Ice cream and foot washing

The Cameroon branch had a conference and retreat a couple weeks ago. One of my favorite parts was hearing members' three-minute shares, short stories or testimonies about everything under the sun. I thought you might also want to hear mine, so here it is:

John 13: 1 says “It was just before the Passover Feast. Jesus knew that the time had come for him to leave this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he now showed them the full extent of his love.” The story goes on to say, that Jesus washed his disciples’ feet.

On the last evening before I came to Cameroon, my little brother turned to me and said “Let’s go out for ice cream.” When I told him I would go get my wallet, he surprised me by saying, “No, I’ll pay.” You see, my brother didn’t throw around his money. He was an accounting student for good reason. When he said “I’ll pay,” I knew that he wanted to do something special for me. We went out and shared the sweetest bowl of ice cream I will ever eat. The next day, I got on a plane to Yaoundé. I never saw him again. He died in December. But I will always savor the taste of that small act of love.

In turn, I’d like to share a small act of love with all of you. “Let’s go out for ice cream. I’ll pay.”

Then, taking the concept of "sharing" literally, a few friends of mine passed out small packets of ice cream that I had prepared for the 100+ people in the room.

Home and the Heartland

I've joined the RFIS choir this semester, and this week we had a journal assignment about one of our songs, entitled "Home and Heartland." I wrote the following:

As I was preparing to move to Cameroon, one of my trainers told us he was about to ask something very difficult of us. At his instructions, we stood, closed our eyes, and pictured “home.” My mind flew over several state borders and back in time, and I gazed up at an orange mesh bag encasing several yellow onions and a head of garlic. I knew the location well—on top of my family’s refrigerator, illuminated by the warm electric light in my mother’s kitchen. A second image came crowded with a smell, the raw onion scent wafting out of a minivan as my mother picked me up from school. Suddenly tears came to my eyes, not the stinging drops that find me when I slice the flavorful white roots, but an aching sadness that poured out as I knew I was leaving the place I had called home for most of my life.

I am not a third culture kid. My answer to the question “Where are you from?” is simply “Michigan.” I lived for my first eighteen years in the same city. We moved one time, only a couple neighborhoods over. I attended the same school district from kindergarten until my high school graduation. At the age of eighteen, I left for Michigan State University, where I discovered a new kind of home. Living in the dormitories was quite the adjustment, but my twin sister was there, and sharing the first-year transition with her helped a lot. I went through some hard semesters, especially when my sister and I first lived in separate buildings, but the longer I stayed, the more Michigan State felt like home. By my last year, as I walked around campus, I invariably greeted people that I knew from classes, my college ministry, international events, or dormitories I had lived in. My heart felt like the hub of a wheel, connected to other hearts by conversations, shared meals, and common interests.

When I graduated, I had to move back to what I now considered “my family’s house.” While the setting was familiar, I had lost most of my connections there because of my long absence. During the year that I lived there, I tried to build these up again, even knowing that I hoped to leave after, to work internationally. Still, it was a lonely time, working almost constantly at my teaching internship and missing the kindred spirits I had come to love on my university campus.

And then I came to Cameroon. Nobody here knew me before I arrived. The cushion afforded by going to university with my twin sister, or returning “home” to live with my parents was gone. Praise God that the community was full of compassionate people. Both Westerners and Cameroonians took me in, little by little, teaching me a French phrase here and there, sharing unfamiliar foods with me, bringing me into their homes, showing me their favorite hangout spots. I took to greeting the women along my road, to trying to bring a smile to my students’ faces, until slowly, gradually, my heart started to feel like a hub again, snugly connected to the people around me. When my aunt recently asked me if I was looking forward to coming home at the end of my term, my response was guarded. “Yes, I’ll be happy to see the people I love in Michigan. But it will also be hard to leave because I’ve grown to love so many people here in Cameroon.”

Another song says “If my heart was a house, you’d be home.” Maybe it is that simple. What if home has very little to do with geography, food, or language? What if we are home whenever our hearts connect to those around us? Can we not say to those we love “Your heart is my house; I am home.”?

Sad News

Journal Entry 12-16-11 For 22 years we had him. My only brother, my parents’ only son. He loved me in his own way, teasing, searching for music, sharing his thoughts. The last night I saw him, he took me out for ice cream. And then we had breakfast, the four of us, mom, dad, Josh, and me, and I got on a plane and left. And when I go back there will be no ice cream, no unicycling or juggling, no little-known music.

Oh Josh, I miss you. Maybe I didn’t write often or talk to you often, but I thought of you. Told people about you. I was proud of you, just for being who you are, my funny but responsible brother.

I don't understand. Well, a little. The feeling that you’re not going to make it, and that there’s no reason to fight anymore. That it would be better to be at rest with Jesus. But we would have done anything. If you had just asked, I would have come home. But you wouldn’t ask that. Didn’t want to be a burden, thought maybe we were too busy. I’m sorry if you thought that. I thought it about you. Didn’t want to be a pesky older sister, always trying to talk to her younger brother.

Oh Jesus, help us! He’s with you now. Please comfort us, since he’s not with us anymore.

For 22 years, I had a brother, here, on this earth. I have him still, but I won’t see him for a while. Just a little while. Please, make it fly.

You are Daddy

This is one of my favorite Cameroonian worship songs. We sing it in French, so I've provided a translation. If you'd like to hear it, send me an e-mail and I can attach a recording of myself singing it. Dieu d'amour, Tu es Papa. Le Tout-Puissant est Papa. Le créateur est mon Père. Dieu d'amour, Tu es Papa. Mon Dieu je t'aime. (3x) Tu es mon Papa. God of love, You are Daddy. The Almighty is Daddy. The creator is my Father. God of love, You are Daddy. My God I love you (3x) You are my Daddy.

Why manna's only good today

Every week before our staff meeting, we have devotions. This week, one of my colleagues shared a blog post from one of his favorite Christian singers. You can read it here. The post is about God's provision of manna for the Israelites. Every day, he sent food for them, and they just had to gather it. They had strict instructions to only gather enough for that day--just their "daily bread" (except for the day before the Sabbath, when they gathered for two days). Despite that warning, the Israelites sometimes tried to gather extra. Just in case. Perhaps they thought that God was generous and trustworthy that day, but maybe he wouldn't be tomorrow. The problem was, manna wasn't just manna, and their reactions weren't only a sign of physical need. What they did with what God gave them showed their underlying beliefs about God. Gathering enough for one day showed they believed God was an everyday God, the Father who would cared for the sparrows and would certainly feed them. Gathering ahead warned of a belief that God was capricious, changeable. Ironically, when they tried to gather ahead, the manna rotted the second day--so much for trying to out-plan God. God doesn't give me literal manna. I have to send my househelp to market for the delicious starches here--plantain, sweet potatoes, rice, potatoes. But he does provide for me through the partnership of my brothers and sisters back home, who support me financially. Even though I know that, I'm not that different from the Israelites. Sometimes I realize how few things I actually own. I live in a furnished, rented apartment. Even most of my kitchen tools are rented. I don't have a house or a car. This makes me more mobile, more willing and able to accept ministry positions anywhere in the world. But sometimes it's also unsettling. Bingo. That's what makes me a sister to the Israelites. Like them, I have a tendency to rely on created things rather than the Creator. To trust in my cattle, rather than the God who owns the cattle on a thousand hills. To think that through my work, perhaps I can sustain myself, even store up a bit for the future. Not that it's bad to plan or to save. But God says to seek first his kingdom, and the things that we need will be added to us. Please pray for me, that my heart would seek the kingdom of God and trust him to provide my daily bread.

Hello baby Nina!

This little girl, Essama Crossley Ann Nina, was just born to two of my best Cameroonian friends, Essama Alain Didier and his wife Chimaine. During her last two months of pregnancy, the doctors put Chimaine on bed rest, so many people prayed fervently for a safe delivery. Our prayers were answered on Tuesday, and this beautiful baby arrived. Yesterday I visited her and was amazed at her tiny perfection. She and her mother will come home on Monday. Thank you to everyone who prayed for her and her mother. Please continue praying that God will bless this family with his love and provision.

What I do all day

To give you some idea of what my job is like, please indulge me as I run
down my Thursday. Thursdays are my busy days at school, so perhaps
they’re not the best picture of my work, but frankly, every day is a
busy day at RFIS.

6:45 Get on the teacher van to travel from my apartment to the school
site, about 15 minutes away

7:15-8:30 Prepare lesson plans while sipping a cup of coffee

8:30-9:30 Check in the middle schoolers for weekly chapel, sing while
students lead worship, listen to a parent guest speaker

9:30-9:40 Break—eat local peanuts and a tiny wedge of cake, drink a bit
of coffee

9:45-10:45 ¡Teach Spanish!

10:45-11:45 Teach Algebra 1

11:45-12:45 Teach a hybrid English language/literature class for a few
Korean students

12:45-1:20 Lunchtime—I supervise campus on Thursdays, so I ate my
cabbage and plantain lunch in between making rounds

1:20-2:20 Supervise study hall, which includes helping seventh graders
with their math homework

2:20-3:20 Grade algebra homework, tell a colleague her seventh graders
struggled with their math homework, give an Ewondo literacy primer to a
friend and colleague who’s hoping to learn to read his mother tongue (he
already reads in French and English)

3:30-4:15 Spend time in a small group with ninth grade girls, talking
about our favorite verses and singing

4:20-4:50 Meet with two algebra students, learn they didn’t understand
class expectations, explain grading policy, give them a chance to bring
up their progress report marks

4:50-5:05 Try to go for a walk, get foiled by the mud

5:05-6:00 Check e-mail and facebook, write a blog post

6:00 Go home to make dinner, maybe read a bit or watch a TV episode with
my neighbors