first few months, I cried quite a bit over those small things in my new life that seemed so big.
Feet First
After our first week in Tappi during a weekly station meeting, I was asked if we could host the station Christmas party. Our house, we came to find out, had always been used for these kind of gatherings because of how the front rooms were long, spacious, giving ample space for tables and guests. Our zinc-covered porch would accommodate tables for the children. My disposition towards hospitality was already being put to the test. So, I agreed. I mean, why change tradition just because I had only been in that strange country for a couple of weeks?
Jumping to the challenge, it took three days to get the boxes out of the family room, rugs laid, and pictures hung. I wanted everything to be as homey and lived in as possible. I do have to remember that I was only 27 years old then and nothing seemed impossible. Today, I would probably most likely still host the Christmas dinner, but the boxes would be stashed in another room or at least a tablecloth thrown over them. I now know that endless mounds of boxes were just an integral part of a missionary home more often than not.
As Christmas approached, we settled into a strange, nostalgic funk. Everything seemed a little surreal and looking back, I realize now that our bodies and emotions were in “survival” mode. We were completely out of our element, had never faced a Christmas without our families before, and found ourselves in an environment that in no way felt like the Yuletide merriment to which we were accustomed. Our emotions changed like the tide, and so tempted was I to lie down and sleep until the day after New Year’s Day. At first, we eluded the real issues which were no doubt causing us to react so strangely by staying busy unpacking, learning, organizing. Jeff and I became snappy at each other over the smallest things as we succumbed to pressures that we had never known and feelings we chose to suppress out of fear of sounding weak. Ever been there?
Looming closely in my mind was the reality that, come Christmas Day, sixteen people, most whom we barely knew, were coming to my disorganized, albeit spacious home for holiday cheer. I grumpily quipped that they had better be bringing that cheer with them! Granted, I was cooking very little of the meal, but the thought of having missionaries that were familiar with jungle living, those houses, the African people, the smells, and the confounded inconveniences at times seemed too much. I peaked high as one more picture was hung and then I would crash hard when I looked at the sparse Christmas items with which I had to decorate. I began to see the seemingly mile-long stretch of spider webs, the dust that multiplied hourly on everything wood, and the concrete floors that glared ominously from alongside my braided living room rug.
It was one of my first, but certainly not my last disillusioned moment at where God had placed me. I was both disappointed with myself for what I was thinking and perplexed with God for “allowing” me to think in such a defeating way. I had not yet embraced that biblical principle of taking hold of my thoughts and not allowing them to consume me.
It’s 6:00 p.m. in the States now, and they are probably eating Christmas Eve supper at Grandma Horrell’s. Oh, how we long to be there! This is the most homesick I have been yet. But I know they are missing us, too, and that also hurts. Michelle had a rough day (or maybe it was just me projecting on her). She cried and whined most of the day. We also found out that some missionary kids were giving Michelle something for Christmas and a missionary couple was giving us something. I feel terrible because I did not anticipate that.
I was very hard on myself for even the little things that I did not think to pack in our container. As a lesson to pass on to someone heading to a foreign country, I wish I would have brought out little gifts from America for the other missionary children on the field for Christmas, and perhaps some small treats for the adults, too. We were unversed missionaries with so many large and small things to learn. No one was harder judges on us than ourselves.
The Day After Christmas
My journal of December 26, 1985, reads:
Christmas Day was a very emotional day. It was the hardest day we had so far. It wasn’t just us, all the missionaries were like that. I never really realized how hard it is for missionaries, and most of the time we never even take the time to pray for them during holidays.
I could find nothing in my journals or letters where I accurately described how overwhelmingly hard that first Christmas in Africa was. When I asked Jeff what he remembered, he simply said, “Weird.” As for me, I do remember being painfully cognizant of the time difference and what would be going on in the States at a particular hour.
However, having the entire missionary population of Tappi at our house that Christmas Day helped to keep me from despair. It was only when everyone was seated around the table that I realized my struggles with Christmas were not unique to me nor would they necessarily go away in the years to come. All the missionaries seemed to be a little more open and sentimental, speaking nostalgically about family and holidays in the States. Oddly enough, knowing that I was not struggling alone with missing loved ones and family traditions helped me make it through that day.
I do believe that I started to feel like “one of them” that day, clasping my heart around the knowledge that we all shared a bond that knitted our hearts together as family. In time, they did become our “African” family and remain as such to this day. Twenty-five years later, we stay in contact with almost every one of them who sat around our table that Christmas of 1985. If, by chance, we are able to personally see them, our time together is sweet and we simply pick up where we left off. Family does that. Or should.
CHAPTER FIVE
We teach what we know, but we reproduce what we are. —John Maxwell
The First Reality Show
The African kids (and sometimes the adults) had no problem nor felt any shame in sitting on our porch and watching us inside our house. It was the best television program ever—a reality show, for sure! Jeff was constantly, but gently running people off our porch. Because we were new, they liked to come and watch us unpack our boxes, mesmerized at the different items we had brought with us from America. Jeff was really good about explaining that his wife was American (as if he wasn’t) and was not used to the public display of curiosity.
To add to that, during our first few days in Tappi, we saw several young guys walk behind our house, and after some questioning, we found out that they had shot with a slingshot a chicken hawk who had been perched in one of our trees. Unfortunately, as the rock hit its mark, the hawk had spread its wings as it involuntarily descended and was caught in a branch. One of the African boys started climbing the tree, hoping to shake the hawk loose. Now, I always loved to climb tress when I was young, but that little boy had made a profession of it! He slid up that tree trunk in a way that I had never seen! The chicken hawk fell, but still was not completely dead. I felt sorry for it and could not watch as they finished it off. However, my very inquisitive two year old Michelle was fascinated by the whole process, even after one of the young fellows had slung the limp, bloody bird over his shoulders and headed down the path dreaming of a meaty supper.
I knew that I needed to get used to people working in our yard as well as in our house. It was nothing like America where people had distinct boundaries and sacred personal space which others usually did not invade. That incident with the chicken hawk helped me to understand that sometimes, especially for the young African boys, the only food they might eat in a day’s time was what they killed themselves. Even if we caught them early in the morning, during our afternoon rest hour, or late in the evening climbing and shaking our mango or avocado trees, I tried to remember that I had plenty to eat, but they probably did not. On the other side of that was the desire to teach them to at least ask permission since the trees were in our yard. That is where the line of intersecting culture and biblical beliefs must always be carefully considered in a sensitive
