Photo Find

It has been a while since I've done any sort of personal writing or blogging.  Hopefully I'll get to it sometime soon.  My mind has been distracted and has had a difficult time focusing on the present, while there are so many pieces of my life up in the air.  I miss Mundri and wish I was back there, especially during the holiday season.  This has been a difficult season for me, learning contentment amidst chaos and uncertainty.

My nostalgia for African culture had me doing a little web-browsing, which brought me to the website of photographer Sam Barker.  He mainly does commercial stuff, all glossy and dramatic.  Some of his photos reminded me of South Sudan.  I thought I'd share some favorites.  

This particular series is on the Omo Valley in Ethiopia.  The people groups in this region have become the poster children for what Western society deems "Africa."  Of course, these groups of people don't dress in the full-on paint and headdresses all the time; however, it is a great look at the richness of a very distinct part of African culture.

A lot of these staged shots could take away the authenticity for the viewer.  Still, Barker succeeds in taking beautiful shots.  (He is a commercial photographer, after all.) Also, like all good photographers, his shots give me a story, leaving me wanting to find out more about the lives of these particular people.    

   

Calling All Givers!!

   
 This holiday season, please consider donating to the Sudan Ministry Vehicle Fund.  This is where the majority of our needed costs are found.  Currently, our team is in need of two ministry vehicles.  One will help the Bishop of Mundri travel around to various Dioceses.  Some of the communities that Bishop Bismark needs to reach are hours away and on nearly impassable roads.  Nevertheless, he is always willing to hit the road and minister in towns and villages of all shapes and sizes.  This man gets a LOT of requests to help the spiritually, emotionally, and physically broken people of South Sudan, and he does his best to help them all.

      Our other vehicle is needed merely to fit the numbers in our growing team!  We have some couples and one large family joining us in coming months.  One vehicle will not be enough to hold us.  Although our team mainly travels around town on bicycle, we regularly get requests from further out of town to help with church services, encourage families, and take people to the hospital.
      The total cost for both of these vehicles is a whopping $95,000.  Please consider making a generous one time donation.  Don't forget, this is tax-exemptable!

Your giving will be an invaluable help towards the people of Mundri, South Sudan

To help donate towards the cost of these vehicles you can 

donate online here

or write a check to 

World Harvest Mission

Donations Processing Center

PO Box 1244

Albert Lee, MN 56007-1244

write in memo line: S.S. Vehicle Fund- 19201

Ria

          What’s in a name? Here in South Sudan, a name means much, and each person has three.  It tells how you came into this world and how your mother will remember you.  It gives your father’s name and your tribe’s religious history.  Your three names follow you like a shadow, whispering family stories of dead siblings, beloved pastors, difficult births, and earth-shaking storms.  These stories of self greet all of those with whom you come into contact.  I have been able to meet people with names like Sesame, Sunshine, Wind, Circle, Tired, Deny, Problem, and even Trash. (These names are all spoken in the Moru language, of course.)  My friends here are always surprised when I tell them that “Jennifer” doesn’t really mean anything in English today.  I shamefully admit that people from America tend to pick names that just sound pretty—further proving the idea that Kawajas completely ignore history for the sake of vanity.  (This is no knock to my parents, by the way.  I love my name, “Jennifer,” and my middle name, “Marie,” is from my grandmother.)  However, the Moru people here take it a bit further.  Luckily for those of us here on the World Harvest Team, we have Sudanese friends who want to invite us into their culture of captivating names. 

            Last year, my friends at the Kotobi Institute for Teacher Education (KITE) decided I had gone long enough without taking a Moru name.  Granted, I can’t speak a lick of Moru, only some pigeon Arabic; however, it’s not your language proficiency that warrants a second name.  My friends at KITE care for me like a sister, and they wanted me to feel welcomed into their community—so they gave me the name that they thought was most fitting—Ria.  In Moru, it means, “joy.”  They told me it was a no-brainer, since I am always smiling.  They said that I have a happy way about me and never appear angry or upset.  I was surprised by how unanimous their belief was; I am always a nervous wreck each Friday when I show up to teach (a combination of stress from last minute lesson preparations and difficult driving).  I didn’t even notice I smiled that much. 

            My Kotobi friends haven’t been the only ones to agree on the “Ria” thing.  In one of his classic quotes, Grant Lazarus (ECS Education Coordinator) tells me emphatically,  “Jonifa…you are always smiling…that is, uh…socialism!”  As I play with the neighbors’ dog, who nibbles at the edge of my skirt and prances around my feet, worker Simon tells me, “Ooh, you are so happy!”  I’m glad to know that people deem me a happy individual.  However, if my Moru friends had seen me in previous years, they might have decided on a much different name.  There were many times in my life when I breathed nothing but stress and fear (and didn’t know how to do any different.)  My body was weak from nerves and my general lack of direction made me prone to sleep.  Nothing seemed certain and nothing felt safe.  I owe my recent, personal heart-shift to the Lord and His gracious hand.  He has blessed me with the opportunity to do what my heart desires most— to teach English cross-culturally.  The Lord has opened the door for me to live and work in east-central Africa, biking down dusty roads onto open compounds of busy primary schools and renovated colleges, which are all trying to make improvements to go along with their newly acquired independence. 

            I am so happy here; however, I find myself realizing that this “ria” thing is conditional, based solely on circumstance.  What happens when the teacher workshop doesn’t go as smoothly as I had planned or when I have awkward interactions with people from my church.  What posture does my heart take when members of my team are in bitter argument and I feel caught in the middle?  If anything, I tend to shut down and close off myself, losing that spark of joy that comes with knowing and believing you are a beloved child of God. 

            My joy has been temperamental this past month, proving where my heart truly lies.  It has been placed on the shaky platform of earthly idols, like those of relational comfort, work, reputation, body, and success.  Setting my heart in these places puts me on an emotional rollercoaster, soaring happily (and pridefully) when things go well, and then plummeting desperately (and fearfully) when things go wrong.  I so want to be the joyful person that God has made me to be.  I want to quote the Psalms daily, saying, “I praise you, Lord, because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.”  I want to believe it when I sing that, “The joy of the Lord is my strength.”  Sometimes joy is a choice; and it all comes down to choosing to believe that God’s promises are true, even when my heart feels heavy and my mind begins to race.  And in those moments when I can’t choose joy—when my heart is covered with an icy layer from frozen idols, I can trust that the Holy Spirit is there to do some melting.   

As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater, so is my word that goes out from my mouth:  It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish the purpose for which I sent it.  You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and the trees of the field will clap their hands.

-Isaiah 55:10-12     

Puff Addy

Hawa and some of her sibs, coming through
the compound to get water

            I was chopping onions furiously, turning my head ever so slightly to the right as to not catch a draft of the stinging fumes, when I heard Hawa’s familiar voice.  “Jonifa? Ita kweis…”  Knowing that my ever-curious (ever-loitering) thirteen-year-old neighbor didn’t merely want to know how I was doing, I put down the knife, brushed my wet hands on my skirt, and went out to see what she needed.  Expecting her to ask for some old clothes or a jerry can, I only half-listened to her, waiting for the moment when I could tell her (like I do every week) that the team only gives out items on Friday.  However, amidst her jumbled Arabic, one word stood out more clearly above the rest— “debiiba” – snake.    My ears perked up.  After listening some more, I got the gist that a big snake was in her house and she needed someone to come and kill it.  “I am scared,” she kept repeating.  I was beginning to fear that it was only Hawa and her toddler siblings there at the compound.  I called Rooney over, who was doing some handiwork for John that afternoon.  We picked up a hoe and weed slasher and set out at a brisk pace to get this snake before it slithered its way back into the bush.  

            Upon walking into the compound, I noticed that the majority of the family was there, including some young men.  Under my breath I asked Rooney, “And why are the men not trying to kill it?...”  We walked with the guys over to the snake’s location, ready to offer our services as experienced, brave, snake-killing machines.  Our guides stopped about fifteen feet from the entrance of the tukul, not daring to go an inch closer.  Rooney and I both moved closer, squinting into the dark hut to see the snake.  As my eyes adjusted to see it, I gave a guttural shriek and turned away covering my mouth, like some damsel in an old horror film.  The thing was huge.  It was like python-huge, like something I’ve only seen in books or on television.  I don’t tend to be very scared of snakes; however, this was something I did not want to see coiled up inside my neighbor’s bedroom—it was just too unnatural.  Of course, I am in Africa, so it kind of comes with the territory.

            I quickly decided that the tools we had were not nearly long enough to reach this thing from a safe distance, so I ran back to get the 20-foot hoe, which has been used in the past by “Snake Killah” Melissa to behead snakes.  In typical African fashion, I returned to the neighbor’s home with three extra people in tow.  (The Bishop’s teenage sons had just killed their own snake twenty minutes prior and were eager to make another kill.)  As we trekked back to Hawa’s compound, Joseph exclaimed, “Watch out, Jack!”  Looking ahead, where I expected to see another snake, I saw Duniya, the neighbors’ little dog, trotting up to Jack.  “You are scared of the tiny dog?!”  I asked incredulously.  “That dog is crazy,” stated Jack.  Duniya is NOT crazy—merely curious and playful at times.  I couldn’t believe that, here we were, about to kill a venomous snake, and the guys were more concerned with a puppy.  However, minutes later, when the boys got a look at the chunky, spotted snake, they too shuddered and shrank back in fear.  It looked like it was going to have to be a whole group effort.

            The boys and I surrounded the tukul with our weapons of choice, ranging from bamboo poles to bricks to bows and arrows. (I personally prefer the normal sized garden hoe.  It is long enough to keep your distance, while having enough heavy metal on the end to slam down and decapitate the creature of choice.)  Joseph, Bishop’s middle child and thinker of the group, stated, “We need to create a plan.”  He was right.  Rushing at the thing with all of our weapons would only cause confusion and injury on our part.  We had little margin for error, given that the snake was a Puff Adder, the most poisonous of all the snakes in S. Sudan.  I made sure to reiterate that tidbit of information every time a boy got overzealous and wanted to get a closer look at the situation.  We didn’t need to look any closer—the situation was clear.  A puff adder was lounging on the windowsill of my neighbors’ tukul. Although deadly, Puff Adders are quite slow.  I advised the boys that whatever they chose to do would be a helpful step in slowing the snake down to a lumbering speed.  Then we could worry about making the deadly blow.    

            I stood at the back end of the hut, in case the snake decided to retreat out through the windowsill and into the bush.  We all held our breath as Hawa’s older brother brought out his trusty monkey-slaying bow and arrow and took aim.  The first shot missed and hit the thatched roof.  The second shot was spot on.  The snake dropped down, fully inside the tukul, and we all rushed around to the front to see it.  It was curled up in the back corner, under the bed.  Tough-guy-Rooney then took the reigns of the operation and began stabbing away at the thing, using the safe but sure 20-ft hoe.  It was quite a process.  The snake would torque its body around to best absorb the blows with its muscular end.  Rooney could not break the skin on the thing.  Eventually, he got some good bludgeons in and dragged the near-dead snake out into the open for a proper beheading.  I stepped up to be the one, but still couldn’t break through its neck, even when putting all of my body weight into the hoe.  Eventually, Joseph jumped up, got some air and momentum, and slammed down into the Puff Adder, taking its head clean off.  VICTORY!  Man beats Nature yet again!  Iya, Hawa’s mom, was overjoyed.  Everyone gawked over the carcass of the puff adder (which had a surprisingly short body, given how thick it was).  Joseph and Jack took the head back to their home for bragging rights and for the opportunity to torment Ferida, while she was trying to cook dinner.

    

           

When I ask Sudanese children what they fear the most, they all say “debiiba.”  I guess that’s not so different from the kids in the United States.  However, when American children think of a scary snake, it is often one from their nightmares, from the story in the picture book or on a television show.  It’s that elusive monster that someday just may crawl out of the closet and slither into your bed.  For the children here, it is a reality, but they don’t let it stop them from living their lives from day to day.  A snake is just another living thing that God has put in South Sudan.  So they accept it. And respect it.  And thank God for everyday that He wakes them up to see the sunrise and traverse across the green land to get their morning water… although they may now be watching more carefully as they walk through the tall grass.  

The Lord will keep you from all harm--

He will watch over your life.

-Psalm 121:7

Garden Party

          A morning of work in Fatna’s garden was long overdue.  I had been visiting her at her compound practically every Monday since February, toting with me my Arabic dictionary, some English sentences scribbled down onto folded notebook paper, and a colorful picture book for the kids.  My visits to her house had become one of the more constant parts of my shifting schedule here in Mundri.  Her home was a place where I quickly felt comfortable enough to behave as part of the family, helping grind g-nuts, prepare greens, and wash my own dishes.  The next-door children were finally becoming accustomed to seeing my white face and blazing red hair as I parked under a tree reciting Arabi– they were now coming up to me and touching the glossy pages of the book I held, talking to me in their sweet, simple Arabic.  My lessons at Fatna’s place were such a blessing that it made sense for me to pour out some of that blessing onto her family.  There seemed to be no better way to show I cared than to help out in their garden.       

            For those who aren’t aware of what African agriculture is like, each family has its own garden—sometimes shared with a couple of other families—and this garden is the top priority for these families.  They work their whole schedule around clearing, planting, weeding, and harvesting these plots.  Children will skip school, mothers will leave church early, even men will pick up a shovel to help ensure the success of the various crops planted.  Some gardens are comparable to the size of suburban horticulturist’s garden, taking over a small backyard space.  These plots tend to be right beside the family compound.  Most people, however, have a large garden that is further out into the bush.  These plots can be up to an acre in size and require a commendable amount of time to maintain.  Many people in Mundri have built small huts near these remote gardens, giving themselves a place to sleep when they spend full weekends doing digging and planting.  These gardens are a community project and people are expected to help on their neighbors’ land if they want to receive help in return.  Fatna and Yogo’s garden is a smaller one on their compound in town, but it still requires a lot of work.

            Their compound is just off of the main road, down a steep, short hill.  Surrounding the living space are the gardens of maize, pede pede, and g-nuts.  I found, a couple of weeks ago, that the location of these gardens, while convenient, has proved to be problematic.  The accumulation of rain water floods downhill off the main road and settles into their gardens, swamping vegetation, mucking up the soil, and spilling over into their huts and living space.  I found one tukul slanting over, about to collapse, while streams traversed the compound.  I squirmed to see little babies splash around in these mucky streams and quickly diverted their attention when I saw them attempting to put some of the water in their mouths.  Everyone on Fatna’s compound was suffering with a painful, relentless cough, a result from having to live in such a swampy environment.  My first thought was about how Fatna would have exams the next week and she didn’t need any distractions while being tested.  Then, my mind turned toward the garden.  The recent onslaught of rain had flooded the g-nut garden; if the crops weren’t taken out of the heavy ground soon, they would rot and the family’s major source of protein for the year would be gone. 

            I showed up around 9:30 on Saturday morning and apologized for being 30 minutes late; of course, no one noticed or cared.  They were just happy to have me there to help.  The neighborhood kids smiled and watched as “Jonifa Ria” set out to be a “big help.”  As soon as I sat in my chair, it sunk over in the mud and I fell back onto the ground.   Nothing like some physical humor to make people laugh even more at the kawaja.  Yogo did the hard work of cutting the plant out of the soaking ground.  I merely took piles of branches and searched out the healthy g-nuts to pick and toss into the bucket.  I got into a steady rhythm, remembering to use the proper form like I had learned during last year’s harvest.  (Hold the branch in your left hand and pick quickly with your right.  Fill up your hand completely before tossing the g-nuts into the bucket.) Yogo’s older mother (who has to be at least 80 years old) had been there since dawn, sitting in a broken-down wooden chair and picking nuts like a champion.  She watched me to make sure I got the technique down, and then proceeded to give me ample verbal affirmations of, “Aiwa! Aiwa!” and “Ita arif tamaam!”

            After a mere hour of work, the sun came out from behind the low-hanging clouds and bore down upon our heads in full force.  The women decided I was too delicate for the sun and moved me inside a tukul to wait to be served a meal.  So soon? What about all the good work I was going to do?!  Was I not an important part of the garden work force?! I was disappointed to be treated like a special guest when I felt like part of the family; however, you really can’t reason with the stubborn hospitality of a Moru woman.  Fatna and I ate a delicious snack of chopped tomato and onion on bread.  Then we sat under the shade and chatted with the rest of the women on break.  Doe-eyed Dani (Yogo’s  two-year-old grandson) was in town from Juba and was running around with his long time buddy Ataba (one of the most flirty little toddlers in Mundri).  It was thoroughly entertaining to watch the two of them play with whatever random objects they could find.  They particularly liked stretching out a long rubber band and toting it over their shoulders like strong men.

            I was soon begging the ladies to let me continue working.  They only allowed it under the condition that I pick g-nuts in a shady spot.  I sat with Yogo’s uma (mom) and continued with the task, occasionally stopping to say a phrase or two in Arabic.  When the work for the day was done, I sat with Fatna and listened to her read from one of my picture books.  It was encouraging to hear an increase in her speed and fluidity, and I was happy to hear her say that English was one of her stronger subjects.  I’m not too worried about Fatna—her mother keeps her accountable to her schoolwork, and she has a sensible head on her shoulders.  However, I still get that protective, older sister mentality whenever a teenage boy passes through the compound and lingers longer than necessary. 

            I guess I just need to trust that God has it all under control.  I need to believe that He will keep my teenage friends in His hands, that He will protect and provide for my neighbors.  He will use me when I show up, but it will be He who does the work—not I.  How many times do I need to remind myself that I’m not the hero in the story?  If anyone, I’m the weak, helpless side character who is repeatedly blessed by the kindness of others.  This couldn’t be more apparent than when I left Fatna’s house that day with a gift bag of g-nuts two times the size of the amount I actually picked.  

"A friend loves at all times..."

-Proverbs 17:17

Sponsor a Teacher!

Thanks to all who donated a Something Beautiful book
for our August training!  The teachers loved them!

With the August teacher training just recently behind us, Bethany, Melissa, and I are already planning the next training for October.  We will have the same teacher-participants from the previous training and will build off of skills from that week.  We are still in the process of deciding the theme of the training, but we know the Sudanese teachers will be enthusiastic and will rise to every challenge we place before them.  This is undoubtedly the most interactive and thoughtful group we’ve had to date!  

To ensure that we will have the proper supplies and resources for each of our teachers this fall, the educational ministry in Mundri is setting up a sponsorship program for each participant.  Join us in helping a South Sudanese teacher attend our upcoming training! 

Teachers to Sponsor:

Lextion Ruba (back row, far left): Lextion teaches at Lendrewa Primary School.  He is one of the more shy students and is less confident with his English, but he is always brave to raise his hand and give an answer (particularly when reviewing vocabulary).  Unfortunately, he did not get to receive his certificate on the final day of training, because he was stung by a scorpion that morning!  (Oh, the things that cause a sick day in Africa…)  

Rachel Yunia (back row, blue dress): Rachel teaches Arabic at Mundri II.  She is a pro at the language and can even write in it!  She was one of the more quiet students, always sitting back and observing while the others chattered away.

Mashiri Aggrey (back row, yellow shirt):  Mashiri has much experience in education, having lived in Khartoum and Juba.  He towered over the other teachers and was aptly given the nickname “big fish” after his role in a class drama.  I was grateful for all of his insightful comments during group discussions throughout the week.  He is currently headmaster at Okari Primary School, which is struggling to maintain a strong student population. 

Julius Nbatala Nyere (back row, black shirt): Julius teaches at Gullu I Primary.  He is a math teacher and a bonafide riddle king.  He was the first to answer many of the “brain teasers” we put on the board throughout the week.  He understands the importance of having students use problem solving skills in a real world context. 

Victoria Mayiba Enosa (back row, purple dress):  Victoria teaches Nursery at Gyanga Primary School.  She was an extremely attentive student and sat in the front row with her bff Nabeita. 

Nebeita Dawa Eliaba (back row, green headdress):  Nebeita teaches Nursery at Miri Magya Primary School.  She is undoubtedly the classclown, with her dry sense of humor and tall, lanky body that is usually standing at the front of the classroom, performing in dramas and demonstrations. 

Linda Nichol Yofam (front row, white T-shirt):  Linda is another well-experienced teacher who was so kind as to indulge us crazy kawajas in our planned group activities and games.  She teaches at Gyanga Primary School.

Mary Nadi Wilson (front row, green dress):  This group of participants had a lot of overachievers, but Mary Nadi takes the cake!  She was always one of the first to volunteer, provide an answer, read in English, and speak during closing ceremonies.  She loves catchy visuals, and I have seen them first hand in her nursery class at Mundri II.  Off the record, she is this teacher’s pet. 

Linda Malia Otiniel (front row, pink shirt):  Linda, like Mary, was another strong returning participant who teaches nursery school.  She was a hard worker and even had to cut out of our workshops early each day to power walk over to her afternoon classes. She teaches at Hai Malakal Primary.

Cecilia Enaba Gadi (front row, black and white dress):  Cecilia was a new participant who impressed me more and more as the week went on.  She had great English skills and was noticeably focused during each lesson, soaking up as much new information as possible. She teaches at Mundri Adventist Primary School.

John Samuel Manya (front row, striped shirt):  John was the youngest of the group.  He volunteers at Jarangala Primary School and has the least experience out of the participants.  He surprised me with his strong memory for facts and vocabulary, and was good to always raise a hand during daily review, despite his shyness and English speaking difficulties.       

Elizabeth Silivan (front row, black shirt):  It was a joy to teach each day and see her bright face smiling from the back of the classroom.  She impressed us all on the final day of training when she presented her own model lesson incorporating graphic organizers like we had discussed earlier in the week!  Talk about applying what you’ve learned!  She teaches at Miri Kalanga Primary. 

Alison Aboud Kayanga (front row, blue shirt):  This man really gave some spice to the week, freely sharing his opinions, thoughtful ideas, and wise-guy comments.  The best thing about Alison is that, despite all of his experience, he doesn’t take himself too seriously.  I’d love to see this man in the classroom.  He teaches at Hai Malakal Primary. 

Jesselina Kyila Patrick (front row, gold dress):  Jesselina was another one of our super-sweet, hard-working, ever polite, nursery school teachers.  She had a quiet demeanor, but showed intense focus and concern for education.  She teaches at Baya Primary.    

The cost to put one of these teachers through a week-long training is $50.  To give, go to S. Sudan Edu. Fund and leave a comment about which particular teacher you'd like to sponsor.  Thank you so much for your generosity!

  

Jibu

jibu: give

It is difficult for me to say “no.”  It is especially hard to say “no” to someone in Africa. It seems sinister to deny anything to a dirty, underfed child, who looks up at you with the biggest, darkest eyes.  The same thing goes with that tired, elderly man, who teaches a class of seventy students and tells you that he doesn’t even receive chalk from the government.  There is also my friend, the young woman who works so very hard to provide for her family and is asking me for the second time this week to buy her some nice bangles like the ones I’m wearing.  Everyday I’m confronted with requests from Sudanese people.  Some people are easier to deny, like the intoxicated men in town who ask for my phone number, or the aggressive teens who tell me to give them my bicycle.  However, most of the time, the requests seem quite sensible, even urgent.  The greatest problem as a kawaja in South Sudan is figuring out which things to say, “yes” to, and which things to deny, despite my breaking heart.  I think to myself, “There has to be a way for me to give to each person here in Mundri...” 

Most days, if you spend enough time in the team house, you will hear the meek calling of, “Mi kado?” or “salaam.” If you look out the window, chances are, you won’t see anyone. You will have to open the creaky door and look down to see some pint-sized children clustered together with eager eyes and open hands.  “afasaat?...” (trash) they inquire.   They have walked from their homes in search of any trash that could be of use to them.  Empty bottles, used bags, and broken electronics/kitchenware are hot items.  They will take almost anything, and once they’ve had success, they’ll share the name of their source with the rest of the Mundri child population.  To control this onslaught of children, who come in pursuit of some plastic treasure, the team has limited distribution to Friday mornings; now children know to show up only at this allotted time.  However, we sometimes get the persistent ones who come at all hours of the day, any day of the week.  They stand by the door, peer up through the windows, hover near the entrance of the compound, staring at our every move.  It can drive my nerves to their limit when I’m trying to write a lesson plan with a group of children staring at me, asking me to give them anything their eyes come across.  “Jibu le ana waraga, galaam, gufa, kubaiya, gumash, jena...”  My “elf on the shelf” doll is a particularly prized item that kids quickly pick out through the screen door.  We as a team have so much more than we need and I become embarrassed that I have to say no to a kid who has next to nothing.  To make things more difficult—I LOVE giving gifts to people.  Every time I travel somewhere new I scour out the hidden shops to find that perfect gift for a friend or family member.  It takes my best self-control to not show up on Fatna’s compound each Monday with a small gift like a book or nail polish.  I will make baked goods for any person and any occasion.  I understand the implications of giving to African friends without thinking.  It complicates relationships among Sudanese neighbors when ex-pats choose to give certain things to only certain people.   However, I still find myself asking, “How can I show I care to my Moru friends?”  I am slowly learning what it means to give of myself, and it is much harder than handing over a neatly wrapped gift.

In African culture, time means love.  Spending the day sitting with the ladies, picking the leaves off the morenga branches, and eating g-nut paste and cassava is love.  Attending both the joyful prayers for the new baby and also the mournful prayers of the deceased relative is love.  Taking time to stop and simply be with the Sudanese women here is a way to give to them.  This way of interaction is hard for my overachieving self.  I want to spend my day being “productive,” doing things that show results.  Unfortunately, doing something for the end result means that I’m only thinking about my own pride.  Many days I have to set aside the watch and calendar, lather on the sunscreen, and head out to a friend’s house for an untimed hangout session.      

When working with teens, I’m often tempted to give gifts in order to gain favor in their eyes.  However, I’ve been trying to step away from the desire to be liked and work towards simply giving of myself.  I act as unofficial drama coordinator at my church, recruiting youth, directing the staging, and corralling the actors together at the time of the performance.  At times, actors don’t show up, groups of teens talk through the church service, and lead characters decide they don’t want to speak above a whisper.  It looks like chaos to an outside observer, but, to me, it is a way to give to some otherwise disinterested adolescents. 

My favorite way to give here in Mundri is to share knowledge.  The schools here in South Sudan have so little and face so much that I jump at any opportunity to hold workshops for drained and underprepared teachers.  At the beginning of teacher trainings we do give each participant a bag of school supplies; however, the rest of the week we are filling the teachers’ hearts with confidence—confidence that they can speak in English, confidence that that they can plan creative lessons, confidence that they do the task the Lord has set them to do, because He will sustain them.  It is the most tiring, emotionally draining week of the year for me, and it is totally worth it.    

My pride is hurt by the reality that I’m not the most cheerful giver.  Some days I don’t want to teach the lesson, I can’t bring myself to enter into that long conversation in Arabic, I feel frustrated with the culture and the individuals with whom I’ve chosen to surround myself.  It would be much easier to just drop off a bag of cookies at someone’s hut and say, “salaam.”  But God calls me to give in a way that dies to my comfort level.  Paul reminds us to, 

“Be imitators of God…and live a life of love, just as Christ loved us 

and gave himself up for us as a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.” –Eph. 5:1,2

When I think of the ultimate gift of a life for a soul, I’m compelled to give of menial things like my time, energy, and mind (which I tend to hold with an iron fist, regardless of the fact that they already belong to the Lord).  Yes, I am learning what it means to “give” here in Africa—not because I’m some sort of martyr, but because my God prods me, teaches me, and emboldens me all along the way. 

Each man should give what he has decided in his heart to give, 

not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a cheerful giver.

-2 Cor. 9:7

Freedom

Last week I had the privilege of celebrating the independence days of both the United States and South Sudan.  Eager to get back to my usual team duties, as soon as I got off the mini MAF plane and unloaded my trunks of supplies, I headed over to the team house to adorn its walls with star cut outs, mini flags, and glittery signs.  I’m a bit rusty in the holiday décor department, but the effort was there.  Amidst all of my gluing, drawing, and cutting, I thought more carefully about what freedom really means.  I think it’s easy to take Independence Day as one of the more lame holidays that gives people a chance to eat meat and watermelon and watch fireworks.  I’ll admit it’s at the bottom of my list.  However, returning to Africa during this season has made me vastly more patriotic than I’ve ever been. America, despite all its bravado and self-indulgence, is a great country of diversity and opportunity.  It is also a country that has learned, in a relatively short amount of time, how to get things done.  It has its weak points, its areas of oversight and immorality, as every human nation does; however, it is a safe country, an energetic and driven country.  I’m still not at the point of putting patriotic bumper stickers on my car, but I am grateful to live in the United States, where freedom is known. 

Freedom is also an important idea for the people of South Sudan.  The people in Mundri are always saying, “feel free,” when I come to visit them.  They want me to feel at home, feel like I can join their conversations and eat to my heart’s content.  Formality is a sign of distance here—to take off your shoes, lie back, and talk about the current health of your mother’s sister is to take a step towards the Moru people in freedom. 

Ironically, since being back in Mundri, I have not been able to feel a sense of freedom.  It has nothing to do with the gracious and hospitable people of South Sudan, but everything to do with my own insecurities.  I have been paralyzed by a fear of failure in my work here.  I have been nervous about meeting up with people who I haven’t seen in two months.  I have felt pressure to reach a certain level of productivity that I never seem to achieve.  And, worst of all, I have not felt the freedom to approach God with all of my fears and worries.  I tell myself, “This is just who you are.  You are an anxious, fearful person, and there’s nothing you can do to change who you are.”  I’m giving sin too much power—letting it shackle me to the ground in helplessness and self-pity without even considering the love and power of God. 

My team is studying Ephesians, which has been encouraging my heart about the truths of freedom in Christ Jesus.  Paul writes,

            In Him and through faith in him we may approach God with freedom and confidence.  I ask 

            you, therefore, not to be discouraged because of my sufferings for you, which are your glory.  

           - (Eph. 3:12,13)

It is difficult to give myself the freedom to make mistakes, to be my own imperfect self.  I want to do big things here in Mundri, but I need to be sure it is for God’s glory and not my own.  Luckily, I have the Moru people here to encourage me to “feel free.”  There are the South Sudanese teachers, who thank me profusely for sharing my model lesson with them, even though I feel like my lesson bombed.  There’s Agnes, who hugs me and holds onto me for a good five minutes after having not seen me for nine months.  There’s Panina, the Ugandan owner of the town fashion store, who would rather have me chatting with her about life than buying up all of her consignment shirts.  There are the professors and students at Kotobi Teacher’s College, who invite me to all of their ceremonies and programs—even when I’m not currently teaching there.  There’s the Bishop, who gives John and me his blessing and prayers when we fearfully tell him that we want to pursue a “dating” relationship in a conservative culture.  And there’s neighbor Howa, who drops the water bucket she’s been carrying and runs up to hug me.  These friends all teach me daily what it looks like to freely love and accept me as I am.  I am so grateful for them.  

The people of South Sudan don’t have the resources or opportunities that the people of America have.  Most were born here in Mundri Town, Western Equatoria, and they will die here.  It is easy to feel weighed down in a developing nation; however the Moru people chose to live life in freedom.  They have their own nation, separate from the Arab-dominated North.  They have fertile land to use as they wish—to plant clusters of g-nuts and rows of tall maize and construct mud homes for their growing families, with the sweeping blue sky in the background.  Most importantly, they have freedom in Christ.  They feel the freedom try things that may fail, knowing that they are still loved by their community and by their God just the same.  

The spirit of the Lord God is upon me, for he has anointed me

to bring good news to the poor;

he has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,

to proclaim liberty to the captives,

and the opening of the prison to those who are bound.

-Isaiah 61:1

Calling All Givers!

   

     It is hard to believe that I am almost done with my month in the United States.  During this final week, I am quite busy running errands and taking care of business before returning to good old S. Sudan.  Amidst the hustle and bustle, I've been trying to reflect on the past year, to think back on the good, the bad, and the ugly of life in Mundri Town.  This month in America is supposed to fuel much comparison and criticism of both my home culture, the culture of South Sudan, and even my mission's culture.  I should be thinking about what in each culture is right, what is wrong, and what is just "different."  I should be thinking of ways to address the entanglement of problems in South Sudan and set up a game plan of how I will pursue people and work in my various ministries.  I've been doing this to some extent; however, once I start thinking about Mundri, I end up being filled with excitement over all the wonderful experiences I've had this past year.  I compiled a list of my top 10 experiences.  Here they are, in no particular order:

- Running along the dusty road of Mundri town, looking out toward the expansive sky, and watching the sun rise

- Pretending to be a scary snake in the youth drama I helped direct with the teens at my church

- Hiding out in Mary’s tukul while a violent thunderstorm took over and poured rain through the grass roof (and then eating mangoes galore after the storm was all over!)

- Watching 2 dozen primary school teachers plan an interactive, creative lesson that they can be proud of and use with their students

- Getting to say “action” and “cut” with a film crew and actors…along the banks of the Moru river

-Talking and laughing among professors over the habits of “pusscats” and rats at Kotobi Teacher’s College

- Building a sand resort/town with Gaby and Liana at MyIsland.

- White water rafting on the Nile!

- Making American baked goods with some spirited and open-minded teenage girls  

- Getting to worship the same God each week with people who couldn’t be more culturally different from myself  

Honestly, I can't wait to return to Mundri Town, South Sudan.  I'm trying not to put all my hope in an overfilled agenda, in which everything goes according to my superior and master plan.  I've learned over the year that (and my pride bristles at the thought) the Lord is in control and will accomplish things His way.  I am merely there for the ride.  So I am waiting.  And praying. And hoping that in this upcoming year my passions and gifts will line up with what God has in store for me.  He has always been faithful.

FINANCIAL NEEDS FOR 2013-2014 

I am still in need of about $350 a month to meet my financial needs for the year.  If you are interested in being a part of this ministry in Mundri through your financial giving, go to the World Harvest website here!

You can also write out checks to World Harvest Mission with "Jennifer Disse" in the memo line.  You mail checks to the following address:

World Harvest Mission

Donations Processing Center

PO Box 1244 Albert Lea MN 56007

Thanks for caring!