This Is How We Do: Haircuts

Before we moved to Africa, I had two concerns: haircuts and birthdays. I mean, those weren't my only two concerns, but they were the two concerns I never inquired about because they seemed quite petty against all of the other major life adjustments we would be making.

There were questions I had to get answered, like: 

Q: What do I do if we don't have a doctor near us?

A: Buy two books - "When There is No Doctor" by Gerard S. Doyle, MD and "Where There Is No Doctor" by David Werner 

(Fortunately, we have an amazing South African doctor whose family has become some of our close friends.)

Q: What will schooling look like for our children?

A: Homeschool is always an option, regardless of the schooling provided

Q: What should we take from America and what should we just get rid of?

A: Take items that will make your host country feel like home, sell the rest

You know, questions like that. My birthdays and haircuts questions were certainly not at the bottom of my list, but they were the bottom of any list I expressed publicly. 

Birthdays are important to me. I just love birthdays, but more on that another day. Haircuts, on the other hand, only became important because my husband can't successfully don the "buzz cut" and, well, he's a bit of a diva about his hair. Totally understandable because he has great hair. 

So, as with anything we deem important to our mental preservation, I took necessary steps to learn the art of Chandler's particular hair cut and this is how we do...

It's all about having the right tools. And I have exactly what the pros use thanks to my MIL, who completely understands her sons vanity. I have the combs, scissors, electric razor for the edges, and even a sweet, handmade bag to carry it all in. I even received a tutorial from our hair dresser in the States.. it's all on video for me to reference whenever I freak out a little, which happens less often these days.

The next most important aspect we consider is the time of day! When I cut Waverly's hair (her first hair cut!), we could do it in the afternoon while Elodie was napping because it wasn't oppressively hot; howevever, for Chandler's most recent hair cut, we opted for an evening date, after both girls were in bed, to beat the heat. 

After two and half years, about 8 hair cuts, I have successfully pared down our time from a little over 2 hours to just 1 hour. Obviously, Waverly's 'do took 20 minutes because, if you know me, you know I only cut what was necessary while keeping her beautiful locks long. 

Chandler's hair, on the other hand, requires more than just a straight cut across, so it's taken a lot of practice and confidence to make our hair cutting experience as efficient as possible. And the final product is some variation of this:

I'm sure you now have a couple questions of your own, like: What about your hair, Kelli? Well... Chandler's attempted to cut it once, just straight across, take off some dead ends, and while it wasn't disastrous by any means, he's sworn he'll never do it again and I just can't have a hairdresser who doesn't have confidence in his abilities. So, I let it grow and cut it off when I get a trip to South Africa. 

You may also be wondering: Kelli, you do such an amazing job with Chandler's hair! Will you continue cutting it if you ever move back to America? No. It's worth the money.

Bekily

The job we get to do is an exciting and time consuming one. It requires a ton of prep work and even then we feel like failures more often than victors. It is mentally draining, physically exhausting and uniquely humbling. All of that being said, we have experienced times where God goes before us and prepares things in such a way that we can see that He is about his mission and his glory. Our last trip was one of those times.

We set out on a Thursday night to go to a town called Bekily (Beh-kee-lee). Bekily is a town that will be the base camp for our partner church, Berea Baptist Church in Augusta, Georgia when they come to work along side of us. We live on the opposite end of Androy land from Bekily so it is quite the trip. All-in-all it is nearly a 10 hour drive over rough terrain that really wears you down. That being said, it is worth getting to. There are nearly 200,000 people that reside in the district of Bekily (in villages spread far and wide), most all of whom have had no access to the Gospel. The purpose of this trip was to receive paperwork that would allow us to work in the district, meet a person of peace in town and establish a relationship with the people of Bedona (Beh-doo-nah), a village we had passed by our last trip through the area. 

Normally, this is an incredibly slow process. Rarely do I expect to accomplish all the tasks I set before a trip, but as I said, sometimes God makes it clear his mission is paramount and moves obstacles out of the way.

On our trip into Bekily we were to pass close by the village of Bedona so I just stopped the car and hopped out, hoping to meet the ndaty be (chief) of the area who was not present on our last trip through. As a white person jumping out of the car you inspire a variety of reactions, one is curiosity, typically the young men have this reaction, they want to know what is going on and who you are. The old men are skeptical, they what to know what you want and why you stopped. The women and children’s reaction is best, sheer terror. They are petrified of the ‘palakate’ or liver-takers, whom as their memory serves is typically a white guy in a red truck. My truck is white with red details on the outside and I am white, so this reaction is a bit normal and one I have come to expect. Well, as I said, I was in search of the ndaty be and praise the Lord he was there. It is respectful and expected to go and talk with him before you do anything else in his area. So we squat (heels down with your bum just above the ground) and talk. I introduce myself and my companions and explain what brought me to his place. Normally, it takes them a bit to get past my speaking their language, so I have to repeat myself to make sure he caught everything. 

Our conversation with him was excellent. He said that his village, Bedona, has about 600 people living there and they are all ‘Gentiles’ (their description for a lost person). They have no church, do not know how to pray, and have never heard the Gospel. I asked if I could begin a relationship with him and his village in the hopes of teaching the Bible there eventually. He and his wives (of whom there are 2) were incredibly excited and invited me back anytime. Then we were served food as is the Tandroy custom to show respect and welcome. After ‘asking for the road’ we left with handshakes and an open invitation back to Bedona. 

We bounced our way into Bekily in the early afternoon on Friday and had a chance to meet with the Mayor’s adjunct (right hand man) who remembered me from last time through. We exchanged the normal appropriate pleasantries and greetings before I brought up my questions for him. Before I had a chance to talk business with him he said he would love to have the Mayor sign our papers as soon as I get them done. He told me what the papers should say and as soon as I bring them back he will put the very official stamp on them and we will have permission to work in the district of Bekily.

From there our task was simple, walk, pray, talk, eat, talk some more, and discover. God has clearly worked out two of our three tasks so we just needed to be present for the third. We had planned our trip to coincide with the market day in Bekily as we hoped to meet people from all over the countryside and find our person of peace. Market day is quite the experience with thousands of people flooding into town to buy supplies for the week, greet friends from other areas, buy necessary fetishes and tools of witchcraft (post to come), and sell goods. We enjoyed our time walking around, sitting at booths with sellers from the area and just visiting. We found that there was not necessarily one “person of peace”, instead, there were many! People wanted to know why we were there, what we were doing and who we were. It opened doors to conversations and friendships that I hope to follow up on in the coming weeks. 

It was a great trip that answered many questions, opened many doors and cleared the path ahead for the future. I will be going back to Bekily in the coming weeks with the papers for the Mayor to sign, with my tent to stay in Bedona and with expectancy that the Lord will continue to make the way clear. 

The entire trip was a fantastic reminder that God’s mission will succeed. He desires that the Antandroy come to know him. He works out the details, I just go. He saves, I just speak. 

My Other Half Writes

For months I have been trying to persuade Chandler to give his insights on the blog, particularly referring to his ministry in the bush. Finally he has agreed! And for that I am so thankful because more often than not, the girls and I aren't able to accompany him to the villages, so I only know broad strokes of information about each trip, while Chandler's got the good stuff! 

So, friends, his first installment (the first of many!)...

"I would love nothing more than to write this blog in light of how brilliant I am. In light of how strategic I have been. In light of my remarkable linguistic ability. In light of my astounding knowledge of culture. I, however, can not write a blog claiming these things. I am going to do my best to write a blog reflective of what has gone on in each of our villages and how we have seen God work, which is easy to do because what has happened among the Antandroy is credited to Him, definitely not to us.

Once we completed our time in official language school we moved to Fort Dauphin. Our goals were to begin learning the Antandroy dialect and culture and begin forging relationships in villages where we could begin church planting work. It was really simple to write this out; to put it into practice however, another story entirely. 

Before I begin telling you about how God has worked, opened doors, and (most importantly) opened hearts, I want to let you know how amazing difficult the Tandroy dialect is. Understanding and grasping this dialect is like trying to hold water in your hands. As soon as you think you understand something it seeps out of your grasp or changes entirely! We learn and re-learn parts of this language every day…even a year after our time here. It is uniquely frustrating.

With this language picture in mind, now imagine you take your first bush trip with only two weeks of study in hand! That is what I did. We took our first bush trip out to Androy land barely able to say hello in Tandroy. Based on the Lord’s providence I had the amazing opportunity to meet a young man named Olivier. This is the first of many circumstances that the Lord worked and in turn got the church planting ball rolling, even when I was not aware. Olivier is a young man, 20 years old, that can speak English fairly well. It was a random meeting through a co-worker that started our friendship. Between his English and my Malagasy we have a functional friendship. As I continued visiting Tsihombe, the closest town to the area I wanted to work, I deepened my relationship with Olivier. We began discussing Christ, the work I want to do, and his role in that. We got to the point where I was able to tell him what I wanted to do: begin telling Bible stories in the hopes of seeing churches begin in villages. I did have some criteria to begin work. I wanted to work in a village that had no access to the Gospel, no access to a local church (of any kind), and welcoming men as it is my hope to see them Biblically lead. 

With this in mind Olivier and I went out in search of just this type of place. We had visited numerous villages, all welcoming; however, through prayerful consideration we decided that Ambagnezagne would be where we began planting roots. Honestly, the main goal over the first seven months was just to keep showing up. I would develop a relationship with them and they with me. I would prove myself trustworthy, while feeling out if they were also trustworthy. It was my hope that we could largely avoid them looking at me as their solution or ‘ATM’. 

Well over the course of that seven months, I showed up. I was able to consistently get to this village about two to three times a month. I simply did life with them. My first overnight stay in the village was quite interesting. I was not prepared for them to invite me to stay but that is what they did. I spent that night sharing a one room space with 7 other people. I had the ‘blessing’ to share the ‘bed’ with the husband, who by God’s grace has become my best friend, while his wife and then 5 children slept on the floor. It was a long night. It is hard to decided what was most uncomfortable: sharing a bed with a stranger, looking at his children and wife sleep on the dirt ground, the cold, the fleas, or the fact that the bed was too short for me. Needless to say, it was a long night. But that one night put our relationship months ahead of schedule. I look back to this night as the one that solidified our relationship with Ambagnezagne and opened the door to the work of the Gospel. 

Since this night, I have had the opportunity to go out and do life with them. When they go to fetch water (at times up to 18 kilometers away), I walk and carry water with them. When they go to work the fields, I go with them. When they go out and tend to their cattle, I go with them. It is hard work but it is necessary work. I have been able to show them that I am not there to take advantage of them, and by doing so they do not desire to take advantage of me. 

After I began to really understand most of what was being said to me and we had developed a great relationship with the people in Ambagnezagne that is when we began telling the Story. I utilized a short-term missions team from our home church, Porter Memorial Baptist Church, to open up the storying in this village. I knew that they would draw a crowd. This team came in and did an amazing job of clearly articulating the Gospel through a Creation to Christ story and then they began my strategy of chronologically storying the Bible. Porter sent two teams this summer that partnered with us in this village and moved the work ahead! We have been able to continue that work and see growth in the people. I have been working through the stories slowly and asking many questions to check for understanding along the way. Now, we are moving into the New Testament and I will begin explicitly discussing the Gospel and calling for response. 

None of what has happened is because of us. Yes, we are the ones that keep showing up. But because we have had people praying for us and the Antandroy they are growing. Because people have prayed, I met Oliver. Because people prayed, Oliver took me to Ambagnezagne. Because people prayed, the people of Ambagnezagne opened their lives to us. Because people prayed, they are hearing the Gospel. So I ask that you continue to pray. Pray that they  positively respond in the coming months to the Gospel. Pray that they will desire to grow and become a Biblical church. Pray for the people of Ambagnezagne."

My Free Spirit

This is How We Do: Homesteading

That's a "thing" now, right? Homesteading? Everyone wants to grow their own gardens and raise their own chickens. Live more primitively. Is that what "homesteading" is?

If so, then we've been tossed violently, head first into homesteading here in Madagascar. Maybe not as primitively as our neighbors around us, but we certainly have our own chickens and we're on day 5 of absolutely no water (like, take-a-bucket-to-the-water-station-like-the-locals no water). That's another rant for another time; it's these chickens I want to focus on right now.

They've been quite the experience, particularly for us city folk. Last January, my brother built us a chicken coop because by this time, after living in Ft Dauphin for just 6 months, we had received a slew of birds and goats from the various villages Chandler was visiting. We had seriously considered keeping a goat, but after a few rounds with Alastor, we realized by the time they got used to each other, one would be dead. So, we were giving most of the animals away, but decided to try our hand at chicken raising (is there a more technical term for that?).

We had no idea what we were in for when Waverly was given her very own chicken on a visit to Ihodo just a few months later. She named her Huberta, but changed her name to Sophia the First. She was fun to watch, but she looked awfully lonely in that coop by herself. 

I had read or heard somewhere that chickens will lay eggs when in community with other chickens, so I convinced Chandler to buy another chicken. Well, Sophia still wasn't laying eggs and she and Amber, the second chicken, were not getting along. During our month vacation in the States, our first chicken killed the second and I learned a harsh lesson about "pecking order".

By this point, Chandler swore off chickens. They may have been entertaining for a hot minute, but they were just useless, pains in the butt. I only sort of agreed, still embracing this whole "homesteading" idea. 

Then in June, our chicken raising hit an all-time high: two baby chicks wandered under our gate and into our yard. I remember hearing their little cheeps and holding my breath, hoping Alastor didn't hear the same thing. One day, they just never left. So, we set out on a chicken chase around the yard and the chicks ended up in our coop with Sophia. 

Shortly thereafter, while Chandler was on a bush trip, I woke up to a rooster crowing and knew immediately that it was inside our compound. Sure enough, we had inherited a rooster. Chandler was going to be SO MAD! All I could do was laugh. We went from swearing off chickens to having a little family all in one felled swoop. 

And we still had no idea what we were doing.

Finally, I started collecting an egg a day from Jean Claude and promptly putting them in the refrigerator. Because that's what we do, right? Us, homesteaders, eating what we raise. 

WRONG! Unbeknownst to me at that time, Jean Claude had plans to hatch our first set of chicks. We'll just chalk that up to "lost in translation". Literally. He was not happy when he asked for the six eggs back and they were all cold. I think I got a stern talking-to, but how would I know; the shaking of his head was reprimand enough. Needless to say, those eggs didn't hatch and were actually stolen by a substitute night guard while we were in South Africa for a conference.

Then, it seems for good measure, our day guard snuck another hen into the flock; one that belongs to his daughter. Again with the "pecking order", but now with the rooster and chicken wire to keep the hens separated, there were no more battles to the death.

A couple of weeks ago, the second batch of eggs hatched into 13 of the cutest baby chicks! 

So.. how do we "homestead" when it comes to raising chickens? Well, truthfully, we don't. Jean Claude handles it all: buying the appropriate feed for the varying life stages, preparing a nest for Sophia's eggs, preparing those eggs to be hatched, building a new coop for the hen and her chicks. It's pretty much the easiest under-taking we've ever had! As for the future of these chickens... I don't even know.

This Is How We Do: The First Day of School

1 September 2014 will go down in the history books as the first day my schooler spoke her first French words. She couldn't remember them by the time we got home and tried to pass off a movie quote with a French accent as French words, BUT I was witness to her legitimate French utterances when I picked her up from school.

The first, first day of school was inevitable. Waverly was super pumped and I was just trying to not think about it. In fact, she was SO excited that she forgot to pull her dress out of the top of her pants after using the bathroom. No worries, though, we took care of it!

If you know us, we are not particularly "morning people", so this 8:00 AM start time for school was almost a deal breaker, particularly when I had to set my alarm for 6:45. But somehow we managed to be ready by 7:30, leaving me enough time to talk to her teacher once we got to school. 

Except there wasn't time to talk to her teacher. Because the car wouldn't start. And we had to walk. You believe those white leggings weren't so white once we started along our dirt road. Fortunately, Suzie met us on the road and I drove Waverly the rest of the way to school. (But not on the scooter..)

Les P'tits Loups - The Little Wolves (I think)

As we walked into the courtyard, the time-concious, American in me took a breath of relief to see all of the students and their parents still gathered around waiting on the school's director to call out the students' names. I should've known. Nothing starts on time in Africa. When Waverly's name was called (or at least, I think she said Waverly... I just assumed since she was looking at the only white kid in the yard when she said it), I lumbered my way through the crowd, baby in the carrier and three bags in my hands, sweating a little in this early morning. 

I briefly nodded to the teacher and her assistant, telling them that Waverly only speaks English, not French or Malagasy. I should have just dropped the mic and walked out, yelling "Good luck with that!" over my shoulder, but, like a good mother, I walked Waverly to an open seat, hovering and taking pictures before feeling like I had overstayed my welcome. 

We are thankful that she has a friend in her class; the son of our other teammates.

And the most important photo of the morning...

Proof that I didn't cry.

At 11:30, the students are dismissed for a break until 1:30, at which time I picked Waverly up and brought her home for lunch. She requested cereal and a movie and I obliged, so she humored me (literally) with another photo.

I hurried her back across town to school at 1:30, but not before I packed her a snack! Because I had been scolded already for not packing a snack for the morning class. Oops. 

I picked her up from school at 4:30 and these are the poses she gave me when we got home.

 

I think it's safe to say that the first day of school was a success! I was embarrassed that the teacher scolded me over not packing a snack, but comforted by the reminder that it probably won't be the last time I forget a snack or toilet paper... there's no toilet paper in the bathrooms at school. That should've been on the supply list...

This Is How We Do: School Supplies

Waverly starts school on Monday! She's attending Le'Petit Loups and will be in the Moyenne Section. Y'all I don't even know what all of that means.. When we picked up her school supply list and read liste de fournitures at the top, we briefly wondered if our communication had been clear enough: We're just sending her to pre-school, not renting her first apartment.

Lame joke. Sorry.

Although, seeing a full page of items, I legitimately wondered if we were providing supplies for the entire class or just our one kid.

So, this morning, Chandler translated the French list (Thanks, Google Translate!) and we set out in search of school supplies.

I had one particular shop in mind where we had stopped before in search of various items and this shop made all of our school supply shopping dreams come true. 

I handed the list to this guy and he worked his magic...

While Waverly and I played...

I made one decision on our shopping trip: Pencil case for 16,000 Ariary ($8)or pencil case for 2,000 Ariary ($1). The $1 case, please!. And that's what I'm talking about. $50 later and we were out of there!

Then we stopped for a photo-op per the request of our school-age daughter.

When Satan Attacks...

Spiritual warfare is palpable around our life right now. 

Just as much as we have experienced the Lord in ways we never expected, we have also experienced many tactics of Satan to undo what the Lord is doing. 

We have fought physically, overcoming various illnesses that come with spending time in the bush and just living in an environment that is less than ideal. 

We have fought mentally and psychologically, putting down our negative thoughts, our strong desires to be anywhere but here, our selfishness, and even clinical depression.

It goes without saying that we are always fighting a spiritual battle. It infuses every other aspect of our lives.

But this very day, we are experiencing attacks outside of ourselves. In the past month, our hot water heater has needed to be replaced, our clothes washer broke, our computer died, and our car is facing a myriad of issues. In the last two weeks, our day guard has been robbed of all of his things...twice. And over the past couple of days, our short-term team from the States has been thrown numerous (random) road blocks as they travel to Ft Dauphin: one delayed flight, then a cancelled flight, then another over 12-hour flight delay which puts them in a place to, more than likely, miss the rescheduled flight. They were supposed to arrive this afternoon, Tuesday, and now, they'll be lucky to arrive by tomorrow.

All of these outside attacks eat away at our spirits little by little and when piled on top of each other, we can become very discouraged. Please be in prayer for us as we try to stay positive and tackle our laundry list of things to be repaired or bought. Pray for our guard as he is in a delicate situation as an employee of foreigners; for protection of himself, his family, and his possessions. Pray fervently for our team as they deal with flight logistics, sleep deprivation, and being generally uncomfortable. Pray that their flights will be worked out and that they will arrive in Ft Dauphin by tomorrow, Wednesday. 

It is in these times especially that we are thankful for you who hold up our arms through prayer as we are exhausted from battle. We know God will be most glorified in these situations.

Under the Tree

Every village has one: a meeting tree. It's like the American "T.V. room" without the t.v... and walls... and you can pretend there is a roof with the shade of the tree... you can also pretend that you're sitting on furniture when you're just sitting on a straw mat...

So, it's not really like the American "T.V. room" except that it's the social hub of the village.

It's actually quite a lovely place and much more intimate than your ordinary T.V. room. The Malagasy don't value their space quite like Americans do, but they value your presence and conversation probably more than Americans do.

I love it there. I'm not intimidated or overwhelmed.

The laughs are big under the tree. Mostly laughing AT me, not necessarily WITH me; although, I laugh too. It's contagious. And the questions come rapidly; the same questions asked by different women, garnering the same reaction each time. For example: Lehilahy sa ampela? (Boy or girl?) Ampela avao. (Just girls) *cue overly-ecstatic disbelief and comments about how Waverly and Elodie don't have their ears pierced*. In turn, I share a little American culture that girls are identified by their clothing and hair, not the condition of their ears.

We chat over a fresh watermelon, but there is a lot of time where we just sit, nursing our babies under the tree. Even that is a special time. In all of the thousands of ways we are different, breastfeeding brings a common understanding between us.

Then the men come back from their walk around the village and the women disperse to cook a meal. It's noodles today for the guests of honor, who would be me, Chandler, Elodie, and Waverly. A pleasant surprise considering the alternative, habobo (ha-boo-boo). We eat with gusto along with our Malagasy partners, Olivier and Mahazosoa the Second, while Waverly runs around with the children.

Aside from the seat of honor on the straw mat and the specially prepared meal, we don't feel like guests, we feel like friends. Life seems easy under the tree, despite the reality that life, particularly that of an Antandroy, is anything but easy. But for those couple of hours, we can lay aside the difficulties and laugh together, talk together, and share in the things that make us more alike, more like friends.

My Story in 2 Parts - The Healing

Soon after we returned to Madagascar after having Elodie, the emotional roller coaster of my life remained in the valley and only sunk deeper. With the heat upon us and a screaming baby, I was struggling to cope every day. I didn't feel like myself. I thought it odd that I had yet to bounce back from having a baby. I was tired, had no energy, no patience, no desire to play with Waverly, no motivation to take care of the house or cook dinner. I felt trapped in this town and, as Chandler shouldered the burden of house duties, meal preparing, Waverly entertaining, and all of my crazy, I started to feel useless and out of control.

I think Chandler and I were both hoping the upcoming visit from my mom, stepdad, and brother would be the push I needed to bounce back. And while I was ecstatic to be with them, I was still struggling internally. It constantly simmered beneath the surface; I enjoyed each day and each event, but my temper was short and my irritability long. Then there were times, quite frequently, I believe, when my struggle would boil over and I sat with my mom or with Chandler and just cried; so desperate to be fixed and unable to find the answers I needed as it seemed that my prayers weren't heard and Scripture was silent. Even with my family there, I was drowning.

At this point, Chandler strongly encouraged me to contact our Member Care consultants knowing they would be able to shed some light as a third party. With a few emails back and forth, and a depression survey, they recommended that we come to South Africa for some help. I was willing to accept the help because I needed to get away from life and all of its demands, but I wasn't quite ready to recognize the depth of my depression or admit my need for medication. 

Just one visit with the psychiatrist made it undeniably clear that without medication, I wouldn't have a chance of getting better. My depression was rooted in a chemical imbalance that no amount of "talking it out" would fix. Gratefully, I accepted the medication and within a week started seeing some improvement. Coupled with twice weekly visits to a counselor, my psychological state was in a better place. I learned to embrace and appreciate my roles, even though they didn't meet my expectations from when I was first called to international missions. I began to think more clearly and more rationally. I set small goals for myself and started accepting life in smaller chunks instead of always looking at the bigger, more overwhelming picture. 

In hindsight, it seems so elementary: needing help organizing my day-to-day, learning to appreciate my first ministry to our family, making a monthly dinner schedule, being in the Word every day, and divvying up chores each day, but I had reached a point where I couldn't make those decisions myself. It just required too much. My counselor made reference to "a state of crisis" where I was incapable of making subjective, rational decisions. I absolutely needed help with the every day decisions.

A month later, on our return home to Madagascar, I felt hopeful and I hadn't felt that in a long time. I came across this verse in Job 5:18: "For he wounds, but he also binds up; he injures, but his hands also heal." The Lord had allowed me to be wounded and injured, but He is also the One who is binding me up and healing me. It's not an instantaneous healing; it's a constant work in me. I know that as He heals me, I have to be willing to be healed. I rest in His bindings, allowing Him to hold me together (Colossians 1:17), and heal me. 

My Story in 2 Parts - The Admission

I've been wanting to write this post for quite some time now. I've been looking for the words, trying to focus my mind and effectively express all that I want to say. In my search for the right words, I came across this blog post that I started back in December and never finished or published. I thought this would be a good place to begin...

December 16, 2013

"Buckle your belt, I have a truth to share: Sometimes the only reason why I don't pack my things and go home is because I know that God called me to be here at this moment in time. Maybe not as shocking as you expected? Maybe my words didn't pack enough punch. But I'm afraid to be too blunt. I'm afraid of outing some real feelings that I intentionally keep locked away so as not to scare anyone or paint a horrid picture of my inner self. Being an expat in a third world country comes with its own experiences and emotions that only other third-world country expats would understand. Only by those people would I not be judged.

As the summer is upon us and quickly gaining speed and high temperatures, I am more often than not experiencing those moments of "God, I'm only here because You called me." If you read the blog, you may think that I experience these moments a great deal more than I actually am. The reality is: I've quite adjusted to this newer, slower, couldn't-be-more-different-than-America way of life. Deep down, I know that if we were ever to permanently return to the States, there would always be a part of my heart in Madagascar. For whatever reason, I seem to only blog about the difficult times. It's therapy for me. And as the icing, for the past year, my life has gone from 9 months in language to just enough time to settle into the new house to two months in Johannesburg to a newborn. I really haven't been able to dig my heels into any kind of ministry, so basically, I'm doing what I never wanted to do in a third world country: just living. So often I can't see the purpose in my every day living.

You see, I was called to international missions at the age of 13. I remember the evening as vividly as I remember anything. I was passionate about going to the bush of Africa and sharing with those who had never heard the name of Jesus. I imagined myself in the villages, under the shade of the community meeting tree, sharing life and swapping stories, cooking meals and playing with children. I never really factored in wife and mother duties. So here I am now spending all of my days keeping house - which is an all-day, everyday, into the night affair - and caring for a preschooler and newborn."

This post from December marks the first outward expression (or "confession" may be the more approriate word) of the bigger struggle going on in my life. Based on those words above, you may think you have it figured out, but I can debunk your assumption without you even saying the words. I wasn't suffering from post-partum depression, I was (and am) battling clinical depression. Just the run-of-the-mill depression exacerbated by our current life journey.

So. Many. Things.

1. I combined our two blogs into one. Two reasons: a. It's no longer Waverly's world with two babies, so the title, In a Waverly World, no longer works and my mind is too lazy to think of a new one, and b. I can barely keep up with one blog these days, much less two.

2. In 5 days we will celebrate 3 months of Elodie's precious life!

You know that saying, "If we'd had the second one first, we wouldn't have had anymore"? Well, I'm not saying that is necessarily true in our case, but maybe it's a little true... We were able to take Elodie home to Madagascar at about 4 weeks old. Up to that point, things were great and by great, I mean, she was still alive and we were headed back to unfamiliar territory (i.e., raising a baby in a third-world country) looking like deer in headlights. We were like first-time parents again, just in a different way.

When we got home, Elodie's true colors started to show and she cried all the time (I dedicated my last post solely to how much she cried). I kind of thought, with my motherly instinct, that something might be wrong. I threw out theories, such as, colic and acid reflux, but Chandler was convinced that she just hated the world. I started to believe him since she wasn't spitting up and her symptoms weren't directly aligned with colic. But what a mood-killer, huh, to think my kid just hates the world and we'll just have to suck it up...

So, needless to say, those were some of the most difficult weeks of our time in Madagascar. So much so, that I reached out to our medical team in South Africa, begging for help. The long-short is that we are in South Africa where Elodie has visited the pediatrician. He sent her for an ultrasound and 2 hours later, my instincts were proven true: Elodie has acid reflux and is colicky. She also has allergies, but South Africa does that to a person. The next day we started her on Nexium, gas/colic drops, and saline drops for her to nose to clear out the congestion.

It's been about 5 days and we are seeing some improvement! She's not incessantly crying and she is nursing better. She's more content between feedings and we've even managed to coax some giggles!

Elodie sleeps between 7 and 10 hours a night, loves ceiling fans (like, they make her smile as if she and the fan are sharing some inside joke), and recognizes Mom and Dad, of course, but also her big sister which makes Waverly oh so happy.

Speaking of Waverly, I don't know if we could have created a funnier kid. She definitely keeps us laughing and on our toes. For instance, the one afternoon she shimmied her whole body through the bars of her open window during rest time so she could go play with her friends on the playground... Yeah, our 3 year old snuck out of her room. We should've seen the signs. Just that morning, she told me,
"Mommy, I can get out of the window."
"No, you can't," I replied.
"Well, I can get my foot through," she answered, matter-of-factly.
And sure enough, she proved it. But we weren't sure how to punish her. She had no mal-intent, she just wanted to play with her friends and well, it was difficult to hide our astonishment and awe. With a careful talking to and instructions to not open her curtains anymore, we haven't had problems since. But we might be in trouble in a few years...

Anyway, she is as full of life, as always, and looks forward to starting school at the French School in Fort Dauphin in September. We are confident she will flourish there with the mix of Malagasy children and other ex-pat children at the school and in her class. She will have the opportunity to learn French and a little Malagasy, along with the usual studies: calendar, math, reading, etc. At home we are working on letters and she is almost able to write the shortened version of her name: Wave. The "e" gives her a bit of trouble still.

Despite the constant movement of our life, Waverly is quick to adjust and take the changes in stride. We are so proud of her and her resilience and zeal for life.

3. This summer, we will be hosting the first of many short-term mission teams! Our home church, Porter Memorial Baptist Church, is sending two teams, one in May and one in July, to work alongside us in Androy land. We are looking forward to seeing familiar faces and hopefully, giving them the opportunity to bless our people, but also be blessed by their experiences in Madagascar. We are excited to offer the chance for our church family to experience missions at a very grassroots, pre-early church level!

Gosh, what else... maybe that's all for now. My hope is that with just one blog, I will be able to keep it updated more regularly. :)

Two Months.

One word to describe Elodie: relentless. When she gets crying, nothing will stop her except being held and walked around. Absolutely relentless. I don't think I could have sketched two more opposite babies, than Waverly and Elodie. I thought I was mentally prepared for our second baby to be different than our first, but now I realize there really isn't any preparation for that kind of thing, just expectation.

If I ever felt an abundance of confidence in the parenting department, I have, most certainly, been humbled by this new presence in our family.

It's really not been easy from the beginning. In the hospital, Elodie would have preferred to sleep 4 or more hours between feedings and, more often than not, I had to wake her up in the middle of the night to feed. At her 3 week checkup, she had gained only ounces above her birthweight and while I half expected it, having the same issue with Waverly, it still caught me by surprise. And I cried, thinking we'd have the same difficulties that we did with Waverly and breastfeeding would be, once again, unsuccessful. But we put her on a strict feeding schedule, supplemented a formula bottle once each night, and have since reached a gloriously happy breastfeeding medium.

Now our life is challenging in other ways. Have I mentioned that Elodie is relentless? Because this also came as a surprise to us since she was such a laid back newborn. Maybe she also misses the ease and comfort of "first worldliness" in South Africa. Just kidding. She doesn't care about that.

Seriously, though, she cries all. the. time. And just for good measure, she's strong as a baby ox. In the womb, I knew she would be a strong little baby as her legs and arms stretched into my ribs requiring more than just gentle coaxing to relieve my pain. My theory has been proven as true and in one of her fits of anger, she flails her arms, stretches her legs, and sends her head into a twirl and it becomes nearly impossible to keep a hold on her.

However, despite how difficult she can be, my heart overflows with love for her. It's amazing. I never feared that my heart would not love her like I love her sister, but until it actually happened, I didn't understand the possibility of my love multiplying. And her smiles are absolutely priceless. Probably more because they're so few and far between. Maybe she understands the theory of supply and demand...

Y'all she just cried for an hour straight. I timed it. Good thing she's so darn cute!