feels overwhelming. Most days, I really enjoy it and look forward to it. Entire days go by where I don't leave my house (except to weed in the garden, if I'm lucky and James naps!), and being extremely extroverted, I appreciate the chance to talk to people over the age of 2. My Swahili is good enough to talk to them, and I know most of their names and faces by now. David loves the attention. Abram enjoys building relationships with people, but some days make it hard for him to get any work done. Our American neighbour described her life as a "ministry of interruptions", and I am starting to see it that way, too. Imagine yourself at home in the evening, chopping onions, nursing your baby, answering the door, getting someone a drink of water, and chatting with a neighbour, all at the same time. Lovely? Or stressful? Well, both.

A few of our neighbours stopping by for a visit

If we follow Jesus's example in the gospels, there's not a lot of room for privacy. But as a young couple with young kids, we need some family time! It's hard to find a balance, but we are learning and growing, and grateful for the opportunity to develop close relationships with the people in our village. The American church talks often of living authentically and living in community. In the West, "community" is controlled, planned, and safe. Here, it's unscheduled, unpredictable, and at times, inconvenient.

One of the reasons I struggle to write about this is because I don't want to seem like I'm complaining, but I want people to understand how different our life is here. If I mention offhand to someone that we have several visitors a day, I'm not sure they really grasp what I mean. I hope I've been able to paint a bit of a picture for you. We have such an amazing village of people who love David and James and we love sharing our home, our stories and our resources with them...it can be exhausting, but it is so worth it. 

Normal

We've been home for four weeks now, and are finally getting settled into a routine, which means that I'm getting settled into my role as Homemaker and Stay at Home Mom and Missionary Wife. 

This means cooking and playing with the baby and texting my sister and answering the front door and going to church on Sundays and reading To Kill a Mockingbird with Abram in the evenings. It also means being watched all the time, struggling with language and friendships, forgetting to buy enough vegetables on market day and having to stretch the menu for a couple days at the end of the week. Abram is home in the afternoons, and he's so good with the baby, but I'm supposed to be letting him work, and shouldering most of the babycare. I do get to attend one of his classes (eschatology), which is fun because it hurts my brain and gets me out of the house three days a week.

Sometimes my life is frighteningly normal and I fear I will get bored, and it's probably something other mothers can relate to: diapers and diapers and dishes and...diapers. Did I brush my teeth this morning? Where did I put my phone? Did I wear this shirt yesterday? It's fine, but I forgot it has spit up all down the shoulder, but it doesn't matter because there's no one here to notice, but-- did I? I honestly can't remember.

But there are other days where I realise that our life is pretty bizarre. Filling up our bathtub with water to wash the dishes in later, because the pump is broken. Wondering which language David's first words will be in. Curtsying when I run into the school principal. Changing David's diaper on the steps outside of the church building, with about forty witnesses.

We tuck a mosquito net around my son every night as he goes to bed. We boil or filter all our drinking and cooking water. People bring fish straight from the lake, which is outside our front door, to our kitchen, and our friend Mary cleans the fish, guts them and fries them for dinner. A friend of ours lost his job because he is a Christian, so Abram is giving him work any way he can: cutting grass and planting tomatoes and washing the car and watering our lime trees. The mangoes are fresher and larger than any in North America. The rice we eat was harvested down the road.

It's a strange contrast. On any given day, if you ask me what's on my mind, the answer could be 'trying to figure out what to make for dinner', or it could be 'wondering if our friend's son/baby/mother will live through the night'. Will we get enough rain for the crops to survive? Will David get malaria? Will our neighbours have enough food to feed their family? Where did I put my phone?

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I'm writing this at a restaurant in the town of Mwanza, the nearest city to us and the nearest source of fast internet. David is in his car seat, on the table, casually gazing at the largest lake on the continent.

I know it looks like he's facing away from the lake, but he's not. Promise.

I want to romanticise his life; I brag about his passport stamps, his first safari, his friends from many countries. But we are not the first couple to raise a baby overseas. He's not the first baby to visit Lake Victoria. I'm not the first person to blog while my baby naps. He may or may not appreciate his life, and he may or may not grow to love Africa as much as we do. (Don't you take your homeland for granted? At least at first.) I would love for him to grow up as an 'African boy', barefoot and tree-climbing, and maybe work or minister here when he grows up. But I would also love for him to know his grandparents, and to crawl around his aunt's kitchen floor. Both have their perks.

Our decision to live here comes with its privileges and sacrifices and difficulties and rewards. This is not a novel concept; every couple makes choices that have their pros and cons. Every family has fun memories and adventures and every homemaker has experienced joy and boredom all rolled into one. Every mother has changed diapers in unusual places.

As I process this, I am grateful for routine, grateful to be home. Grateful that we have just enough adventure to mix up the tedium of a 'normal' life.

Come to think of it, I wouldn't mind taking a nap here, either. Or...taking a nap anywhere.

Doing his best hippo impression.

Studiously ignoring the elephant that is maybe 30 yards behind him.

Safaris and lake resorts are fun, but let's face it. We spend most of our time here, changing diapers.

FAQ2: What do you do all day?

Another frequently asked question about our lives here:

What do you do every day? What's a typical day like for you guys? 

(Last year, I was running around doing a little of everything, and Abram was writing, writing, writing. Our lives are very different now!)

For one thing, we just finished 12  13  14 weeks of language school! For the past three months, we had Swahili classes every weekday morning. I'm not going to lie to you, friends: it was super hard. I woke up some mornings dreading it. My friends all assured me that they struggled with it, too- and they weren't even pregnant, exhausted, sweltering in the heat, etc. There were mornings I cried over passive tense. Our teacher was great! But it was just really, really hard. (Side note: yes, I did learn some Swahili in Kenya. But Tanzanians speak 100% Swahili, and their grammar is very different, so the Swahili I know could only get me so far. Abram, who is fairly fluent, is learning to translate.)

After class each day, I make lunch, then take a nap, wake up and do emails/work on the computer, and start dinner. After dinner, we have an exciting rotation of playing scrabble, reading to each other (we just finished Brothers Karamazov!) and watching TV on Abram's computer. The days fill up, somehow. Abram usually spends the afternoon working on his dissertation. He won't start teaching until next month.

My personal theme for this year has been food. Between Abram's paleo preferences, a limited variety of food in the village, and my pregnancy (nausea, and then insane appetite) and dietary restrictions, life this year has revolved around acquiring food. Oh- and last year I sure didn't have time to bake and enjoy gourmet, from-scratch meals, so I'm really, really enjoying it now! (I know, I know- it won't last. I know. I know how babies work. Thank you.) 

I've basically mastered the art of paleo baking (she said, while brushing peanut-butter-and-honey cookie crumbs off the keyboard). I'm getting the hang of cooking meat (I was a vegetarian for 10 years!). And I'm getting good at throwing together themed meals without a recipe. I do miss some things, but I love the food we eat now, too.  What I don't love: everything- even snacks- is from scratch, and it's a lot of work. (You can only eat so many apples in a day, you know? And even then, you need a knife and a plate.) What I also don't love: we don't have a dishwasher. Anyway. Enough about food!

Abram wants me to add that one of our hobbies is riding public transportation. We are currently waiting for paperwork to come through on the purchase of our car (yay! thanks for your support, everyone!) and then we will head to Nairobi for a few days, where we will have a board meeting, visit the kids (pics coming soon!), and meet the doctor who will deliver our baby. Then we will head back down to Bulima, (roughly the 25th of August) where Abram will teach a block course (on hermeneutics, for the record), before we head back to Nairobi to have the baby (arriving in Nairobi approximately Sept 15). Confused yet? So are we.

If baby comes on time, we will be back in Bulima by mid-October. Then our schedules will be slightly different. :)

So…wait. That's your whole day? Swahili and napping and cooking?

No, silly. We also go for walks every evening. 

He's so etsy right now. 

(Super moon, not super photo. I don't have my tripod here.)