Inertia

In Vietnam we get around by motorbike or by taxi. Nathan has never been buckled into a carseat, and Caleb hasn't experienced that pleasure since we visited the States when he was eighteen months old. The boys typically just sit on our laps while we brace for the madness that is Saigon traffic. I should probably add that with Nathan "sitting" is a loose concept. It usually involves Daniel and I taking turns wrestling him into some half-bent position while he lunges for the window buttons or blows zerbers on the back of the vinyl seat. Caleb used to be just as bad, but he's mellowed some with age.

It's standard to drive by the "gun it and brake" method here, so we're used to a bit of jolting and lurching whenever we're in a taxi. Last Sunday morning, Caleb took a very minor tumble. He scooted back on the seat complaining that the car was pushing him around.

"That's inertia." I explained feeling rather proud of myself. Daniel raised an eyebrow and I didn't confess that I'd been channel surfing recently and landed on a Discovery Channel episode about the mechanics of the seatbelt. Let him think he married up.

I explained to Caleb that when something is still it wants to stay still and when something is moving it wants to stay moving--very much like a little boy I know. Caleb was quiet for a moment.

"Mom," he said, "I don't like inertia. Can you just turn it off."

Hmmm, wouldn't that be the long sought solution to life's many stresses! I laugh about Caleb liking to stay put when put and to go when going, but I am equally controlled by inertia. The apple rolled down the tree trunk and nestled against the roots with this one. Neither of us like change. We ignore it, we complain about it, we resist it...then it happens. Always, it happens. In the end we gain momentum in another direction and forget all about our complaints and resistance and downright orneriness.

Oh, my sweet, stubborn boy! I don't believe we're going to flip the switch on inertia anytime soon. Maybe we should just try rolling with it.

Blundering

I'm sorry for the long pause between blog posts. I've been busy packing and cleaning and getting ready to move countries. We really should be used to this routine by now. It seems that every few years we go through the same process. Disassemble the entire house into four piles: trash, stash, ship, or carry. Since shipping is expensive, stashing requires space, and carrying is heavy, we inevitably have to jettison belongings along the way. In most cases, I enjoy the purge. It is no sacrifice to toss frayed and sweat-stained t-shirts, ratty linens, or piles of tacky wooden wall hangings, beaded purses, and gaudy fabric we've collected along the way. Other things, though, are harder to leave by the wayside.

Yesterday morning I piled all of our baby stuff into the back of a minivan taxi and took it to a crisis pregnancy shelter that a friend of mine helps run. For weeks I have been boxing up baby clothes, washing blankets and playthings, and gradually taking items out of daily use to add to the growing pile. Every time I would pack a onesie or a baby outfit I would think, “Oh, this is what Caleb wore on the plane when we brought him back to Vietnam.” “Awww, these are the onesies Aunt Jill brought to Singapore for Nathan.” “Oh look, the trendy little overalls James and Katie sent us.” Aside from the few practical things I bought for the boys, all of the clothing reminded me of someone—my mom, my aunts, my grandma, the ladies at church who gave us a shower, friends from college, Daniel's mom and sister, and on and on. All of it was past being useful, but all of it was still very dear.

Being a good nomad, I stiffened myself to the task and mercilessly culled and boxed everything that lacked a practical purpose (well, almost everything). I consoled myself with the thought of encouraging unwed mothers and providing for babies rescued from abortion or abandonment. I imagined the women enjoying the gifts as much as I had when they were first given to us. I pictured Vietnamese babies being shown off at church wearing Caleb's overalls or Nathan's onesies. I've lived in Vietnam long enough that I should have known better. Things are never as romantic as I like to make them.

When we arrived at the shelter, three of the babies were asleep sprawled on a bamboo floor mat with their caregivers. The women jumped up and invited us into a one-room home with beds in two corners for the mothers and a row of cots for infants. The back door opened to an outdoor kitchen and latrine. One of the mothers, a mentally handicapped girl who was found pregnant and living outside of the local market, sprang forward with her baby and thrust him into my arms. I reacted just in time to keep his head from lolling backward and was instantly reminded of a small detail I had overlooked. Vietnamese infants and toddlers typically don't wear diapers. As soon as the baby was dropped in my arms, I felt something warm oozing down my elbow and seeping through my shirt. I began to pray for the best, but the stench confirmed the worst. I found one of the caregivers and tried to pass the baby off nonchalantly. She whisked him away to be hosed down outside, and I was led to a tap where I could wash up amidst a pile of breakfast dishes piled on the ground.

As I washed my hands and rubbed dishsoap into my shirt, it began to dawn on me that onesies, overalls, footed pajamas, even pants and shorts weren't all that useful to moms whose babies don't wear diapers. The infants were dressed only in worn cotton t-shirts. They had cloths tucked under their bottoms inside the cots, and the moms or caregivers held similar cloths on their laps when they rocked or fed the babies. The toddlers wore two-piece outfits similar to pajamas. Periodically they would be herded into a corner and helped to do their business in a small bucket.

I began to realize that the items which were so precious to me were of very little value, except maybe as a novelty, to the women living and working in the shelter. As this realization sunk in, my face felt warm. I really should have known better. It was too late to pile the boxes back into the taxi, but I couldn't shake the sense of regret and embarrassment—embarrassment at the inappropriateness of my gift and regret at the wastefulness of it.

Whether we're willing to admit it or not, this is sometimes the unfortunate reality in cross-cultural work. We take what we treasure (our time, effort, relationships at home, abilities, titles, and roles), box it all up, and give it away. We do so at great cost to ourselves, but not always for the real or lasting benefit of others. We are outsiders and often do not understand the situation or the need until after we've made our various well-intentioned but misguided attempts to help. I chuckled recently at a story about women in a remote African tribe receiving t-shirts from an American church. The ladies in the church had seen photos of the tribal women naked from the waist up and were concerned for their modesty. Upon receiving the shirts, the tribal women were perplexed. They didn't wear the shirts at all until one enterprising mom led the way by cutting holes in the appropriate places so she could continue breastfeeding her child. Problem solved! Because I didn't raise money for the t-shirts, or collect them, or travel half-way around the world to distribute them, this story is funny. When I think about moms at the shelter trying to figure out what to do with that cute, striped onesie Nathan wore in his first days home from the hospital, I'm less inclined to laugh.

A well-made sacrifice is bittersweet. There is a strange comfort in grieving the loss of something that has clearly served others. We want to believe that we are helping. The difficulty is that sometimes we are just participating. I made Mexican food earlier this week. In Vietnam, making Mexican food means making salsa and rolling out tortillas from scratch. Caleb loves it when I give him a ball of dough and let him bang the rolling pin around trying to make his own tortillas. At best, he gets them started for me. At worst, I have to begin again when he is distracted. In either case, I spend the time between dinner and baths cleaning flour from every crevice in the kitchen. In spite of the extra effort it requires, I love watching Caleb “help.” I enjoy sharing the time and experience with him. This really seems to be the best metaphor for life and service in general. We are invited to participate in something grand, the redemption of the world, not because of our expertise but because of God's kindness.

Sometimes a sacrifice is valuable just because it is a sacrifice. It reminds us that this world is not our home and encourages us to hold material things lightly. When we sacrifice (even something as ultimately insignificant as used baby stuff), we share in some small way in the suffering of Christ who sacrificed everything for us. In the same way, service can be valuable just because it is service. We learn to put our own interests behind the interests of others. While we should seek to be wise in how we care for others and discerning in how we use the resources we've been given, we can't let ourselves be paralyzed by the fear of making mistakes. Nor should we be held back by the possibility that the cost will be greater than our calculations. We learn generosity by giving. We learn to love by loving. We are still learning even when we blunder and struggle.

In the end, God will accomplish what he has set out to accomplish. I can hope to play a small part in that, but what he really wants is for me to participate in the process—to love him and to love my neighbor—leaving the rest in his hands.

Well, this is a long post to make up for a long silence. Hopefully I will find a few spare minutes to write more soon.

Heather

Loving Our Brother

The conversation went something like this...

Caleb: "I just want to love my brother."

Me: "No, Caleb, not right now."

Caleb: "But I just waaaaaant to!"

Me: "No. No loving your brother today."

I'm guessing this will require some explanation. Let me give you a picture of what "loving his brother" looks like. It starts with a relatively innocent kiss on the cheek which progresses into a loud, slobbery smack. This is accompanied by a hug around the neck. The hug morphs into a strangle-hold and then a take-down. Occasionally hair pulling or face patting (aka. slapping) is also involved. The simple display of affection inevitably degenerates into a shrieking, arm-flailing, laughing, sometimes crying, tangled heap of boys. It always ends with me rescuing Nathan (or occasionally, Caleb) from the knot. Needless to say, Caleb is temporarily prohibited from loving his brother. He can take it up again when Nathan is big enough to love back (or when we have carpeted floors).

Travel Tales

Traveling with little ones almost always yields a good travel story or two. The boys did really well on all four flights in spite of one rough take-off and two sets of painful ears on the last descent. (Chalk that one up to the virus we brought back with us.) Caleb only called the stewardess three or four times before the button with the little person on it lost its appeal. Nathan chose the first leg to walk up and down (and up and down and up and down) the aisle. This was fortunate since it was the leg with the most Vietnamese people. I felt like secret service trailing the president. Nathan marched past his adoring throng stopping at this seat or that to shake a hand, play patty cake, get pinched, or exchange some babble. He was in his element.

We decided before this trip that Caleb was big enough to start carrying his own backpack. Given that he is a pint-sized control freak, it was a good move. He loved being in charge of his own bag. He carried it through the airports, put it on one conveyor belt after another, and unpacked it and repacked it on the plane. Unfortunately, on our return journey, security had been stepped up at the Bangkok airport. Something in Caleb's Lightning McQueen backpack must have looked suspicious because the guy watching the x-ray screen signalled to the hand checker and he pulled it aside for inspection. Caleb stood very patiently while the security checker carefully emptied the contents of the bag onto a stainless steel table--two monster trucks, a Volkswagon bus, a toy airplane, a pack of gummy candy, two storybooks, and Bear--nothing of any use to a terrorist. We repacked the bag and went on our way. After we got home we heard the news about the protestors in the streets of Bangkok. The pieces fell into place. I can't imagine Caleb being mistaken for a terrorist, but a protestor...well, that makes more sense.

Before I sign off for today, I can't resist sharing one more travel story that is actually not our own. I heard it from friends who recently traveled with three small children. Their five-year-old son was carrying a plastic water bottle with which he had formed some mysterious attachment. His mom suggested that he should toss it, but in true five-year-old fashion, he protested. She agreed that he could keep it only as long as the security checkers didn't mind. They proceeded to make their way toward their gate and lined up at the security checkpoint. The little boy danced back and forth on both feet holding his backpack with the contraband water bottle tucked inside. He put the bag on the conveyor belt and marched through the metal detector. On the other side he proudly collected his bag, turned toward his mom who was still unloading items onto the belt, cupped his hands to his mouth, and shouted, "Mom, they didn't find it!!!"

We're Back

Thank you to all who have been praying for Nathan's sleep, especially during our two-week trip to Thailand. He slept beautifully while we were away. In fact, we all got caught up on sleep. Sharing a hotel room with two little boys does put a crimp in one's night life. (Considering that our "night life" usually involves t.v., books, or the computer, it wasn't much of a sacrifice.) We turned the lights out around 7:30 each evening and had little choice but to join the boys in going to bed. A couple nights we were daring and stayed up until ten watching McGyver episodes in the bathroom. We plugged the portable DVD player into the hairdryer outlet and sat on the floor trying to avoid the day's pile of foul diapers in one corner and the invisible ring of near misses around the toilet.

It is always good to reconnect with friends and colleagues who are working throughout Southeast Asia. We share stories, ideas, encouragement, and (inevitably) germs. Every year we leave with a new virus of some sort. We are spending this week mending from that.

I will write more soon, but for now the laundry is beckoning. I hope you all had a very meaningful Easter celebration.

Blessings,
Heather

Flying the Coop

We are leaving for Thailand in the morning for a few days of vacation and ten days of meetings. I am hoping (and praying) that time in the sunshine and swimming pool will help Nathan sleep. Otherwise two weeks in a hotel room could be less like heaven and more like...well, let's just say we'll all be miserable.

Before I sign off for two weeks, I want to tell you about Caleb's Sunday school class this morning. It was classic. I was listening in because there is no nursery for babies or toddlers, and Nathan has outgrown sitting quietly on our laps. The teacher was telling the Easter story and framed it as two things that happened--one very sad thing and one very good thing. Immediately one of the boys raised his hand, holding it at the elbow and hopping up and down. "Ooooh ooh ooh...I know the good thing!" he insisted. The teacher paused, and he snatched his opportunity. "We get chocolate!" he grinned. The teacher quickly moved on but not before he won a few snickers from the two or three of us restraining our toddlers in the corner.

The teacher went on to tell the kids about the cross and the terrible death of Christ. She talked about Jesus being shut in a tomb guarded by soldiers. One little boy was listening wide-eyed. The teacher reached for the next picture, but he could no longer contain himself. Horror stricken, he shouted, "NO! God can not die!" His eyes grew large and his voice quivered with the force of his certainty and his fear.

It struck me later that I forget to be horrified at the idea of a world without God. My emotions have been stunted by time and busyness and familiarity. I am no longer shocked and shaken by the death of Christ. I am not so relieved by his ressurection that I breathe more slowly and settle back into my seat. It's an old story and one I know well, too well. As I approach Easter, I want to take time to listen to the story again but with fresh ears--the ears of a child.

I wish you all a very meaningful Easter celebration. I will write again after we return to Vietnam.

Terrors and Temporary Insanity

Every night at 7pm (give or take maybe 30 seconds), Nathan goes to sleep for the night. The routine is simple. We pick him up and give him his blanket. He holds it to his face, plugs his thumb in his mouth, and waits for us to put him in his crib. Within minutes of hitting the mattress he is typically sound asleep. Staying asleep, on the other hand, has never been the boy's forte. On a good night he wakes up at ten and two wanting milk. Then he starts the day when the sun rises at five or six. This is a good night. (I don't actually remember the last time this happened.) Usually he is up every two or three hours, and occasionally he wants to start his day as early as four. I heard recently about something called "sleep debt." If such a thing exists, I am clearly in the red!

I didn't think matters could get much worse until a week or so ago. Every now and then over the course of the past six months Nathan has woken up completely frantic and inconsolable. It didn't happen very often and there didn't seem to be any reason for it, so I decided not to worry. Then it started happening several times a week, then every night, and now multiple times a night. I finally took him to the doctor yesterday. Nathan, of course, decided it was a good opportunity to entertain the entire waiting room by handing out books from the book rack and giggling hysterically. One mother with an obviously sick baby asked, "What is the matter with him?" I wasn't entirely certain what the question implied, but I answered, "Apparently nothing at the moment."

In the examining room, Nathan explored the alphabet floor mat for all of ten seconds before he discovered a little stool. He scooted it closer to the examining table and made every effort to climb up. When I decided this wasn't the best plan, he complied by crouching down under the head of the table and pulling a lever of some sort. At one point, Nathan very sweetly gave the doctor a book he had purloined from somewhere. The doctor, looking bemused, asked, "So, what is the matter with him?"

"This may sound silly," I replied, "but he won't sleep."

The doctor just smiled and I wished for a moment that the floor would open up to swallow me and my troublesome child (or maybe just the child). After a thorough discussion and a not-very-thorough examination. Nathan was diagnosed with "insomnia." Ironically the cause for his insomnia is "sleep terrors." I googled it after I got home, and found the following grocery list of symptoms (click here for the original article if you are remotely interested):

• Uncontrollable crying
• Sweating, shaking, and fast breathing
• A terrified, confused, and glassy-eyed appearance
• Thrashing around, screaming, kicking, or staring
• Child may not realize anyone is with him
• Child may not appear to recognize you
• Child may try to push you away, especially when you try to restrain him

Check... check.... check... Sounds like an accurate diagnosis. The bad news is that we can do nothing for him, except do nothing. Since Nathan isn't actually awake when he is having these "terrors," it isn't helpful to hold him or to try to comfort him. In fact, it makes the situation worse. The good news is that he is in the deepest part of sleep when this happens and has no recollection of it in the morning. This is why I say "insomnia" is ironic. Maybe the diagnosis was actually for Nathan's parents.

While I was googling "sleep terrors," I wandered to a page or two about sleep deprivation. Who knew missing sleep could result in such things as slurred speech, inability to form complete thoughts or think creatively, blurred vision, and even (according to one college student in a Psychology 101 research paper) "temporary insanity." Ah, finally an explanation for all my woes! My child is terrified and I am temporarily insane. For now I'm clinging to the "temporary" part of all that.