The Big Move

 Sometimes I get stuck in my constant need for comfort.  And for me, that doesn’t necessarily mean having material things, it means that feeling that you know what’s going on.  I honestly have no idea what it means that I need comfort, but end up doing things like spending a year in Malaysia and planning to move to the east coast for grad school.  I guess that just goes to show how awesome God is, and how much bigger my life is than myself.

So.  I’ve been thinking about my need for comfort and stability lately, because of the big move.  Pastor and I moved from our little country houseto a big house down the street from Jireh Home.  And for me, the process was essentially the five stages of grief compressed into a week.  Once we finally got the keys, I assumed we would have a month – things move slowly here.  I didn’t pack until I absolutely had to, and made sure each of the staff knew how crabby and angsty I felt about the big move.

From my previous point of view, I was leaving my safe space for the past eight months.  The place I could do my really weird American things like watch lots of TV shows and laugh loudly to myself.  My walls were filled with cards, pictures and quality drawings from my non-artistic friends.  Our landlord updated my bed from a mattress on wood to two real twin beds.  IT HAD AIR CON.

Everyone kept telling me the big move was worth it because we would be closer to Jireh Home.  My angsty self was not so happy about that.  I absolutely love my kids, but if they have constant access to my house all the time (the Jireh Home library is on the ground floor and we live upstairs), where is my precious space?

As I was mopeing around, one of my friends told me to get it together because he was going to come help me move my stuff in the afternoon.  And after two weeks I will admit that I do in fact, love my new house.  Yeap.  I spent a week worrying, another week being angsty and a morning packing angrily and I love it.  Except the lack of the instant cool of the air con.  Memang panas (hot).

The big move was good for me.  As much as I love comfort and stability, the new house forced me to re-evaluate my habits and routines here.  It forced growth in a place I thought I had already grown into.  Why was I so crabby about the situation, so afraid to grow?  I don’t know.  I guess I like to rest in the things I know.  But maybe sometimes, those known things, the comfort of routines, air con and space, completely block out God.  Instead of resting in only God’s grace, I rested in the comfort of routines and organization, predictable children and good friends.  Through the big move, I’m learning that the real excitement comes from trusting in the unknown constant of grace and love.   

Rotten Bananas

Last weekend, I went to Tamu (the market) after church with two of my friends.  We had dropped two of the boys off to buy shoes, and while we waited for them, we walked through Tamu.  While there is a market everyday in town, the Sunday market is my favorite.  As we walked, we sipped fresh sugar cane juice and I asked questions.   We didn’t buy much, as we eat most of our meals at Jireh Home, but my housemate bought some really brown bananas.  I smiled and laughed to myself.  Sometimes people here do the strangest things. 

That afternoon, my housemate left to spend the night with her sister.  So the bananas sat, getting older and older by the second.  I was honestly a little afraid to touch them, assuming they were too soft to open.  I didn’t really want to deal with the mess of squished banana all over the table.  But come Monday morning, I knew I should at least eat one.  My housemate clearly intended to share the bananas, and I had clearly spent the last 12 hours not eating them.  

So I grabbed one off the bunch before walking to work.  And as I peeled back the nasty brown skin, there was not a single bruise on the inside.  Of course it was perfectly sweet and delicious.  This time I laughed out loud.  Who am I to question the local fruit? Since when do I know anything about buying fresh things from the market?  Of course my housemate knew what she was doing.

The rest of the day, I couldn’t help but contemplate the problem of the seemingly rotten bananas and my inability to trust my housemate’s judgment.   Easter has come and gone with little celebration.  Our Easter church service was nothing special.  Nobody dressed up.  There was no extra music, no extra food, no family gatherings.  While we didn’t celebrate, I have been thinking a lot about transformation.  About the transformation of death into life, of the hopeless people into people of hope, of all things ugly into unique beauty.  And I thought I understood.  I thought I was making progress.  The list of things I am thankful for grows daily, filling itself with the moments I smile and the moments I sigh with frustration.  I trust that God is using all things for his plan, and that His grace is in all things, especially the moments where I feel I am in over my head.

But then I avoided the bananas because they were ugly, because they looked bruised and brown, inedible.  Because I didn’t trust that my housemate would pick out good things for us to eat.  Sometimes reality checks come from unexpected places.  And I am thankful that as I continue to grow here, learning to trust in thanksgiving, I am walking with a community who constantly reminds me how valued I am and a God who always gives incredible gifts of grace.  

Bopping through Sabah

Mt. Kinabalu over the rice paddies in Kota Belud on the road north to Kudat

One of my favorite things to do here is ride along with my friends to go places.  In most places, you would say, “go for a drive.”  But here I like to think of it as bopping through Sabah.  For me, driving evokes images of mostly up-kept, two lane highways, and a consistent speed.   But even the main roads between major cities in Sabah, the roads are mostly two lanes of questionable condition through the mountains.    And the road is lined with little Kampungs (villages) every now and then, which means groups of school children walk home; pick up trucks full of people stop like buses; and large farm animals graze the grass next to the road.  But it also means that semi-trucks with gas, or other materials are trucking slowly up and down the hills.

And so yesterday, I bopped north through Sabah to take one of my friends and her niece and nephew to the boat launch in Kudat to return to Kampung for a funeral.  We were in a hurry, trying to get them there before the last ferry left.  But you can’t really bop through the mountains of Sabah quickly.  There was the jam at one major roundabout, the line of cars behind the semi attempting to make it up the mountain, the seemingly endless spots of broken road that forced us to slow down.  And at some points, Sufiana, one of our youngest girls, and I were literally bopping.  Sitting just in front of the back wheels, every time we hit any sort of pothole, we flew.   We didn't make the ferry, but some other family members where there to greet us and spend the night to wait for the next morning's early ferry. 

We took our time on our way home.  And sitting in the front seat, it was amazing how much smoother the ride was.  But part of the beauty of bopping through Sabah is the time spent together in the car.  It took us around 6 hours to get to Kudat and back, and sitting with the same people in the car for that long forces conversation.  I gained courage as time past, asking more meaningful questions, learning more and more about life here and sharing more and more about life in the States.   Perhaps there is something holy about time separated from the rest of the world?  Something holy about broken people driving along broken roads, healing together in real, honest and challenging conversations. 

The absence of Lent

Tonight the sky was on fire.   I sat in my door, watching the sunset while lightening flashed to my left.   And for some reason, the clouds, ominous sky, complete stillness, felt perfect for this Good Friday, the culmination of another Lenten season.  Except this year, there was no Lent, no Palm Sunday, no focus on Jesus’ suffering and death for us.  Ash Wednesday happened during Chinese New Year.  And it was nothing here.  I had to teach the staff I work with about the process of Lent in a devotion I led.  

And so here I sit.  We fasted this morning, which meant I woke up for breakfast at 6:20 and didn’t eat or drink until 12.  While the kids made a big deal out of it, my only sacrifice was getting up early.  We had a special prayer gathering in the morning, where Pastor talked about the cross, sin and suffering.  And I guess we only said "Alleluia" in one of the songs we sang. 

The most Lent thing I have done is a prayer cross, at my dad’s suggestion.  Despite the normalcy of my spiritual routine, Lent has been intense.  It has been full of deepening relationships, new friendships, and new things to worry about.  And I love the vulnerability and trust from my family here, but sometimes it’s a lot.  It’s fitting though, that I spent Lent being exposed to the brokenness of a place I once thought was smiles, hugs and rainbows.  These past forty days I’ve been seeing the brokenness, the constantly fighting children, the pain from their pasts seeping into everyday day life.  And I’ve been learning to bring the pain and brokenness to Jesus, leaving my worries and burdens on post it notes on the cross on my wall.

I spent my Good Friday at Boy's Brigade camp with the kids, learning what it means to be Ready to Serve.  And as I washed three boy’s feet, three of our student leader’s feet, the call to Friday prayer sounded from the city mosque next door.  At the time when two thousand years ago, Jesus was dying on the cross, I was listening to what I think was the sermon of the Friday service broadcasted from the mosque.  It was perfectly .  I am here in Sabah, watching the kids learn military style marching with the church youth group, listening to the call to prayer on a Good Friday where we clap, sing, giggle and play.  There was no stripped altar, dark sanctuary or questionable spring weather.  There was no silence, no dramatic readings of the passion.  Instead there were kids washing each other’s feet to learn about service, marching in step around the parking lot, and competing in games to determine who has the best squad, all in this tropical green paradise under the hot, bright sun. 

The kids at attention before drill practice

Honestly, I’m not sure how I feel about the absence of what I consider to be Lent.  I’m not sure how I feel about the fact that this year, there isn’t the intense community focus on the fact that God humbled himself to save us; that He died and rose again.  And I never imagined that I would be missing Lent, and the intentionality and reflection that it brings.   As I finally take the time to sit and think, perhaps the past month and a half of accompanying my friends and family here in their struggles has made the hope, healing and perfection of the resurrection more wonderful than I ever thought.

Productivity?

Its amazing how little work I do when I go to work.  Most Mondays, I start the morning off at Jireh Home around 9:30 with a list of things I need to do for the week.  First I list the people I should respond to for letters/emails, which is getting quite long.  Then I normally make a shopping list of things I need to buy in town – usually peanut butter, maybe some stamps, bread if I’m feeling ambitious.  After the things I need, I go over English plans, and figure out what work I need to do for that.   Normally I’m a few days ahead for English class, so by the time I’m done with my need for control, one of my friends on staff will invite me to do something.

So I spend the rest of the morning usually lying on the ground in the living room watching some sort of movie, playing scrabble, or just sitting.  Yeap.  I go to work to lay on the floor for at least two hours before someone decides they are hungry.  And then after lunch we sleep for an hour before English class.  And I always pull out my notebook or a book to pretend I am going to write a letter, or postcards, or read deep, intelligent things.  But I never do any of that.  Instead I am just surprisingly present in the moment. 

I always tell myself I will get stuff ready to go to town early in the week.  I will have the English papers ready to copy, the letters/postcards addressed and stamped, the shopping list finalized and memorized, the pizza hut coupon secure in my wallet.   But when my friends decide they need to go to town, nothing is ever ready.  I just grab some money and follow them, eager to see where we end up.

Yesterday, when I was hoping to plan most of next week’s English class, I took a detour to town and we spent an hour hanging out at KFC, eating so much really good fried chicken, singing to music from my friend’s fancy new phone, and laughing so much.  Nothing got checked off of my list.  But we laughed, giggled, talked about boys and had fun.  Perhaps productivity has nothing to do with the number of things you check off your list. 

Here in Sabah, I don’t worry about the things I am supposed to be doing.  I don’t worry about the letters I don’t write, the birthday postcards that are literally two months late, the English class planned with no details.   And I’m learning that’s okay. I’m learning that my best English classes happen when I read the kid’s moods and plan while we correct homework.  I’m learning that everyone back home still loves me despite the constant lack of communication.   And I’m learning that living a full life has nothing to do with checking things off a full list.  I’m learning to let go of all control of my day.  Learning that it is best to leave the details to the One who always knows what is best for me.