“I will sing and make music to the Lord.”

Well, I joined a choir. When Brook first suggested it to me, I was totally on board.

and then it all started to actually happen.
and I was terrified. 

Waiting for practice to start

Joining this choir meant doing this alone. It meant not having Brook or the other missionaries there to be my safety net. It’s all me. I walk to the church with the a few of the choir members. It’s a long walk. Especially when I can barely talk to them. It’s easy for me to talk to my teachers or the workers at Brook’s. I can ask silly questions like “What did you eat for breakfast?” Because I know how to say that. But talking to a teen here? scary. What would I say? The most I choked out tonight was “Do you like to sing?” Duh. They’re in a choir for heaven’s sake. 

missing some of our members, but here we are!

Anyways, when everyone arrives, practice begins and I fumble along on the dance moves and mumble a few words I catch here and there. I’m sure I look ridiculous, and the village kids like to come watch us, which I have the feeling is more about the fact that a crazy white girl is trying to be in a choir than a love of music. One of the youth agreed to translate, which is helpful. But like I said before, it’s still scary. The girls especially are really shy, which is more of a cultural thing than anything else. 

Benito, my translator, and I

The reason why I’m scared is because I so badly want to get to know them. I’m scared because I’m forced to be vulnerable. I’m scared because I really care about them and I don’t want to mess up this one shot I have to reach them. But as scared as I am, I look forward to it everyday. I have fun there. I feel like I am a part of their lives there. Tonight, both Teno I messed up a dance step and shared a smile. Darling reader, that’s huge. She actually looked at me and smiled. I pray that in time I will be able to touch them as they have already touched me.  

practicing some dance steps :)

We practice Monday, Wednesday, Friday at around 5pm. On these days, at around 9am (remember the 8 hour time difference) if you are ever thinking of this ministry, say a little prayer for me, for the members of the choir, and for a breakthrough. I’m resting in the Lord’s strength and wisdom, for Christ’s love is far greater than any cultural or language barrier. May I reflect His love. Thanks darling reader,
-Em

Technorati Tags: Psalm 27:6,Tanzania,Choir

Recharge, Refocus, Rejuvenate.

I had a blast at the field meeting. What a great group of missionaries. It was important for everyone to spend time together, reflecting on their ministries and recharge to continue on... For many of them, it was also a time to prepare to embark on some big changes in the coming year. It was a while back (sorry for the silence, darling reader, time got away from me), but I thought I would still share a few pictures: Enjoy!

the whole group!

a time of worship in song

all the crazy girls! they are too cute.

Until next time,
Em

growing up.

a mother and sleeping child in the market.

This past Sunday, Brook and I were settling down for a relaxing afternoon. I was just getting ready to lose myself in my latest read, Jane Eyre. However, the stillness was interrupted with a call for us to drive a woman who was in labor to the Hospital. After locking up everything in the house and packing a few travel necessities, we set off for the medical center in the village. When we got there, the head nurse filled us in on the situation. The woman was only 7 months along and the baby was breech. She told us that the legs were already visible and to possibly come back in a few hours, for they first wanted to try to deliver it there.

Sure enough, two hours later after another phone call, we repeated the same process and arrived at the medical center. As we pulled in, family and friends were sitting out in the front lawn. Some of their faces betrayed worry, and others hope (as if our arrival would miraculously save the day), but for most of them they showed the usual curiosity whenever a white person is present. The situation was much the same, the baby’s legs were still visible, however, contractions had completely stopped and they had already lost hope for the baby’s survival. Now they were worried that if the mother didn’t deliver soon, they would lose her too.

After about 30 minutes of waiting, 8 people carried the woman out on a mattress. They placed her in the bed of our truck where 2 women joined her for the arduous journey ahead to the hospital. It usually takes about 45 minutes to get there, but because of the giant potholes and bumps in the crude dirt roads, we knew that this would be a much longer trip. Brook was plagued with the responsibility of trying to get to our destination as quickly as possible, and yet make it as smooth of a ride as she could.

I recall sitting in the front seat, the realization finally hitting me with the fact that we had already lost a precious half born baby and that we could lose this mother, who was laying right behind me. With every bump and pothole we hit, I found myself desperately praying for this woman’s life. 

After what seemed like hours down the road (but was probably only 20 minutes) they called for us to stop. With the language barrier, it took me a while to figure out what was going on, until brook turned to me and said, “She had the baby”.
eesh.

She jumped out of the truck and I sat there a moment in shock. I steeled myself for the scene ahead of me and made my way toward the back. It was a little boy. The nurse had already wrapped the stillborn baby in a katenga (a cloth) and it was just sitting there. so still. so small. The blood and afterbirth were all over. Some had even spilled out onto the rust colored dirt road, staining it a brilliant red. Thankfully, the mother was ok. They cleaned her up, and we turned around to head back to the medical clinic. They would keep her for only a few hours until releasing her to go back home…

I learned that at some point in the night, a grandfather would have to take the baby and bury it in the woods, hiding it from witch doctors who would otherwise steal the body parts.

As we arrived back to the clinic, the family and friends were still waiting out in the lawn. This time, fear and worry were the only expressions evident on their faces. The atmosphere of silent anticipation was oppressive as we pulled in. I’m sure they wondered what had happened to cause us to return so quickly. The nurse jumped out and explained the situation. It seemed like there was a collective sigh of relief with the news that the mother had survived. We dropped her off, and said our goodbyes.
Brook and I returned home and finished washing the blood out of the bed of her truck…
Darling reader, I think I grew up that day.

the little things.

A lot of huge events have happened this week. Some I’ve shared with you, darling reader, and others I’m still trying to process. You will hear about those in due time, but I’ve notice that it’s been the little things that have most helped me adjust to life in TZ. Here are a few of them: 

• early morning devotions and coffee while being surrounded by the overwhelming beauty of God’s creation right in my backyard.

oh, you know. Just enjoying some of the 5 kilos of coffee i bought in Mbeya... no big deal.

• ‘Waffle Wednesday’ at the Caraways. Lot’s of waffles, more coffee, and fellowship with the other missionaries.
• Playing “rock, paper, scissors” (jiwe, karatasi, mkasi) with little Luka Caraway.
• Leading worship at Thursday night Bible study.
• Morning prayer time with Brook.
• Volleyball in the Sherman’s backyard.
• Hiking down the huge hill to the river/waterfall (and huffing and puffing to climb back up)
• visits to the village

on our way to the village

Every day my heart grows even more attached to this place. It’s true that in many ways life is difficult here, but I am learning and growing.  It seems like I have just arrived, (which, in the right  perspective, I basically have) but yet it feels like I have been here forever…

Community

A time to be born and a time to die… a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.

(v. 2,4)

A few days ago, I attended a funeral for a man in the nearby village. You may be interested in how a funeral works here. I’ll explain it the best I can… The whole process lasts 3 days. The first day they bury the body. On the second day, family and friends come together and basically just sit around and mourn.

We came on the second day and brought some sugar. Our gift was announced to the mourners, and we entered the home. It was completely packed with people sitting (mostly women inside, men outside). We sat with them for an hour which seemed so long because of the cramped quarters, but to put things into perspective, they stay all day and night.

The third day is the business side of things. The community butchers a cow or goat for everyone to eat and they decide what happens to the rest of the family. They choose the “symbolic inheritor”, where young children will live, if someone is to inherit the wife,  and who gets all of the deceased’s belongings.

Community plays such a huge role in this. If you do not participate in offering “pole” (which means sorry) and a gift, it is made known to everyone. Neighbors often house distant relatives, gather water for the mourners to bathe, or cook meals for everyone.

When they mourn, they don’t hold anything back. Their wailing is an eerie and haunting sound. They often grow ill or faint in the midst of a funeral from the mere strain of their grieving.

It was an eye opening insight into their culture. I was so glad I got to go, because I got a chance to understand them more. They not only share their joys and pains, but also their material possessions. Quite honestly, this is concept that is pretty foreign to the western culture. Sure, we share things to an extent, but it is nothing compared to this…

Community is everything here.

ever yours,
Em

Technorati Tags: Tanzania,Funeral,Community