Читать книгу In This Place - Kim L. Abernethy - Страница 7

Life is a grindstone. Whether it grinds you down or polishes you up depends on you. —L. Thomas Holdcroft

Full House

No matter how long we ministered in West Africa, I never really became totally accustomed with the constant presence of someone other than family in our house. Granted, they were helping me with the never-ending household duties that seemed so much more arduous than what I ever had in the States. As I’ve mentioned before, there was no glass in the windows, only screen and “rogue bars” (metal crisscross bars to keep thieves from cutting the screen and climbing into the windows). So you can only imagine that dust was a minute by minute accumulation. Despite my discomfort with house help, it was necessary if I was going to be effective in ministry; however, it was still very difficult for me to share my private domain. My journal, after only a couple of days with house help reiterated that:

I am still having a hard time getting use to people in my house working. But I am so thankful we have two good young African men that we can trust. I have to remember that they appreciate their jobs as much as we appreciate their work. Our youngest worker asked us to keep his pay for a couple of months and buy him some new athletic shoes in Monrovia.

Two things compelled me to keep using house help throughout our African missionary career: I knew that it provided much-needed income to Bible school families, plus I recognized that I could not possibly scrub concrete floors, dust and mop a house where the screen windows seem to beckon the dust, haul water from an outside well, build a fire and boil water, and wash clothes in tubs if I was going to keep up with the care of my family and do any ministry at all. No matter what my American upbringing may have been telling me, I had to learn to live with the phenomenon of house help. The cultural collisions had begun.

Today we have a college ministry at the University of North Carolina @ Charlotte, and I do not have house help. Believe me, there are now times when I pine away for those days when I would come in from the African market or from teaching English at the Bible Institute, and the floors would be freshly mopped, savory food set on the stove, and the bathrooms cleaned to the max. Ministry with college students is extremely demanding and time-consuming, but the domestic conveniences in our American homes make it easier to keep up. Still after all those years in Africa with someone doing it for me, cleaning is not one of my favorite things to do. I admit it–I simply got spoiled. Again, cultural collisions pursue me!

It also dawned on me that having these African young people in our homes gave us the awesome opportunity and responsibility to teach them by our example. You know how it is: we can often live like we want to be perceived while out in public, waiting until we are in the privacy of our own homes to be who we truly are. Not so out there since our home was accessed by some of the very people to whom we came to minister. That reality brought all that to light! In many ways, it was a good exercise in living out our faith–off the cuff–not rehearsed–and in front of a perpetual audience!

Molly Maid, Jungle Style

About ten days after we arrived in Tappi and after indulging in the generous meals offered by fellow missionaries, I began cooking on a charcoal grill outside the back of our house. It was also the day that one of the Bible school guys started working with us. Paul, a well-trained Liberian, who had worked with another missionary family for several years, washed clothes in a tub outside for almost the entire day! I kept watching him through the window and thanking God that it was not me doing it, though there was also a part of me that felt guilty to realize someone else was doing the work I should be doing. I could never get over the fact that another person was waiting on me in the domestic realm that had previously been solely my responsibility. My Americanness never quite knew what to do with that reality!

Then there was the communication gap. One of the first lessons in relating verbally with someone from another culture is to never assume you are completely understood and to be very specific with instructions, using phrases from their cultural vernacular if possible. Paul, who I have already noted was helping us that first year we lived in Tappi, was a life saver. He taught me so much, he laughed with me about my ignorance of the West African ways, and was patient in showing me how to cook African chop (food) and how to use ingredients easily procured in that region. I felt like a wealthy woman who could afford to have a full-time chef in her kitchen, freeing me up to spend more time with Michelle, as she, too, adjusted to our new world.

One day it was my turn to laugh at Paul, although the laughter was initially hard to come by. If you remember, I said earlier that we always tried to buy enough food and staples to last at least six weeks. For that reason, we bought white and brown sugar and flour each in twenty-five pound bags. Before leaving the States, I had been given some extra large Tupperware containers that were perfect for storing the sugars and flour, since we had been told ahead of time that the ants and bugs would find their way into our food items that were not canned or well sealed.

Our mission plane had just arrived with a large quantity of food for all the missionaries. As became a tradition, either Jeff or I would roll our wheelbarrow to the airplane hangar where the men were divvying up the groceries for each family. It was an easy way to haul a large amount of groceries to the house, and also was not unusual to see Michelle riding on top of the mound of groceries down the hill from the hangar. Yes, it was indeed an exciting time for us when groceries arrived! Seriously, it was. Just imagine being cocooned 180 miles from civilization and then someone would bring you the food you needed. It was as good as a food drop!

As Paul and I were putting the groceries in the pantry, I was called away for some reason, so I quickly instructed him to put the large bags of white sugar, the brown sugar, and flour into the three containers that I had set on the kitchen counter. Simple instructions? I thought so, too. A couple of hours later, I came into the kitchen to begin supper preparations. Paul had already left for the day, so thankfully he was not there for my reaction to his detailed artwork with the sugars and flour.

Setting on the counter were the three plastic containers filled with the sugars and flour. Nice, right? Well, the one small detail that floored me was how he had painstakingly layered all three into each container: white flour, brown sugar, white sugar, brown sugar, white flour, and so on. All three containers were perfectly melded into that particular formula. I snapped. I cried. I called for Jeff. (What was he going to do about it, I didn’t know, but it made me feel better to know I could call him) As I recall, it had been a rather demanding day for that young missionary woman, so that incident was the point used to break me. Me, who has one of the biggest sense of humors that I know, did not laugh. Could not laugh. Not that day. Putting on hold my intention to make biscuits for supper, I went ahead with preparing a slightly altered meal for the family—sans the biscuits.

The next morning I remember trying so hard to make light of the layered containers of mixed flour and sugars when Paul came to work. I apologized for not being clearer in my instructions, and together we separated–as best we could–the flour and sugars. Weeks later, as I opened one of the containers to bake a cake, I started laughing out loud, alone in the kitchen as I pinched pieces of brown sugar from the flour I had poured into a bowl. Little by little, I was either going mad—or perhaps learning to let go of my American expectations. Either way, I conceded I would be happier.

Pillsbury Dough Boy

Those first few weeks of living in Tappi found me without a working oven. The gas stove (inherited from the last missionary that lived in our house) worked fine—the top elements anyway. The oven had some issues that could not be resolved easily, so I did without. Probably after hearing me whine enough about it and considering that I surely tempted him with chocolate cakes if I had an oven that worked, Jeff came up with a brilliant idea! He says that the inspiration came from his family camping days in the Carolina Hemlocks. His father, Hal, and his Uncle Warren, used a large metal flour container and constructed it into a makeshift “oven” that set right on the coals of the campfire. Though the concept was primitive, it did seem like a wonderful plan.

Somewhere out in our storage building, he found a very large, antiquated Pillsbury Flour can. Ingeniously, he welded, melded, and shaped a small portable, metal oven that I could set on top of the fire which was usually burning outside our back door on a brick grate. I was so excited about using that unique “oven” to bake cakes and cookies, that I failed to initially take into account that there was no way to regulate the temperature. The first several attempts, especially with the cookies, were a bust. With practice, though, I finally was able to bake a decent cake and some casseroles in that camp style oven.

Even when another missionary helped us temporarily repair our oven, using it for baking was still a rarity because we were not used to the cost of a tank of stove gas. As much as I can remember, a tank of stove gas would cost us nearly $50, and it was our desire to get at least six weeks out of one tank. A few months later, after Stefanie was born, my parents came to visit, and while there, my dad was able to properly fix the stove and oven so that it worked so much more efficiently. Way to go, daddy!

Fire and Ice

This is probably a good place to explain how we were able to have a refrigerator and freezer that worked twenty-four hours a day, even when we only had electricity for three hours in the evening and four additional hours on Saturday morning. Our fridge and freezer were both powered by kerosene. Honestly, I didn’t even know there was such a thing before we lived in Liberia, but appreciated them in spite of the atrocious smell that constantly permeated my house.

The process worked by initiating fire in the bottom of the appliance with kerosene, and then eventually, ice would form in the top compartment. By the heat going into an exchanger and cooling down rapidly, we were able to have a cool refrigerator. Never did I even somewhat understand the principle of that system but was just thankful that it worked. The five-gallon kerosene tank and burner sat on a shelf at the very bottom of the refrigerator. The room temperature and how often someone opened its door determined the efficiency of the cooling process. To secure the door, Jeff installed a hook which made it a little harder for certain small people to open and close the door all day long.

It was an amazing thing that we were in the middle of the West African jungle with limited electricity, popping ice cubes into tea glasses or pulling out frozen chicken to thaw. Though my kitchen perpetually smelled of kerosene, I complained very little. Funny, the things I would have not tolerated for very long in America, I embraced and was thankful for in Liberia. It was Jeff’s job to keep the flame burning constantly by adding kerosene as necessary. We looked at it as his contribution to the food process. Never really having learned to cook, he knew he was at my mercy for meal preparations. In those early days, it was a heady feeling to know that my ministry of taking care of my husband, who was busy learning so much about the Liberian ministry, was very important. As I am a front line kind of gal, I did struggle with being in the shadows at times, but with the privilege of feeding and caring for that incredible new missionary, I perceived that his crowns were my crowns.

Inflatable Christmas Tree

After nearly two weeks in Tappi, my journal of December 20, 1985, reads:

Liberia is feeling more like home, even though at times I pine away for America. I’m sure this is normal. The house is coming along fine. It thrills me to know that it’s mine! I can’t wait to get settled. No one will ever know what I felt those last few weeks in America before we left. No real place to call my own. A woman has got to have her nest, right?

Christmas is in five days! I would love to be able to decorate more, but it’s just not feasible. I found a ceramic nativity scene in a barrel (left by a missionary who lived here previously), so I put it up and hung a red bow by the door. And thank you, MawMaw (my mother) for the inflatable Christmas tree because that’s what we are using! But just wait until next year! I’ll go all out.

I desire to start a ministry, but I know I must get settled first. I am so excited about serving the Lord here. Jeff really enjoys working on the helicopter and airplane, and being able to fly again. Many of the Liberian men come to visit and talk to him. He’s going to be a continued blessing to these men, I just know it. God has given us a great peace and joy about being here.

Sometimes I am amazed how my mother anticipated my needs as a woman heading to West Africa before I even did. Now that I am a mother of grown daughters, I understand it more. I am so thankful for the support and beyond that, the practical ways my mother and mother-in-law found to touch my life, even when they were certainly struggling with the separation from their children and grandchild. The inflatable Christmas tree was a perfect example of that. It was exactly right for that first, quickly put together Christmas in our African home. The pictures of Michelle sitting beside that tree are some of my favorites! In retrospect, and now, because I have lived a little life, I know that Christmas is not in the size of the tree nor in how many decorations in your house. If the spirit of Christmas is not lived out in our lives 365 days of the year, none of the rest of it really matters.

Little Things That Get You

Taken from my December 21, 1985, journal:

Perhaps the most aggravating thing today is that I don’t have a stopper for my kitchen sink and I have to put a cloth under another smaller drain stopper to keep the water in. Sometimes I pull it out by mistake and lose all the hot water that has been heated on our wood stove outside. It’s very frustrating!

There was no hot water available in our house, so I would have to step outside my back door and pour water from a container into a metal bucket already setting on top of the wood fire. After the water was heated, I lugged the steamy container into my kitchen. Bringing in hot water in a slopping metal bucket was a dangerous thing, and I had many burns on my arms and legs to prove it.

It took me a little while, but I discovered by carrying only a half bucket at a time, that this proved to be safer and easier. It was quite an ordeal just to get the hot water in the house without losing it down the drain before I was finished washing the dishes. That was a BIG deal! Sometimes it would take me almost an hour to wash a few dishes from lunch and breakfast because of that problem. Granted, our Bible school students who worked for us did it all the time, but it was something they had always known to do. For me, it was foreign, frustrating, and tedious. Occasionally, I would find myself looking around for a hidden dishwasher, but it never appeared. I have to admit that, for the first few months, I cried quite a bit over those small things in my new life that seemed so big.

Feet First

After our first week in Tappi during a weekly station meeting, I was asked if we could host the station Christmas party. Our house, we came to find out, had always been used for these kind of gatherings because of how the front rooms were long, spacious, giving ample space for tables and guests. Our zinc-covered porch would accommodate tables for the children. My disposition towards hospitality was already being put to the test. So, I agreed. I mean, why change tradition just because I had only been in that strange country for a couple of weeks?

Jumping to the challenge, it took three days to get the boxes out of the family room, rugs laid, and pictures hung. I wanted everything to be as homey and lived in as possible. I do have to remember that I was only 27 years old then and nothing seemed impossible. Today, I would probably most likely still host the Christmas dinner, but the boxes would be stashed in another room or at least a tablecloth thrown over them. I now know that endless mounds of boxes were just an integral part of a missionary home more often than not.

As Christmas approached, we settled into a strange, nostalgic funk. Everything seemed a little surreal and looking back, I realize now that our bodies and emotions were in “survival” mode. We were completely out of our element, had never faced a Christmas without our families before, and found ourselves in an environment that in no way felt like the Yuletide merriment to which we were accustomed. Our emotions changed like the tide, and so tempted was I to lie down and sleep until the day after New Year’s Day. At first, we eluded the real issues which were no doubt causing us to react so strangely by staying busy unpacking, learning, organizing. Jeff and I became snappy at each other over the smallest things as we succumbed to pressures that we had never known and feelings we chose to suppress out of fear of sounding weak. Ever been there?

Looming closely in my mind was the reality that, come Christmas Day, sixteen people, most whom we barely knew, were coming to my disorganized, albeit spacious home for holiday cheer. I grumpily quipped that they had better be bringing that cheer with them! Granted, I was cooking very little of the meal, but the thought of having missionaries that were familiar with jungle living, those houses, the African people, the smells, and the confounded inconveniences at times seemed too much. I peaked high as one more picture was hung and then I would crash hard when I looked at the sparse Christmas items with which I had to decorate. I began to see the seemingly mile-long stretch of spider webs, the dust that multiplied hourly on everything wood, and the concrete floors that glared ominously from alongside my braided living room rug.

It was one of my first, but certainly not my last disillusioned moment at where God had placed me. I was both disappointed with myself for what I was thinking and perplexed with God for “allowing” me to think in such a defeating way. I had not yet embraced that biblical principle of taking hold of my thoughts and not allowing them to consume me.

It’s 6:00 p.m. in the States now, and they are probably eating Christmas Eve supper at Grandma Horrell’s. Oh, how we long to be there! This is the most homesick I have been yet. But I know they are missing us, too, and that also hurts. Michelle had a rough day (or maybe it was just me projecting on her). She cried and whined most of the day. We also found out that some missionary kids were giving Michelle something for Christmas and a missionary couple was giving us something. I feel terrible because I did not anticipate that.

I was very hard on myself for even the little things that I did not think to pack in our container. As a lesson to pass on to someone heading to a foreign country, I wish I would have brought out little gifts from America for the other missionary children on the field for Christmas, and perhaps some small treats for the adults, too. We were unversed missionaries with so many large and small things to learn. No one was harder judges on us than ourselves.

The Day After Christmas

My journal of December 26, 1985, reads:

Christmas Day was a very emotional day. It was the hardest day we had so far. It wasn’t just us, all the missionaries were like that. I never really realized how hard it is for missionaries, and most of the time we never even take the time to pray for them during holidays.

I could find nothing in my journals or letters where I accurately described how overwhelmingly hard that first Christmas in Africa was. When I asked Jeff what he remembered, he simply said, “Weird.” As for me, I do remember being painfully cognizant of the time difference and what would be going on in the States at a particular hour.

However, having the entire missionary population of Tappi at our house that Christmas Day helped to keep me from despair. It was only when everyone was seated around the table that I realized my struggles with Christmas were not unique to me nor would they necessarily go away in the years to come. All the missionaries seemed to be a little more open and sentimental, speaking nostalgically about family and holidays in the States. Oddly enough, knowing that I was not struggling alone with missing loved ones and family traditions helped me make it through that day.

I do believe that I started to feel like “one of them” that day, clasping my heart around the knowledge that we all shared a bond that knitted our hearts together as family. In time, they did become our “African” family and remain as such to this day. Twenty-five years later, we stay in contact with almost every one of them who sat around our table that Christmas of 1985. If, by chance, we are able to personally see them, our time together is sweet and we simply pick up where we left off. Family does that. Or should.