Changing of the Seasons

It's December in Panama.  Outside, it's raining.  A light, soft rain that I am pretending is snow as I watch our Christmas tree lights.

It's been raining for a week straight, day and night.  As Christmas comes closer, we are waiting for dry season to start. While in the northern parts winter is officially beginning, our "summer" is on the way.  When we feel those warm breezes and clear skies, it finally feels like Christmas time.

Unlike the coming of a northern winter, dry season here comes quickly, almost suddenly.  Today it is raining, but tomorrow it may stop.  We may wake to see clear skies, and not another rain drop for months. In a country that must give up 9 months of the year to rainy season, we cherish those short, dry months.

The countryside changes.  Trees, suddenly dry, lose their leaves, making dry season here feel like summer and fall rolled into one.  Grass and many plants die out, shocked by the sudden dryness.  Flowers bloom.  A good time for "spring" cleaning.

Now, as I look outside, the grass is taking over the grounds.  The countryside is so green that sometimes it hurts to look at it.  Impossibly lush.  The jungle out behind our house is constantly trying to take over our yard.

Princess, who will be starting preschool at home soon, will be learning about weather. I printed out a cute little weather chart that she can mark each day: sunny, rainy, cloudy, or snowy.  Only here, we won't ever use the snowy one.  Snow is only something she sees in movies or books.  She played  in snow when she was a baby, during a visit back to Oregon. 

Days like today, in the mid 70's, are as cold as it gets.  I put pants and socks on today, feeling chilly after hard rains, and breezes all night.  The windows are all open, as they remain every day.  The temperature changes more from day to night here, then from one time of year to another.

Here in the tropics, we are waiting for "summer".  Summer means Christmas, school getting out for the year, going to the beach, and painting your house.  And hanging your clothes on the line with no worries of rain.  I am ready.

Garden memories

Today was the third sunny day in a row, leading me to believe that dry season (what we call summer here) is just around the corner.  This sunny day found us out in the yard, replanting my garden.
For years after moving to this tropical country, I did no gardening whatsoever.  I was very busy, traveling all the time, and the whole YWAM property was under construction. So every time I did actually take time to plant something, I would come back the next day to find it under a pile of rubble.  Yes, that really did happen.

But now we have been in the same house for almost 6 years, and  I am pretty sure nothing will ever be built in our back yard.  So I have begun gardening.

Tropical gardening is still a bit new to me.  I have very fond memories of gardening with my mom; first in Montana, and then Portland.  I clearly remember at our little school house in Montana, my mom gave us each a little square of the garden to plant ourselves. I think that I planted it with one of those seed varitey packs, but maybe I'm not sure how acurate my memory is. I must have been about 4 or 5.

There was something that facinated me about gardening as a child: interacting with nature, seeing the fruits of my labor, time spent outdoors, the wonderful feel of dirt.  Now as a mom myself, I want my girls to have the same great memories. Maybe that is what has finally driven me to learn gardening here.

Only my little ones won't remember planting carrots and peas, like I do, but pineapples and papayas. Today we were out in the garden planting some bell peppers.  They love the hot weather.  So do sweet potatoes, tomatoes and basil.  Princess enjoyed making the little holes, and putting the seeds in.  Rose played with sticks and found a bug. 

Then we all played in the wading pool.  A perfect morning. I just hope that we don't get to many heavy rains and ruin all my plans.

What does a coconut look like?

What does a coconut look like?  If you grew up in the northern states like me, you would probably answer; it's round, brown and fuzzy.

I always drew coconut trees that way, with a palm tree and fuzzy brown circles surrounding it.  In fact, I can't remember ever seeing a drawing or book illustration with any other kind of coconut than the brown, fuzzy ones.

Unfortunately, that's not what coconuts look like.  At least, not until you pull them off a tree, peal them and let them dry out for awhile. Oh, and then ship them up north, where those ignorant of coconuts will assume that's the way they grow.

For your information, a coconut is actually yellow or green, and not round, but shaped somewhat like a large Hazelnut (hence the name coco -  nut).  Just to make my point, I found a coconut illustration from one of my daughters' books.

The picture of a banana tree in this particular book is even less realistic:

If you have ever seen a real banana "tree", you would understand why this is so funny.  Banana "trees" are not trees at all, but stalks.  They grow up from the ground and produce in about a year, then after producing, each stalk dies.  More similar to a garden vegetable than a tree.

Below are actual pictures of the trees in question.

So what is my point in all this, other than that illustrators should investigate more before publishing books?

Just this: our perception of reality is based on our experience (some call it our worldview).  In our own culture and context, everything makes sense. We think we know what the world looks like, and works. Then suddenly we are thrust into a new world, a new way of looking at things.  And suddenly our definitions no longer make sense.

That is, of course, if we take the step outside of our world. If it is someone else coming into our world, then we just assume they are the weird ones.

One more amusing example;  YWAM runs a small private elementary school here in our neighborhood.  The classes are mostly done in English, and young Panamanian girl was completing her homework on October day.  She had read that day that the "red apples and orange pumpkins are ripe in the fall", and she was supposed to draw a picture of fall.  So she drew two trees: one with little red circles, for the apples, and another with little orange circles, for the pumpkins.  She spoke English, but had never experienced fall, or seen a pumpkin.

So, what do you think?  Anyone else grow up drawing brown fuzzy coconuts, like me?

Thoughts on cross-cultural marriage

My friend Heidi recently started writing about her experiences in a cross-cultural marriage, (therealmodernfamily.wordpress.com) and it got me thinking on the subject. There is much to be said, but here are my thoughts today:

Finding friendships after you marry someone of another culture is often a puzzle to be solved. When two or more languages are involved, the puzzle is even more difficult to put together. I remember soon after we married, feeling like I had to pick sides when we got together with co-workers. Sit on the side of the room that was speaking Spanish, with my husband, or sneak over to the English speaking side? I always hated that I had to pick a side, and felt guilty if I picked English.

If we spent time with English speakers, Alex felt left out. And it wasn't just that he didn't understand words. Whole areas of experience and interest were not there to share. If we visit his family and Wounaan friends, I understand little. For a long time this intimidated me, but now I interject comments in Spanish, if I am following the conversation. Someday, I may be able to make my comments in Woun Meu. As I have learned more about the culture, it too, has become more comfortable. It reminds me of our favorite camping spot growing up, Clear Creek Crossing. Not at all home, but a place we loved to come back to.

Often, Spanish speaking friends have been the easiest to make. We both speak Spanish well, and though the culture is not home to either of us, it's a second home that we have grown comfortable in. Nothing needs to be translated, no one is left out, each confident to take on the friendship without depending on the other. And yet... still not totally home to either of us.

Some potential friendships died a premature death. At times I am sure it was my fault, perhaps a Panamanian couple that I had a hard time clicking with. Sometimes there were American couples that had a hard time connecting with Alex. Some just didn't know how to speak Spanish. Others perhaps, didn't want to make the effort. And some others, though they spoke Spanish fine, choose American friends instead. Sometimes, that hurt.

There were wonderful exceptions to the rule, like our friends John and Kristina. Originally from Alaska, they came to Panama eager to connect with Panamanians. I always felt as ease around them, like Alex's nationality and language wasn't an inconvenience, or a barrier, but an asset. They respected him, wanted to hear what he had to share. I never feel when I am around them that switching into Spanish is a chore.

And of course, there are other cross-cultural couples. Which should be more natural, but somehow, isn't. Because there are all sorts of variables. Like what language do they speak while together? Is the wife English speaking and the husband Spanish speaking, or vice versa? Do we share any interests other than our multi-cultural family experiments?

In spite of all this, the benefits are amazing. We have all sorts of friends. Our social life is like going to a potluck: a little bit of everything. The fun part has been learning to enjoy the varieties. There is nothing like getting together with a bunch of high-spirited Latinos, when somebody starts telling jokes. Or gathering around the homemade kerosene lantern at my in-laws house, and asking them to tell stories about the old days. Or our visits to Oregon, where Alex has experienced both snow and American culture.

Our lives have been broadened. WE have been broadened. We have been forced to become different, to look at life with different eyes. To understand others. To REALLY understand others. To open up new windows in our little worlds, and contemplate the view from someone else's window. I know I am better because of it.

Lessons learned on the bus

As we were waiting in line to get onto the Chilibre bus, going home, I started thinking about what my daughters can learn from these experiences. 1. Patience. Wait in line to get on the bus. Wait at the bus stop for the bus to come. Wait for the bus to fill up so we can leave. Wait for others to get off so we can get off too. Their reserve of patience is being expanded considerably. 2. Opposites; the bus is full and empty, goes fast and slow, the music is loud and ... okay, it's always loud! 3. Be considerate of others. There is someone sitting in the seat in front of us who you are hitting when you wave your arms about crazily. When you scream, that bothers the people around us. Except if the bus driver is waiting for the bus to fill up. Then I let Carolyn cry and hope that it bothers him enough to leave sooner. I don't know that this have ever worked but I keep trying. 4. Basic economics. We have to pay for the bus. Sometimes I let the girls give the money to the busdriver. 5. And of course, thankfulnes. Always thank the bus driver when you get off. For me, the buses always remind me to pray. As in, pray that we make it off alive. But I am hoping that they don't yet realize how crazy some of the drivers are. So I just smile and nod when Abigail cries in an excited voice, "The bus is going faster Mommy!".

How to cut open a coconut

One of my favorite outreach treats is fresh coconut milk., or "agua de pipa". Our hosts will often cut down several coconuts and cut a small hole with a machete so we can drink the milk (this is quite a skill). Depending on how ripe the coconut is, you can then split it open with a machete and eat the pulp or "meat". But, if like me you didn't grow up using a machete, this can be difficult. So here is the system I have worked out when I want to open a coconut: 1. Go ask the nearest neighbor for a machete (every household has one) 2. Take the machete and begin hacking randomly at the coconut. 3. Hand the machete to the Panamanian man who has just appeared out of the wood work and offered to do it for you. 4. Smile and say thank-you. There you have it! This system has yet to fail me.

Fighting Grace

I have been thinking a lot about grace lately. Grace is the foundation of Christianity, what diferentiates it from other religions. It says that we can't do what God asks of us, they we are dependant on him. It's a second chance when you didn't deseve it, an opportunity you shouldn't have been given. I watched a movie with the girls not long ago (Mega Mind) in which the super villian is serving 88 life sentances in prison. By the end of the movie, he tires of being bad and becomes the reluctant hero. At which point he saves the city from the new bad guy, and his 88 life sentances magically disappear. True, it was an animated film, not meant to be in any sense true to life. Yet the end bothered me. At first I didn't know what it was. Then I realized: it was grace. He deserved the 88 life sentances. He had earned them. But what he got was a chance to start his life again, to do things better. He recieved grace. And instead of cheering, it rubbed me the wrong way. As I thought back a little, I realized that many times a movie will follow the same idea: the bad guy-turned hero who saves the day and then miraclelously doesn't have to pay for the bad that he had done. It has never sat right with me. It could be that natural desire for justice, that even small children have. How many times did we cry to Mom and Dad, "that's not fair!". But I think there is more to it than that. It's that bent towards legalism, that incredible idea that we can some how deserve God's love. It's that part of us that rejects grace. No thank you, I can do it on my own. In reality, how differnt is Mega Mind than us? We have all messed up. No one is really getting what they deserve. We are showered in God's grace each day as he sends rain, provision, life, the air we breath. One thing I love about Latin America is how people pray. Every pray begins with thanks. And not the selfish thanks for things that we have asked God for, "Thanks for my new cell phone, new house, new car." It's usually, "Thank you for the life you give us, the air we breath, life, our sight, our health." Thanks for all those things you still have even if you are desperately poor. Living closer to poverty can make you a more thankful person (can, but it doesn't always happen). Prayers before meals are equally telling. Here in Panama I learned to pray, "thank you for the food we are about to eat, and please provide food for those who are hungry today." At every meal the poor are remembered. Not a single meal is to taken for granted. We recognize that we are undeserving recipients of God's grace. After thinking all this over, I had to admit my wrong thinking. Mega Mind didn't get what he deserved. But neither have I. I am totally dependant on God's grace.

Have we all gone crazy?

Princess is 3 years old. She doesn't know her alphabet. She can't count to 20. And I'm not freaking out about it. According to many people these days, I should be. Oh, and did I mention that she's not enrolled in preschool? I must be a deficient parent.

We have been investigating a lot about homeschooling as we were deciding which route to take for her education. And I was shocked to learn the "new norm" these days. I remember reading a discussion on a popular parenting website about teaching toddlers their alphabet. Many parents of tots as young 15 months bragged about them knowing the alphabet. The unspoken message was: if your child can't do this, something is wrong.

Then I recently read an article about skills children should learn in preschool. The article mentioned that the point of preschool for 4-year-olds was to prepare them for the "rigors of kindergarten". What!? "The rigors of kindergarten"? What happened to kindergarten being a fun introduction to school?

Somewhere along in this journey I began to think that the whole world has gone mad. Desperate to offer our children the best opportunities (and pride ourselves in their "giftedness") we keep sliding back the timetable. Starting to read in first grade is no longer acceptable. Now kids must learn to read in kindergarten. Or before. Before is best.

This must be why I had so much trouble in school! (I wrote that with a sarcastic voice). I did kindergarten at home with my mom. I remember singing together, learning the days of the week, and I assume the alphabet. I remember a song about a birdie, but not much else. I started first grade at 6, and then our family moved. The new school required me to walk over 1/2 mile to school, and as a small 6 year old, I couldn't handle it physically. So my mom pulled me out and homeschooled me.

Sadly, halfway through the school year she became very ill and couldn't continue. I remember enjoying homeschool. I have one very clear memory of doing my math homework out on the sidewalk, in the sun.

Since Oregon law didn't require children to begin school until 7 years old, my parents decided to just let me stay home, and try first grade again the following year. I have no recollection of how I felt about that, so I must not have been too heart-broken about it.

So I began learning to read at the ripe old age of 7. By the end of the school year I was reading at a third grade level, and was near the top of my class for the rest of my school career. Do I think my parents made the right decision? Absolutely. Less stress for me, less stress for my family already dealing with my mom's illness. And with the extra time to grow, I was also ready to walk to school each day.

Raising my little girls and am faced with educational decisions and our culture's focus on pushing kids to learn sooner and sooner, I find myself pulling back. My daughter is three. I want to give her time to be a child. Time to learn in her own way. Time to be free of schedules and demands. That will come soon enough. And right now, she knows how to learn, as she explores the world around her.


Still, in this world gone crazy, it's not easy.

My Battle with the Health Center

Someone more knowedgable on the nuances of politics could tell you if Panama's health system would be considered "socialist". What I do know is that the government provides health care for free or nearly free to anyone who needs it. Of course, you do pay for it in inconvienience, long waits, and less than respectful treatment, at times.

Still for me, it's worth it. Care for all children under 5 is free, so that means all check-ups and immunizations are free for the girls. Not a bad deal. It requires getting there at 6:00 AM, and sometimes not getting out of there until noon, but we made it work.

My problems began when Princess went in for her 1 1/2 check-up. She been weaned and started walking since her last appointment, and had dipped below the acceptable weight on their charts. She was declared "in danger of malnutrition" and I was sent to see their nutritionist. The nutritionist asked about her eating habits. She filled out her little chart and suggested that I not give Princess water with meals, "every drink of water is one less bite of food she is going to eat." I was not overly impressed with her advice. She handed me a bag full of fortified hot cereal, known here as "crema". It's great for kids that really ARE malnourished, somehow I can't see any peditritian in the USA recommending it.

After Princess totally rejected the "crema", we stopped taking her to the nutritionist, and I didn't worry much about her weight. She was reaching all her milestones on time, healthy, alert, and growing.

Then came the fateful day when both girls had appointments the same day: 3 years and 15 months. This time they were BOTH under weight, and the doctor was not happy. She told me in a voice that I can only decribe as offended, that Rose had "the weight of an 8-month-old baby". Didn't matter than in every other way she was totally normal. Off again we went to the nutritionist. Another armload of "crema", and advice on how to get them to eat more. Princess still hates it, but Rose likes it and when I offer, yells for her "c'ema!".

I should also mention that all this was happening while we were heading out on a two month outreach into remote villages. Not the best envirnment for keeping kids healthy and gaining weight.

However, after we returned from the outreach things did eventually calm down a little. Maybe it was the stress of outreach. Maybe they were hitting a growth spurt. But they began to noticably plump up, especially obvious on Rose.

I didn't think about it much the day we headed off to Princess' 3 1/2 year appointment, except to hope that they wouldn't scold me for not bringing her to see the nutritionist. We had a happy surprise. She has edged up into the "normal" weight range. Yeah! No more lectures for me, defective Mommy who obviously doesn't feed her children.

This whole experience is even more interesting to me, seeing as how all the advice coming out of the USA in relation to kids and nutrition, is focused on helping kids NOT gain too much weight. And here I am being encouraged to make sure the girls are gaining plenty of weight. The mindset here totally makes sense. Lots of kids in Panama truly are underweight. I have seen it with my own eyes, and it's terribly sad.

It makes me feel like I am living in two worlds at the same time. One a world of plenty, where food is always available, and one a world where every child who is a little too small is seen as in danger.

Raising kids across cultures

Raising kids is a tricky business. However, our cultures let us know what is expected and what is normal. Things like: where should the baby sleep? Till what age should they nurse? When should they potty train? How should they be disciiplined?

While each culture has variations, you realize the things that we DO agree on when you find yourself in the midst of a culture that thinks you are an oddity.

Sometimes the things people assume you are doing are more amusing than the things the surprised you aren't. Like the relative that asked if I had got an operation after my first child was born. I guess her thinking was: American= rich and educated= only one child? Not quite sure about that one. I also got MANY surprised comments that I wasn't using formula. Rich people can buy formula, and you are American, right?

I can read every parenting book, and do everything the way you are "supposed to" in the States, and still be thought of as wierd here.

One example: hats. Babies are supposed to wear hats ALL the time. No matter how hot the weather. I didn't even make it out of the hospital with my new baby before a kindly woman stopped me and told me to put a hat on her so that she wouldn't get an infection through her head. My baby dressed for the weather and got many disaproving looks.

Another interesting one is potty training. I read recently that the average age for children to be fully potty trained in the States right now is 36 months. When my daughter was three MONTHS old, a friend told me she was ready to go without diapers. The indigenous ladies are masters at reading their babies and can tell when they have to go. To me, it makes total sense. Every wet cloth diaper has to be hauled down to the river and washed by hand, then hung out to dry in a country that has a 9 month rainy season. It's a whole lot easier to wash a small pair of underwear and splash some water on the floor slats. If you happen to be outside (which children tend to be most of the time) even better. A totally logical system.

That is, totally logical until you are taken out of your world into another. In the States, many kids go to daycare or preschool. I imagine a daycare worker would not be so nonchalant about a kid peeing on the floor as they would here. Even at home, people have carpets, and colder weather means more clothes to change if accidents happen. Keeping kids in diapers makes sense.

This past Sunday a relative asked if Rose was potty trained yet. I said no, a little sheepishly, knowing they would think it was odd. After all, she is 21 months old. So we stick out here.

Alex's family thought we were terribly mean to make our poor, defenseless babies sleep in a crib all by themselves. American friends disaproved of that fact that occasionally, the baby does end up in the bed for the remainder of the night.

Understanding the logic of each system helps me to accept them both, and find a peace in accepting some of this, and some of that. After all, our family is a mix of two cultures. I understand why a Wounaan mom would sleep with baby close by her side (the only safe place for a baby to be in a raised, wall-less hut). And I continue doing things that don't make sense to those around me, accepting that our family WILL be different. I only hope that those differences will not be too great to find common ground with my Panamanian sisters, and that occasionally, we can learn from each other.

Learning with Papi

I wrote earlier about our idea to have Alex do Woun Mue classes with the girls. Well, this week he began them and so far they are a big hit. We are using a couple of story books in Woun Meu, and I am adding in activity ideas and simple crafts. They learned 5 words in the first lesson, the words in Woun Meu for: sit, stand, dark, light, and agouti, a small jungle animal. If you know what a capabara is, an agouti is a smaller version.

Princess was excited to show me what she had learned, turning the lights off and on to show me dark and light: "k'isu, hararaa!" Rose even managed the word "hararaa". Alex seemed to enjoy himself and was encouraged by how quickly they picked the words up.

I already have three more lessons planned for them. Alex prefers that I do the planning and I enjoy it. It's fun to think up simple crafts that they can do together to remember the words. I found a fun idea for an alligator puppet with a brown baggie to learn the word for alligator. Can't wait to see them try it.

I should say that I don't expect these little lessons to suddenly make the girls fluet in Woun Meu. I understand that a few lessons can't do that. But I do hope they will do a couple of things:

First of all to help Alex be intentional about teaching the girls. I hope that he will think to speak to them in Woun Meu, and point things out to them through out the day, once he realizes how much they are able to learn. Most of us don't really think about children's process in language learning. It seems to happen automatically, and kids are great learners. But they can't learn a language that they don't hear, and which isn't spoken to them.

I have observed that people tend to think that Wounaan children automatically learn Woun Meu, as if it's in their blood (and Embera children learn Embera, and so on). Children who aren't fluent are seen as "rejecting their heritage" by the same parents who are addressing them in Spanish.

All this to say hopefully doing these activities will make Alex aware of the need to teach language to our daughters.

My second objective is to get the girl's foot in the door, language-wise. Since they understand and speak almost none at all, they are overwelmed when they get faced with a barrage of Woun Meu from an exuberant distant relative. Little sister doesn't seem to react too much to that, but Princess is very intimidated. She will usually react by ignoring the person and talking to me in English. It's as if her personality changes. Later she will tell me, "Talking in Wounaan is too hard." I don't want to push her, so I tell her that she doesn't have to talk if she doesn't want to, but then follow that up with, "It seems hard because Daddy hasn't taught you yet.

It seems like a complicated dance at times: exposing her to the language so that she will see the need to learn, while at the same time not pushing her so much that she rejects the language; giving her permission to learn at her own pace, yet encouraging her that she CAN learn. But we are trying.

And I hope that with a few basic words and phrases, commands, and familiar objects, they will have some "aha!" moments when listening to others speak in Woun Meu and realize, "I CAN speak that language!". I am optimistic.

As an added bonus they are getting some great interaction time with Papi. Not a bad deal all around.

Homeschooling: the privilege of the educated

I would like to start out by stating that my perspective on this is unique, since I although I am an American, I do not live in the States, nor is my husband American. Almost everything I have read about homeschooling is written by Americans.

I have heard it said many times that anyone is qualified to home school their children. But I have to challenge that statement. Everyone is charged by God to teach their children, but many people in the world are not able to school them.

Case in point: my mother in law. Rosaura was born in a remote jungle village, into an almost unknown indigenous tribe. One of many children, her life changed forever when her father died while she was still a young child. She never saw the inside of a classroom, I doubt there was even a school in the vicinity. Orphaned, life was about survival. She knew hunger firsthand, and the desperation of poverty.

Married as a young teen, she began her family without the support of relatives, her children born in the same small hut where they lived. Life was not kind to her.

My husband Alex is her youngest, and only with her second husband. He grew up speaking only Woun meu, their native language, at home. He doesn't remember how old he was when he started school. The Wounaan aren't a culture focused on numbers like we are. He estimates that he was 9 or 10 when he first stepped into a classroom. There he learned Spanish, something he parents couldn't teach him, since they didn't speak it either.

Alex's cousin told me how upon starting school she couldn't tell the teacher she needed to go to the bathroom; she didn't know how. So every day she would have an accident in school. What an introduction to education.

Not only was he faced with a new language, but upon arriving home with his first homework assignment, his parents were helpless to come to his aid. They understood neither the language, nor the letters on the page. So he did the best he could.

Alex still mourns the education he didn't get. In 7th grade, he began to struggle in school. As is usual in his culture, he parents encouraged him to drop out and begin working. It was only later, as an adult, that he finished his high school and even went on to university.

And he wants so much more for his daughters. He wants them to excel, to receive what he wishes he had received. Something his parents couldn't give him. What he received in the public school here in Panama was deficient at best. Yes, he can read and write. But I am humbled every day to realize what a treasure I was given in my schooling. I went to GOOD public schools, with a few years of homeschooling thrown in. I had GOOD teachers. I liked to learn. I was given the tools I needed.

That's a gift that many parents can't give their children. Some because they cannot read and write themselves. Some because they don't speak the language their children need to survive in the ever expanding world.

Those who home school are given a sacred privilege. No, all parents are not able to teach their children. And it is something that I never want to take for granted, next year as we start our homeschooling adventure with Princess' preschool. We are blessed.

Becoming like a child...

I have recently been reading an excellent book called " Ministering Cross-Culturally." The author, Sherwood Lingenfelter, tells about his experiences living in another culture and says that as we adapt to the new culture, we become 150% people: 75 % our own culture, and 75% our new host culture.

It's an interesting thought. Obviously, if we are to be effective missionaries, we must adapt to our host country and culture, taking on a new language, cultural norms, foods, even climate. But we always remain American (or whatever our country of origin is).

In a way, when we enter a new culture, we become as little children. We must learn to eat, learn to speak, learn manners, even how to go to the bathroom or bathe. Everything is new. This is perhaps one of the most difficult things to accept. At home, we were someone. We had a place in society, we felt at home, we knew what was expected of us. But now, we are ignorant foreigners. When we speak, people laugh. When we make a cultural mistake, people think us rude. When we make rice wrong, they tell us so (I know that from personal experience).

I have crystal clear memories of a certain jungle outreach where we spent three weeks mostly hiking from village to village in an area inaccessible by car. As the days wore on I felt my self esteem taking a fatal blow. The locals who accompanied us soon left us behind. Every river we had to cross reminded me of my foreignness as I struggles across the rocky river bottom, slipping and tripping. Then at the other side of the river, I struggled to empty my rubber boots of the water (which inevitably spilled over the edge of the boots). I watched the rest of the group move on, knowing that even though I was pushing myself to the limit physically, I wouldn't be able to keep it.

It's an incredibly humbling experience, to realize that in this world, you know nothing. It changes you. There is no going back once you have been stretched by an experience like that.

After 13 years in the country, in many ways, I have adapted. I can speak Spanish fluently, make many of the local dishes, get around the country, and I usually know what is expected in social situations. In many ways, I have become a Panamanian. I even have my residency papers to prove it (and having an Panamanian husband also helps).

Yet in many ways, I will never be Panamanian. The color of my skin, my hair and my eyes shouts to the world that I am different. Even as I have tried to adjust, I find a part of myself resisting. As I try to be a good missionary, part of me shouts, "I don’t WANT to be a Panamanian." I think that's why I loved his statement of being 75% of one culture, and 75% of another. I have given up my homeland, my culture, submitting myself to the laws and customs of another land. I have given the last 13 of my years, hoping to make this nation a better place. Yet a part of me remains forever American. The foods, holidays, and values of my culture remain, pulling me back continually.


It's been a painful experience at times, and has changed the way I see the world. And still I continue to learn. And many times I still feel like a little child, just starting to learn about the world

Oh, to be 3 again

Tonight we said goodbye to a great group that was here visiting from Vancouver, BC. A night of worship and thank-you's turned into dancing for all interested. My Princess was definately interested. At three, she has few inhibitions and danced her little heart out, gleefully joining hands with anyone who would offer. Our little friends Eve and Euma were right beside her.

Most of the young people joined in, but there were those hiding in the corners, hoping that nobody noticed that they weren't joining in. But the little kids, they had it the best. Pure joy in the moment, no worries if they looked funny, or didn't do it right. Just joy. I so hope that is what heaven is like. Free of self-counciousness, free to enjoy life as it was meant to be lived.

And though I was raised Baptist, I do hope there is dancing in heaven. And I wish I could keep my little one here, enjoying life and innocent. I wish that she would never realize that there is evil in the world. That every day would be like today.

Saying goodbye again

This past year or so has been a year of saying goodbye to friends. I guess that's one of the things about a missionary lifestyle that I haven't come to peace about. People often ask me if it's hard to live in another country, or whether I miss Oregon. I tell them it's not really the places you miss, but the people. I guess it's one of the true hardships of missionary life.

True, I don't care much for cold showers, or lack of water, or Panama's public buses. But I put up with them, and try to be thankful for water, even when it's cold, and transportation, even when it makes me pray harder than I ever have before.

However, none of these are true hardships. True hardship is saying good bye. It's knowing that all the people you care most about are thousands of miles away, and that you can't just drive to see them whenever you want, or go visit your sister's new baby, or attend weddings, or be part of family camping trips. Those are the moments when missionary life loses it's thrill.

And is if that wasn't hard enough, the close bonds of friendship that you form in your new home country are tenuous as your co-workers feel a call to a new country. The friendship that you built over years of shared experiences, challenges overcome together, weddings, first babies, difficulties and tears, slips away as you must say goodbye to another friend. And smile. And say how happy you are for this new step. All the while you are thinking, "How is this fair? Didn't I give up everything to be here? Do I have to give this up too?"

In the midst of that inner struggle, you realize that it's not just you who must face this challenge headon, but your children as well. Those innocent, trusting souls who don't understand why their playmate is no longer here, and who won't know why thier best friends are now moving to another country.

How do I even broach the conversation? How do I smile and make it sound positive when I myself have not come to peace with it? So I have been avoiding the subject. But I can't forever. I put it off another day and pray for peace. Peace that I desperately need to pass on to my little ones.

"In this world you will have troubles, but take heart, I have overcome the world." -Jesus

Another shot at learning Woun meu

I knew that our 3 year old Princess was not as strong in Woun mue (my husband's native language) as she is in English and Spanish. She converses, tells stories, asks "why?", and switches back and forth between the two. She prefers Spanish at the moment, but certainly is not lagging behind in English, nor is she behind for her age.

Yet in Woun mue she says only a few scattered words, and it's hard to say how much she understands. The reason for this is probably three-fold:

1. We don't live in a Wounaan* community, so she's not hearning the language from other kids in her daily play.

2. Because we don't live in a Wounaan community, Alex doesn't think to speak to the girls in his native tongue every day. No one else here speaks it, so it doesn't seem like the natural thing to do.

3. She has realized that almost everyone who speaks Woun meu, also speaks Spanish. So why learn a language that you don't need to?

So what to do? There's no easy answer. But lately Alex has been desirous to try and intentionally teach them the language. I am all for it, and we have talked about me planning him some simple learning activites they can do together. As we talked this over it hit me that maybe Alex needs to be taught how to teach language. Most people don't know much about how kids learn language.

Maybe, maybe.... if they can learn some words and phrases, feel a little more comfortable with the language, than they won't be so overwelmed when a relative comes up, pinches their cheeks and rattles off a bunch of questions. Here's hoping.

Starting our school corner

This week I have started scheduling a few "gentle" preschool activities with the girls each day. Alex and I have been going back and forth on whether to homeschool, and for now we have decided to go for it. I'm not really in favor of pushing academics too soon, so mostly what we are doing are crafts, coloring, puzzles, games in the yard, etc.

I'm not much of a schedule person when it comes to my kids, so I had hesitated to actually write stuff down, but it has been really good for them, and for me to. I start out the day with some purpose, knowing what activities we want to do, and it's perfect for those in between times when someone is grumpy and a well-timed activity can save the day.

I've even been inspired to reorganize our craft materials and games to form a little school corner. In the photos you can see our littel table set for a tea party with shelves in the back, and Princess proudly displaying an "A" she drew herself in cornmeal.

Proof of how much Princess has been enjoying these simple activities was today, when a friend came to visit. The first thing she did was to hurry her over to look at her school corner. Her favorite request is, "I want to do something!"

The other benefit is that I am feeling out what a homeschooling day will look like, and enjoying the process. I still haven't decided whether we will do anything more organized next year. I think we will wait and see.

Who knew it would be this hard?

Raising a bilingual (or in our case, tri-lingual) child raised a lot of questions and doubts that I didn't think it would.

Are we doing this right?

Are we confusing her?

Is she going to end up totally messed up?

I guess it's harder since I was raised only speaking English. That seemed normal to me. Alex was raised bi-lingual, so maybe that's why he doesn't suffer the same agonizing questions that I do.

I guess ultimately, we know that the price of NOT raising her tri-lingual are much higher than making this work. Who would I want to cut out of her life? Who would I decide that she doesn't need to communicate with?

My family? I can't imagine her not being able to talk to my parents, or not being able to sing "Itsy-Bitsy Spider" with her.

Alex's family? Wounaan may be a language spoken by an indigenous tribe of only a few thousand people, mostly hidden away in the jungle. But it's the language her Daddy grew up with. It's the only language her grandmother is fluent in. It's what's spoken in Alex's village. How can she understand what it is to be Wounaan if she can't speak with her family?

And Spanish, well, it's only the language that Alex and I communicate in most, and that everyone else in this country speaks, so unless we move somewhere else, she's stuck with it.

And somewhere along the line, as I contemplated whatever marvelous processes are going on inside her little brain as she picks up these languages, is not so different from other kids, just a little broader. She is learning that Mommy and Daddy talk differently. I say, "let's go to sleep." and Alex says, "Vamos a dormir". But really, how different is that from a child learning that "night-night is the same as "sleep", and that "Daddy went to work", is another way to say, "Daddy went bye-bye."

So maybe she won't be any more confused than other kids. She'll just have a much broader vocabulary to choose from.

Where I am today

Why does everyone have an opinion about what sort of a mother I should be? Every book I read seems to assume that if I am not doing parenthood the way you do, I am wrong, or at least falling short a bit.

Yet none of those assumptions seem to help me much. I already know that I don't have what it takes. I already know that I can't love my little girls perfectly, or rejoice at every dirty diaper I have the privilege of changing, as one author suggested. I am just here, hanging on to God's grace and asking for the strength the get through another day.

I know what I do is important. I love my little princesses, my husband. But I still need God's mercy to get up again tonight when little Rose is throwing up again, the forth night in a row, while Daddy is gone all week. I need love to pick her up again when she falls down and won't get up until I come and help her up. Or the patience to think through how I will react when my Princess says "no" for the 100th time tonight.

Sorry, but telling me how to be a perfect mother is kind of pointless. I will never get there. I don't even want to think about trying. Today, I need to hear about how God still loves me anyway. I need to know that I can go back to him again tonight with the same complaints, same needs, and same weaknesses as I do every night, and know that he will not reject me. I need to know that I can tell him honestly how I feel, the way I can with no one else, and he will still love me wholly.

I know that the ideal mother should be. I see her in my head, seemingly mocking me at times, telling me that my house isn't clean enough, I haven't done enough crafts with my kids this week, and how everyone else at dinner is thinking that my kids or total brats, as I try to get them to at lease sit through the meal, if not eat.

I should go on a diet from parenting advice. I want to do a great job, oh how I want to! I want my kids to have wonderful, loving memories of their childhood, as I do. I want them to grow into all they can be, to see God in me, to find hope and courage for life. But when I use my failings as a starting point, I get lost.

Can I start with God? Know that he loves me, loves my kids? I don't know how to. I don't know how to accept grace here. Can I feel his acceptance? Joy? Approval? Someday before I reach perfection? I see that place in my mind, a place of freedom, release. A place of grace. I'm not there yet, but oh how I yearn to reach it.