Re-entry

At home, I carry my suitcase through my apartment and out onto the terrace, then pull my clothes out and carry them directly into the washing machine. Anything that's not washable (such as my passport) I put in a ziplock baggie and put in the freezer -- I'm not suddenly getting eccentric, I just figure that if there are any bugs the cold will kill them. And then I put myself in the shower. YAAAAYYYYYYY!!!!!

The next day is weird. By 9 o'clock in the morning I realize I'm in a different world.

• Hot shower!
• Clean clothes
• Sleeping in a room by myself
• Taking the train, and traveling in a seat rather than sitting on the floor
• Stopping for a smoothie on the way to work, and being almost paralyzed at having to choose between 31 varieties
• Opening the bag with my smoothie and finding that they gave me 6 napkins. 6!
• Throwing the trash in a trash basket
• I'm in public wearing pants instead of a long skirt.
• Walking by thousands of people, but no one greets me. So one says 'Bon dia', or 'Salama Mama'. No one smiles. No one runs up and holds my hand.
• I get to work, and enjoy the amenities of the ladies room -- hot and cold running water, and flush toilets, and abundant toilet paper.

I'm experiencing culture shock, and I still have to make it through the rest of the day.

Leaving Day

Today we are supposed to finish cleaning the visitors' area, and then it is time to give our last minute donations to the orphanage. I've decided to donate the little suitcase that had the bug repellent spilled in it, and so I need to also donate enough of my clothes and stuff to get everything else in my remaining suitcase. We are encouraged to leave anything we don't need, and to not feel embarrassed to give something that is old or dirty. They can make use of almost anything. For example, they said that they like to give each child a suitcase, so they can use it instead of a dresser drawer. Thus, it doesn't matter if the wheels don't turn nicely anymore, ore if it has a bit of a rip.

Since we cleaned the gazebo last night, I actually have some free time. I go to the prayer gazebo where Joseph is playing some worship songs. It is a good time to jsut sit and listen.

A girl comes to sit by me -- maybe 11 years old. She is eager to be loved and tries different ways of draping herself on me. She is fascinated by my fanny pack, and really wants to open the zippers. I watch to make sure she isn't taking anything, and try teaching her the words 'close' and 'open', then ask her to close it. Then she tries to open my camera case, and even says the word 'open?' back to me. So I try saying the word 'close', and she closes it. I'm happy she learned the words, but I'm even happier that the zips are now closed!

She asks my name, then borrows my pen to write it on her hand. No one walks around with paper here, so you either draw with a stick in the dirt, or draw on yourself. I ask her what her own name is, and she is touched almost to tears when I reciprocate by writing it on my hand. Later on, in the airplane I can still see it faintly. A connection across the miles that will fade by tomorrow.

Some little boys come pestering -- they want to chase her off so they can have my attention, but the girls are always outnumbered by the boys, and I've hardly had a conversation with one, so I don't want her to be pushed out. I try placating one of the boys by pouring some of my drink into his bottle when he asks, but it backfires, as all his friends start fighting over the bottle, and want more and more.

Meanwhile, Aysha is happy to just sit by me, as close as she possibly can, leaning over into my lap. Our quiet time together is interrupted by a mischievous little boy who quietly sneaks close, and then paradoxically makes a little noise to get my attention. He is grinning with enjoyment, and I simply smile back, not getting the joke, so then he makes makes exaggerated gestures with his eyes, and succeeds in getting me to look down at his hands, which are busy trying to put a huge bug in my pocket. I jump and scream, and now his joy is complete -- exactly the effect he was looking for!

I go back to help sort the donations. I had brought a brand new sweatshirt that I only wore one evening on the last outreach, but I figure that I don't really need it, so I put it in the pile, not realizing that it was smelling pretty funky from a combination of the cooking fire and my bug repellent. The other people sorting the donations are handing it around sniffing it and trying to figure out the smell. I'm too embarrassed to tell them it's mine, or explain why it is so stinky. After sorting through the clothes, some people go over to the washing sinks to wash the clothes (including the infamous sweatshirt). I go help at the donation closet. I reach in with some rolls of tissue paper, and the missionary exclaims "are those American toilet paper? that is like gold here!"

And finally it is time to jump into the back of the trucks one more time. It is easier this time, as we can finally do away with the capulanas, the long wraparound skirts. Wearing pants makes it much easier to climb over the high tailgate. I hear people around me saying that they are glad to be going home, but I'm surprised to find that I feel different. I'm actually not ready to go. I'm finally acclimated. I still have things I'd like to do here.

As the truck starts up, I suddenly remember my Makhua lesson, and realize that if I substitute 'New York' for 'Tutubue' I can say "goodbye, I'm now leaving to go home to New York". I shout it out, and some of the local Bible students clap at my effort, then wave as we pull out of the gate.

Our last day in Mozambique

[Thanks to Ray who encouraged me to finish the story!]
It's amazing how quickly one's perspective changes. At first the orphanage seemed primitive and uncomfortable, but after returning from an outreach to bush village, the orphanage is a bastion of amenities. Sleeping in a bunk bed is positively luxurious after sleeping on the ground. Being able get dressed while standing up is way easier than the contortions inside my tent. And the fact that the water is out is disappointing, but not shocking.

We are suddenly faced with a contrast so abrupt it is almost ludicrous -- our whole group ventures down the road for a luxurious breakfast at a nearby hotel. We were impressed by everything: not just the abundant buffet, but the green lawn, the white tablecloths, and of course ... the bathrooms! Hot and cold running water! toilets that flush! Toilets you are allowed to throw toilet paper into! This is great! We wash our hands over and over, just because we can.

The breakfast is beautiful, but I can't eat much, as my stomach is upset. How ironic, that I can't really take advantage of the one fine meal on the entire trip. But I can't complain too much, as I've been generally healthy. After breakfast, I joined a couple of women to walk back to the orphanage, but then I get a little bit antsy at the amount of shopping they want to do first. I'm just not a normal tourist, I guess.

And finally I'm back in the orphanage, in the worship center, on a dirty mat on the floor, wearing a wraparound skirt on top of my capris. I haven't had a shower since Tuesday (it's now Friday), and my skin has layers of dirt, glued together with sunscreen and bug repellent. And yet even in this we are not living a totally authentic 3rd world experience -- the sunscreen and bug repellent are luxuries, as are the baby wipes that have been substituting for the shower.

This morning, Barbara is speaking. She ministers inner healing and deliverance. Today she preaches on 2 Peter 1. The message is that negative emotions are a signal that one needs more time with Jesus.

I spend the rest of the day not doing too much. My stomach cramps get severe, and I'm worried about how I will manage the flight home, so I finally give in and take the Cipro. Usually I would wait a couple of days to see if it gets better on it's own, but I'm doubled over in pain, and can't imagine flying from Mozambique to South Africa, to Amsterdam, to New York. Between the pills and the prayer, I'm ok by the time I need to travel.

I skip lunch and dinner, and try to help with the final cleanup. We sweep the bedrooms, again and again. I'm not sure if the problem is that the brooms are such poor quality or what, but we keep sweeping out piles of dirt, literally. Again and again. My team is supposed to clean the visitor's gazebo. I'm at a loss for how to deal with the kitchen. The light has been burned out for days, so we're cleaning by flashlight, and the plumbing is still not working, so we have a limited number of buckets of rather slimy dirty water that Scott hauled from the cistern. The refrigerator is truly disgusting. I decide to sacrifice our carefully hoarded paper towels to try to sop up the inch of smelly goo in the bottom, but there is too much goo, so we use a dirty dish towel. I'm realizing how hard it is to clean when you don't have the right cleaning supplies. I never knew that cleanliness was a luxury.

While I'm busy in the kitchen with another helper, the rest of the team is trying to mop the gazebo floor. The finally develop a method where they dump a bucket of muddy water, and then scrub with the push broom, and then squeegee it with big squeegees. I never knew that you could use mud as a cleaning fluid, as long as you squeegee it!

A Makua lesson in Nanua

I forgot to tell you the best part of the trip to Nanua (accent on the 'u'). In the afternoon, when we first arrived, I wandered around the village and found Deena sitting next to a Makua woman. they invited me to join them. The seat was an odd contraption -- a low bamboo frame criss-crossed with ropes. The whole thing was about 6 inches off the ground, and sagged in the middle, so that once I sat down, I couldn't get up by myself.

I asked the woman to teach me the names of things in Makua. We interacted in Portuguese, which didn't work very well, since neither of us knew how to speak it. But we both understood a few words. She seemed to enjoy trying to teach me something, but once I took out my little notebook to write it down, a young man came to help. He clearly wanted me to write down HIS words too!! If he said anything and I neglected to write, he made a stern face and pointed at my book, and waited until I wrote something.

He kept trying to say something to Deena, but we couldn't figure out what it was. I heard a word that sounded like carne, and commented to Deena that maybe it meant meat, but we couldn't figure out why he was talking about meat. But eventually we realized he was trying to sell something, and it was indeed some kind of meat. It was like playing charades. How big? sounds like? He made sounds that I thought was a dog, so I tried barking to check if I was right, and he barked back, but then said in Portuguese that it was not a dog, and made a snuffling sound that I thought was maybe a pig, so I tried grunting and he grunted back, and finally he was satisfied that we understood, but alas, we still did not want to purchase pork of dubious origin that had been sitting in the sun on the back of his bicycle.

Finally he said tchao, (goodbye), and I asked him how to say it in Makua. His response was suspiciously long.
Ki auroar owanuach oon oontu tootubue.
I kept trying to repeat it, but he was not satisfied. He got closer and closer and louder and louder, insisting that I speak with t he right emphasis, and drilling me on the word tutoobue until we were nose to nose, shouting in each others' face. Finally I got it right and he was satisfied, showing his pleasure by doing a complex elbow shake with Deena. But the happier he got, the more the woman laughed. I wondered why she had not laughed when I was practicing, but was laughing now that I got it right. I wondered what I was actually saying. I tried saying it again and got the same results: proud elbow bumping by the young man, and laughter by the woman, and by the circle of kids who had gathered.

Eventually he let on that Tutubue was actually the name of his village, and I had been loudly and proudly announcing:
Goodbye! I am now going home to Tutubue!
The laughter was simply because they knew perfectly well that I did not come from Tutubue. It was a great crowd pleaser. I'm sure that no white person had ever said that sentence.

After the Kahua lesson they brought out food. Yikes! I was so torn between the adventure and experience of trying it, and the concern about the germs that I didn't know what to do, but I followed Deena's lead. After all, she's a real missionary (in China). She was clearly planning to eat so I did too. The woman held out a gourd with water, and showed us how to dip our fingers in it, presumably to 'wash' our hands. I could see the dirt flowing off into the water, leaving our hands only slightly less dirty, but soiling the water for everyone else. At times like this it would really be better to never have heard of the germ theory of disease. I tried to sneak my hand sanitizer out of my fanny pack, and pour some into my hands behind my back, but I realize it is hopeless -- we are all reaching our fingers into the same dish.

The first dish was made of ground corn (nakoowoo-oh), patted into a round mound on the plate, sort of like an African version of stiff grits (seema). That was served with a vegetable dish made of some sort of chopped greens similar to collards (matapa). It was pretty tasty, actually. That was followed by a third dish, this one flat beans with chopped tomatoes. That was my favorite, although maybe I was just appreciating the fact that it was hot enough to kill the germs.

Lift me down!

After the welcome service we set up our tents. By now I'm getting used to the audience, and am foolishly pleased at how quickly I get my tent up, before I realize that I cannot possibly get the tent pegs into the rock hard ground. I press as hard as I can, and barely make a little dent. Fortunately, one of the guys comes over and asks if I can help out the pair who had borrowed the tent that Amy and I used on the previous outreach. They clearly don't know how funny that is -- that was the first tent I ever put up in my life -- but I remember how to do it, so I'm relieved to hand over my tent pegs and suggest that he finish my tent while I put up the other one.

I watch out of the corner of my eye. First they try pushing the peg into the ground, then they get a wooden club and try to use it like a battering ram, and finally they find a big stone. In the meanwhile I pop up the other tent. It has an unusual design which is really easy when you know how, but is not intuitive. In the meanwhile, the villagers stand around sympathetically watching us crawl into our little tents, while they look with satisfaction at their mud huts.

Next we pile into the camions for a short trip to the location where we'll show the Jesus film. I naively ask if anyone will be watching the tents with out knapsacks in them, and the leader nods, then pauses and points to the sky. Oh. I guess that's why they said not to bring anything we can't afford to lose.

The truck sets up in a big field. The pre-movie DVD plays, with songs in the local language. The mood is festive as the people dance. Once it is fully dark and the crowd has gathered, we start showing the Jesus film. As soon as the movie starts, we slip out to the other truck, to go back and eat dinner. As usual, we get the bush dinner of spaghetti with tuna. Then it's back to the outreach location for the end of the film.

Tom preaches. It is so much easier on us when we know what is going on. In the previous villages everything was just in Portuguese and Makua. However it is a little harder on the crowd this way, since everything has to be translated twice. A preacher really needs to learn to speak in short sentences. Tom has clearly done this before, and knows how to get a rhythm going so that the translators know when to jump in. He also knows how to get the crowd involved, basically by preaching with such intensity that he ends up with laryngitis for two days. This time we understand when the people are coming up for healing, and we are ready. Tom has also instructed them to point to the area of their body that they need prayer for, and after the prayer to give a thumbs up or a thumbs down depending on whether they feel better or not. This is a great technique! With a few gestures we can communicate.

I stand right in front of the truck (not wanting to get swept away in the crowd) and lay hands on everyone I can reach. I'm actually disappointed to not have anyone who is blind or deaf. Most people have headaches (probably malaria) or stomachaches (maybe parasites). One boy who had pointed to his head turned to go after I finished praying, then did a double take and turned back to me, flashing a huge grin and a thumbs up.

We don't fully understand the timing, but suddenly the word comes through the team that it is time to go. We walk down the hill to the 2nd camion (since there is not enough rooom on the one with the sound equipment), but are disconcerted to see that it is crammed full of villagers. We aren't clear on whether they are playing, or have hijacked it, or what, but eventually we watch it roll away, without us. We go back to the other truck and somehow squeeze on. It is dangerously crowded, but the ride is short.

Everybody jumps off, and I'm about to go find my tent, when I notice that Justin is trying to rearrange the sound equipment in the dark, so I try to shine my tiny keychain flashlight to help him. He asks me if I can guard the equipment while he gets something to eat (since he was running the film while the rest of us snuck out to have dinner). I say yes and climb in the truck, but quickly realize maybe it wasn't too smart. All the other team members are in the tent area -- within yelling distance perhaps, but not within sight, and I'm sitting in the dark in the open back of a truck with thousands of dollars of sound equipment.

Soon little heads start appearing around the edge of the truck bed, and then the kids start to climb up the sides. I really don't want them climbing into the truck, because I can't physically protect all the equipment if they swarm the truck, so I try warning them off in Portuguese:

Nao, Nao, Nao (no, no, no!). Inevitably, they respond with contradictory glee: Sim, Sim Sim! (yes, yes, yes!). I realize that I'm starring in a badly written sitcom, but feel helpless to change the script:
Nao, nao, no!
sim, sim sim!
I have to laugh at the choreography. With each "sim" the heads bob up a few inches higher, until the kids are in the truck.

Luckily, Justin returns before I'm entirely invaded, and ferries the equipment to some other more secure location. finally I climb down, and hear a plaintive child's voice, in English, pleading:
Lift me down!
It would take a heart of stone to ignore this plea, so I reach out an lift him down, where upon the next child reaches out his arms, and the next, and the next... It takes me a while to realize that it is actually a game. The children get bigger and bigger, and are actually too heavy for me to lift, so my 'helping' them down is sort of a controlled fall. They think it is hysterical, and I suddenly realize that these kids can all jump down by themselves without a problem, but they are simply having fun. I also realize that I have lifted more kids than there were in the truck -- they are running around the other side and climbing back in for me to lift them again. I'm exhausted, but can't help laughing.

Finally it is bedtime. This time I had a thin sleeping pad, but the earth still felt rock hard. Luckily no one had yet told us that on an outreach the previous year banditos had come during the night and cut upen the tents with knives, to steal stuff. That story would definitely have made sleep more difficult, as would the fact that they had killed a cobra just as we arrived in the village. Sometimes ignorance is indeed bliss.

Mozambique: second bush outreach - trip to Nanua

I was excited to suddenly hear that I could go, since we were previously told it would be limited to those who had not yet gone. My biggest concern is the actual travel -- I'm still sore from the prior trip. My lower back and hip are out, and my butt is actually bruised. First I hear that the trip is 6 hours (too much for me to physically cope with, in the back of the flatbed truck, without a seat), but then I hear 4 hours, then 2, then 3...

After some confusion about the meeting place, we make our way with our knapsacks and water to the trucks, only to stand and wait. Apparently, the man that was supposed to visit the village ahead of time to tell them we were coming left too late yesterday to come home (by bike) before dark, so we need to wait for him to return before we are allowed to leave, to make sure the villag will be expecting us.

As we are waiting to leave, I ask the Bible students (native Mozambicans) to help me with some Makua. The guy I ask first tries to explain the difficulty to me: he only speaks English and Portugese (and probably a tribal language he doesn't bother mentioning), while the ones who speak Makua don't speak English. As he explains who speaks what, he gestures to one fellow who speaks Portuguese and Swahili, so I politely say Jambo to him. They all act as if I have done something brilliant. I guess they are so used to Americans who don't bother to even try learning anything besides English, that one word of Swahili puts me ahead of the crowd. Given that I'm speaking to people who average at least 3 languages, I feel a little silly, but at least it somehow serves to communicate to them that I'm serious about trying to learn something.

I had written a few English words or phrases in my little notebook and they hand it around trying to translate them for me. It takes two or three (one to translate the English to Portuguese, one to translate Portuguese to Makua, and one to figure out how to write it down).

When we finally pile into the truck, I make a point of sitting next to one of the Makuans, to try to pick his brain on the way. Since we don't share a language, I have to resort to asking in Portuguese, which of course I don't know. I hope I'm not inadvertently saying anything rude! But he takes pride in the fact that I write down everything he says. He seems content for me to write phonetically. Even among the Bible students whom I originally asked back at the base, there seemed to be some confusion about spelling. I suspect it is because most people simply have no need to write, and may not even be familiar with the official spelling, which adds letters that I don't hear when they speak. Using the truck for a language lesson also adds the sound of the wind whistling by, but at least my new friend is a captive audience and patiently keeps trying to answer my questions. He's the one shown in the photo at the beginning of this paragraph, and he's also seen about 30 seconds into this little video. The video also gives a little bit of the flavor of travelling in the camion.

I finally end up with the following list of words and phrases. This language is so obscure that even when I return home and try researching it on the internet, I cannot find a dictionary or a phrase book.
Thank you. KoshuKUroo
Where is the pain? eNOWereeani VaEE?
Do you feel better? ohhoVOna?
Yes. AyEE
No. MENa
Hello. SaLAMa (used throughout the orphanage)
Excuse me. KIlehvehLEHleh (used when the truck goes over a bump and your body crashes into the person next to you).
What is your name? un CHEEna natepani? (some people seem to pronounce this more like SEEna and some like CHEEna)
Glory to God. Mi weh MOHlooma amooLOOkoo. (I got several versions of this phrase -- I have no idea why they are different).
Jesus, savior -- Yesu maw POLi.
Jesus loves you. Yesu maw FENda. or: Yesu unu nu fena a tu oh teh. (again, no idea why they insisted on two different variations).
Where are you going? Un RHAvai?
Demon be gone. Jacera oo kumnay piaro.
Do you want to receive Jesus as savior? Ki non pela yesu Chriso moh poli?
Very good. KeeOHsukOOru. (this sounds suspiciously like the word for 'thank you', so I don't know if the pronunciation difference I'm hearing is truly a different word, or if I'm just not understanding)
Come Holy Spirit. abooeeheeeh nehpa daketeefo.
Jesus is with us. Yesu Chriso rhinehevano.
Jesus heals. Yesu Chriso navONia.
Jesus will wash you with the blood. yesu honerapEEha nee pomeh yoaria. (I'm not sure what this one really means, but my Mozambican friend really wanted to teach it to me and insisted that I write it down. He tried to explain to me in Portuguese and I think he was saying the word for wash, and when I mimed washing clothes he seemed satisfied...)
How are you? Muharoo?

Before I know it, we have arrived at the village, where we receive a friendly welcome. There is a short church service where the local church leaders are introduced, as well as the village leader. The mayor tells us through an interpreter that we are welcome visitors, and that we should feel free to return any time, even every day. I suddenly am unaccountably teary, at the generosity of these people. It is great to feel that we are welcomed by the village, not just by the church, and indeed the whole mood here is easier than in the last village. Of course, we need to bring the Gospel to the dark places too, but for now I'm just grateful at the welcome.

Can your Bible prevent Malaria?

My suitcase still smells of bug repellent, and the front cover of my Bible is not just stained, but exudes a noxious reek. I amuse myself by wondering if I have inadvertently invented a Bible that protects the user from Malaria.

One evening, we are all sitting in the gazebo, and one of the team members suddenly shrieks and starts flailing about. A bug had flown into her shirt. She swatted ineffectively, and we finally decide it must have flown away. But then I suddenly have a brainstorm and hand her my Bible. Sure enough, she suddenly shrieks again as the bug desparately exits from her blouse, as if it is fleeing a burning building. Yup, I think that anti-malaria thing might work!

In a 3rd world country, it is we, the visitors, who are incompetent

I keep thinking about what the villagers must think of us. They were pleasant and patient with us, but I can't help wondering if they think we are amazingly ignorant and incompetent. Away from our own environment and resources, we lack even the rudimentary skills of survival. We rely on our own bottled water, and the food (not to mention the cook) that we brought with us. We bring tents and sleeping bags, and hand sanitizer and bug repellent. Without our own supplies, and the help of the staff that has brought us here, we would literally not survive.

Different memories from our village outreach keep popping up in my mind. When 'N' gave us our briefing the day before the trip, he asked us to not complain about the food, and to not make a face if we didn't like something. He said "I have noticed with you Americans that if you do not like something, I see it in your face. Me, if I do not like something my face stays the same. You will never know."

Inadvertently, I had a chance to refute that general assumption. I had brought some children's gummy vitamins, and chewable anti-oxidants to Mozambique, figuring that I would use them on my trip, and donate the surplus to the orphanage when I left. I decided to bring the antioxidants on the outreach, figuring that they would be a tasty snack to share - I actually think they taste better than gummy bear candy, since they are a little more flavorful. Anyway, I started handing them out while we were riding on the truck. We had been asked to always remember to share with the local Mozambican pastors and Bible students who were accompanying us, so I passed the bottle first to the front-end of the truck, asking 'T' (the American group leader) to translate to the Mozambicans. I hear him trying to explain in Portuguese: "would you like some children's vitamins?" Anyway, I'm not sure if one of the guys didn't hear him, or didn't speak Portuguese, but when it came to his turn, his face looked like he was being poisoned. My tent-mate couldn't stop laughing -- so much for the impassive African face!

Then again, I probably had a distressed look on my own face when we stopped on the road and some of my fellow travelers bought fried-egg sandwiches from men in the street, holding up trays of food for us to purchase. The idea of eggs sitting in the sun possibly for hours didn't sound like a good idea to me.

While I don't think anyone got sick from the eggs, a couple of people were suffering from motion sickness, so I shared my pills with them (having brought a lovely assortment of first aide in my fanny pack.) That didn't help the guy who ended up with some kind of stomach bug, and huddled miserably in his tent for the next day. We tried to pray for him and were disappointed that the only result was a mad dash into the corn field to throw up. He kept insisting that he felt a little better, but I wasn't quite convinced.

The truck stops again and we are surrounded by guys trying to sell us soda. There is no diet soda. In a country where people die of starvation, there is no market for diet foods. High class hotels and restaurants offer diet coke in order to placate the tourists, but they charge a premium for it -- literally 2 or 3 times the price of regular soda.

I'm not the only one who was taken by surprise in the church service when they took the collection. I'm not sure why I was surprised. After all, we have a collection at home, so why wouldn't a village church also do so? I felt awkward trying to make my way through the packed congregation to the donation basket, but even more awkward at the idea of sitting passively, so I dug into the famous fanny pack to get some local currency to place in the basket, and tried to manuever my way through the crowd without stepping on anyone. I'm wearing hiking shoes and the locals all have bare feet, so it is even more important not to step on anyone!

When we woke up in the morning, and I started getting dressed in the tent, I managed to put on my shirt and capris, but couldn't figure out how to put on my kapulana -- there is something about a long wrap-around skirt and a short tent that just don't work together. I snuck out of the tent and tried to quickly wrap it around as soon as possible. We are guests here, and women are supposed to wear long skirts, but I really needed a 20 second grace period!

We start making jokes about our own incompetency, and we fantasize that the villagers are making mental notes about these peculiar light colored visitors who were grownups but didn't know how to do anything. Although they are unfailingly gracious to us, we imagine them making up songs in Makua that will be handed down for generations:

They did not know how wear a skirt
Sometimes it trailed in the dirt.
Their skin was funny, almost white
It really was an odd, odd sight.
Instead of proper huts of mud
Their homes were tiny, quit a dud.
Some of them were very tall,
And yet they are not strong at all.
They were not even able to talk
Instead they made a funny squawk.
But it was nice they came such a long way
To worship with us, and to pray

While waiting for the water to boil for the morning tea in the village, I heard a guitar, and wandered around the other side of our camp. 'J' was there worshipping. I believe that she actually was raised in the orphanage, and was on our trip as a helper. I listened and it took a few seconds to realize why it sounded familiar. She was singing 'How great is our God' in Portuguese. We tried to join in, but could only catch the key words. Here was our version:
Bla grand bla bla Senhor, bla bla bla bla
Grand bla bla Senhor, bla bla bla bla bla
Grand bla grand, bla bla Senhor.
Pretty soon she had mercy on us, and switched to English. But now that I'm home, I find myself crying when I hear the song, because it carries me back to that remote village. And I sing along in broken Portuguese once again.

There is always enough in the Father's heart

I have so much to learn here. In the middle of the dirt and the confusion and the poverty, the staff stride around with smiles on their faces, expressing love to the children in their words and actions, and seemingly undeterred by the practical difficulties. I watch them and wonder whether they are some special kind of person, or whether God's call to come here somehow changed and equipped them.

I want to make sure I don't miss whatever God is trying to teach me, so after breakfast I spend some time in the prayer gazebo. 'T' asked for volunteer to go on a prayer walk in the village right outside the compound, where [the ministry] is building some homes for local widows. The walk was another example of the spirit of confusion that seems to be the only discordant note here. The children are always dressed and fed, but the other activities seem unnecessarily chaotic.

We don't know whether there will be a hospital outreach, much less when it would be, what it would entail or how many people could go. We don't know whether there is a horse ministry. We don't know if the garbage we collect should go into the garbage drum, or be locked into the visitors' center. We don't know if there is a prison ministry (and if there is, is it for men or women). We don't know when the next bush outreach is, or how many days it would be if, or whether 'H' will go with us, or how far the trip will be. We don't know if there is an evening meeting to go to. We don't know if we have to re-confirm our flights individually or if someone will do it for us. We don't know if we are invited to the morning meeting with the guest speaker.We don't know if they will supply us with more drinking water as a group, or if we have to individually go into town. We don't know how we are supposed to flush the toilets when the water supply runs out (don't ask). We don't know if there is a widow's ministry. We don't know what hours the sewing shop is open. We don't know what time the outreach is, or where to carry our backpacks and tents to. We don't know that if we miss lunch due to helping at the village feeding, that we can go in the kitchen behind the dining room and get a plate. We don't know how to tell which kids actually belong to the orphanage, or which young men are the Bible students.

However, while the staff may be without answers, they are never without a smile. Some of the confusion is due to the legitimate goal of empowering the local Mozambican leadership, so projects outside the walls of the orphanage need to be arranged and approved in 'Africa time' rather than according to a Western schedule. Some of the confusion was on the part of the team I was with, rather than the orphanage. And sometimes it seemed as if confusion was a contagious virus that spread to everything it touched. The amazing thing was the unceasing love and patience that the staff consistently showed amidst the confusion.

In any event, the confusion finding the building site seems like deja vue, bizarrely colored by the fact that as we wander around trying to find the house, 'T' acts as tour guide, mentioning that the village we are walking through is considered especially dangerous, and that the police have to visit there frequently, to handle the violence. I wonder if it is really a good location for a widow's house, but have to simply write off the question as one of the many cultural things that I cannot control. The area is also filled with witch doctors -- I wonder if they are the ones who have been treating us to the 3am 'concerts'.

Finally 'T' finds the building site. It will be a cluster of 3 houses. So far they are mainly bamboo frames. We walk in and around the houses and pray, blessing the workers as well as the widows who will be moving in. In the middle of the dirt and the confusion, I find myself absurdly happy to be part of something where prayer is considered an essential part of anything that goes on, rather than an option that is tacked on the top. We ask what the criteria is for a widow to receive a house. T. has to think for a minute, and then she explains that they start with Biblical criteria, in other words, young widows are expected to re-marry, so they concentrate their attention on the ones that are too old to marry or to support themselves. But what is the procedure for choosing among the ones that are eligible? T's response was classic:
We don't have a procedure. We pray and ask God and do what He says.

On our way back into the orphanage, we go directly to the worship center, because we have been invited to the 11am service, and 'H' is speaking. She told us of the crises going on -- 130 construction workers out on strike. 41 children homeless because their children's center was taken away, (probably the government was paid off). She doesn't even bring up the fact that her husband is in the hospital. And to top it off, the sound system is still not grounded, she she keeps being shocked by the mike. People keep suggesting thing like wearing rubber shoes, and holding the mike with a kerchief, but every time she tries to sit down she gets zapped. And yet in the middle of these problems the focus is still on the presence of God, stirring us to love. Nothing distracts from the core values. She is not naive, and she is not in denial, but she knows that her Father in heaven is capable of supplying all things.

She says "when I talk about missions, I'm not talking about you finishing a project, I'm talking about your becoming incarnational lovers. All the results you see have flowed from the secret place."

We are listening eagerly, and suddenly there is a huge crash. I think the roof has fallen in, but then we realize it is just the metal gate to the worship center that has fallen off the tracks and crashed to the ground. 'H.' doesn't miss a beat.

"If you see something broken here, go fix it! Don't wait for permission! " Then she continues with her sermon. "I have plenty of victory stories, but today I'm sharing from emptiness, preaching from the beatitudes:"
Blessed are the poor in spirit
And blessed are those who mourn for they shall be comforted.

For 18 years, her life was about making friends with the poor. It's not about projects, it's about relationship. Jesus had friends, and demonstratedby spending time with them.

H tells a story about finding a child in the street, in a mound of garbage in Maputo. she had been raped so many times she had 4 STDs. Her hair was faded brown from malnutrition. She was angry, and demonized, with a bloated belly from malnutrition. This is a picture of mourning. But Jesus said blessed are those who mourn.

"Jesus understood what it was like to be hungry, thirsty, lonely, misunderstood, and abused. He gave his life away for love' sake. This is the kind of missionary life I'm talking about. Look at this book as a picture of Jesus. Follow in his victory and follow in his suffering. Walk in his bloody footsteps."

"What does it look like to comfort one who is mourning? What does missions look like? It looks like:

"You being needy for the Father, for shelter, for each other. Because we need to stay poor (not necessarily physically). Poor in spirit is an attitude of heart. Will you die if He does not show up? Are you desparate for the presence? If you know what it is to be poor in spirit, you can embrace a starving child as if it is Jesus hugging them.

"Jesus is searching not only for the bride, but for the brother and sister too.
Jesus is looking for those he can possess, for those he can put on like a glove, so he can touch others through you.
For they shall be comforted... through you, as the hands and mouth of Jesus.
"Focus on the treasures, not on the holes in the net. Keep your eyes on the prize. Be poor in spirit as a little child, but remember that there is always enough in my father's heart.