tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51185171904899018662024-03-14T18:01:47.127+03:00everyone needs a little Grace in their livesCovered by grace and compelled by love in Dar es Salaam, TanzaniaAmy Medinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02445986974714298954noreply@blogger.comBlogger1030125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118517190489901866.post-7748501207561316292021-04-28T01:50:00.003+03:002021-04-28T01:50:47.710+03:00Come over and see what I've been writing!<p>Hey loyal readers!</p><p>Just a reminder that I'm now writing over at <a href="http://amy-medina.com">amy-medina.com</a>. I hope you'll join me over there!</p><p>Here are some recent posts:</p><p><a href="https://amy-medina.com/boarding-school/" target="_blank">Boarding School</a></p><p><a href="https://amy-medina.com/its-time-to-live-like-missionaries/" target="_blank">It's Time to Live Like Missionaries</a></p><p><a href="https://amy-medina.com/looking-for-truth-in-all-the-fake-news/" target="_blank">Looking for Truth In All the Fake News</a></p><p><a href="https://amy-medina.com/when-america-makes-no-sense/" target="_blank">When America Makes No Sense</a></p><p><a href="https://amy-medina.com/writing-in-past-tense-about-my-missionary-life/" target="_blank">Writing in Past Tense About My Missionary Life</a></p><p><a href="https://amy-medina.com/the-invasion-robbery-and-the-power-of-fear/" target="_blank">The Invasion Robbery and the Power of Fear</a></p><p><a href="https://amy-medina.com/on-getting-the-american-dream/" target="_blank">On Getting the American Dream</a> (We bought a house!)</p><p><a href="https://amy-medina.com/the-scariest-prayer/" target="_blank">The Scariest Prayer</a> </p><p><a href="https://amy-medina.com/analyzing-my-allegiance/" target="_blank">Analyzing My Allegiance</a></p>Amy Medinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02445986974714298954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118517190489901866.post-44848594696810061702020-12-20T23:39:00.005+03:002020-12-21T00:33:10.420+03:00Hey There!<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIZ1ljXglVJWrayDesFO5UzBdqBDwqb82HezP_TnHv0TpY4z2q70h9B4IIY9P6tofr2WWJ3P1lXjc22SgMl9GxQhUrbegRP6YZzjQ-SEQ1U8-LsCRLiyOJZccjmHYNdFXiXrh1MvHjow/s2048/DSC_3736.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1356" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIZ1ljXglVJWrayDesFO5UzBdqBDwqb82HezP_TnHv0TpY4z2q70h9B4IIY9P6tofr2WWJ3P1lXjc22SgMl9GxQhUrbegRP6YZzjQ-SEQ1U8-LsCRLiyOJZccjmHYNdFXiXrh1MvHjow/s320/DSC_3736.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>It's been a while since I've been in this space! Just wanted to wish my readers a Merry Christmas and remind you that I'm now blogging over at <a href="http://www.amy-medina.com">www.amy-medina.com</a>. I hope you'll join me over there!</p><p>Here are some recent posts:</p><p><a href="https://amy-medina.com/ideas-are-always-more-important-than-battles/" target="_blank">Ideas Are Always More Important Than Battles</a></p><p><a href="https://amy-medina.com/i-dont-want-to-waste-this-emptiness/" target="_blank">I Don't Want to Waste This Emptiness</a></p><p><a href="https://amy-medina.com/people-are-more-important-than-monkeys/" target="_blank">People Are More Important Than Monkeys</a></p><p><a href="https://amy-medina.com/i-am-guilty-of-cancel-culture/" target="_blank">I Am Guilty of Cancel Culture</a></p><p><a href="https://amy-medina.com/how-we-are-adjusting/" target="_blank">How We Are Adjusting</a></p><p><a href="https://amy-medina.com/you-are-not-allowed-to-think-we-are-poor/" target="_blank">You Are Not Allowed to Think We Are Poor</a></p><p><a href="https://amy-medina.com/the-december-i-was-14/" target="_blank">The December I Was 14</a></p><p><br /></p>Amy Medinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02445986974714298954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118517190489901866.post-20866771124301571942020-10-13T22:48:00.003+03:002020-10-13T22:48:44.495+03:00Last Call....Follow Me Over to My New Blog!<p> If you have been following this blog by email or on Feedly, remember to come find me over at <a href="http://www.amy-medina.com">www.amy-medina.com</a>. </p><p>Hope to see you there!</p>Amy Medinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02445986974714298954noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118517190489901866.post-46719584851285774152020-10-06T02:49:00.006+03:002020-10-09T20:08:27.362+03:00I've Moved...Come on Over!Hey loyal readers.... I'm excited to announce that my new blog is up and
running! You can now find my writing over at
<a href="http://amy-medina.com/" target="_blank">Not Home Yet</a>. Please
subscribe in one of the following ways:
<div><br /></div><div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Sign up by email by entering your email address in the sidebar. Make sure to check your junk mail for the confirmation message.</li><li>If you use Feedly.com or another content organizer, enter amy-medina.com to add my new site.</li></ul><div><br /></div></div><div>If you follow me on Facebook, you should start seeing links to my new blog. Just keep in mind that you'll likely miss posts if social media is the main way you follow me. </div><div><br /></div><div>I hope to see you soon over at <a href="http://amy-medina.com">amy-medina.com</a>!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Amy Medinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02445986974714298954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118517190489901866.post-22348540408148205242020-08-29T03:23:00.005+03:002020-08-29T03:23:56.641+03:00If You Wonder Where I've Gone.....Thanks for checking in! I haven't posted for a while because I am working on a brand new blog site. I will be excited to introduce you to it soon and I hope you will follow me there!Amy Medinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02445986974714298954noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118517190489901866.post-90999271563865717582020-07-13T07:43:00.003+03:002020-07-13T07:43:13.239+03:00Why I'm Becoming a Third Class Missionary<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMLGXU-mbOL5YJFmtRaukuidqjRiSWLqXQ39Puse8ma0SZf-HWlmqNlGSh1rfTF2mTTVMifQUS0dUMSjadp-uqAw0kjpmwrOWw0XGHfqFfZWZhdfnkC0IxSSJv5P4C3ubZvh5DXxqZ5Q/s1600/colorful-1974699_1280.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="698" data-original-width="1280" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMLGXU-mbOL5YJFmtRaukuidqjRiSWLqXQ39Puse8ma0SZf-HWlmqNlGSh1rfTF2mTTVMifQUS0dUMSjadp-uqAw0kjpmwrOWw0XGHfqFfZWZhdfnkC0IxSSJv5P4C3ubZvh5DXxqZ5Q/s400/colorful-1974699_1280.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
This time last year, Gil and I made the decision that we would be relocating to the States in 2020. As we started thinking about where we would go and what we would do in America, there were a lot of possibilities on the table.<br />
<br />
There was one thing, however, that I was adamant about. Whatever we decided to do next, I did not want to be in a support-raising position. One of my most popular-ever posts is <a href="https://www.alifeoverseas.com/in-defense-of-second-class-missionaries/" target="_blank">In Defense of Second Class Missionaries</a>. If being missionary teachers made us second-class missionaries, then living <i>stateside </i>on support would put us in third-class missionary status. <i>No sirree; </i>I was not going to do that. It was hard enough raising support to live overseas, but stateside missionaries don't excite anyone. We would get regular jobs that paid regular salaries and we would be regular Americans. So no matter how cool an opportunity sounded to me, if it required raising support, I was out.<br />
<br />
But I have this wonderful friend, Alyssa, who has this habit of <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2017/10/the-wounds-of-friend.html" target="_blank">drilling into my soul.</a> So when I told her my intention of finding a regular, non-support-raising job, she was not satisfied. "Why not?" she asked me. "What if God shows you the perfect job that is a perfect fit for you, but you have to raise support for it? Would you still say no?"<br />
<br />
Of course, since I wanted to sound like a good Christian, I sighed and promised that I would do my best to keep an open mind to whatever God wanted me to do. But inwardly, my mind was still made up. <i>No way. I've lived on support for 18 years. And I know what the American church thinks about third-class missionaries. It's time to move on.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>Throughout the fall, Gil and I had numerous conversations with various ministry leaders, some from Reach Global (our mission agency) and some with other organizations, all desiring to recruit us. They were support-raising positions, and some sounded pretty enticing. However, it was during this time that we <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2020/06/the-next-chapter.html" target="_blank">came to the conclusion</a> that we wanted to live in California, and that we wanted our kids in Christian schools. That meant either Gil or I would need to work for a Christian school in order to afford it. So it wasn't difficult to say no to those opportunities.<br />
<br />
Then came a call in late December from the leader of the Engage Division of Reach Global. He was encouraging me to consider joining their team as a Pre-Deployed Missionary Coach. The leader described the position: Interviewing potential missionary candidates, coaching and training accepted candidates, and helping them discover where in the world God was leading them.<br />
<br />
Despite my best efforts to not be interested, I was instantly energized during this conversation. <i>This would be a job I would love. This would be a job I would be good at. </i>And I could do it from anywhere in the United States.<br />
<br />
But I was still very determined that I did not want to accept a support-raising position. So it was off the table....right? Besides, either Gil or I needed to teach at a Christian school. That was the first priority. So I couldn't say yes....right?<br />
<br />
Yet, I couldn't shake the idea that I was uniquely qualified for this job. Not only had I served in missions for 16 years, I also had been a missionary kid. During our years in Tanzania, I reveled in helping new missionaries adjust to life overseas. Being part of a missionary school, I worked with missionaries from a multitude of countries, ages, and seasons of life. I've experienced the ugly, the crazy, and the beautiful in missionary communities. I've been writing for <a href="https://www.alifeoverseas.com/category/missions-blog-authors/monthly-contributors/amy-medina/" target="_blank">A Life Overseas</a>, a blog dedicated to missionaries, for five years. Promoting missions, and enabling missionaries to do their jobs well, is a passion of mine. Plus, I now have three years of experience in administration. Interviewing, hiring, coaching, and training have all been a part of my job as principal.<br />
<br />
Yet <i>I did not want to raise support</i>. Period. I battled with God on this. I had done my time, right? This was my chance to be a regular person with a regular job. Meanwhile, Gil and I were busily applying to Christian school jobs all over California. Some teaching possibilities opened for me, but they were not in great locations for our family. So I kept those on hold.<br />
<br />
Then in late May Gil got the perfect job at the perfect Christian school in the perfect location. And suddenly, I had no more excuses.<br />
<br />
I talked to Alyssa again. "I really want to do the Engage job," I told her. "But I just don't want to raise support." And Alyssa, in her kind but soul-drilling way, said to me, "Amy, you don't whine very often. So when you do, I know you must be trying to avoid something that you know you are supposed to do."<br />
<br />
She got me. I knew she was right. So I forced myself to take a good hard look at why I was so opposed to taking a job that required me to raise support. And the picture that came to my mind was my friend Lois.<br />
<br />
Lois was a widow. Lois supported us at $200 a month for several years <i>as a widow</i>. She developed cancer, and a few years I ago when we were in the States, I visited her in her nursing home. I talked with her about how grateful we were that she supported us so generously for so long. "It's my pleasure," she told me. "You know, I discussed this with my kids. They agreed that they didn't need a big inheritance. They were okay with me giving away my money to missionaries."<br />
<br />
And I just sat there dumbfounded. I still am dumbfounded. Why would anyone do that? Why would someone make that kind of sacrifice? <i>For me?</i><br />
<br />
Lois died about six weeks after that meeting. Recounting that conversation still brings tears to my eyes. I have <i>dozens </i>of stories like this. There are so many who blow me away by their consistent, faithful, sacrificial generosity.<br />
<br />
And I am humbled. <i>That's it. </i>That's the clincher. I realized that's why I have been so opposed to staying on support. I think of Lois, and so many other scores of faces, and I am ground to the dust in gratitude. Basically that's why I was kicking and screaming all this time: I was too proud to admit how much I didn't want to be humbled. And knowing that I would be demoted to third-class missionary status didn't help. Though I knew I would love doing this job, I wouldn't have any cool Africa stories any more. I wouldn't be on the "front lines." I would be behind the scenes, which definitely isn't very glamorous. I knew it would be a lot harder, and a lot more humbling, to raise the support I needed.<br />
<br />
Which, when I finally admitted it to myself, was not a reason at all. As a child of God, if this is the job I am called to do, then I should welcome the big gulp of humility I must take by remaining dependent on God and His church to provide for my needs.<br />
<br />
So about a month ago, I accepted the job. I will officially start in September, and I've made an initial commitment of two years. I am very excited, but nervously trusting that God is going to make this work.<br />
<br />
<b><u>And, for the first time ever on this blog, I'm asking you, my readers, if there are any out there who would be interested in joining my financial support team. </u></b>If that could be you, then please read the information at the bottom of this post, or click on to the <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2020/07/why-should-i-support-third-class.html" target="_blank">next post</a> for answers to frequently asked questions.<br />
<br />
Some of you may have been wondering what is going to happen to this blog now that I'm no longer in Africa, and I've been thinking a lot about that too. I know I need a re-design, and I'm working on that. One of the exciting parts of my new job is that it will allow me to continue to keep reading, thinking deeply, and writing about missions. I hope you'll come along as I start Part 2 of my life as an enthusiastic, third-class missionary.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
<b>If you would like to partner with me in this role, pray for me, or support me financially, please read on...</b><br />
<br />
If you would like to be on my mailing list (if you are not already), please email me at everyoneneedsalittlegrace(at)gmail.com and I would be happy to add you! No more cool Africa stories, but I will be sharing about how God is using me to send new missionaries around the world.<br />
<br />
If you are interested in supporting me financially, you can <a href="https://give.efca.org/" target="_blank">go here</a> to donate. Designate to Amy Medina, #1929. However, a better way to donate is by automatic bank transfer because there are no fees and it doesn't expire like credit cards do. If you want to set that up, you can<a href="https://www.efca.org/resources/form/automatic-monthly-donation-form" target="_blank"> click here.</a> Checks can be sent to EFCA Donor Services, 901 East 78th Street, Minneapolis, MN 55420-1300. Include a note designating to Amy Medina, #1929. All donations are tax deductible.<br />
<br />
Remember, click on to the <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2020/07/why-should-i-support-third-class.html" target="_blank">next post</a> if you have additional questions about how this works.<br />
<br />Amy Medinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02445986974714298954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118517190489901866.post-69644957799257964892020-07-10T06:41:00.002+03:002020-07-10T06:43:40.702+03:00Why Should I Support a Third-Class Missionary?Thanks for clicking! If you haven't already, please read the <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2020/07/why-im-becoming-third-class-missionary.html" target="_blank">previous post</a> first.<br />
<br />
Here are some answers to some commonly asked questions about raising support.<br />
<br />
<b>Why do you need to raise support for this job? Why can't Reach Global just pay you?</b><br />
<br />
Missions is not exactly an income-generating industry. Though there are a couple of denominations that require their churches to donate to a mission organization, most don't. So that means that even for stateside positions like mine, employees need to raise support. The alternative would be that other missionaries raise additional funds that would pay for my salary. That's not unheard of, since some administrative employees in Reach Global's national office are paid this way. But as you can imagine, we would rather not put the burden of those salaries onto other missionaries.<br />
<br />
<b>Where does the money go when someone donates?</b><br />
<br />
Each mission agency does this a little differently, but with Reach Global, donated money goes into a ministry account for that particular missionary. Salaries, insurance, pension, etc. are all taken out of that account. If there is extra money in it, missionaries can also use that account to pay for things that would normally be considered a business expense, like travel or conferences.<br />
<br />
The amount missionaries have to raise is a lot higher than what they receive as a monthly salary. This is because they also need to raise funds for health insurance, retirement, flights and visa expenses, as well as a service allocation that goes to the mission.<br />
<br />
<b>How is your salary set?</b><br />
<br />
For Reach Global, the standard missionary salary is based on the average salary of associate pastors at EFCA churches. Other factors influence salary, including the number of children and the cost of living in a particular country. If the funds in a missionary's ministry account go too low, then their salary is also lowered.<br />
<br />
Gil and I have only ever received one salary from Reach Global, even when both of us were working full-time. That's because it's considered more of a stipend than a salary; it's based on how much we need to live on. There aren't raises connected to work performance or level of education. (As a side note, Reach Global has other measures in place to ensure work performance and accountability, since salary is not linked to that.)<br />
<br />
<b>So how will this work with you now being the Reach Global employee instead of Gil?</b><br />
<br />
To put it simply, the ministry account will be changed over from Gil's name into mine and I will be the official employee. For those who have already been donating to that account, nothing will change on the donor's end.<br />
<br />
<b>Why are you looking for more donors if you already had enough during your time in Tanzania? Since Gil has a job as well, don't you need less support?</b><br />
<br />
Yes, I will need less financial support for this position than what we were receiving for our ministry in Tanzania. Our kids' insurance will be covered by Gil's new job and there are other cuts that will lower the amount I need to raise. I anticipate the amount I will need in my ministry account will be about 30% less than what we needed to raise for Tanzania.<br />
<br />
However, after contacting our current supporters, it looks like I will be losing about 50% of my support base. This is not surprising, nor am I hurt by this! Some of our supporters have passed away, some have retired, some want to stick with overseas missionaries, some have changed churches and want to support missionaries at their new church. The stipend we received from HOPAC towards our housing is also no longer part of our support. I anticipate needing to raise an additional $1000-$2000 per month in order to be able to meet my funding goal.<br />
<br />
If we could survive in Southern California on Gil's teacher's salary, I would happily volunteer for this position with Reach Global. But even though we are frugal and have no debt, I need to receive a salary. Since God has made it clear that this is the position I need to take, then I am trusting He will provide the support I need.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>So why should I consider supporting you as a stateside missionary? Aren't overseas missionaries more urgent and important?</b><br />
<br />
I'm not going to give an easy yes/no answer to this question. This is the thing: As an advocate for missions, I want you to support overseas missionaries or ministries who are doing strategic, front line work. If you are a Christian and have never financially supported an overseas missionary, you need to find one! Partnering with these folks is urgent and important, and if you tell me that you are prioritizing overseas missionaries, I will never once question you on it. How could I? I was one myself for 16 years, and my next job will be to advocate for them.<br />
<br />
However, overseas missionaries have a symbiotic relationship with people in positions like the one I am taking. Rarely can a missionary successfully live overseas long-term without being coached and trained. So yes, I want you to support overseas missionaries. But is a position like mine also important? Well, I wouldn't have said yes if it wasn't!<br />
<br />
<b>What about COVID? How is that impacting the future of missions? Are there even going to be any missionaries to send anymore?</b><br />
<br />
I have thought long and hard about this question and discussed it extensively with mission leadership. COVID absolutely is impacting missions now and will be for the foreseeable future. This is definitely an opportunity for the Global Church to re-evaluate how we do evangelism and missions worldwide. But is the Great Commission finished? Absolutely not. And the American Church is still the most well-resourced church in the world. That doesn't mean we get to call the shots (quite the contrary), but it does mean we continue to have a responsibility to do our part to build God's kingdom around the world. In fact, I would argue that COVID has increased the urgency and opportunity of overseas missions.<br />
<br />
Interestingly, Reach Global has seen an uptick in missionary applications during this last quarter. COVID has not slowed down the call of God on people's lives to serve overseas. I look forward to working with the next generation of missionaries to creatively spread the gospel.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>What do I need to do if I want to partner with you, pray for you, or support you financially?</b><br />
<br />
If you would like to be on my mailing list (if you are not already), please email me at everyoneneedsalittlegrace(at)gmail.com and I would be happy to add you! No more cool Africa stories, but I will be sharing about how God is using me to send new missionaries around the world.<br />
<br />
If you are interested in supporting me financially, you can <a href="https://give.efca.org/" target="_blank">go here</a> to donate. Designate to Amy Medina, #1929. However, a better way to donate is by automatic bank transfer because there are no fees and it doesn't expire like credit cards do. If you want to set that up, you can<a href="https://www.efca.org/resources/form/automatic-monthly-donation-form" target="_blank"> click here.</a> Checks can be sent to EFCA Donor Services, 901 East 78th Street, Minneapolis, MN 55420-1300. Include a note designating to Amy Medina, #1929. All donations are tax deductible.<br />
<br />
If you choose to do this, please send me an email letting me know you are doing so and if it's a one-time donation or monthly, as this helps me to plan ahead.<br />
<br />
If you've gotten this far, thanks for reading! Please know that I would be very happy to answer any other questions, so don't hesitate to email me.<br />
<br />Amy Medinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02445986974714298954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118517190489901866.post-14284396005943582742020-07-10T06:41:00.001+03:002020-07-10T06:43:04.153+03:00Why I'm Becoming a Third Class Missionary<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMLGXU-mbOL5YJFmtRaukuidqjRiSWLqXQ39Puse8ma0SZf-HWlmqNlGSh1rfTF2mTTVMifQUS0dUMSjadp-uqAw0kjpmwrOWw0XGHfqFfZWZhdfnkC0IxSSJv5P4C3ubZvh5DXxqZ5Q/s1600/colorful-1974699_1280.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="698" data-original-width="1280" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMLGXU-mbOL5YJFmtRaukuidqjRiSWLqXQ39Puse8ma0SZf-HWlmqNlGSh1rfTF2mTTVMifQUS0dUMSjadp-uqAw0kjpmwrOWw0XGHfqFfZWZhdfnkC0IxSSJv5P4C3ubZvh5DXxqZ5Q/s400/colorful-1974699_1280.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
This time last year, Gil and I made the decision that we would be relocating to the States in 2020. As we started thinking about where we would go and what we would do in America, there were a lot of possibilities on the table.<br />
<br />
There was one thing, however, that I was adamant about. Whatever we decided to do next, I did not want to be in a support-raising position. One of my most popular-ever posts is <a href="https://www.alifeoverseas.com/in-defense-of-second-class-missionaries/" target="_blank">In Defense of Second Class Missionaries</a>. If being missionary teachers made us second-class missionaries, then living <i>stateside </i>on support would put us in third-class missionary status. <i>No sirree; </i>I was not going to do that. It was hard enough raising support to live overseas, but stateside missionaries don't excite anyone. We would get regular jobs that paid regular salaries and we would be regular Americans. So no matter how cool an opportunity sounded to me, if it required raising support, I was out.<br />
<br />
But I have this wonderful friend, Alyssa, who has this habit of <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2017/10/the-wounds-of-friend.html" target="_blank">drilling into my soul.</a> So when I told her my intention of finding a regular, non-support-raising job, she was not satisfied. "Why not?" she asked me. "What if God shows you the perfect job that is a perfect fit for you, but you have to raise support for it? Would you still say no?"<br />
<br />
Of course, since I wanted to sound like a good Christian, I sighed and promised that I would do my best to keep an open mind to whatever God wanted me to do. But inwardly, my mind was still made up. <i>No way. I've lived on support for 18 years. And I know what the American church thinks about third-class missionaries. It's time to move on.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Throughout the fall, Gil and I had numerous conversations with various ministry leaders, some from Reach Global (our mission agency) and some with other organizations, all desiring to recruit us. They were support-raising positions, and some sounded pretty enticing. However, it was during this time that we <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2020/06/the-next-chapter.html" target="_blank">came to the conclusion</a> that we wanted to live in California, and that we wanted our kids in Christian schools. That meant either Gil or I would need to work for a Christian school in order to afford it. So it wasn't difficult to say no to those opportunities.<br />
<br />
Then came a call in late December from the leader of the Engage Division of Reach Global. He was encouraging me to consider joining their team as a Pre-Deployed Missionary Coach. The leader described the position: Interviewing potential missionary candidates, coaching and training accepted candidates, and helping them discover where in the world God was leading them.<br />
<br />
Despite my best efforts to not be interested, I was instantly energized during this conversation. <i>This would be a job I would love. This would be a job I would be good at. </i>And I could do it from anywhere in the United States.<br />
<br />
But I was still very determined that I did not want to accept a support-raising position. So it was off the table....right? Besides, either Gil or I needed to teach at a Christian school. That was the first priority. So I couldn't say yes....right?<br />
<br />
Yet, I couldn't shake the idea that I was uniquely qualified for this job. Not only had I served in missions for 16 years, I also had been a missionary kid. During our years in Tanzania, I reveled in helping new missionaries adjust to life overseas. Being part of a missionary school, I worked with missionaries from a multitude of countries, ages, and seasons of life. I've experienced the ugly, the crazy, and the beautiful in missionary communities. I've been writing for <a href="https://www.alifeoverseas.com/category/missions-blog-authors/monthly-contributors/amy-medina/" target="_blank">A Life Overseas</a>, a blog dedicated to missionaries, for five years. Promoting missions, and enabling missionaries to do their jobs well, is a passion of mine. Plus, I now have three years of experience in administration. Interviewing, hiring, coaching, and training have all been a part of my job as principal.<br />
<br />
Yet <i>I did not want to raise support</i>. Period. I battled with God on this. I had done my time, right? This was my chance to be a regular person with a regular job. Meanwhile, Gil and I were busily applying to Christian school jobs all over California. Some teaching possibilities opened for me, but they were not in great locations for our family. So I kept those on hold.<br />
<br />
Then in late May Gil got the perfect job at the perfect Christian school in the perfect location. And suddenly, I had no more excuses.<br />
<br />
I talked to Alyssa again. "I really want to do the Engage job," I told her. "But I just don't want to raise support." And Alyssa, in her kind but soul-drilling way, said to me, "Amy, you don't whine very often. So when you do, I know you must be trying to avoid something that you know you are supposed to do."<br />
<br />
She got me. I knew she was right. So I forced myself to take a good hard look at why I was so opposed to taking a job that required me to raise support. And the picture that came to my mind was my friend Lois.<br />
<br />
Lois was a widow. Lois supported us at $200 a month for several years <i>as a widow</i>. She developed cancer, and a few years I ago when we were in the States, I visited her in her nursing home. I talked with her about how grateful we were that she supported us so generously for so long. "It's my pleasure," she told me. "You know, I discussed this with my kids. They agreed that they didn't need a big inheritance. They were okay with me giving away my money to missionaries."<br />
<br />
And I just sat there dumbfounded. I still am dumbfounded. Why would anyone do that? Why would someone make that kind of sacrifice? <i>For me?</i><br />
<br />
Lois died about six weeks after that meeting. Recounting that conversation still brings tears to my eyes. I have <i>dozens </i>of stories like this. There are so many who blow me away by their consistent, faithful, sacrificial generosity.<br />
<br />
And I am humbled. <i>That's it. </i>That's the clincher. I realized that's why I have been so opposed to staying on support. I think of Lois, and so many other scores of faces, and I am ground to the dust in gratitude. Basically that's why I was kicking and screaming all this time: I was too proud to admit how much I didn't want to be humbled. And knowing that I would be demoted to third-class missionary status didn't help. Though I knew I would love doing this job, I wouldn't have any cool Africa stories any more. I wouldn't be on the "front lines." I would be behind the scenes, which definitely isn't very glamorous. I knew it would be a lot harder, and a lot more humbling, to raise the support I needed.<br />
<br />
Which, when I finally admitted it to myself, was not a reason at all. As a child of God, if this is the job I am called to do, then I should welcome the big gulp of humility I must take by remaining dependent on God and His church to provide for my needs.<br />
<br />
So about a month ago, I accepted the job. I will officially start in September, and I've made an initial commitment of two years. I am very excited, but nervously trusting that God is going to make this work.<br />
<br />
<b><u>And, for the first time ever on this blog, I'm asking you, my readers, if there are any out there who would be interested in joining my financial support team. </u></b>If that could be you, then please read the information at the bottom of this post, or click on to the <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2020/07/why-should-i-support-third-class.html" target="_blank">next post</a> for answers to frequently asked questions.<br />
<br />
Some of you may have been wondering what is going to happen to this blog now that I'm no longer in Africa, and I've been thinking a lot about that too. I know I need a re-design, and I'm working on that. One of the exciting parts of my new job is that it will allow me to continue to keep reading, thinking deeply, and writing about missions. I hope you'll come along as I start Part 2 of my life as an enthusiastic, third-class missionary.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
<b>If you would like to partner with me in this role, pray for me, or support me financially, please read on...</b><br />
<br />
If you would like to be on my mailing list (if you are not already), please email me at everyoneneedsalittlegrace(at)gmail.com and I would be happy to add you! No more cool Africa stories, but I will be sharing about how God is using me to send new missionaries around the world.<br />
<br />
If you are interested in supporting me financially, you can <a href="https://give.efca.org/" target="_blank">go here</a> to donate. Designate to Amy Medina, #1929. However, a better way to donate is by automatic bank transfer because there are no fees and it doesn't expire like credit cards do. If you want to set that up, you can<a href="https://www.efca.org/resources/form/automatic-monthly-donation-form" target="_blank"> click here.</a> Checks can be sent to EFCA Donor Services, 901 East 78th Street, Minneapolis, MN 55420-1300. Include a note designating to Amy Medina, #1929. All donations are tax deductible.<br />
<br />
Remember, click on to the <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2020/07/why-should-i-support-third-class.html" target="_blank">next post</a> if you have additional questions about how this works.<br />
<br />Amy Medinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02445986974714298954noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118517190489901866.post-50167283477050121242020-07-07T21:54:00.000+03:002020-07-07T21:54:05.105+03:00You Can't Really Call This Moving<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh8YPpv4NzgY2F-wZfG6ZbyuLHplnNV3qtfeXGR211jLzl5wSNu4TumFJVeq0xUPUxobzyPTgvvPoC-iP5JLyBI6iQZaq_icX7kNy7TUbjo_e344QwijJ0n-_ONHM-e98jkwRYYQRmLg/s1600/IMG_0844.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh8YPpv4NzgY2F-wZfG6ZbyuLHplnNV3qtfeXGR211jLzl5wSNu4TumFJVeq0xUPUxobzyPTgvvPoC-iP5JLyBI6iQZaq_icX7kNy7TUbjo_e344QwijJ0n-_ONHM-e98jkwRYYQRmLg/s320/IMG_0844.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
During the last three months, I owned practically no possessions. I don't think I've ever really experienced that. The boxes we brought from Tanzania consisted of wall decorations, photo albums, and Christmas ornaments. Important, but not exactly essentials for starting a new life.<br />
<br />
When it came to actual useful things, the only things I brought with me were my Cutco knives, my cheese grater (because it's awesome), and some clothes and shoes. Josiah would include his Xbox in that category, which he carried over the ocean in his backpack.<br />
<br />
Aaaand....that was pretty much the sum total of our possessions. The things we had left in storage in our parents' garages consisted of plenty more non-useful things like books of stories I wrote in the third grade. Amusing, but not particularly practical.<br />
<br />
<div>
So when I say that we moved into our apartment last week, I don't think <i>moved </i>is the correct verb. More like, <i>we opened our Rubbermaid totes full of colorful African-styled picture frames to hang on the empty walls and I put my Cutco knives into the otherwise empty drawers and we stacked up our clothes in our empty closets and spread out sleeping bags on the floor. </i>But there isn't a verb for that. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So this was my first time needing to buy, well, <i>everything</i>. When we got married we had a wedding registry as well as the bits and pieces Gil and I had collected from single life. When we moved to Tanzania, we borrowed furniture at first, and then bought an entire household of furniture/appliances/kitchen stuff/car from a leaving missionary. We still needed to fill in some gaps, but generally, we had most of what we needed, all at once.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So you could say that our moving day this time was a bit anti-climactic. Pretty much everything fit into our van, which we had just purchased two weeks prior, financially benefiting from the fleets of vehicles dumped by car-rental companies. <i>Thanks, COVID, for a great van</i>. <i>We'll call it a consolation prize for everything else you stole from us.</i> The last two weeks it's been our <i>collecting </i>van, as we have been driving all over a 40 mile radius, picking up furniture from people selling online. It's like the Great Medina Scavenger Hunt of 2020, and that van managed to squeeze in (not all at once, of course) a sectional couch, two bunk bed sets, a desk, a coffee table, and three trips to IKEA. (IKEA is one of the happiest places on earth, and now it's even more like Disneyland because you have to wait in line for 45 minutes just to get in.)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Hey, did you know that IKEA sells mattresses wrapped up like a burrito, like one of those magic grow capsules? Except, instead of putting it into water, you just cut the plastic off and watch it magically grow into a mattress instead of a sponge dinosaur. Now you know. You're welcome.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Lily and I went to Walmart the day we moved in, and I should have just told a worker, "Give me one of everything you've got, please." We walked down every aisle and filled two carts to overflowing before we called it a day. I needed to buy a stapler, because we didn't have a stapler. How many times in a life do you need to buy a stapler? Not very often. Only when you own no possessions.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We now have visited every thrift store in the city and can speak with authority about our favorites. We made a garage seller's day when we showed up and bought out all of their furniture, lickity-split, in 5 seconds flat. I've discovered that the words "estate sale" are especially thrilling. Josiah and Johnny even found a $20 like-new Foosball table. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Thankfully by now everyone is sleeping on a bed and almost all of the clothes have somewhere to go and my knives have friends in the kitchen drawers and I even found a large set of used Fiestaware dishes, which make me happy every time I see them. The Tanzanian decorations are on the walls and finally, finally, finally we are starting to settle. Johnny has asked at least three times, "So we are living here now?" and I don't think he really believes me since we've been changing locations so often these months. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But we have keys. We have an address. It'll do for home.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsT84ATvrj1x4cWi7hOvJ08QNXMPIso_nqIJ7VFlrl-LMvJPfySePvtI9qzo1StHm_Tnxq7xyIfJa0zXQzWT9CoUMDmMVGsOfyALKvITT1qb7iqIjrmOauDwkZZtqht3zlDL6t62y8iw/s1600/IMG_0845.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsT84ATvrj1x4cWi7hOvJ08QNXMPIso_nqIJ7VFlrl-LMvJPfySePvtI9qzo1StHm_Tnxq7xyIfJa0zXQzWT9CoUMDmMVGsOfyALKvITT1qb7iqIjrmOauDwkZZtqht3zlDL6t62y8iw/s320/IMG_0845.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
Amy Medinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02445986974714298954noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118517190489901866.post-68102079371568109302020-07-02T01:08:00.001+03:002020-07-02T02:38:59.103+03:00The End of Part OneI remember my first night in Africa.<br />
<br />
I had just turned six years old about a week earlier, so it was that time of life when memories are short bursts--seconds, really--like someone cut a few frames out of an old-time movie reel.<br />
<br />
I don't remember saying goodbye to my grandmother; I don't remember the plane ride or who picked us up from the airport. But I remember my first night in Liberia.<br />
<br />
Those few seconds of memory consist of a mental image of my room--the bed up against the wall and under the window. A window screen separated me from the jungle just a few feet outside. It was almost dark. The air felt different, I remember. Warmer, heavier, richer. I don't think I felt afraid, just interest, and curiosity, in all the strange newness that enveloped me.<br />
<br />
Such lack of fear is the blessing of childhood. There was a hole in that screen about a the size of a quarter, and it made my mother very worried that a snake would come through that hole and devour her only daughter on her first night in Africa. Thankfully, no snake came in and ate me. Only mosquitoes did.<br />
<br />
I am 43 years old, and I have spent 22 of them on the African continent. This year tipped the scale, just over half of my life spent there versus here. Other than those first six years before Liberia, all the other years in America were defined by my time in Africa. Ask anyone who knew me during the longest stretch I lived in the States--10th grade through college--and they'll agree that I was single-minded in my desire to return to the continent of my upbringing. A guy told me in college, "No one will want to date you if your goal is to live in Africa." I didn't care. And he was wrong.<br />
<br />
It won't be long before the scale is tipped back to the American side. The difference this time is that I look into the foreseeable future and all I see is a life here. Of course, I know that might not be true; life in its twists and turns leads us all kinds of places. My children are international and will probably want to live international lives, so who knows where Gil and I will end up? But that is still a long way away. For now, I am here.<br />
<br />
We moved into our apartment, so this week I've been finally unpacking all of the things I brought from Tanzania. The emotion of leaving so suddenly swept over me again, as I visualized the panicked hours spent stuffing those things into those boxes. I had to wipe dust off of the picture frames. I packed so hastily that I didn't even have time to clean them first.<br />
<br />
<i>This is Tanzanian dust I'm wiping off,</i> I thought. <i>This is the earth of the continent I called home for 22 years. </i>I wrung out the rag in the sink and watched the brown water seep away from me, into the Californian earth.<br />
<br />
For the past three months, I have stubbornly refused to let go. I still had a job, and it was in Tanzania, so that gave me good reason to keep my mind and heart there. The bookmark in my planner is still stuck on the week of March 16, even though I kept using the rest of the pages. I unpacked my watch, and it was still running on East African time.<br />
<br />
But now the time has come that would have been the end, even in that alternate universe. This day, or one of the next few days, would have been my last in Tanzania. I must now plant my feet firmly in this American soil, like it or not.<br />
<br />
I don't really know who I am in America. I don't know what kind of American I'll be, what with the 22 years of Africa stuffed into me. I never really belonged in Africa, of course, no matter what I told myself. It wasn't mine to call my own. But still, the continent gave me so much: Unparalleled experiences. Courage to stretch beyond my naturally cautious instincts. Recognition of my incredibly privileged life. Faith that was battered and questioned and strengthened. Extraordinary perspective. Four remarkable children. It is impossible to imagine who I would be without Africa.<br />
<br />
Somehow, I must figure out how not to just live as an American, but as an American who has spent 22 years in Africa. If my life were a book, Part Two would be just beginning.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl0WrVhZ4FXpyXkSdgqEOnFPPHziJkOuchkiNW_VGWWUWKOlodSb1QK6HqqRr-aB4njqsUrXSZvp-CpPUXNzHv4n3Rd_1Z__hFt3AdV_d-hTXzKK9At07HSEyCu9Et2Zy98MHtI9VcEg/s1600/IMG_3044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="863" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl0WrVhZ4FXpyXkSdgqEOnFPPHziJkOuchkiNW_VGWWUWKOlodSb1QK6HqqRr-aB4njqsUrXSZvp-CpPUXNzHv4n3Rd_1Z__hFt3AdV_d-hTXzKK9At07HSEyCu9Et2Zy98MHtI9VcEg/s400/IMG_3044.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Gil Medina, Mikumi National Park, Tanzania</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Amy Medinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02445986974714298954noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118517190489901866.post-11094745529921125492020-06-18T22:43:00.000+03:002020-06-18T22:56:53.495+03:00The Last Day: March 13 and June 18<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaC90LlKnbMSWhpIb2an1vh8XDvLZYCuJ-0RY8wl4R1zOXQ0rlcyGixX7RKYhytwORPiGDd8rC2zt5npbVG8901GmyEiN6g4ODIQCnnEpoCOcphyBjLwYHov-H8jUSZ7Gv0wCM33XfBA/s1600/HOPAC+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaC90LlKnbMSWhpIb2an1vh8XDvLZYCuJ-0RY8wl4R1zOXQ0rlcyGixX7RKYhytwORPiGDd8rC2zt5npbVG8901GmyEiN6g4ODIQCnnEpoCOcphyBjLwYHov-H8jUSZ7Gv0wCM33XfBA/s400/HOPAC+3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Today, June 18, 2020 is the last day of school at Haven of Peace Academy. It's still morning here in California but it's night in Tanzania, so the day is done. We just finished our Last Day Assembly as a Zoom call, live streamed on Facebook for the whole community. After so many years of saying goodbye to others at the Last Day Assembly, for the first time, my children and I were listed as "leavers." My HOPAC family loved me well today, having flowers delivered and enfolding me in their love, even across all of the distance between us.<br />
<br />
About a week ago, our HR gal sent me the "Leaving Staff Exit Interview" form to fill out. And I sat there and stared at this form that I personally have given to many staff members, and wondered what on earth I would write. <i>What are the highlights of your time at HOPAC? How would you rate your HOPAC experience?</i> How could I possibly answer those questions? I arrived at HOPAC at age 24; now I'm 43. HOPAC has not been an <i>experience</i>. HOPAC has been my life.<br />
<br />
My dad <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2015/04/how-it-all-started.html" target="_blank">prayed by the baobab tree on the HOPAC campus</a> before it was built. I was the first teacher to step into the <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2016/08/starting-fifth-grade-at-hopac-is-big.html" target="_blank">fifth grade classroom</a> on the Mbezi Beach campus in 2001. The cement dust hadn't been swept away yet and the chalkboards hadn't been nailed to the walls. I was there to see more and more of the coconut trees from the original plantation be cut down and replaced with the the science building, pool, admin building, library, performing arts building, kitchen, cafeteria, and playground--a rustic, rural patch of land transformed into our Haven of Peace.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2017/09/this-is-my-haven-of-peace.html" target="_blank">I grew up along with HOPAC</a>. I poured my soul and tears and sweat (so much sweat, this is the tropics, after all) into this school and in return its people and experiences twisted and turned me inside out, stripped me down and built me back up again. We are inextricably linked, HOPAC and me.<br />
<br />
Friday, March 13, was the last day I saw my students. We thought that we were kicking off Service Emphasis Week (SEW), so at the end of that day, everybody put their SEW shirts on and squished into the performing arts building. The speaker had the kids make paper airplanes that said "SEW Go For It!" and at the end of her talk, everybody threw them in the air, hundreds of them.<br />
<br />
Two days later, Service Emphasis Week was cancelled and the campus shut down. And just a few days after that, I was on a literal airplane, wrenched away from my home, my country, my Haven.<br />
<br />
None of us knew that would be our last day together. But at least those last minutes of that last day were spent together, all 500 of us scrunched together, sharing the same space. We belly laughed over the group of teachers who did their rendition of "I Will Follow You." The air crackled with expectancy and excitement. And because it was a special event, we got lots of pictures, including a group picture of all of us. Who would have known how important those pictures would turn out to be?<br />
<br />
I am thankful the SEW assembly was our last time together, full of joy and anticipation, because it's a sweet memory in contrast to following 3 months of sorrow upon sorrow. The frantic evacuation of many of our staff, many of us not knowing what was going on or why we were even in this position, far more fearful of our rapidly changing world than we were of the virus. The devastation of those left behind or who chose to stay behind. The heartbreak of the first COVID death in Tanzania being a HOPAC parent. Discovering that our beloved pastor and chaplain has brain cancer. Trying to keep a school and a community together while spread out across the globe.<br />
<br />
There has been very little joy in my life the last three months. Just trauma, uncertainty, stress, guilt, regret, and sorrow. Sitting in front of a computer day after day, living out of suitcases for months, not knowing what the next week would hold, I had a dogged determination to finish my job as well as I could, but there was very little light in that fog.<br />
<br />
So finishing today, like this, is not what I wanted or planned, but it is what it is. And despite it all, there is sweetness in the sorrow. Relief and gratitude and the seedlings of joy. Because nothing--not distance, nor time, nor COVID-19, can ever take away what Haven of Peace Academy is to me.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitqi4zi5reBHEN4XCMISBH0ePGW7DR01MtKJ_YmQZymDzh5LTJPYZCI9FyqyhG-FIJYdxRKeihSXS1zfUEQiO8dPJ_TQVEQrHNaeVcllwceim_qxjpu-dL-7ir8ez-ijNQwDH9MS7laQ/s1600/_P7A3257.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1143" data-original-width="1600" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitqi4zi5reBHEN4XCMISBH0ePGW7DR01MtKJ_YmQZymDzh5LTJPYZCI9FyqyhG-FIJYdxRKeihSXS1zfUEQiO8dPJ_TQVEQrHNaeVcllwceim_qxjpu-dL-7ir8ez-ijNQwDH9MS7laQ/s400/_P7A3257.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqMUR9G-KxivKPjHaNsUWNX_VhccHJzlhYTM8KJhpnAknIwXUYCs_6Wei3sahg4_gtvcK_Ol1j2AEY_ErctrW_VNwWLcfp99FQzdVKfM0Qr3uw7KUzdPmeRsr9RvzbHx5xfDi4gYe0Mg/s1600/_P7A3261.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1143" data-original-width="1600" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqMUR9G-KxivKPjHaNsUWNX_VhccHJzlhYTM8KJhpnAknIwXUYCs_6Wei3sahg4_gtvcK_Ol1j2AEY_ErctrW_VNwWLcfp99FQzdVKfM0Qr3uw7KUzdPmeRsr9RvzbHx5xfDi4gYe0Mg/s400/_P7A3261.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_w1mIlkaOMKL_UGqMX7hsNu2LcmdeqC_zzY27Ju4TQ_NEAlykfmgVsJwYRnblNpTec9VHniCC85YUjBpklOZr6U2K-Z1byZ9CZHnCIIyqKXvDdK6UA8G5fePCjGJDGa7YDR1zbfgjDg/s1600/_P7A3302.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_w1mIlkaOMKL_UGqMX7hsNu2LcmdeqC_zzY27Ju4TQ_NEAlykfmgVsJwYRnblNpTec9VHniCC85YUjBpklOZr6U2K-Z1byZ9CZHnCIIyqKXvDdK6UA8G5fePCjGJDGa7YDR1zbfgjDg/s400/_P7A3302.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFI0QNSeVBS6kAx4RJzteJUndirlk3Ey3ZM-GjOtMWNy8SOOPuPYUcLDCLroXtAG9VQYRsfD1KvERCkbuEW9dgAu-EE0hscwBPfksmdl6nthLIfO08d9yGtk-Pzxs7QVaFbG4yaEBW9g/s1600/_P7A3412.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFI0QNSeVBS6kAx4RJzteJUndirlk3Ey3ZM-GjOtMWNy8SOOPuPYUcLDCLroXtAG9VQYRsfD1KvERCkbuEW9dgAu-EE0hscwBPfksmdl6nthLIfO08d9yGtk-Pzxs7QVaFbG4yaEBW9g/s400/_P7A3412.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUSBjT5zpCNpMCyCYR5VJK_wWWRCb3M7aCksaJPc-QXaCMFeQvO60YD-oQ4-6yN42ACDhSw-OpmM-3zRF9t8KuWty1iNJ763szxgyXIgnwysdelVtdUTY_z9YjlRWi5yFov7fQq7uWwQ/s1600/_P7A3429.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUSBjT5zpCNpMCyCYR5VJK_wWWRCb3M7aCksaJPc-QXaCMFeQvO60YD-oQ4-6yN42ACDhSw-OpmM-3zRF9t8KuWty1iNJ763szxgyXIgnwysdelVtdUTY_z9YjlRWi5yFov7fQq7uWwQ/s400/_P7A3429.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8-Yt5PUf507ctmPTi5Z4lqgc8Fa0zNz6kKUwPyYzoq2TKCHHo6kTWAzZPe108biJjK72KAwRNbslfu6xsj2itC3zdMgQDNHBnx8rZUWsst8mdRq3cPPP2_yfhXOUjGVP1Mx1u1AoYjg/s1600/_P7A3505.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8-Yt5PUf507ctmPTi5Z4lqgc8Fa0zNz6kKUwPyYzoq2TKCHHo6kTWAzZPe108biJjK72KAwRNbslfu6xsj2itC3zdMgQDNHBnx8rZUWsst8mdRq3cPPP2_yfhXOUjGVP1Mx1u1AoYjg/s400/_P7A3505.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG7ImqA1ObftTCX03ml2SdskOBiLOBm6KQywrEgYHykOYCPqEd_3q5mH7ypZ3FzI7VFQh7WQxqF-U2RXL8aFc8xCemIqB152aww1pE-A1oWotVsdn45lJxRaXuHLTWszxYUjzlsyUwsw/s1600/_P7A3516.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG7ImqA1ObftTCX03ml2SdskOBiLOBm6KQywrEgYHykOYCPqEd_3q5mH7ypZ3FzI7VFQh7WQxqF-U2RXL8aFc8xCemIqB152aww1pE-A1oWotVsdn45lJxRaXuHLTWszxYUjzlsyUwsw/s400/_P7A3516.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjymSFFmbSq5yF2fc35s4UlKdNw1Xk1aoK5K_JhTYPvsw-5viqq_VXLY8qPZ-u0E5GrLySFUdlTfOgzAFf2Is5ySwKjapi-nyG-b6ggcUw_VvgYHxwoWObKdTtmKfDg8ZL2N6xL1DHudA/s1600/_P7A3541.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1143" data-original-width="1600" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjymSFFmbSq5yF2fc35s4UlKdNw1Xk1aoK5K_JhTYPvsw-5viqq_VXLY8qPZ-u0E5GrLySFUdlTfOgzAFf2Is5ySwKjapi-nyG-b6ggcUw_VvgYHxwoWObKdTtmKfDg8ZL2N6xL1DHudA/s400/_P7A3541.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOLm_Fxg133qJ8FFC-6MXMQky3un0hduLjqBzU5sC4Bvx42z7kft4OXoH8jrzNCJPH2cMxiKvZsGNbEJNID1Uv7oXoTjgtkjEjJ_gqpxP1lgqwS106luwwuJlboTiAaitPw7yFA9EoZg/s1600/_P7A3546.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOLm_Fxg133qJ8FFC-6MXMQky3un0hduLjqBzU5sC4Bvx42z7kft4OXoH8jrzNCJPH2cMxiKvZsGNbEJNID1Uv7oXoTjgtkjEjJ_gqpxP1lgqwS106luwwuJlboTiAaitPw7yFA9EoZg/s400/_P7A3546.JPG" width="266" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVz1tDmyuQRvAi4uLdObbsHVWioBouUp1AULfiDruI8NNz1QzJDmO6p9h0TU8_V1gUKMhczc0q0uXtTBhNbrLkf-Fief8hKNFyk3M5j8DfhT7dCmiYB5lfb0w_RIikET528vxssEqZOA/s1600/_P7A3548.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1143" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVz1tDmyuQRvAi4uLdObbsHVWioBouUp1AULfiDruI8NNz1QzJDmO6p9h0TU8_V1gUKMhczc0q0uXtTBhNbrLkf-Fief8hKNFyk3M5j8DfhT7dCmiYB5lfb0w_RIikET528vxssEqZOA/s400/_P7A3548.JPG" width="285" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEium-noazhqXKnmzpLxj5ULrwl6esuGTyoCrBZ5iAKuiuUZGpYHd9b8qWC218-5SrMaH1OYm-eoC6L6yKTs7kp8Osr4cACglXFRfEbKsXzrUIDqLG4P6eXDqGsL7a4l6YZ3SjWz2u-UhA/s1600/_P7A3550.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEium-noazhqXKnmzpLxj5ULrwl6esuGTyoCrBZ5iAKuiuUZGpYHd9b8qWC218-5SrMaH1OYm-eoC6L6yKTs7kp8Osr4cACglXFRfEbKsXzrUIDqLG4P6eXDqGsL7a4l6YZ3SjWz2u-UhA/s400/_P7A3550.JPG" width="266" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1cfsCprp5p6oY1RLsTGoYrJEBAyHfdQUyJ_gPLqFeXD6DH-4gHXT7Bz4uxeCIJ0fCxrrE32TbnInXrCatHEYEKIZ3eI4uncgLr8E4SlRKr6QUFfbUp89Bscls3JjOSbMOqGxXzXohxg/s1600/_P7A3560.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1cfsCprp5p6oY1RLsTGoYrJEBAyHfdQUyJ_gPLqFeXD6DH-4gHXT7Bz4uxeCIJ0fCxrrE32TbnInXrCatHEYEKIZ3eI4uncgLr8E4SlRKr6QUFfbUp89Bscls3JjOSbMOqGxXzXohxg/s400/_P7A3560.JPG" width="266" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRF3c3PkdK04KL-ioi7QdKwKukKv0t25wE5QjS_iaoEJZnlZEfz8T9np5jKSsykZOuJzNkVL7nHoAe2mjfDrrvEGCc_58wt0PWxpAbUr7F0dhiYJ6wqFxQFFHLHjE6uPyHj2uVMxipnw/s1600/_P7A3564.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRF3c3PkdK04KL-ioi7QdKwKukKv0t25wE5QjS_iaoEJZnlZEfz8T9np5jKSsykZOuJzNkVL7nHoAe2mjfDrrvEGCc_58wt0PWxpAbUr7F0dhiYJ6wqFxQFFHLHjE6uPyHj2uVMxipnw/s400/_P7A3564.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR3bVfquKpPxbMLpM1fYfe2k_Jp0SzKRpEafs1eFu7SkxJAXXrQ_v0vvAjFlmYqO3B8V47AaYdaiJdIYO9NE5C2D7eO0O97lp84s3_hcOPXa_TxRJvu-8OhtoHH4947TSNCbzdfWcQkg/s1600/_P7A3584.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR3bVfquKpPxbMLpM1fYfe2k_Jp0SzKRpEafs1eFu7SkxJAXXrQ_v0vvAjFlmYqO3B8V47AaYdaiJdIYO9NE5C2D7eO0O97lp84s3_hcOPXa_TxRJvu-8OhtoHH4947TSNCbzdfWcQkg/s400/_P7A3584.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLfL-RKy1v8R6c_dWgJLa-qCDzM3UeDV3VdrLCuc6Fi3mC5_I76aUjgWY5oXTJM9pwhbuws7zAQgp9f95uxXXlCGScZWD8jF0mGrR7czelaG-BF0CQjBQBagZygIJIl0pzqlTa2dspXQ/s1600/_P7A3587.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLfL-RKy1v8R6c_dWgJLa-qCDzM3UeDV3VdrLCuc6Fi3mC5_I76aUjgWY5oXTJM9pwhbuws7zAQgp9f95uxXXlCGScZWD8jF0mGrR7czelaG-BF0CQjBQBagZygIJIl0pzqlTa2dspXQ/s400/_P7A3587.JPG" width="266" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZQjf80Pgp9w-aY_VBNSRTjxKVUy8P3-H6AlKNkdyFb8eJiSiJueV0qkHk3foH4azzoG_LyWgmlgpcBnaoqVaHswf4IHhd_3xFExCW0C1Pitqgppi6rGZcPUjS-J-Fi-T4mvg3ms3pfg/s1600/School+Pic+SEW+2020+Waves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZQjf80Pgp9w-aY_VBNSRTjxKVUy8P3-H6AlKNkdyFb8eJiSiJueV0qkHk3foH4azzoG_LyWgmlgpcBnaoqVaHswf4IHhd_3xFExCW0C1Pitqgppi6rGZcPUjS-J-Fi-T4mvg3ms3pfg/s400/School+Pic+SEW+2020+Waves.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />Amy Medinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02445986974714298954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118517190489901866.post-53019876981660044822020-06-12T01:09:00.000+03:002020-06-12T01:33:51.845+03:00America Doesn't Know What To Do With UsAmerica, apparently, doesn't really know what to do with people who have spent 20 years in Africa.<br />
<br />
Several weeks ago, we started the process to buy a house. We've never owned a house, but we had spent the last few months Googling, "how to buy a house" and "what is escrow." We had some savings and no debt. We had done the math; we knew what we could afford. We had researched the neighborhoods that were in our price range. We were ready!<br />
<br />
That is, we thought we were ready. Then we got on the phone with a loan officer. After answering questions about Gil's employment history, he asked me about mine. "We'll need W-2s and evidence of your work history for the past two years," he told me.<br />
<br />
That's when things got awkward. "Oh, so, um, I actually haven't received a salary in fifteen years," I said. "I mean, I've been <i>working </i>and all. I'm a qualified educator. I'm actually an elementary school principal. <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2018/02/why-is-work-bad-word.html" target="_blank">I just don't get paid for it.</a> I'm a missionary, a volunteer...."<br />
<br />
Silence.<br />
<br />
That should have been my first indication that things weren't going to go well. But we plowed on, and I managed to gather the evidence he needed to prove that I was actually employable.<br />
<br />
Then he called with more bad news. "You don't have a credit score," he said. "You don't have a bad credit score, you just don't have <i>any </i>credit score. We can't get you a loan without a credit score."<br />
<br />
I guess that would be because the last time we had credit cards was 2014. <i>Oh</i>. So just having no debt and some savings isn't good enough in America. You need <i>credit</i>.<br />
<br />
Never fear. A friend told us about another mortgage company connected to Dave Ramsey which doesn't require a credit score. So I called them up. "Yes!" the agent told me confidently. "We do not require a credit score. No problem! So all I need is proof of utility payments at your home address from the last twelve months."<br />
<br />
<i>Uh oh</i>, I thought. I cleared my throat. "So, you see, we didn't actually have a physical address, only a P.O. Box. And [<i>ahem</i>] we didn't have any utility bills."<br />
<br />
Realizing how strange that sounded, I rushed to explain. "See, electricity was prepaid in Tanzania. There was this little box in our bedroom, called a Luku box, and we would use our phones to buy electricity units which came as a code in a text message that we punched into the box...." My voice trailed off. I was babbling. Better stop now before he thinks I lived in a mud hut.<br />
<br />
"Okay," he said, less confidently. "How about phone bills? Internet?"<br />
<br />
"Also, prepaid," I said miserably, knowing what was coming.<br />
<br />
"Water?"<br />
<br />
"Oh, that was a bill!" I said. "Except....the bill came as a text message to my phone. And I paid it using this <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2016/01/how-my-cell-phone-changed-my-life-in.html" target="_blank">system called M-Pesa</a> and the receipt also came as a text message and the receipts are all in Swahili....."<br />
<br />
Silence again.<br />
<br />
"I think you need to call me back after you've lived in America for a few months," he said.<br />
<br />
Seriously though. Wouldn't Dave Ramsey himself approve of Tanzania's prepaid system? Much less debt, <i>obviously</i>. But apparently not good enough for America.<br />
<br />
So the end of the story is ....(drumroll).....we're renting. Which is fine. We found an apartment just a half mile from school, so that's happy. After being turned down for a loan (and even having trouble getting credit cards--apparently you need <i>credit </i>to get credit cards), we were thankful to just get a lease. And after three months of living out of suitcases, I really don't care anymore where we live. I'm just thankful we'll have a home again. We move in in two weeks.<br />
<br />
This does feel like some kind of time warp, though. I may be all grown up now, but coming back to California, I feel like that inexperienced 23-year-old newlywed moving into her first apartment. Sure, now I have 20 more years of life experience, but it's with paying Luku using M-Pesa. I can speak with authority on the various pros and cons of Tanzanian internet providers, but haven't a clue which one to choose in America. I am familiar with the various ways to send money around the world, but I haven't had a credit card in seven years. I'm 43, but I still had to Google the word <i>escrow</i>.<br />
<br />
So I guess it's fitting that I'll be moving into an empty apartment that we'll be filling with used furniture and random finds from thrift stores, just like Gil and I did 20 years ago when we moved into our first place. After all, I still have some growing up to do in America.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd4ReA7l_fgnUrk5AfdImbatexLLpA0HDHLWGMv2XwJOwRugR9SmTLa61wPQV0OMWdzXwoKBum8iWRFXpk8iMNMNd8-S0GxVkdf8nhmpLAdq_VkxAx0PTz8pF4m77x1p4vMCEqDMQ7bw/s1600/ac7d9b2c-f5ab-487c-93e6-4694462ee642.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="625" data-original-width="943" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd4ReA7l_fgnUrk5AfdImbatexLLpA0HDHLWGMv2XwJOwRugR9SmTLa61wPQV0OMWdzXwoKBum8iWRFXpk8iMNMNd8-S0GxVkdf8nhmpLAdq_VkxAx0PTz8pF4m77x1p4vMCEqDMQ7bw/s400/ac7d9b2c-f5ab-487c-93e6-4694462ee642.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My kids and their cousins being super-cool Americans. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Amy Medinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02445986974714298954noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118517190489901866.post-29474804453972085802020-06-03T00:28:00.001+03:002020-06-03T01:18:17.379+03:00The Next ChapterIf you had told me this time last year that Gil and I would get to the third week of May without job contracts, that there would be a global pandemic and we would have to leave Tanzania three months early, on top of all the other stressful things that happened this year, I probably would have spent the year hiding under the bed.<br />
<br />
I guess it's a good thing that God gives us strength to handle just today. Not knowing the future is a mercy.<br />
<br />
But here I am, on June 2, 2020, and we finally know what's next. Gil has accepted a teaching job at a school in Southern California, and we will be moving to our new city in about three weeks.<br />
<br />
Back in October, I asked you, "<a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2019/10/anybody-out-there-looking-for-people.html" target="_blank">Anybody out there looking for people like us?</a>" You were amazing! We got emails from all over the United States, some with suggestions of places and ministries we should consider, and others that were practically job offers. It was really exciting to think about all of the possibilities that were out there for us.<br />
<br />
But as Gil and I really started to consider what were going to be our priorities for this next chapter, we kept coming back to one thing: Our Kids. Our kids were the primary reason we had decided to move to the States at this particular time. With their unique backgrounds, we wanted them to adjust to American life while they were still young. So while there was a part of us that really wanted to jump into something crazy and amazing like moving to Houston to work with refugees, we realized that wasn't what would be best for our family <i>at this time</i>.<br />
<br />
Gil and I began to prioritize two things: We wanted to live as close as possible to extended family (which narrowed locations down to California or Arizona), and one of us would need to teach at a Christian school. When we considered the educational options out there, we decided that a small Christian school would be the best way for our particular kids to transition to American life. In order to afford it, that meant one of us needed to teach at one.<br />
<br />
So Gil and I started researching Christian schools all throughout California and Arizona. We eliminated all of the ones that were in areas we couldn't afford to live in, which for California, was most of them. We sent out dozens of resumes and a number of applications. We had some good leads. Surely we would have job offers by March or April....right?<br />
<br />
Wrong. As you all know, the world stood still in March and April. Schools in particular became paralyzed by the unknowns. No one was hiring. In fact, most of us wondered if education in general would ever be the same again. So all the days ticked by in March....April....and into May. Along with dealing with my own roller coaster of emotions due to our early and sudden departure from Tanzania came increasing concern about our future. I started envisioning my life as a never-ending vagabond, jumping from one hospitable relative to another.<br />
<br />
Then the miracle happened: A position opened up for a Bible and History teacher at a Christian school in Southern California. A fantastic school and the perfect location--half a day's driving distance from all of our family, and affordable enough that we could manage to, you know, feed our children after paying rent. Gil went through several interviews with several people. He was offered the job just over a week ago.<br />
<br />
And the miraculous part? This is the school where one of our very best friends from Tanzania, Ben Snyder, is the principal. You might remember that I wrote about the Snyder family in <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2019/06/the-happiest-kind-of-sadness-portrait.html" target="_blank">The Happiest Kind of Sadness: Portrait of a Friendship</a> and <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2018/10/the-adoption-story-of-zawadi-parents.html" target="_blank">The Adoption Story of Zawadi, the Parents Who Waited for Her, and the God of Miracles</a>. When the Snyders moved to California a year ago, we were thrilled that meant we might be able to occasionally see them. We talked about how cool it would be if that meant our lives might cross again, but we didn't dare to hope that would actually happen. I mean, what would be the odds?<br />
<br />
But God doesn't work by odds. There was <i>one </i>position available at their high school for next year, and it was a position that Gil just happened to be uniquely qualified for.<br />
<br />
Right around the same time Gil got this offer, another one came in as well, which threw us for a loop for about a week. But really, it was an obvious choice. God had answered our prayers and orchestrated a seemingly impossible set of requests: Living in California, a job at a Christian school, and incredibly, doing life again with some of our best friends.<br />
<br />
There's another question, of course, that you might be asking: <i>What are you going to be doing, Amy?</i> Well, that's another story. I too have accepted a job, but I'm not ready to write about it yet. Partly because the journey to my new job is a story that will take a while to tell. But mainly because I still have several more weeks left as elementary principal at Haven of Peace Academy. My mind and heart still belong there at the moment, so I will write about the new job when this one is finished.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, yesterday we found a place to live and we will move in in about three weeks. We've lived with uncertainty for so long that my emotions haven't quite caught up yet. Am I really allowed to be excited? I can't write out this story without seeing for myself the hand of God in working this all together for us. I am so very thankful.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmqg48kDOLf56ecWo6jvVG94z4Cglyg0qR7h2aBN0dgIT2k0a9g7Ym_hKQ2_bgWbnYYwMpYOBZVU28AJAuABzUZy6uN9RLN0WADn90cfOUbQf-5y12P6UJI5o8NtiI1iqTmkF7Ddlo_g/s1600/IMG_1701.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="768" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmqg48kDOLf56ecWo6jvVG94z4Cglyg0qR7h2aBN0dgIT2k0a9g7Ym_hKQ2_bgWbnYYwMpYOBZVU28AJAuABzUZy6uN9RLN0WADn90cfOUbQf-5y12P6UJI5o8NtiI1iqTmkF7Ddlo_g/s400/IMG_1701.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Medinas and Snyders back together again, this time in California.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Amy Medinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02445986974714298954noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118517190489901866.post-26999602646521715012020-05-25T02:06:00.001+03:002020-05-25T02:06:46.452+03:00Icons of Their Tanzanian Childhood<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #333333; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Those who repatriate to their “home” country aren’t just moving from one state or province to another. They aren’t just losing a measurable number of people, places and 'sacred objects.' It’s the intangibles that exacerbate their grief and intensify their response to it. Missionaries’ Kids who are enduring transition have lost the languages, sounds, aromas, events, values, security, familiarity and belonging that have been their life—</span><span style="color: #333333; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">an integral part of who they are and how they view the world</span><span style="color: #333333; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. When they leave their heart-home, it feels as if they’re surrendering their identity too." (</span></span><a href="https://www.alifeoverseas.com/9-ways-mks-can-navigate-their-grief/" style="color: #41bf5f; text-decoration-line: none; white-space: pre-wrap;" target="_blank">Michele Phoenix</a>)<br />
<br />
<br />
Here's just a sample of those "languages, sounds, aromas, events, values, and familiarity" that my kids have lost in moving to America. I know that kids adapt. My kids are great at it. But I don't want them to ever forget where they came from, and the many things that made their childhoods so special.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Azam Juices </b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhigiUngSIcINgkCwzo02fmWQQE4X0QMlP5dJw0hdmvFuQT8n5CLe15euVOe5Fp_qbYvzmUqGC65xJlePyPwkyAGGNvuX5sIhjR7jd7ES4D4CZ97cR7E1Me_sv9F5WwQDcKZcbMaBJXjA/s1600/African-Fruti-Mango-200ml.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="292" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhigiUngSIcINgkCwzo02fmWQQE4X0QMlP5dJw0hdmvFuQT8n5CLe15euVOe5Fp_qbYvzmUqGC65xJlePyPwkyAGGNvuX5sIhjR7jd7ES4D4CZ97cR7E1Me_sv9F5WwQDcKZcbMaBJXjA/s200/African-Fruti-Mango-200ml.jpg" width="105" /></a></div>
Azam juice boxes are a Tanzanian icon; <i>frozen </i>Azam juice boxes are a Haven of Peace Academy icon. Slice off the top with a knife and you have an instant popsicle. The snack bar sells them daily; my kids have eaten probably thousands in their lifetime.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Hot Christmases</b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjggQT-afiRBFGwRaV6jes9yqDQdTVJ0SzU0W2XfNMN6LrQk3ZOFnOE48H7NDuj4DX3cWgDn8b7-CDUy9oaxTd7kT5giRWL9GC2I3mpGl1eVY1W1VxNd2bY6JcN1blLmoI6UDm75YH8zw/s1600/Fullscreen+capture+12262014+55716+PM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="258" data-original-width="388" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjggQT-afiRBFGwRaV6jes9yqDQdTVJ0SzU0W2XfNMN6LrQk3ZOFnOE48H7NDuj4DX3cWgDn8b7-CDUy9oaxTd7kT5giRWL9GC2I3mpGl1eVY1W1VxNd2bY6JcN1blLmoI6UDm75YH8zw/s320/Fullscreen+capture+12262014+55716+PM.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Living in the Southern Hemisphere means the seasons are reversed. Living at sea level near the equator means it never gets cold. The hottest time of the year is December and January, which means we never had a cold Christmas in Dar es Salaam. However, even in July, which is technically "winter," never gets below the mid-70's. Ever. Even when it's raining. Which explains why my children are freezing in California air conditioning. </div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Piles of Pineapples</b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi546rBr6uAjVtjXk7FknaJ495TiTqjDwQxGJ5X6PnfCqyNH_rtaSbhlLu7BQLqaMXN3Tf1ThDOmJpbY6JLqzjm7B1bkrzUsZLJHhO0zM6BTHF8KOAEhc1BA5dZOlbWrxqY8VxMUEynoA/s1600/IMG_1342.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="768" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi546rBr6uAjVtjXk7FknaJ495TiTqjDwQxGJ5X6PnfCqyNH_rtaSbhlLu7BQLqaMXN3Tf1ThDOmJpbY6JLqzjm7B1bkrzUsZLJHhO0zM6BTHF8KOAEhc1BA5dZOlbWrxqY8VxMUEynoA/s400/IMG_1342.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I always said that pineapple season, which starts in November and goes through February, is Tanzania's apology for the stifling hot weather. Piles and piles of pineapples are sold on the roadside during pineapple season. During the height, our family would eat two a day. </div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>"That Good Chicken Place"--our version of fast food</b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ5paO7tiUbpvxopL9sxGhPPrLGas6cwGdoxaUmsNNY0F2H-_ptkWTvDk6V4rzkCNpy_tBcesax7THrP0bI4zv9_7A6dOkJM1pcqFfscGxZWFVBhfwW_NeoicTi4mhrH40ghdqJdiwMQ/s1600/IMG_1346.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="625" data-original-width="833" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ5paO7tiUbpvxopL9sxGhPPrLGas6cwGdoxaUmsNNY0F2H-_ptkWTvDk6V4rzkCNpy_tBcesax7THrP0bI4zv9_7A6dOkJM1pcqFfscGxZWFVBhfwW_NeoicTi4mhrH40ghdqJdiwMQ/s400/IMG_1346.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Street food was the only form of fast food in our area, and just about every Saturday night I would stop by this outdoor restaurant to buy grilled chicken, fries, or rice and vegetables. This chicken? To die for. Seriously. Service would take anywhere from 15-40 minutes, so I guess it wasn't always 'fast.' But I didn't have to cook it, so it was worth waiting for.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b>Chips Mayai and Beans and Rice</b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIL2Uuc0aDo-M1QPvD_gM3A6136Hzjyu71tRvvQY0s4xmKgymsqFf_8yNueRQ4iIKCaO6wxVxJgdPMPGPZePMEvKYa2fr_0Z4FlBsfPix76d6mcEQBjZ50zOeJj9fGnmwYK9wtnruG1A/s1600/beans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIL2Uuc0aDo-M1QPvD_gM3A6136Hzjyu71tRvvQY0s4xmKgymsqFf_8yNueRQ4iIKCaO6wxVxJgdPMPGPZePMEvKYa2fr_0Z4FlBsfPix76d6mcEQBjZ50zOeJj9fGnmwYK9wtnruG1A/s320/beans.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyhDJMToa2SiiZyYWmkjbNOx0YNRRaEq32YmgtCEhnGddUBoyv7Dfa1sPbIgtHQuVkwI-cWnbybo3xBLPkbOA2Uso9HiOXqVoQckIeBb8kJwD5XIvl2aPdFNCVj9Qm5CDQPTEfqqHQqw/s1600/chips+mayai.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyhDJMToa2SiiZyYWmkjbNOx0YNRRaEq32YmgtCEhnGddUBoyv7Dfa1sPbIgtHQuVkwI-cWnbybo3xBLPkbOA2Uso9HiOXqVoQckIeBb8kJwD5XIvl2aPdFNCVj9Qm5CDQPTEfqqHQqw/s320/chips+mayai.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Beans and rice are like Tanzanian mac and cheese. When I knew I would have a lot of kids over at the house, beans and rice were on the menu. All kids love them, or they learn to. Chips mayai is French Fries cooked with eggs like an omelet. <i>Everyone</i> loves chips mayai. Not a breakfast food, though. This is lunch.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Bajajis</b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8133oeIAwBboSTndz2AIZA4gCfcCs5HYztweYhop3T8e5J1sjz2QB1CXhgT0MphsjQZdyWfp_VvMKPOz0w608XFZoAhYpc43kGU8NPMT443gvrovHnsKPLTMLlJhWSIUswjZ2XYRDqg/s1600/IMG_1523.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="625" data-original-width="833" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8133oeIAwBboSTndz2AIZA4gCfcCs5HYztweYhop3T8e5J1sjz2QB1CXhgT0MphsjQZdyWfp_VvMKPOz0w608XFZoAhYpc43kGU8NPMT443gvrovHnsKPLTMLlJhWSIUswjZ2XYRDqg/s400/IMG_1523.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
What is known as a "bajaji" is a three-wheeled rickshaw imported from India. We had a car, but just one, so that meant that part of the family often needed another form of transportation. Bajajis are cheaper than taxis and safer than motorbikes or buses, so we used them often. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b>Nets and Fans</b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiyXG-SJ4KpMXXibkqm-n9hJVQMKSGgYzAEqdMysxXCjgQArGS67nIVcrOXylNU9mUQoxBUK-sFWYCdFa7xIWVltj3rgu24vmxDEuuLu32YBp_IzzZOaZcNXxCM7PF95pk34CesWXnxA/s1600/bed.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="864" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiyXG-SJ4KpMXXibkqm-n9hJVQMKSGgYzAEqdMysxXCjgQArGS67nIVcrOXylNU9mUQoxBUK-sFWYCdFa7xIWVltj3rgu24vmxDEuuLu32YBp_IzzZOaZcNXxCM7PF95pk34CesWXnxA/s400/bed.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Mosquito nets (soaked in <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2014/12/all-i-want-for-christmas-is-permethrin.html" target="_blank">Permethrin</a>) and fans attached to their beds was how we kept out the bugs and kept the air moving. Josiah is so used to sleeping with a fan straight on his face that he has politely asked for a fan everywhere we've been visiting in the States--even if it's not hot. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b>Market Shopping</b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEuOp5pjGNLsFzHy4NOnpfDxfsnooeVFnZpKn-J_MNDE8mbEgpFpK0vwBVhsZLdL0qhIHARM6e2Q5vvusO7beFlVkyWt4S6pFAPxTlmvh5IzFgtK2nUFJ2kquV0-4qvraXFppG_3bwOQ/s1600/IMG_4484.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="864" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEuOp5pjGNLsFzHy4NOnpfDxfsnooeVFnZpKn-J_MNDE8mbEgpFpK0vwBVhsZLdL0qhIHARM6e2Q5vvusO7beFlVkyWt4S6pFAPxTlmvh5IzFgtK2nUFJ2kquV0-4qvraXFppG_3bwOQ/s320/IMG_4484.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXHGJjuikNZC5FXeyxhZQUXAUDx_hiPljSGh1dfWlm-FMvApW1IyFCUoXelD1GeOWPTgFb6RXpJG6JZKJ-x5-UWgKq6MTdUiTLcc4WLLxyq6R3fdReqtnB8X6DZnAcuDZKsTS3eXLmpQ/s1600/IMG_8452.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="768" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXHGJjuikNZC5FXeyxhZQUXAUDx_hiPljSGh1dfWlm-FMvApW1IyFCUoXelD1GeOWPTgFb6RXpJG6JZKJ-x5-UWgKq6MTdUiTLcc4WLLxyq6R3fdReqtnB8X6DZnAcuDZKsTS3eXLmpQ/s320/IMG_8452.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Sometimes we would be driving along and someone would yell out "Hey, there's the Croc guy!" We would quickly pull over because whenever you saw the Croc guy with his cart fulled of used Crocs for sale (shipped over from U.S. thrift stores), you knew that it was time to stock up on Crocs. Buying <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2018/01/what-if-my-clothing-purchases-are.html" target="_blank">used clothes and shoes</a> from open air markets was our normal. Picking out gorgeous Tanzanian fabric and having it tailor-made into dresses was a treat. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b>Playing in Unusual Places</b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7CQayLFL-j_HSdt8WilLVKU0vSy5XQALoB-tZyzX_EDCk1JpLw9Yykq4ZcZGrqHrogw_eRwvJ8GAqfvNek3Y6UlHjeA7M2qhFoYXLStx5vcDNuKTloUnIUCSSwhM3mFkfSPHh3Hz02A/s1600/IMG_1610.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="768" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7CQayLFL-j_HSdt8WilLVKU0vSy5XQALoB-tZyzX_EDCk1JpLw9Yykq4ZcZGrqHrogw_eRwvJ8GAqfvNek3Y6UlHjeA7M2qhFoYXLStx5vcDNuKTloUnIUCSSwhM3mFkfSPHh3Hz02A/s400/IMG_1610.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
So, playing Capture the Flag or Nerf Wars in the half-finished, abandoned hotel next door to their friends' house was totally cool. You just had to be careful to avoid the bats, of course. </div>
<br />
<br />Amy Medinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02445986974714298954noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118517190489901866.post-10465871019343115732020-05-14T03:02:00.002+03:002020-05-14T03:02:55.734+03:00Pray for Sheshi<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5v74dJUiOA-o4vIpB6sZkUT0zW7WvgMTOzvDW97-od6l880bSXvgEssf3lrujsRdnwrOuOwJUWF3M-ADIX9hzKgJIstiO5C5cGhnsbPVthwHJIp8Qa8jatQjY41sI_ZXcwfqzhd9bYA/s1600/Kaniki.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="682" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5v74dJUiOA-o4vIpB6sZkUT0zW7WvgMTOzvDW97-od6l880bSXvgEssf3lrujsRdnwrOuOwJUWF3M-ADIX9hzKgJIstiO5C5cGhnsbPVthwHJIp8Qa8jatQjY41sI_ZXcwfqzhd9bYA/s320/Kaniki.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
During a time of deep crisis in our community in January, our chaplain at Haven of Peace Academy, Sheshi Kaniki, stood before us at a staff meeting and exhorted us: <b>"Nothing you experience will ever be worse than what you have already been saved from."</b><br />
<br />
I wrote it down on a post-it note and stuck it on the wall in front of my desk. I repeated those words to myself numerous times over the following weeks of stress as it felt like we were in a continual state of crisis. I wrote about that season <a href="https://www.alifeoverseas.com/why-i-am-i-so-surprised-when-crisis-strikes/" target="_blank">here</a>, and I ended it with Sheshi's quote.<br />
<br />
That was before COVID-19. The day I left my office for the last time, I can't remember if I took that post-it note with me. Maybe I'll find it someday when I finally get to unpack. Or maybe the next principal will see it there waiting for her. I do know that I kept thinking about those words as my life was wrenched out of Tanzania at the end of March.<br />
<br />
And now, I'm thinking about Sheshi's words again. <b>Because on Saturday, I found out that Sheshi has a large, malignant brain tumor. </b>In fact, that brain tumor must have been growing the day that he stood before our staff and exhorted us with his words of truth.<br />
<br />
Sheshi is not only HOPAC's chaplain, but the church-planter and pastor of the vibrant, gospel-centered church we attended in Dar es Salaam. His wife, Trudie, is my friend and co-worker at HOPAC. She coordinates our Service Learning program. Their youngest son, Tim, has been Josiah's best friend since first grade.<br />
<br />
Sheshi and Trudie are one of those dynamic couples who impact everyone they come across. They make you feel seen, loved, and accepted, even if they've only just met you. They are incredibly godly, wise, and humble. I remember walking past our assembly hall a couple of months ago during the middle school chapel, and listening to Sheshi speak to the kids. I don't remember what he was saying, but I do remember thinking, <i>I am so incredibly grateful that this man is investing in my children.</i><br />
<br />
So I can't write this without waves of grief. I spent most of Saturday hidden away from my kids, because I was so distraught and I wasn't at liberty to tell them why just yet.<br />
<br />
Please, my friends, pray for Sheshi and his family. If you go to the <a href="https://www.gofundme.com/f/pastor-sheshi-kaniki-cancer-fund?utm_source=facebook&utm_medium=social&utm_campaign=p_cp+share-sheet&fbclid=IwAR1aCI6iV7s1RYuCtIQ3VLUTeMV0vUM7UPWDfxHN9nQuGXUnlilJS5AbsG0" target="_blank">GoFundMe page</a> set up for him by his friends, you'll read more about his background and the huge impact he has on our community and the city of Dar es Salaam. If the story grabs your heart, sign up to receive prayer updates using <a href="http://eepurl.com/g3juv5" target="_blank">this link</a>. (I'm helping to send out those updates.)<br />
<br />
I have no doubt that Sheshi still stands by his words, even in this.<br />
<br />
<i>We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption to sonship, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what they already have? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.</i><br />
<br />Amy Medinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02445986974714298954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118517190489901866.post-39113573215382692042020-05-11T19:14:00.000+03:002020-05-11T19:14:22.128+03:00The Stripping Away<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCLiEuF_Hu5Qai82BmKlnkn99liD7DWdZ3AZOfDlEfHPRYXKSr6R2Z8OKU3iDBOp7QJVTztz4uBi7A3c-9M9UHiuPPf9zpEIivsFEWClNIBp9ijUAwFZBjFNen8r36O30adJe78ipd1g/s1600/IMG_1665.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="768" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCLiEuF_Hu5Qai82BmKlnkn99liD7DWdZ3AZOfDlEfHPRYXKSr6R2Z8OKU3iDBOp7QJVTztz4uBi7A3c-9M9UHiuPPf9zpEIivsFEWClNIBp9ijUAwFZBjFNen8r36O30adJe78ipd1g/s400/IMG_1665.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
It might have been a mistake to keep using the same day planner.<br />
<br />
I like to plan ahead, you see, which means that these days, when I turn the page in my planner, I see depressing things like "Sports Day" and "Boot Sale" and "Remember to announce April's House winner." Little reminders, all over the place, of what I've lost. So I cross those things out and write in "Video call, 8:00" because what else is there to write in my planner these days?<br />
<br />
Remember that scene in <i>Back to the Future Part II</i> when Biff goes back in time to give the Almanac to his younger self and it skews the future so that when Marty returns to 1985 he finds himself in an alternate universe? That's what this feels like, right? An alternate universe. And one day I'll wake up from this bad dream and look at my planner and it really <i>will </i>be Sports Day. Where is Doc with his time machine when you need him?<br />
<br />
There simply is not enough space here to express how much I hate this alternate universe. Not because my conditions are miserable (because they are not; we are enjoying time with extended family), but because I am being stripped of the parts of me that I have valued the most.<br />
<br />
You might recall that recently I wrote <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2020/01/if-you-were-mary-and-i-was-martha-i.html" target="_blank">an entire post </a>on how much I love crossing things off of lists. Finishing a task gives me a thrill. You want to know how many tasks I can't finish right now? About a bazillion. Like, that whole three-year commitment to being principal at a school that I have invested in for almost 20 years? Yeah, that little thing. Don't get to cross it off my list. Sure, I'm still frantically working, but I feel like I'm in a hamster wheel.<br />
<br />
I'm a perfectionist. I like to do things <i>well</i>. I like to do things <i>on time</i>. I despise procrastination. I never once pulled all-nighter in college. Yet now? I feel like I'm always 10 hours behind. That would be because I <i>am </i>10 hours behind. I wake up in the morning in California and it's already evening in Tanzania. A few times in my childhood, I experienced that sinking feeling that everyone had already turned in their homework assignment except me. Those experiences still give me nightmares. Now, I wake up every single morning, open my computer, and get that same feeling.<br />
<br />
My sense of isolation and disconnection is exacerbated by the fact that I have teachers living in four locations spanning ten time zones and students in even more. I walk around these California neighborhoods and see the signs posted on lawns, "We love Mrs.______!" for Teacher Appreciation Week, but I can't do that for my teachers. My teachers are working their tails off, logging in dozens more hours a week than usual, with a fraction of the rewards that come from teaching physical children in a physical classroom. They are teaching during odd hours so that they can help groups of kids on opposite sides of the world. And I can't even give them a stupid sign on their lawns. I hate being mediocre. Yet these days, that's all I've got to offer.<br />
<br />
Of course, alongside running in my own hamster wheel, I'm also helping my children with Distance Learning, which means that I too am bordering on the edge of my sanity. If anyone was enviously thinking that Mrs. Medina must be doing such a fabulous job with Distance Learning since she's the principal and Perfectly Patient All of the Time, well, I guess it's a good thing you can't visit me so that I don't completely decimate my reputation. Last week Johnny started crying during one particularly tense exchange over spelling words and he wailed, "Everything was better in Tanzania!" So then I started crying too. <i>Me too, Buddy. </i>I want out of this alternate universe. (I may or may not have offered to pay a million dollars to Johnny's second grade teacher to come to California and teach him.)<br />
<br />
It's like we're all working twice as hard but with half of the productivity, which is probably why I feel frustrated 92% of the time. Did I mention I really like productivity? Efficiency, productivity, perfectionism, planning. All of those things have been thrown out of the window, and since they were my most-cherished values, I feel like jumping out along with them.<br />
<br />
I know better, of course. I know that what I'm supposed to think is that all of my values--as good as they are--still must submit themselves to God's will. That God doesn't really care about my efficiency and productivity as much as I do, and that as those "values" are being stripped away from my heart, the revealed flesh that is underneath sits raw and exposed before God. I am nothing without Him. I do no good other than the good He does through me. I accomplish nothing of value other than what He deems is important. I know I'm supposed to think that, but my flesh wrangles and wrestles and beats up against it.<br />
<br />
I know that He wins in my weakness. I need to give up this fight.<br />
<br />
At the start of the school year, I planned out all of the elementary school Bible verses for whole year. Providentially, the verse that was scheduled for the week of March 23 (when everything fell apart) was Proverbs 19:21: <i>Many are the plans in a person's heart, but it is the Lord's purpose that prevails. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
So there you have it. What I wrote in my planner was just that--<i>My Plan</i> and nothing more. It was just ink on paper, a fantasy that was never meant to exist. This isn't an alternate universe, it is The Plan, the one that was meant to be from the beginning of time. Any control I thought I had was just an illusion.<br />
<br />
It's ironic that I <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2017/10/clinging-to-crutch.html" target="_blank">started this job as principal flat on my face</a>, feeling like a complete failure, and now here I am again, ending the job in a similar way. At the beginning, I fell apart with anxiety, not knowing if had what it takes to do well. Now I know I can, but instead of running past the finish line, I have to limp there, my feet chained together with a world crisis. I look back now and know that starting in weakness was incredibly good for me--that it set the stage for the humility and God-dependence I would need for this season. So why can't I trust Him with the ending as well?<br />
<br />Amy Medinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02445986974714298954noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118517190489901866.post-18731056632324626612020-05-06T07:52:00.001+03:002020-05-06T07:57:21.451+03:00We Can't Be Sure Everything Is Going to Be Okay<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLrirTaYxlISulp-ej7v_87TMH46xWHUx5eK_FJc37W_fPQFS8e_lSXiy9A-dJauCDkw31Cy8Mqp8NTtUtdItf6L6jvG7TVh78UahJz9qJAcFLv-MQ1lqAfsf2049T6X26Mz4VY1TT3A/s1600/IMG_1676.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="423" data-original-width="751" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLrirTaYxlISulp-ej7v_87TMH46xWHUx5eK_FJc37W_fPQFS8e_lSXiy9A-dJauCDkw31Cy8Mqp8NTtUtdItf6L6jvG7TVh78UahJz9qJAcFLv-MQ1lqAfsf2049T6X26Mz4VY1TT3A/s400/IMG_1676.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Since being <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2020/03/let-me-be-singing-when-evening-comes.html" target="_blank">unexpectedly wrenched from our Tanzanian home</a> a month ago due to COVID-19, my family has been living as vagabonds in California, moving in with various relatives every couple of weeks. (It’s hard to shelter-in-place when you have no home.) This week we’re with some in-laws, and I’ve been walking the neighborhood daily.</span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Whenever I visit California, the perfectly manicured HOA lawns are always a shock to my system after living in a chaotic East African city. These days, the spring roses are bursting into bloom around me, as if in defiance of the pain the world is facing. And like spring flowers, popping up in neighbors’ yards are identical red cardboard signs that read: </span><i><span style="font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Everything is going to be okay. </span><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There are dozens of them, and they mock me as I pass by. </span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How do you know everything is going to be okay?</span><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I silently yell at those signs. </span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I just had to leave my home three months early, and we had four days’ notice. We lived in Tanzania for sixteen years, and since we were planning on relocating in July, this meant we got no closure, no good-byes, no tying up loose ends. Just grief and trauma. We don’t have jobs or a home. So please don’t tell me everything is going to be okay. I’m not in the mood. </span></i></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I walk, and I restlessly pound out my lament to God: </span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>How long, O Lord? How long before we can start a normal life again? How long before I know with confidence that the school, the friends, the community I left behind in Tanzania will be okay? How long before this knot of anxiety goes away, the weight of grief lifts off my chest?</i></span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I love the stories of God’s deliverance in Scripture. The walls falling down, the giant conquered, the blind man healed. </span><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But I have this tendency to speed read through the Bible, focusing on the happy endings and ignoring the miserable parts in between. </span><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yes, God's people were dramatically rescued from slavery in Egypt. (After 400 years of back-breaking suffering.) Yes, they made it to the Promised Land. (After 40 years of death in the desert.) Sure, God promised them a "hope and a future”....but it would come after </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">70 years</span><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> in exile. (That part doesn’t make it onto the coffee mugs.) The Messiah arrived! (After 400 years of silence from God.)</span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ever wonder what it must have felt like to live in the “in between” years before God’s miraculous deliverance? Probably felt pretty defeated, and isolated, and alone. Many, many, many of God’s faithful never saw his deliverance in their lifetimes. </span><span style="font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised </i></span><span style="font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">(Heb 11). You could say that for them, everything did not turn out to be okay.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That’s probably why amongst the miraculous stories was a whole lot of waiting and groaning and begging for redemption.</span><br />
<i style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></i>
<i style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">My soul is in deep anguish. How long, Lord, how long? (Ps. 6)</i><br />
<i style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></i>
<i style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and day after day have sorrow in my heart? (Ps. 13)</span></i><br />
<i style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></i>
<i style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">We are given no signs from God; no prophets are left, and none of us knows how long this will be. (Ps. 74)</i><br />
<i style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></i>
<i style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">How long will the land lie parched and the grass in every field be withered? (Jer. 12)</i><br />
<i style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></i>
<i style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">How long, Lord, must I call for help, but you do not listen? Or cry out to you, “Violence!” but you do not save? (Hab. 1)</i><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How long, O Lord? How long? What if life doesn’t return to normal in months, or years, or even </span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: inherit; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ever </span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">in our lifetime? What if things get worse? What if everything will not be okay? The truth is that if “okay” means safety, prosperity, and comfort, I might not get that. There is no guarantee. And judging from Christian history and the lives of my Christian brothers and sisters around the world, there is no precedent that God promises me those things.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Perhaps one of the most important things I learned during my life overseas was in watching the lives of those who have lived and died asking, “How long, O Lord?” She follows Jesus </span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>and </i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">her husband keeps cheating on her </span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>and </i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">he got her pregnant with a fourth child </span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>and </i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">she has only an elementary education </span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>and </i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">there is no government support </span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>and </i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">she works incredibly hard but nothing ever gets better. Oh, and even before COVID-19, there already were a dozen diseases around that could kill her or her children on any given day. Yet still, she perseveres in faith.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">I must remember that I am not promised that everything is going to be okay. In my lifetime, it might not be.</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Unless, that is, we’re talking about the very, very end. I am not promised heaven on earth. I am, however, promised heaven. That’s why Hebrews 11 ends with this: </span><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>These were all commended for their faith, yet none of them received what had been promised, since God had planned something better.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How long, O Lord, until everything will be okay? Maybe not ever. But </span><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I</span><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> can be okay, because I am a foreigner on this earth. This is not where I belong. I can see Your redemption in the distance, and in the meantime, I long for a better country--a heavenly one. </span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 1.5em; padding: 0px;">
This article was first published at <a href="https://www.alifeoverseas.com/we-cant-be-sure-everything-is-going-to-be-okay/" target="_blank">A Life Overseas</a>.</div>
Amy Medinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02445986974714298954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118517190489901866.post-89922997141278087002020-04-21T03:14:00.000+03:002020-04-22T07:59:18.104+03:00Not Just Any Rock<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikS8mHUKCT3Gpk8SeJeH_9udiQZPVuToHpB1MCyUeiMJSX_s7-l74iGxgWj3AWwetvbdqcZWXRGaScN6D5RKnDc9IHq2PypqgV5q_R2EiE2lxSWCm9mARojuJAIMT5ukfKnoVIZKF1dg/s1600/IMG_1576.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="256" data-original-width="341" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikS8mHUKCT3Gpk8SeJeH_9udiQZPVuToHpB1MCyUeiMJSX_s7-l74iGxgWj3AWwetvbdqcZWXRGaScN6D5RKnDc9IHq2PypqgV5q_R2EiE2lxSWCm9mARojuJAIMT5ukfKnoVIZKF1dg/s400/IMG_1576.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
The day before we left Tanzania last month, I found my rock from Liberia in a bathroom drawer. I had forgotten it was there; I had forgotten to look for it, and I came across it by chance. A shock went through me when I saw it, because it was with some things I was going to throw away, and I shuddered to think that I could have accidentally thrown it out in my hasty packing. I quickly put it in a small bag with other important things that went into my carry-on luggage.<br />
<br />
This was not just any rock.<br />
<br />
I found this rock on the shores of the <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2016/09/the-place-that-was-home.html" target="_blank">ELWA beach in Liberia</a> where I grew up. It was smooth, its rough edges worn off by the sand and waves. I kept it on my windowsill with other childhood treasures. One day, it fell off and split into two pieces.<br />
<br />
When I was twelve, my family left Liberia for a year. The plan was that I would do 8th grade in the States, and then we would return to Liberia for the rest of high school. I loved Liberia. It was home to me, and I was not looking forward to being away for a year.<br />
<br />
I took the broken-off piece of that rock and hid it in a corner of our house. I took the larger piece with me to California. I didn't tell anyone I was doing this, and looking back, I'm actually pretty shocked that as a twelve-year-old, I thought of something so symbolic. I was leaving part of myself in Liberia. When I returned, I would be complete again.<br />
<br />
Half way through that year, my family listened in despair as we heard reports of rebel soldiers closing in on the capital city in Liberia, of a government coup, of panic and evacuation of almost all the missionaries. Then--a civil war, a descent into chaos and devastation.<br />
<br />
We never went back. We lost all of our possessions. We never said goodbye. People we knew were killed. Suddenly loss and grief were a part of my story in a way they never had been before. So it was fitting that the two halves of my rock never found their way together again.<br />
<br />
Just a few short months later, we were re-stationed on the other side of the continent, this time in Ethiopia. I was in 9th grade, and chose to go to boarding school in Kenya. I had a new school and a new direction. But that year, rebels descended into the capital city in Ethiopia. During school announcements, all of us missionary kids from Ethiopia kept getting pulled aside for grave conversations. Things were bad, they said. Some of our parents were getting evacuated, they said. My mom and my brother were among them. They were on the last flight out, and later my mom told me how they watched the tanks roll into the airport as the plane left the runway.<br />
<br />
My dad stayed behind with some other men, and they slept in a windowless hallway at night. I was still at school. For six weeks, my family was on three different countries. When I arrived back in Ethiopia, the city still had curfews and lockdowns. My dad crammed what he could into several suitcases, and he and I left. Once again, I didn't get to say goodbye.<br />
<br />
I look back on the timeline of my childhood, and Liberia and Ethiopia lay there like the jagged end of my broken rock. No opportunity to finish well. No closure. Just loss.<br />
<br />
The <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2020/03/let-me-be-singing-when-evening-comes.html" target="_blank">night that we were told we had to leave</a> Tanzania, that wound re-opened. <i>I can't believe this is happening to me again,</i> I wailed to Gil. <i>I can't believe now <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2019/03/what-have-i-done-to-my-children.html" target="_blank">it's happening to my own kids</a>. </i>As foreigners living in a land that's not our own, we like to believe that we belong there. That we can pretend it's part of us. Then we are unceremoniously yanked away, and given the stark reminder that like it or not, we don't belong. Yes, that <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2019/06/what-did-i-ever-do-to-deserve-this-blue.html" target="_blank">blue passport is a privilege</a>, but sometimes it takes me places I don't want to go.<br />
<br />
The grief sits on my chest every day. It's hard to separate out its various forms. Which is the grief in leaving Tanzania early? Which is the grief in knowing that it won't be my home again? Which is the grief for the sorrows my children are facing, or my friends back in Tanzania, or my beloved school? They all just swirl into one complicated mixture of sadness.<br />
<br />
C.S. Lewis wrote, "To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken." I find myself not particularly eager to move beyond this grief. It is sacred and beautiful. Being wrenched from Tanzania is worth grieving over, because it was worth loving.<br />
<br />
Perhaps the fault in my youthful naivete was assuming that something, once broken, could ever be put back together in the same way again. Jesus' body, when gloriously resurrected, still bore the scars of his suffering. If I could choose, would I want my scars erased? Probably not. They are part of my story, of who I became, of God's work in my life. That is the mysterious glory of redemption. And redemption is how we see through the tiny keyhole that shows us the beauty on the other side of that giant door of suffering.<br />
<br />Amy Medinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02445986974714298954noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118517190489901866.post-33787594712479087052020-04-14T03:10:00.001+03:002020-04-17T23:03:51.360+03:00Leaving: In Pictures<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHSyNLeoWC2JVfDgbK7gaSYYKbCydFh_Ib39X3SMm31sXSHbhQizHOL04NtrZBNhin7Hzvk-Tfq1ybcXR4DLYz6KM7S7y-w842d6Tfk_WPekYpp-aJ9VzQ27nXW0sDnvXeCRelI9hUgA/s1600/3D23890D-A988-476D-A709-2F4EE43175EA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="324" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHSyNLeoWC2JVfDgbK7gaSYYKbCydFh_Ib39X3SMm31sXSHbhQizHOL04NtrZBNhin7Hzvk-Tfq1ybcXR4DLYz6KM7S7y-w842d6Tfk_WPekYpp-aJ9VzQ27nXW0sDnvXeCRelI9hUgA/s320/3D23890D-A988-476D-A709-2F4EE43175EA.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Early March: I posted a picture on Facebook announcing that Africa could send America toilet paper. We had plenty.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYb_FkivmFXWp2PK57oheHwtaaDKF0x9mCU5nx6RtyJckXYj4bAFz7vMYiSflqvl8uXwwFLsZ9AvQRg_MRIy5AWmi2muIFXB4E9VvcdIBM-zYtRtaMme_MBRzG7w7l85zpQaj5bhK2FQ/s1600/2C5C842B-DFF1-44B8-A02E-6A12F92C092C.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="496" data-original-width="322" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYb_FkivmFXWp2PK57oheHwtaaDKF0x9mCU5nx6RtyJckXYj4bAFz7vMYiSflqvl8uXwwFLsZ9AvQRg_MRIy5AWmi2muIFXB4E9VvcdIBM-zYtRtaMme_MBRzG7w7l85zpQaj5bhK2FQ/s320/2C5C842B-DFF1-44B8-A02E-6A12F92C092C.jpg" width="207" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">March 13: All School assembly for Service Emphasis Week--No social distancing happening here!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUruADVDEHTHQ6tnk0YJtgqeh-HEySCh8f_1U9h8C8nc9porWvWMt4LTrA0hAO2951sCtIB7sh2P46WVyqCvrfUaeMcKTaAbFg1MFhR_pB_UC6Xg9icD9Wt5i-voV0a09Xe_MdYuy6sQ/s1600/IMG_1607.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUruADVDEHTHQ6tnk0YJtgqeh-HEySCh8f_1U9h8C8nc9porWvWMt4LTrA0hAO2951sCtIB7sh2P46WVyqCvrfUaeMcKTaAbFg1MFhR_pB_UC6Xg9icD9Wt5i-voV0a09Xe_MdYuy6sQ/s320/IMG_1607.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From Friday afternoon to the following Monday: No kids on campus. Everything changed in one weekend.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBLh1r03s3PBoD-tEFP25b9cRX3iZzmsdi5hanCwL4McjQdRTAjLpatOzp5PWJwPjvbwz8QAyg98Bhd4U7ayhDOpXtGRX_w46JdxXhBAgsylN5DeNJu2TCLM5OhVZcK5PqnAOEPjE7iw/s1600/D700B430-DE94-4807-A6BC-AE789D2F1443.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="324" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBLh1r03s3PBoD-tEFP25b9cRX3iZzmsdi5hanCwL4McjQdRTAjLpatOzp5PWJwPjvbwz8QAyg98Bhd4U7ayhDOpXtGRX_w46JdxXhBAgsylN5DeNJu2TCLM5OhVZcK5PqnAOEPjE7iw/s320/D700B430-DE94-4807-A6BC-AE789D2F1443.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gearing up for Distance Learning</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggr80f-c335sNxKhyphenhyphentfJQv_kShuh_h-KBisf0orWo01MCLGmny0rh23B5v2GmFsbF6cWqs5uliox0-hMizWWqcUwdeQgSn8COozErDLCqKwgbzrnjMqFUxxibRtMqBsu8OXoAHhllbrg/s1600/IMG_1533.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="426" data-original-width="569" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggr80f-c335sNxKhyphenhyphentfJQv_kShuh_h-KBisf0orWo01MCLGmny0rh23B5v2GmFsbF6cWqs5uliox0-hMizWWqcUwdeQgSn8COozErDLCqKwgbzrnjMqFUxxibRtMqBsu8OXoAHhllbrg/s320/IMG_1533.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My last day in my office. We had bought tickets the night before. "Take a picture," I told Gil. "Just in case I don't make it back." Why do we smile for pictures even when we are miserable? </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiojm3PMHUpgcjShO5SNFb-pwJApzM2QntSFxwrpHp9mzoFTkjoI6hcrY8HM4mabw-hdbIQLdgQhHCU4LLgg4uadWCwB3mC1pD2SeaPG1iyetvGqnde3y8ciFCCU6aM2Bq8cT0XTBb9kg/s1600/IMG_1571.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="768" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiojm3PMHUpgcjShO5SNFb-pwJApzM2QntSFxwrpHp9mzoFTkjoI6hcrY8HM4mabw-hdbIQLdgQhHCU4LLgg4uadWCwB3mC1pD2SeaPG1iyetvGqnde3y8ciFCCU6aM2Bq8cT0XTBb9kg/s320/IMG_1571.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Friends stopped by to say good-bye. My kids with the celebrity-quadruplets. Their presence brings sunshine into any room. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br />
<img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5cHhsdbIcsd0oZtgznqdlTwoos9Ako57MNmLTBLCvcsYYF901CJtNb9TDhosSOwECdIP2x1scXDYJGCLzmhDy45yTvecOskBieYBWufBCEd62AEFMnabCiaFTCUdJkQIUunOwQrSgNA/s320/IMG_1580.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="240" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baby shoes from my kids' early days. Sentimental things I had saved, but decided we had no room to bring with us. So I took pictures instead. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5cHhsdbIcsd0oZtgznqdlTwoos9Ako57MNmLTBLCvcsYYF901CJtNb9TDhosSOwECdIP2x1scXDYJGCLzmhDy45yTvecOskBieYBWufBCEd62AEFMnabCiaFTCUdJkQIUunOwQrSgNA/s1600/IMG_1580.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqudJkdE1zpns0mUdQei3ka3tjs4Dzj3LcmMrgjtf7bYkpDZToPORBMeG6P5TqI8kj5NlxPsws2CkcWni7Liw23nZXXlzuzBvh4vD0A6_jMcmmXBuXFTYDE0puJPweA5xDSPKPqHbPmw/s1600/4EF897C2-35F4-4047-ADF6-8D522746DF1C.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="523" data-original-width="930" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqudJkdE1zpns0mUdQei3ka3tjs4Dzj3LcmMrgjtf7bYkpDZToPORBMeG6P5TqI8kj5NlxPsws2CkcWni7Liw23nZXXlzuzBvh4vD0A6_jMcmmXBuXFTYDE0puJPweA5xDSPKPqHbPmw/s320/4EF897C2-35F4-4047-ADF6-8D522746DF1C.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">To post on Facebook: "Looking for a home for our sweet dog."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlBrVHiqwx4Too3hIiFo248tYZKFIZm1ky7IKzSo_WmpovX4ctVJhVbq_jDF02m3W-eeViWCikWytA03nx6b9tDEKSrRO1L-QPLV4UQhlgPGXxKpJZxw5UtkM52LPnE7vIaEZS-ZYWzg/s1600/7139fe47-d1fb-4e4a-94fd-a1857d6671a8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="478" data-original-width="535" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlBrVHiqwx4Too3hIiFo248tYZKFIZm1ky7IKzSo_WmpovX4ctVJhVbq_jDF02m3W-eeViWCikWytA03nx6b9tDEKSrRO1L-QPLV4UQhlgPGXxKpJZxw5UtkM52LPnE7vIaEZS-ZYWzg/s320/7139fe47-d1fb-4e4a-94fd-a1857d6671a8.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More friends stopping by to say goodbye. It was rushed, but I am so thankful for every last one of these. A quick goodbye is better than none at all.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTUc1qB1vi8xyWYX3U81bez3f-uYKa5534ekFYWrpdrAjySt-ncQjMN2mQzo22uls9kiPpBw6xjhmMyH5Umlt0bKzLTUCuAwQNAgGu_lrw1U88KKRWOzmpABIt-NX6e3tsEI5DHHmflQ/s1600/IMG_1574.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="235" data-original-width="176" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTUc1qB1vi8xyWYX3U81bez3f-uYKa5534ekFYWrpdrAjySt-ncQjMN2mQzo22uls9kiPpBw6xjhmMyH5Umlt0bKzLTUCuAwQNAgGu_lrw1U88KKRWOzmpABIt-NX6e3tsEI5DHHmflQ/s320/IMG_1574.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sorting everything to sell. I sold kitchen containers with the flour still in them.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2C0t9EgPzDREJgR-0M2ZMSqKSzkRn54QoV7Io4brwlU1SwoFv25bUiKG95NmtIp-cOePjP9g9JweCQm7IdSUobEgckRuXdCxYuae9aABgmanXQeC-6CrxkKDml8jgl88SdX5YYrP4HQ/s1600/IMG_1592.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="768" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2C0t9EgPzDREJgR-0M2ZMSqKSzkRn54QoV7Io4brwlU1SwoFv25bUiKG95NmtIp-cOePjP9g9JweCQm7IdSUobEgckRuXdCxYuae9aABgmanXQeC-6CrxkKDml8jgl88SdX5YYrP4HQ/s320/IMG_1592.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stopped by school one last time. I took pictures of everything, wanting to grab hold of every memory. This is the administration building where my office is, where I spent the last three years. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4elJr1F3T-UHq6VnzVNJ-zQMliCYV2sADxT5I9ctUTxxsvLQZnm58lGEYKKruFXB_hdR4ByK52gRm1sphrxjJOq7T1VVxpvsWpVU_2qGHKLNdsV9oPhXBZvaiITgZL8zo6ZKe5-gREQ/s1600/IMG_1605.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4elJr1F3T-UHq6VnzVNJ-zQMliCYV2sADxT5I9ctUTxxsvLQZnm58lGEYKKruFXB_hdR4ByK52gRm1sphrxjJOq7T1VVxpvsWpVU_2qGHKLNdsV9oPhXBZvaiITgZL8zo6ZKe5-gREQ/s320/IMG_1605.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The famous baobab tree at HOPAC. It was there before we were.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2CZlVV9udFGDqnHcV4hNLXIm60kxPUpkG6d3xVjAJr9pKPEKOD7bATGtmLIrRIOWtxqsJWh62EnoXfzPtEjqBd8mPS8-YaQ7aDKzfygtU_d3_kh_sFdEHNjkJuw_hO1Xc4jXOkqSmJg/s1600/IMG_1611.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="768" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2CZlVV9udFGDqnHcV4hNLXIm60kxPUpkG6d3xVjAJr9pKPEKOD7bATGtmLIrRIOWtxqsJWh62EnoXfzPtEjqBd8mPS8-YaQ7aDKzfygtU_d3_kh_sFdEHNjkJuw_hO1Xc4jXOkqSmJg/s320/IMG_1611.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Visiting a very, very special family one last time. Their seven and my four fit together perfectly. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzpm_S6S1CwYwwhlwP3mjNNhm7T4IC7fiHDpyXDLKwzBz5X5IffhyphenhyphenFibiZnZCnd-OZox4MQqbn3A-aMX7VA6xsJNTJhdKk3lsgHmaMeZqXS9Gprqyh97vyrKlksQ1JhqC5wBR1sOdjSQ/s1600/IMG_1630.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="768" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzpm_S6S1CwYwwhlwP3mjNNhm7T4IC7fiHDpyXDLKwzBz5X5IffhyphenhyphenFibiZnZCnd-OZox4MQqbn3A-aMX7VA6xsJNTJhdKk3lsgHmaMeZqXS9Gprqyh97vyrKlksQ1JhqC5wBR1sOdjSQ/s320/IMG_1630.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZd57cuYMByMYgGihynJeqo1IeUxOGpmhIBOU7Kov1PXlaAyAF_zNbxIY-Q7KHEGD4JG02GaNjoi7naJOaf0G0WFsFrM8C-J_oqxJhsX6jVWxddbO5YQshZd9TkbdySef6397sBK5e6w/s1600/BDC6312F-8B53-4F91-9AAD-A3BA7F56D73C.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZd57cuYMByMYgGihynJeqo1IeUxOGpmhIBOU7Kov1PXlaAyAF_zNbxIY-Q7KHEGD4JG02GaNjoi7naJOaf0G0WFsFrM8C-J_oqxJhsX6jVWxddbO5YQshZd9TkbdySef6397sBK5e6w/s320/BDC6312F-8B53-4F91-9AAD-A3BA7F56D73C.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We sold the dishes....so our last dinner was at the nearby Ramada Hotel. We were shocked by how empty it was. Though life in the city seemed to be going on as normal, big changes were starting.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiP58h0tw4WEDAgb5oazaTavA0HXfR8ZJxyLv2k2Z2fwdJpNFT0iyEkZm7hLTFZZ4OagUgnd7NZoPZDjceXH1YpkOnwdQmQ-D26BRJbno21EJyoN8LFtMZRfGywNh9yCb-fT1Mvxi53Q/s1600/IMG_1640.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="768" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiP58h0tw4WEDAgb5oazaTavA0HXfR8ZJxyLv2k2Z2fwdJpNFT0iyEkZm7hLTFZZ4OagUgnd7NZoPZDjceXH1YpkOnwdQmQ-D26BRJbno21EJyoN8LFtMZRfGywNh9yCb-fT1Mvxi53Q/s320/IMG_1640.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Saying goodbye to our gardener, Paul. He has lived on our property and been a part of our lives for ten years.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGh1n9cbR_Q83egSx9BEYKyts0t5tEGNhbbTalR5dqVanbbd-ejzq7422-KawLylnbzuvDV1oIiyr7044zAar6F5RypG7X3CI0CKgn6lnuEabDqwgdibqst3qE3kCtSkWz9QhD6A17ZQ/s1600/IMG_1644.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGh1n9cbR_Q83egSx9BEYKyts0t5tEGNhbbTalR5dqVanbbd-ejzq7422-KawLylnbzuvDV1oIiyr7044zAar6F5RypG7X3CI0CKgn6lnuEabDqwgdibqst3qE3kCtSkWz9QhD6A17ZQ/s320/IMG_1644.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With the luggage, saying one last goodbye to Snoopy. Again, why do we smile for pictures even when we are miserable?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKo3EdnN2Zv3H2TMPChlVzdkhqn43AGoWlpMtZ1xKtsg5hDR9FpyBFpP7HD4HXwkQhI0ksirne3lELfDP81ypKCdbel8HN7gu4-xAgjMv71ZTmC7B4lNBoz7UhNwMJ-p6h07SsdFbNYw/s1600/IMG_1645.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="356" data-original-width="475" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKo3EdnN2Zv3H2TMPChlVzdkhqn43AGoWlpMtZ1xKtsg5hDR9FpyBFpP7HD4HXwkQhI0ksirne3lELfDP81ypKCdbel8HN7gu4-xAgjMv71ZTmC7B4lNBoz7UhNwMJ-p6h07SsdFbNYw/s320/IMG_1645.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the way to the airport, taking a picture of a guy in a gorilla mask who is selling gorilla masks to people stopped at intersections. Because even when you're miserable, you find ways to smile.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSjofTLseNWYLenlnYe-FC40WC4eIOmHfQAZqNLXviqSJFfOVB4Y5CYiN5oQg9BhaGw0bpZCVBdxQFeMCGuFiMy2bn9gIqM21yjxJqXzjmscq9woMmPc0dmHe6TNK7VsRjlHIuJbep4g/s1600/IMG_5048.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSjofTLseNWYLenlnYe-FC40WC4eIOmHfQAZqNLXviqSJFfOVB4Y5CYiN5oQg9BhaGw0bpZCVBdxQFeMCGuFiMy2bn9gIqM21yjxJqXzjmscq9woMmPc0dmHe6TNK7VsRjlHIuJbep4g/s320/IMG_5048.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> I found this on one of the kids' phones: Shoppers Plaza, one of the places they've known their whole lives. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-YXGDXfLbVXvxuq-z1yTGf1uPwIVrVBqhlJGcTQdOsKyWyEM_MEwIm_JN8UQpz7aAMrPKgxZM4rEaW6hP31r_2vHJypJbtIAoF5fQsArqVycOW4MUEBJe4wla98IiLtTPIsdCDqfoIA/s1600/IMG_5050.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-YXGDXfLbVXvxuq-z1yTGf1uPwIVrVBqhlJGcTQdOsKyWyEM_MEwIm_JN8UQpz7aAMrPKgxZM4rEaW6hP31r_2vHJypJbtIAoF5fQsArqVycOW4MUEBJe4wla98IiLtTPIsdCDqfoIA/s320/IMG_5050.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eating lunch at the empty Dar es Salaam airport. Hey, did you know there's KFC at the Dar airport now? This is very exciting.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg92zaBu-6RwK0hwEpHqkZ1VuuEhNGqxl8u8PetYQTnmBmwp8rqhEREanxmB1uhGzBBFiae4H9MtXw0rxCmKa7TBQFb3QoqHBCAvsAYj6CW1NGj7CknAwiKmBnDTdFpNm4m2q-4KuLLfw/s1600/IMG_5100.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg92zaBu-6RwK0hwEpHqkZ1VuuEhNGqxl8u8PetYQTnmBmwp8rqhEREanxmB1uhGzBBFiae4H9MtXw0rxCmKa7TBQFb3QoqHBCAvsAYj6CW1NGj7CknAwiKmBnDTdFpNm4m2q-4KuLLfw/s320/IMG_5100.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coming in for a landing in San Francisco</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Amy Medinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02445986974714298954noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118517190489901866.post-65382137429131936162020-04-12T01:45:00.001+03:002020-04-12T01:45:06.683+03:00Living in SaturdayWe don't talk much about Saturday. Friday, yes, because now, looking back two thousand years, we know that Friday was Good. But on that original Friday, they didn't yet know that. All they knew was the horror, the trauma, the beatings, the blood. And Saturday, all they knew was hopelessness and despair. All their dreams nailed down in a torturous crucifixion. Their closest friend, their mentor, their Lord--the one who had calmed the seas and winked at small children--condemned, humiliated, despised.<br />
<br />
And they figured they were next. So they spent Saturday in hiding. Hunkered down, the windows closed, in shock. This was not how it was supposed to be. The end was supposed to be a kingdom--power, praise, honor! And they would be right by his side, the conquering hero, leading the people, soaking in the praise by association. But in one horrifying Friday, all of that was decimated. <i>What went wrong? Is God angry with us? How could we have been so misled? This is not how it was supposed to be. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
We know better now. We know what's coming on Sunday, so we don't think much about Saturday. <b>Yet, in a very real sense, we live in that Saturday. </b><br />
<br />
Perhaps this year more than ever, the world is faced with the reality of that Saturday. There's always been suffering, poverty, war, disease. But in my generation of relatively prosperous Americans, there's never been a time in our lives when we corporately have felt more powerless, more isolated, more out of control. Here we are, on a planet that's an infinitesimal speck in a universe of mind-blowing proportions. Yet seemingly immovable cultures and institutions are cut off at the knees by an even more infinitesimal speck that lurks unseen by all of us. We are very, very small, aren't we? The breath that keeps us alive for another few seconds is not something to be trifled with. We are not as strong as we think we are.<br />
<br />
Resurrection, restoration, redemption came on that Sunday. Life was restored. Death was conquered. The world was never the same again. Yet as miraculous as the Resurrection was, it was just the deposit. The down payment for That Day--not yet come--when <i>all things</i> will be made new.<br />
<br />
Until then, we still live in Saturday. The earth groans under the weight of war and hatred and injustice. Our frail bodies collapse from a microscopic enemy. We are driven to our knees with the tangible reminder that <i>this is not heaven</i>.<br />
<br />
Yet one thing makes us different from those who hid away on that dark, hopeless Saturday. Yes, like them, we grieve, we anguish, we fear. But we have hope. That's the difference. We grieve, but with confident expectation of what's coming. We are on our knees, but we look up. If God could take the worst day in history and use it for our salvation, can He not redeem all the other hard things? The tomb was empty on Sunday. One day, ours will be too.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_ZS-cuwSvMaJaWpKdgHWx7a9UKzvqSyuISO0vonX4WZJ3Sb_Y0IKIT-4iLxt3nvkzsivfyfu7PqzlajQ6xrcTqlU-u9Bj3bylV201w5KEAYfjNkLUNJmyPEtduwIsLRwBbU_PRmO7A/s1600/IMG_4020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="864" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_ZS-cuwSvMaJaWpKdgHWx7a9UKzvqSyuISO0vonX4WZJ3Sb_Y0IKIT-4iLxt3nvkzsivfyfu7PqzlajQ6xrcTqlU-u9Bj3bylV201w5KEAYfjNkLUNJmyPEtduwIsLRwBbU_PRmO7A/s400/IMG_4020.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dar es Salaam, Tanzania (Gil Medina)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Amy Medinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02445986974714298954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118517190489901866.post-90160970651314617232020-04-06T03:52:00.000+03:002020-04-06T03:55:43.992+03:00I Don't Deserve Your Sympathy<a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2020/03/let-me-be-singing-when-evening-comes.html" target="_blank">Leaving Tanzania suddenly</a> was probably the most stressful experience of my life. Selling everything in our house, trying to get Johnny's visa processed, having flights and airports closing around us, and worrying about all the people and responsibilities we would be leaving behind--all in a period of a few days--just about broke me. There were times when I found myself shaking uncontrollably or simply immobilized by the inability to think clearly.<br />
<br />
But there were moments during that week--and even more so now that it's over--when I am overwhelmed with how much privilege was connected to this sudden departure.<br />
<br />
Yes, my stomach was in knots. But never once did I worry that my family wouldn't have enough to eat. Yes, there was tremendous grief in being given a mandate to leave. But never did I feel my life was in danger. Yes, the trip probably exposed us to the virus. But I knew we were headed to a country with high quality health care. Yes, it was hard to find open flights. But I could afford to buy tickets on those flights. Yes, the trip was exhausting. But we had in-flight entertainment and a night at an airport hotel. Yes, I was forced to leave my home and return to a place that doesn't feel like home. But I had a passport to let me in.<br />
<br />
In contrast, <a href="https://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-india-52086274?fbclid=IwAR3c3pjZN4AB2Jg7CgtQJP9t6yGmL1-UXEhOSK6ezacuqEupoQwmKyJAwTM" target="_blank">consider India</a>. When the government put the country on lockdown last week, stalling all public transportation, hundreds of thousands of migrants started <i>walking </i>back to their home villages over one hundred miles away. People who scratch out a living of five dollars a day, walking. No money, no food for their journey. Sleeping outdoors. Many of them with children.<br />
<br />
Yes, "shelter in place" isn't much fun. Like the rest of America, Gil and I are struggling with our kids' online learning while trying to do our own work. Our kids are climbing the walls. We are bored. We've been on quarantine so it's been a challenge to figure out how to get more milk or find a protractor so that Josiah can do his math. Yet again--I have no worries of going hungry. Zero worries. Sure, we are 8 people sharing three bedrooms, but my parents' house has 24 hour electricity and running water. Friends have brought us homemade pizza and root beer and ice cream, and a protractor for Josiah.<br />
<br />
In contrast, I think of Uganda, also on lockdown. I think of families with 10 people sharing one room. Not one bedroom, <i>one room</i>. Little to no electricity. Their daily water supply costs a quarter of their daily wages--yet now there are no daily wages. We stress about boredom; they wonder about survival.<br />
<br />
Yes, Gil and I are worried about the future. In three months, we will be unemployed. We've been applying for jobs at Christian schools, yet no one is confident of enrollment for next year, no one even knows when schools will open again, so everyone is reluctant to hire. Our future--where we will live, what we will do--is a big black hole of unknowns. Yet again--I have zero worries about going hungry. I have zero worries about ending up on the street.<br />
<br />
In contrast, I think of how the tourism industry in Tanzania has come to a screeching halt, leaving hundreds of thousands without jobs. I think of the names and faces of Tanzanians I know--friends I have shared life with--who are now jobless due to so many foreigners leaving the country. But unlike Americans, they can't apply for unemployment benefits. Or even welfare. Or even food stamps.<br />
<br />
I don't deserve your sympathy. They do.<br />
<br />
I'm not saying that we didn't need your prayers or concern, because what we went through was really hard. I'm not trying to minimize my grief. The trauma my family experienced in being yanked from our home is very real. The anxiety about our future is tangible. I am grieving, and going through all the stages right now--denial, guilt, anger. I'm not trying to minimize the hardship of millions of Americans who have lost jobs, who are facing uncertain futures. I'm not saying that we shouldn't mourn the loss of the thousands of Americans who have died in this crisis.<br />
<br />
But I do think that there is room for gratitude in my grief. Enduring a pandemic as a citizen of the richest country in the world--as difficult as it is--is still filled with privilege. My kids get to continue school. My country's health care system is strong. My family has several safety nets in place if we continue to be jobless. Sure, it might not be our first choice--living with extended family, public school...but we won't starve. That is a privilege.<br />
<br />
Grief is healthy, so I'm not trying to squelch it. My losses are real. But choosing to find gratitude alongside the grief keeps me from spiraling into self-pity or despair. I could question why so much has been taken from me. Or I could question why I have still been allowed so much. The contrast makes all the difference.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXihrygAselX3dG8F9Xdjw6Mqnh69IP2cvKlnn-mit4V0A-cSHHGggWWNrAdPBfuoVuKYHIAx5SypEzHYewPSlJIEkrM0YtooUHFSABPKSfjNbLfmsUY8wOiAe_Z6lTNOuvqOtyhjo8Q/s1600/IMG_5075.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="432" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXihrygAselX3dG8F9Xdjw6Mqnh69IP2cvKlnn-mit4V0A-cSHHGggWWNrAdPBfuoVuKYHIAx5SypEzHYewPSlJIEkrM0YtooUHFSABPKSfjNbLfmsUY8wOiAe_Z6lTNOuvqOtyhjo8Q/s400/IMG_5075.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Johnny visiting the cockpit of our last flight to California</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Amy Medinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02445986974714298954noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118517190489901866.post-83360397042218905222020-03-30T22:27:00.000+03:002020-03-30T22:27:41.721+03:00Let Me Be Singing When the Evening Comes<div style="text-align: left;">
It started as just dots on the map. Yes, there was a virus. Yes, it was spreading. But it was far away from us. And was it really a big deal? Ten years ago during the swine flu pandemic, our mission doctor had instructed our team on what could happen. Twenty percent sick, two percent dying.... I was nervous. We were in the States in 2010 and I bought masks and rubber gloves and brought them with me back to Tanzania. We even got a few swine flu cases in Tanzania. I stocked up on food. Then....nothing happened. So why would Corona be any different?</div>
<br />
At the beginning of March, there were no confirmed cases in Tanzania. Among ourselves, we predicted it had already come. Why should we worry? East Africans are used to dealing with a variety of diseases. Last year there was a Dengue Fever outbreak in Dar es Salaam that was a lot worse than a respiratory illness. While Americans were clearing shelves of toilet paper, life was proceeding as normal for us in East Africa.<br />
<br />
<b>March 6</b><br />
The first impact was felt in our community when a major missions conference that was planned for the end of March was cancelled in Slovenia (next to Italy). A number of our teachers were planning on attending and we were all shocked to hear of the cancellation. Really? Is this thing really that big of a deal? <i>Go to Europe during spring break anyway,</i> I urged my teachers. <i>Why not? It's just a flu virus.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<b>March 9</b><br />
We received notice that an ACSI teacher's conference, also scheduled during spring break, was cancelled in Rwanda. Several other teachers were planning on going to that one, so now we had more disappointment throughout our community. And disbelief. <i>What?</i> There weren't even any confirmed cases in Rwanda!<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, we started getting worried about our own upcoming mission conference. Ours was to be held in South Africa at the end of March, and was something we had been looking forward to for months. Our family had planned to spend a week in Cape Town after the conference--one of our "bucket list" locations. We had booked an Airbnb with a view of Table Mountain. We were going to visit Robben Island, where Nelson Mandela had been imprisoned, and see the South African penguins. Maybe even do a shark dive. Surely our conference wouldn't be cancelled....right?<br />
<br />
<b>March 12</b><br />
Wrong. Even though just a couple of days prior, our leadership had assured us that the conference would go on as planned, we started to realize that things were changing very quickly. March 12 was the day we got notice that our trip had too been cancelled. We were deeply disappointed. It was the first day that I started to personally feel the effects of the pandemic.<br />
<br />
There were still no confirmed cases in Tanzania, and no travel restrictions. We had hope that the virus wouldn't take hold in hot countries. Or that maybe it was already present and circulating and wasn't really causing any problems. But we were reading the news, and the other HOPAC principals and I had a couple of meetings with our tech guy to discuss what distance learning would look like if we needed to go that route. But that still seemed far away. And those teachers who wanted to go to Europe over spring break? <i>Sure</i>, we said, <i>you can still go.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Friday, March 13</b><br />
The school leadership team met in the morning. The following week was to be our annual Service Emphasis Week, the greatly anticipated week when we send all of our students out into the community on service projects. <i>Is it still wise for us to do this?</i> we asked each other. We debated back and forth. We consulted with a couple of contacts that had expert information. <i>Why not?</i> we decided. <i>There still aren't any restrictions in Tanzania. It should be fine.</i><br />
<br />
That afternoon, we had the all-school assembly to launch Service Emphasis Week. We crammed all 500 students and staff into the performing arts building. <i>So much for social distancing!</i> we joked.<br />
<br />
<b>Saturday, March 14</b><br />
Just in case, I decided to start stocking up. During my usual Saturday grocery shopping, I bought twice as much as usual. <i>Just in case.</i> I made sure our outside water tank had been filled up. <i>Just in case. </i><br />
<br />
<b>Sunday, March 15</b><br />
Everything changed.<br />
<br />
I don't usually check my phone during church, but on this Sunday morning, I just happened to. We attend church that meets on the HOPAC campus, and the director had sent me a message asking if I could come to his office immediately. Alarmed, I quickly ran out to meet him and the other principals. We had been advised from an important source that we should cancel Service Emphasis Week--set to start the next day.<br />
<br />
It seemed like such a massive decision. This was an event that had taken all year to prepare for. Once again, I was in disbelief. <i>What is happening? </i>Our director sent out a message to the community--Service Emphasis Week was cancelled.<br />
<br />
My kids were in shock, Lily especially. She stared sadly at her neatly prepared paper plates and cotton balls. <i>But what about the rainbow craft I made for the preschool kids? It is all ready to go. Now I won't be able to use it. </i>She loves Service Emphasis Week. <i>Maybe we'll do it in June, </i>I assured her. <i>When this is all over, we can do it at the end of the school year. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I received text messages from parents all day. <i>Has Service Emphasis Week really been cancelled? </i>they asked. <i>Yes. Yes. Yes.</i><br />
<br />
I went back to the grocery store and filled my cart again.<br />
<br />
<b>Monday, March 16</b><br />
The air hung hot and low that day, one of the most humid of the year. The air was suffocating, and I felt like I couldn't breathe. I walked down the hall of the eerily quiet and empty primary school building, mourning the silence. <i>This campus is supposed to be full of children,</i> I thought. <i>They are supposed to be getting on buses to go out and serve, and buses are supposed to be arriving with children from other schools, excited to be visiting our beautiful campus. </i>What is happening?<br />
<br />
My teachers and I met together, all of us in shock. <i>Get ready for the possibility of distance learning,</i> I told them. <i>We don't know if school will close, but we should be ready for it if it does.</i> We discussed what that would look like, what hurdles we would need to face.<br />
<br />
That afternoon, I took Johnny to the US embassy. We had been working on his US citizenship for two years, and there had finally been some movement on it. I was confident that it would be completed by the time we left Tanzania in June. But meanwhile, <i>just in case,</i> we had decided to get his temporary US visa renewed. So I had made an appointment to at the embassy to do that.<br />
<br />
I was at the little photo shop at Shopper's Plaza, getting passport pictures taken, when I got the text message: The first Corona case had been confirmed in Tanzania. I looked up, wide eyed, at the elderly Indian man behind the counter. <i>Did you see this?</i> I asked. <i>The first case!</i> He stared at me blankly, unimpressed.<br />
<br />
The sun still shone, the air still pressed down around me, people went about their business. But it felt as if something had shifted in my world.<br />
<br />
I got the temporary visa approved. The next day, the embassy shut down for the week.<br />
<br />
<b>Tuesday, March 17</b><br />
The Tanzanian government declared all schools would close for a month. The Canadian Prime Minister made a public announcement encouraging all Canadians who were abroad to return home. <i>What is happening?</i> I quickly texted my Canadian friends. <i>What does this mean? </i>Why would he say you need to go home? Why would someone leave a country with a little bit of Corona and go back to another country with more Corona? Why would that make sense?<br />
<br />
But borders and airports were starting to close.<br />
<br />
<b>Wednesday, March 18</b><br />
My teachers and I met with our tech guy to prepare for distance learning. My staff kicked it into high gear; I was incredibly proud of them. For two straight days, the photocopy machines never got a break. We sent out emails to parents, giving instructions on using Google Classroom. We instructed them to come to school on Friday morning to pick up their child's school books and packets of work. We asked parents to give us their kids' library book requests. I helped to fill those orders, selecting books that I thought kids would like to read.<br />
<br />
My best friend and I talked on the phone. <i>What if we need to leave?</i> she asked. <i>That's impossible,</i> I said. <i>Why would we need to leave? Corona is everywhere. What would be the point of leaving? </i>But the seed of doubt was planted. <i>What if we don't get a choice?</i><br />
<br />
<b>Thursday, March 19</b><br />
I spent all day at school, helping my staff get ready for distance learning. Throughout the day, I heard reports of some missionaries leaving, or moving up their leaving dates. My anxiety level went up, but still, leaving was not even remotely on the table for me.<br />
<br />
Around 4:00, one of my staff members urgently said he needed to talk to me. His mission had just contacted him. His family had been told to leave the country as soon as possible. It was a mandate. For the first time, I started crying. I could see what was coming.<br />
<br />
As soon as I got home, I told Gil the news. More specifically, I dragged him into the bedroom, shut the door, and started weeping. <i>What if they make us leave? </i><br />
<br />
Grief crashed down on me. I cried and wailed harder than I can ever remember. <i>We can't leave, not now. Not like this.</i> What about all those books I've read about healthy transitions? What about the importance of closure? What about all the places we still needed to visit, all the people we needed to meet with? What about finishing well? What about taking Johnny back to visit his orphanage in Mwanza? What about all the things I still need to do for HOPAC?<br />
<br />
No. No. No. We can't leave before June. We cannot. I cannot accept this. I will not. But at dinner that night, we told the kids: <i>Guys, we might need to leave early. We don't know when. Maybe next week. Maybe next month. But you just need to be prepared that it could happen.</i><br />
<br />
That night, conversations zoomed around our mission team and leadership. Multiple questions. Multiple <i>what if</i> scenarios. My adrenaline was pumping and I couldn't sleep. The United States government issued the Global Level 4 Travel Advisory. At 11:30 pm, we received the call from our mission leadership: <i>Staff in Tanzania need to leave as soon as possible. </i>The decision was made for a number of reasons, and we trust our leaders. But I was devastated.<br />
<br />
We got online to book tickets. Many airlines had already cancelled flights, and those that remained were filling up quickly. We booked tickets with Emirates Airlines through Dubai for Tuesday night. We made it to bed at 2 am.<br />
<br />
My emotions were screaming. <i>This cannot be happening!</i> Many of our missionary friends were going through the same thing, and it was sudden and traumatic for all of us. But most knew they would be able to return to Tanzania when this was over. For us, since we were already planning to leave in three months, we knew it meant we had to prepare as if this would be a permanent departure.<br />
<br />
That meant I had four days. Four days to pack twelve boxes, sell everything else in my house, and leave behind a life of sixteen years.<br />
<br />
<b>Friday, March 20</b><br />
I woke up after 4 hours, surprised I had been able to sleep at all. I got to HOPAC early. The plan had been that I would supervise the pick-up time of students' materials. But now I had a million other things to do. My superstar staff stepped in and organized the pick-ups, while I frantically organized my office and made sure I had all of my files uploaded to Google Drive so that I could work remotely. Many staff stopped by, hearing our news, and tears flowed freely by everyone. We threw social distancing to the wind, hugged and wept together. I brought my kids to school, encouraging them to say as many goodbyes as possible--not knowing if we would be back before the end of the school year.<br />
<br />
In addition to packing and selling everything, we had a few other challenges to overcome--the main one being that Johnny's citizenship process had to be completed in Tanzania. Though we had the temporary visa, if there was any way we could complete his citizenship before we left, we wanted to do so. So Friday afternoon, I took Johnny for a medical appointment required by the embassy. I sat with him while he screamed getting his required vaccinations, and we stopped and got cotton candy afterwards.<br />
<br />
By the time I got home, it was about 5:00 pm. Much to my surprise, the house was full of people. We had quickly posted our furniture on Facebook and word traveled quickly. Gil and the girls were busy selling things. This was too much for me. We had decided to leave only about 16 hours ago, and I hadn't had any time to get anything in our house sorted or organized. People were opening my kitchen cupboards and asking to buy things. I freaked out. <i>Nope, not gonna happen. </i>We sold some furniture but told everyone to come back Sunday afternoon if they wanted to buy anything else. Even still, I later asked Grace where our bath mats had disappeared to. <i>Oh, I think the lady we sold the bed to took those,</i> she said.<br />
<br />
From that day on, I ran on pure adrenaline.<br />
<br />
<b>Saturday, March 21</b><br />
I became a robot. Do the next thing. Do the next thing. Do the next thing. It was often hard to decide which "next thing" to do when there were a million options. The closets and cupboards vomited their contents onto every available surface. Sort, pack, throw away. Do I keep this? Is there room for this? There was an underlying anxiety that I was going to forget something important, throw away something I would regret. But no time to overthink it. Just keep going.<br />
<br />
Friends stopped by to say goodbye, a steady stream. All of us shell shocked, all of us choking out last sentiments, gratefulness, prayers. Not knowing when we would see each other again. The hardest for me were Tanzanian friends and co-workers. How could I look them in the eye? How could I not be ashamed, not feel like I was abandoning them? How could they not be hurt that I was now fleeing the country that had so graciously given me a home for 16 years?<br />
<br />
Esta came by with her new baby born a month ago, named Grace. She had worked for us for 13 years--all of my Grace's life. She had been on maternity leave so I hadn't seen her for several weeks. We wept together, worried together about what would happen to her now.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile Gil took off on other frantic errands. Took Grace to the orthodontist to get her braces removed and retainer fitted. Drove to the UPS at the airport to get some medical equipment cleared that had been stuck in customs. Drove back to the dentist's office to pick up Grace's retainer. Josiah was with them and was spontaneously invited to spend one last time with his best friends. Arranged for an Uber to pick him up.<br />
<br />
Kids asked what they could eat for lunch. <i>Whatever you can find,</i> I told them. <i>Wow, Mom has never said that before. </i>Dumped meat from the freezer into the crock pot. Asked a friend to bring me a cup of soy sauce and dumped that in too.<br />
<br />
I had no appetite. I had to consciously remind myself to drink, to eat, to breathe.<br />
<br />
<b>Sunday, March 22</b><br />
As a family we worked to get the house organized for the sale that afternoon. Many came. It was much easier to sell things to friends than the strangers. Giving things away or selling for good prices was a way I could express the love and appreciation I didn't have time to give in other ways.<br />
<br />
The landlord came by, who has been so good to us for the 10 years we have lived in that house. We arranged for one of my HOPAC staff members and his family to stay in the house until our lease was up. He would take care of things and sell off our remaining furniture after we left.<br />
<br />
I sold the dishes. I ran out to buy chicken, rice, and beans--our version of take-out.<br />
<br />
That evening, frantic messages started appearing on our phones. Emirates Air was shutting down all flights by Tuesday. We were leaving on Tuesday. <i>What did this mean?</i> The final message we received before sleeping said that they would still keep some flights going. Okay then. We should be okay.<br />
<br />
<b>Monday, March 23</b><br />
Gil left early with Johnny for the embassy, hoping to expedite his citizenship. He was gone most of the day. I continued to sift, sort, pack, sell. We dumped everything on the front porch that we didn't want. I started giving visitors a bag and telling them to fill it up and take it away. We sold the car.<br />
<br />
Around mid-day we got the message: Emirates would definitively not be flying after Tuesday. That meant we could get to Dubai on our first leg, but the second leg to the US would be cancelled. We received advice that we should do it anyway, and then figure out a plan once we were in Dubai.<br />
<br />
That was the first time I started panicking. <i>Figure out a plan once we were in Dubai? </i>What did that mean? I started envisioning needing to take an evacuation flight. I realized we would probably need to travel without any luggage--to leave it all in Tanzania and hope to get it later. Considering I already was getting rid of 95% of my possessions and everything in our luggage was really important to us, that thought sent me into a tailspin.<br />
<br />
A couple of hours later, I got word that all Emirates flights were cancelled, even the one to Dubai. Gil finally came home from the embassy. I was mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted and not thinking clearly any longer. Somehow we managed to get back online and find tickets on Qatar Airlines for Wednesday. The prices had doubled, but we got tickets--the last six tickets available on that flight. Still, I was on edge. Which airport was going to close next?<br />
<br />
<b>Tuesday, March 24</b><br />
Weirdly, we got emails from Emirates, telling us to check into our flight. We called to make sure the flight was really cancelled (it was), but obviously their website wasn't up to speed. Things were changing so quickly that even the internet couldn't keep up.<br />
<br />
I breathed more on Tuesday. Having the extra day was a blessing, even though I was still anxious about whether we would actually leave. We visited close friends and let the kids have a decent goodbye. We cleaned up the house better so that it didn't look quite as much like a tornado had gone through it. We found a wonderful home for Snoopy, our Jack Russell Terrier.<br />
<br />
We went out to dinner at Ramada. We were pretty much the only people in the hotel other than the employees.<br />
<br />
<b>Wednesday, March 25</b><br />
Our flight was scheduled to leave at 5:30 pm. We decided to leave for the airport at 11 in the morning even though it was only an hour drive. We didn't want to take any chances.<br />
<br />
We got word that Johnny's medical report had come through. So on the way to the airport, we stopped at the embassy to make one last ditch effort for his citizenship visa. We didn't get it. But by this point we had many, many people praying we could enter the US.<br />
<br />
We needed those prayers. People on temporary visas aren't supposed to be entering the US right now, so when we went to check in, the airline didn't want to let us travel. The check-in clerk took Johnny's passport to his supervisor. We all held our breath.<br />
<br />
Then the most extraordinary thing happened. At this exact moment, the exact person with the authority to convince the officials to allow us to leave "just happened" to be standing in line right behind us. She intervened on our behalf, and we got through.<br />
<br />
<b>Thursday, March 26</b><br />
Five hours to Qatar. 95% of the flight was non-African, which I've never witnessed before on a flight leaving Africa. Over half of the passengers wearing masks. Eight hour layover in an airport hotel. Thirteen hours to JFK airport in New York. We zoomed through US immigration with zero issues.<br />
<br />
JFK was a ghost town. Almost every store shuttered. Hardly any people anywhere. Silence, except for the far off clicks of roller bags down the empty hallways.<br />
<br />
We collected our bags and rushed to the Alaska Airlines desk, only to realize that all Alaska Airlines flights had just been cancelled. They tried to help. <i>There's an American Airlines flight leaving in just over an hour. You could take that one, but Qatar would need to book it for you. </i><br />
<br />
So we rushed back to the Qatar desk. I noticed dozens of Arabs in line, waiting to check in. Interesting. Apparently Americans aren't the only ones repatriating. Qatar hadn't opened their ticketing desk yet, so after some difficulty with our Tanzanian SIM cards, we managed to figure out a way to call them. The agent told me, <i>Start walking towards the American Airlines desk.</i> With him on the phone, we dragged our 12 pieces of luggage over, explaining to that airline what we were trying to do. The 6:00 flight was just about ready to close. One minute....two minutes.... <i>It's booked! </i>the Qatar agent on the phone told me. <i>I see it! </i>the American Airlines agent at the desk exclaimed. Bags checked, rush through security, run across the empty airport, and board the plane.<br />
<br />
Five hours later, we arrived in another empty airport in San Francisco. My parents were there to pick us up. And right now I am writing this in my childhood bedroom. Yes, this is "home." Sort of. But it doesn't feel that way. It feels more like I've been ripped from my home. It feels like I've betrayed my home.<br />
<br />
I am relieved. I am grateful. The stress has drained out of me; everything is okay. Except, I'm not really okay. This is all wrong. I am not supposed to be here. Today I was supposed to be in South Africa for our conference. I was supposed to be experiencing a once-in-a-lifetime two weeks of family memories with some of our best friends in the world. Josiah was supposed to have his last basketball tournament last weekend with the friends he's had since first grade, and Gil coaching them. Grace was supposed to perform as Annie in the school musical in April. Lily was supposed to have her fifth grade graduation. Gil was supposed to be organizing the Bible School graduation. I was supposed to finish strong this school year, with everything carefully prepared for the next principal.<br />
<br />
And I was supposed to be able to say a proper good-bye to those 150 precious little souls that have been my life for the past three years.<br />
<br />
Instead, I feel like I've been thrown into some sort of alternate reality.<br />
<br />
I can't help but still cling to hope. Maybe this thing will pass faster than the experts think it will. Maybe in Tanzania the virus won't be a big deal. Maybe schools and airports and borders will open soon, and we'll be able to return to Dar es Salaam and finish what we started. Maybe. Maybe. Oh God, please, let it be so.<br />
<br />
Every day last week, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XtwIT8JjddM" target="_blank">these lyrics</a> kept running through my head. They still are.<br />
<i>Whatever may pass or whatever lies before me</i><br />
<i>Let me be singing when the evening comes.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>Still trying to sing. Bless the Lord, Oh my soul.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAZwrYmUmF8jGUM2HZNZcfGLFKGLPYc2UcBLUbgr0D1O6k_lz2KSdP_AmMPM3Ly8ONZMSPioueK1Vp649d6UDz-aB8X260oBpCVEoEHdzujPx0c1WeNMpKTlgR-S1_mwAafWQgnL5a4Q/s1600/IMG_7415.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1173" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAZwrYmUmF8jGUM2HZNZcfGLFKGLPYc2UcBLUbgr0D1O6k_lz2KSdP_AmMPM3Ly8ONZMSPioueK1Vp649d6UDz-aB8X260oBpCVEoEHdzujPx0c1WeNMpKTlgR-S1_mwAafWQgnL5a4Q/s400/IMG_7415.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zanzibar Island (Gil Medina)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Amy Medinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02445986974714298954noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118517190489901866.post-69633978549571589912020-03-08T20:56:00.000+03:002020-03-09T07:19:04.552+03:00Letting Go of All the ThingsWhen I was seven, my family left Liberia after our first two years of service. At the time, my parents had no intention of returning, so we didn't leave anything in storage. All of our possessions that couldn't fit into several suitcases had to be sold or given away.<br />
<br />
I had a set of beautiful Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls. But I didn't play with them much, so I reluctantly agreed with my mom that we could give them away to my friends Maria and Elisabeth. One day during our last week in Liberia, she sent me off to walk the half-mile to my friends' house with the dolls in my arms, a knot in my stomach, and a lump in my throat.<br />
<br />
I clearly remember that walk <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2016/09/the-place-that-was-home.html" target="_blank">on the red dusty ELWA compound road</a>, the ocean breeze whistling alongside me. I got about halfway there and my feet stopped moving. I burst into tears, turned around, and ran all the way back home.<br />
<br />
It wasn't that I didn't want to share, but I couldn't bear to part with anything that held memories for me. As a child I carefully saved and filed schoolwork, notes from friends, programs from drama performances. Just about any physical item that ended up in my bedroom held emotional significance for me.<br />
<br />
Living an overseas life as an adult got a lot of this tendency out of my system. When you live a life where every few years, you must pack up all of your possessions into 12 boxes, you learn to not get too attached to stuff. In fact, now I would say that I am what they call a minimalist--clutter and excess stuff drives me crazy. My children know that if you don't put your stuff away where it belongs, Mom might just come along and throw it away. <i>So be careful.</i><br />
<br />
But still, there's that part of me from my youth that attaches memories to objects. And now that I am preparing to move continents once again, I am feeling like that little seven-year-old who didn't want to give away Raggedy Ann and Andy. Anything that doesn't fit into a suitcase can't come to America with us. And since we moved here first in 2001, we have a lot of things that we've owned for a very long time.<br />
<br />
My children played on that rug as toddlers. Those throw pillows have been mended from the days when dozens of teenagers used them in pillow fights. Those dishes, as simple and plain as they are, have fed hundreds of beloved guests. That table--the one that bears the scars of baby Josiah's spoon-banging--that table has seen our children raised.<br />
<br />
The vultures are already circling around our stuff. I use the term "vulture" affectionately, because I've been one myself. I know how this works. When you visit a friend, and you like their furniture, just make a mental note of it. One day they'll leave and you'll want to be the first one to call dibs. <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2018/07/missionaries-are-great-at-recycling.html" target="_blank">Missionaries are great at recycling</a>. And not just missionaries, of course. Back in September, I told a local friend we will be leaving in July. She wept. But the very next day, she told me the list of our furniture she wants to buy.<br />
<br />
We've started selling stuff, but right now it's just things we aren't currently using. Everyone is waiting for "The Spreadsheet"--the one we will send out to all of our contacts in Tanzania with a list of everything we're selling. People keep asking for it, but I can't bring myself to do it yet. I know when I see all of our household items disappearing, it will feel like chunks of memories go with them.<br />
<br />
It's silly, actually. I mean, I've never even really liked our living room set; it's not very comfortable. I could really use some new towels. All the elastic is gone from our sheets. I can buy back the exact same dishes in America. Maybe it's just that losing these physical objects is tangible evidence of the loss of a much less tangible, but far more important life.<br />
<br />
In the end, if I think rationally about it, I'm thankful that this overseas life has forced me to love possessions less. Loosening my grip on earthly things--things that will one day be destroyed anyway--has pressed me to set my mind on things above.<br />
<br />
That day when I was seven, my mom wisely didn't force me to walk the dolls back to my friends' house. Yet, later on, they still quietly disappeared. Lo and behold, I didn't miss them. Sometimes we just need that grip loosened in order to discover that we really don't need the things we cling to. Not as much as we thought we did.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBU6XcllwHPFIIeLz4k_fXsuT12IYwCeVagqQd74ZqDL669keW27_i8Hsi02zy37bnGJs_-E3vIu_gIYQt9pGXQNg74xm22cFWW7oIzrYXlQsi1RwhnJENzjq5nnOjCvTJL79ReCpo8A/s1600/IMG_7335+%2528Small%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBU6XcllwHPFIIeLz4k_fXsuT12IYwCeVagqQd74ZqDL669keW27_i8Hsi02zy37bnGJs_-E3vIu_gIYQt9pGXQNg74xm22cFWW7oIzrYXlQsi1RwhnJENzjq5nnOjCvTJL79ReCpo8A/s400/IMG_7335+%2528Small%2529.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our home for the past 10 years.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Amy Medinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02445986974714298954noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118517190489901866.post-17331513946120559552020-03-07T13:05:00.000+03:002020-03-07T18:56:47.237+03:00Those Privileged KidsWhen you grow up as a child of expatriates--even "lowly" missionaries--your reality is one of privilege.<br />
<br />
You have a passport from a country that opens almost every other country's door, worldwide. Visiting places like Istanbul and Johannesburg are normal to you. Oh, and Dubai. Because <i>everybody </i>has been to Dubai.<br />
<br />
You soak in all the sites and beauty and culture of your host country, but are insulated from many of its problems.<br />
<br />
You witness poverty up close, but you don't live in it yourself.<br />
<br />
You grow up knowing children of many different backgrounds, colors, and languages, yet unlike your peers in your host country, you have every college option available to you.<br />
<br />
Your education is the same quality as what you would get in your parents' country, but with the added bonuses of <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2017/02/grace-went-to-amani-and-lily-turned.html" target="_blank">trips to the rainforest</a> and the <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2012/11/awwwyou-guys-made-me-ink.html" target="_blank">tide pools</a>. <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2013/04/the-wonderful-life-of-grace-medina.html" target="_blank">Masai warriors</a> come and sing for your first grade class, and if the soccer tournament just happens to be in Uganda, you get to go to Uganda. After all, flying to another country (as cool as it is) is no big deal.<br />
<br />
You get the best of multiple worlds in many, many ways.<br />
<br />
And like most kids in the world, you think <i>your </i>normal <i>is</i> normal. You don't even realize how privileged you are.<br />
<br />
Last month, Lily spent a week in the frolicking in the rainforest. Grace got to go with her varsity soccer team to Uganda. Next month, we take all our kids to a conference in South Africa--for the second time. And I think to myself, <i>What is this crazy amazing life my kids are getting? Do they have any idea how extraordinary it is? </i><br />
<br />
Probably not. Hopefully one day they will. They have been given an incredible childhood. I pray they don't waste it.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDMHHsJWFLEtvgL8KbcsLEVAH64IIF9RkClcA3IR2A2MziaCO3GA9FzkhgKnk2xVdfee6rXtEwflKhQLeC0r6J4HIPfB46Fl5I5r0MLGG2ixJPdCU7hXEjQiUqBauCEQDbyeSleNAeyA/s1600/DSCN3918.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDMHHsJWFLEtvgL8KbcsLEVAH64IIF9RkClcA3IR2A2MziaCO3GA9FzkhgKnk2xVdfee6rXtEwflKhQLeC0r6J4HIPfB46Fl5I5r0MLGG2ixJPdCU7hXEjQiUqBauCEQDbyeSleNAeyA/s400/DSCN3918.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Grace in Uganda. She got to meet other expatriate kids from international schools all over Africa.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqgRhxgWf1Pzy2njaHZjZjRX2rcWYpYeZ6BpJzLwLhpXg7KPhyphenhypheneviWs9qX0usX5T3x_OJABimkJjbim19W0WwHSJdsa15AYBU4biTaEVRifabiKViamwG6kvwPYivuLnl2CLLMlI1m7g/s1600/38757FC2-C23C-4306-8A66-D530DCC1ABFA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqgRhxgWf1Pzy2njaHZjZjRX2rcWYpYeZ6BpJzLwLhpXg7KPhyphenhypheneviWs9qX0usX5T3x_OJABimkJjbim19W0WwHSJdsa15AYBU4biTaEVRifabiKViamwG6kvwPYivuLnl2CLLMlI1m7g/s400/38757FC2-C23C-4306-8A66-D530DCC1ABFA.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Lily's class in the rainforest.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCCsN0AWG25Nz2gj-7EeKmukUQHNzTaVdZDMjHsPpdHoGgEh_NRPb0N0_o-li4eSx4es4JL3DWdxAzXGGuhVmWtVpCwLNAHtjoMB-NbbW0b7OwNvm3-MncaCO6t30BvTxVFVztoF90Hw/s1600/cdecc345-7246-44b1-aa99-d3b738136c68.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCCsN0AWG25Nz2gj-7EeKmukUQHNzTaVdZDMjHsPpdHoGgEh_NRPb0N0_o-li4eSx4es4JL3DWdxAzXGGuhVmWtVpCwLNAHtjoMB-NbbW0b7OwNvm3-MncaCO6t30BvTxVFVztoF90Hw/s400/cdecc345-7246-44b1-aa99-d3b738136c68.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-anATf_NWsxhOvFdVsBTNpllXvFauzwC8_iWwVPzBMKopPVAj3bqzH952wFCYSzeLsl7B2b8Jj9f9iAM7xJihae5hbN5XLpornENKb3Bng5GKpnB94iWxvN8dF4AtAdUgrQSOG7Ysag/s1600/e8ee10f4-b8ac-468b-8b3c-542340b647df.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-anATf_NWsxhOvFdVsBTNpllXvFauzwC8_iWwVPzBMKopPVAj3bqzH952wFCYSzeLsl7B2b8Jj9f9iAM7xJihae5hbN5XLpornENKb3Bng5GKpnB94iWxvN8dF4AtAdUgrQSOG7Ysag/s400/e8ee10f4-b8ac-468b-8b3c-542340b647df.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEiUszJkZqvf1zPGfyPF7WvhtRnwnBgx4OvUj_7MbTFLB9CZbVV22YUjJCzysaEErqwwdBBqPo2b8Ab8ioL02YfP2l9rlnPNvuyvYOAwYMyMrNvPfE3lepF13H7wR2gjk3Y4FJReKjkQ/s1600/942b7a60-5e1a-4fd2-84d0-e313129c821f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEiUszJkZqvf1zPGfyPF7WvhtRnwnBgx4OvUj_7MbTFLB9CZbVV22YUjJCzysaEErqwwdBBqPo2b8Ab8ioL02YfP2l9rlnPNvuyvYOAwYMyMrNvPfE3lepF13H7wR2gjk3Y4FJReKjkQ/s400/942b7a60-5e1a-4fd2-84d0-e313129c821f.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvnujUURUlGPWg4OLaoK3q9ohTnNbmUqRpXLX30RoQIgMejWuapA5JOQdGrp2vodfZ4sNx3fWBOUfI24xakB7DCE-3cTd6pR-DkA7tMi8dZDQKDAmIDJEAAC3AHigDvsDYy2erelLP1Q/s1600/576c140d-c6e5-4c60-8fcd-0cbe6deed954.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="220" data-original-width="293" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvnujUURUlGPWg4OLaoK3q9ohTnNbmUqRpXLX30RoQIgMejWuapA5JOQdGrp2vodfZ4sNx3fWBOUfI24xakB7DCE-3cTd6pR-DkA7tMi8dZDQKDAmIDJEAAC3AHigDvsDYy2erelLP1Q/s400/576c140d-c6e5-4c60-8fcd-0cbe6deed954.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Chasing dolphins in Zanzibar</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7MI2YFUie_jzHCnkS7K9Ua3vshxtRYdK2BadyrfYNtDDaQi6sainPbFg4T9RaR5KDf3NyjVHedVLlsj_UUkQyOfouDoqd1-EmFNGy85DeOWs6gOD5rwHEMlBlqfWAYWyyOquuMMJX7w/s1600/GIL_6962.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="411" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7MI2YFUie_jzHCnkS7K9Ua3vshxtRYdK2BadyrfYNtDDaQi6sainPbFg4T9RaR5KDf3NyjVHedVLlsj_UUkQyOfouDoqd1-EmFNGy85DeOWs6gOD5rwHEMlBlqfWAYWyyOquuMMJX7w/s400/GIL_6962.JPG" width="285" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Because why not?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimiH-apCM8tS6ibhZgYirj4Qc8GNBpRAymR5a0vCLrkDlI78mTSpREAKZpaztQUkprpYdoZXPpsx37gJc_qDKN3xG07pNixJXizit2jjOoosJITyFIhuGaY3urer_rDJtT8zACUQhsig/s1600/GIL_7719.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="864" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimiH-apCM8tS6ibhZgYirj4Qc8GNBpRAymR5a0vCLrkDlI78mTSpREAKZpaztQUkprpYdoZXPpsx37gJc_qDKN3xG07pNixJXizit2jjOoosJITyFIhuGaY3urer_rDJtT8zACUQhsig/s400/GIL_7719.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Birthday parties held in the <a href="https://gilandamy.blogspot.com/2020/02/i-wish-i-could-put-fridays-at-lunch-on.html" target="_blank">best cafeteria ever</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Ak9QuOZF-P1oezZKKNrSvJ3k5tnHkWnr5c54A19fDrlqb9jbbcL-bcpsTJWctmu8ctHgwDhSzB9-aTcCx3Zg0-7cjMVzKd4puUrWf5wAcjX6LpUMtrTqNK7l6HlAX0dzFkSVxHabMQ/s1600/GIL_7780.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="805" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Ak9QuOZF-P1oezZKKNrSvJ3k5tnHkWnr5c54A19fDrlqb9jbbcL-bcpsTJWctmu8ctHgwDhSzB9-aTcCx3Zg0-7cjMVzKd4puUrWf5wAcjX6LpUMtrTqNK7l6HlAX0dzFkSVxHabMQ/s400/GIL_7780.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Johnny performing with his international classmates</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJqzxPzn8h8KBy8105tqCNiWw75KaMKyZ6H40kNr3pmxvEa4xvFne-IqmEPhPcopnuSSkhch3lgfc0nDEdUyQ4tKaWIlPQMA7FiJBdz45_MepwWggGl-bE1puWobvuLBxDA42jpjUJWw/s1600/IMG_0077.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="230" data-original-width="307" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJqzxPzn8h8KBy8105tqCNiWw75KaMKyZ6H40kNr3pmxvEa4xvFne-IqmEPhPcopnuSSkhch3lgfc0nDEdUyQ4tKaWIlPQMA7FiJBdz45_MepwWggGl-bE1puWobvuLBxDA42jpjUJWw/s400/IMG_0077.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">A kid with a kid....because when you pass by a just-born baby goat, you need to pick it up. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Amy Medinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02445986974714298954noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5118517190489901866.post-76405460760849644332020-02-17T15:43:00.000+03:002020-02-17T15:54:15.251+03:00I Wish I Could Put "Fridays at Lunch" on My Resume<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBcKNfKUE9AMMcmC3GS2VjjCYmtK_YMSqbClKzwVCGvY84u48XhXB7PRT41rc_HB2gMXq0RYLeTacB-QZPMDKV-0X_v_pdHyX6HuDzbJZJRU59K68lRgyd-8Zf0SiLdSQwHqEendNzHg/s1600/62058818_10156598098402476_7380911430003851264_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBcKNfKUE9AMMcmC3GS2VjjCYmtK_YMSqbClKzwVCGvY84u48XhXB7PRT41rc_HB2gMXq0RYLeTacB-QZPMDKV-0X_v_pdHyX6HuDzbJZJRU59K68lRgyd-8Zf0SiLdSQwHqEendNzHg/s400/62058818_10156598098402476_7380911430003851264_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
On Fridays around noon, you'll find me eating lunch with my students. Our "cafeteria" is actually a second-story, open-air thatch-covered veranda filled with picnic tables. One can get an amazing view of the Indian Ocean from up there, and the breeze blows away the humidity (but not the crows, unfortunately).<br />
<br />
Friday is chicken and chips day--standard Tanzanian fare, and the most popular menu item of the week with our students. I usually arrive around the time of kindergarten lunch, which means as soon as I sit down, I am surrounded by small children like bees to a flower. They <i>politely </i>push to get the seats next to me, and the ones that don't make the cut lean over the table with big eyes, shoving fries into their mouths while all talking to me <i>at the same time, </i>and whatever they need to tell me <i>is very important</i>.<br />
<br />
I put on my interested face and try very hard to follow twelve conversations at once, all while intermittently exclaiming, <i>Well, isn't that funny!</i> and <i>Wow, that's amazing!</i> and <i>You can go as soon as you've eaten two more bites of chicken </i>and <i>Please don't hug me until you've washed your hands. </i><br />
<br />
It's a highlight of my week.<br />
<br />
I've been staring at my computer screen a lot this weekend, trying to work on a resume. Gil has already sent out about 50 resumes, so I guess it's about time that I start too. The internet says that my resume should only be one page long, which means that this principal job gets one paragraph. And I stare at the screen and think, How can I possibly describe this job in one paragraph when it takes me three paragraphs just to write about lunch on Fridays?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This job is the hardest and the best thing I've ever done, with the exception of raising my own children. The load of this job sits on my head and my stomach like a boulder, every single day, a physical weight. It has stolen many, many hours of sleep, and each of those hours has a name and a face of a struggling child, a hurting teacher, an angry parent. "Responsibility" is my strength but therefore also my burden, because I just <i>can't</i> let any fall through the cracks. I do anyway, of course, because being responsible for so many is impossible, and each problem I can't solve, and each child I can't help tears just a little more at my sore muscles that strain under the weight.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's been almost exactly three years since I was offered this job. Gil asked me recently after one particularly difficult day, full of exhaustion and stress and tears, "Would you have said yes to this job if you had known how hard it would be?" Ah, ignorance is bliss, isn't it? How many of us would choose to step into the right, but hard choice if we knew in advance how incredibly difficult it would be? Marriage, raising children, adoption, missions--all are much rosier before we actually start living them out. God is merciful when he keeps us from knowing how hard things will be. We gravitate towards comfort, so think of how many amazing things we would miss if we chose only what is easy!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yes, of course I would have said yes. It was obvious it was the right time and place and I was the person who needed to say yes. The strain <i>builds </i>muscle as well, of course. I was always one who ran away from confrontation, hating the hard conversations. I still don't like them, but now I've had so many that I'm not afraid of them anymore. I was just an ordinary teacher, and an ordinary stay-at-home mom for so many years. I look at myself now with a sort of wonder. Who would have thought I would be filling out performance reviews? Who knew that I would become adept at conducting interviews and offering job contracts? That I would get experience in writing MOUs or coordinating a Christmas production or analyzing curriculum? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
Honestly, I don't think I realized I had it in me. Which, in itself, has been a lesson for me. Because just as I now look back with gratitude for those who believed in me, I too have the privilege of doing the same for those I work with. I've experienced the joy of giving a job and saying, <i>I believe you can do this!</i> And then being a cheerleader when they succeed.<br />
<br />
True, many days I look forward to that day in June when I finally am able to release this burden. I will be choosing not to continue in school leadership for this next season of my life. But the stretching of my abilities, the relationships, the invaluable life experiences--I would never trade them for an easier three years. And I'm confident that as soon as this burden is gone, it will leave a hollow hole I will feel for a very long time.<br />
<br />
This job is sacred to me. So it almost feels sacrilegious to condense it down on a resume to "Responsible for hiring, training, and performance feedback of staff, curriculum development, admissions, student discipline, and professional development." I'd like to add, "Engaged in twelve simultaneous kindergarten conversations on Fridays at lunch." Because that's just as important.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRz6n6QvTDWbgL19uRfxq6pxj5oF_8sloe4jgx33tv4jdxGXXgGSoSkWjtDh6GfiNyISJ6Fk-dq5YMIXTkZLL8rij-I-kjJ1Aw9nf6gumb24doSVDWeojHM-1gvfRdacKBAnJgtwDhlg/s1600/62218150_10156598098487476_1351917956589682688_n+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRz6n6QvTDWbgL19uRfxq6pxj5oF_8sloe4jgx33tv4jdxGXXgGSoSkWjtDh6GfiNyISJ6Fk-dq5YMIXTkZLL8rij-I-kjJ1Aw9nf6gumb24doSVDWeojHM-1gvfRdacKBAnJgtwDhlg/s400/62218150_10156598098487476_1351917956589682688_n+%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our lunch time view</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Amy Medinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02445986974714298954noreply@blogger.com2