This Little Piggy Went to Market

“Well, I'm out of petty cash right now but if you come back at 3:00 this afternoon I'll have returned from town and can pay you then.”

With that, Ps Peter, Ps Falau and I headed back to the car—a bright green Ssaynong Musso.

What's that? Not intimately familiar with the Ssaynong brand? Well, our family hadn't heard of such a thing either until we were face to headlights with this unique vehicle.

This Chinese made car/ four wheel drive truck is a bit of an eye sore but has been a massive blessing to our family. Not only did it provide us with the ability to get around the 30 mile wide-50 mile long island we called home for the past two years, but was used to transport all kinds of goods. This particular day was no exception.

The two pastors and I had ventured up the east coast of Espiritu Santo in the island nation of Vanuatu to sell around 800lbs of root vegetables to Matevulu College. Ps Peter had called ahead to make sure the president of this vocational college was going to be around since the last couple of sales had not gone as planned.

Today was supposed to be different. Today the president was going to be present. Today we didn't have the luxury of postponing payment for weeks. Today Ps. Peter and Ps. Falau needed money to purchase a pig.

Pigs hold a lot of significance in Vanuatu's culture. They are killed for a host of different special ceremonies, used in lieu of money, and, as in this case, to show honor to someone worthy of respect.

Another missionary, Bryan Webb, had recently returned to the field after being away for two years. He and his family were to be the guests of honor at a feast to celebrate their being back in the South Pacific. The reason for the trip that day—for the sale of goods grown at the Bible training center's garden—centered around purchasing a pig to be the centerpiece of this special meal.

“What do you two want to do?” I asked, leaning against the Kermit colored car-thing.

“I'm not sure missy. We could wait here until he returns, get the money we're owed, then head up the East Coast Highway to buy the pig. What do you think we should do?” Ps. Peter turned the decision to me.

“It's only 10:00am now. We could wait, but there's really no guarantee this guy's gonna show up at three.”

“Yes, but the vice-principal said he would be back around then.”

“Right...but when you talked to the President, he told you he would be here—no exceptions. So, I don't think we can be totally sure he will be here at three either.”

Falau chimed in, “Why don't we just head back to the school and then you can go home and rest.”

I love Falau. He is always genuinely concerned that I am working too hard and need more rest. As I have written in other posts, there is great effort put forth to ensure the white missionaries don't overdo it. And, really, what had I done so far to warrant the need for rest?!

Falau continued while not making eye contact, “You could take us back to Jubilee Farm, go back to your house, take a rest, come back to pick us up again, take us back to collect the money we are owed, then go to Hog Harbor to purchase the pig. Or...we could just forget the whole thing. Wanem tingting blong yu (what is your opinion)?”

Here is a little glimpse into ni-Vanuatu culture. “Wanem tingting blong you?,” a very important part of decision making conversations in a place which utilizes indirect communication. Falau knew of a solution. But, to tell me outright would be “pushy” and might be perceived as aggressive. Now, to figure out what he was truly wanting me to do.

I'm no good at puzzles...never have been. So, attempting to decode a message given indirectly is something I struggle greatly with. Fortunately for me, this was a pretty easy one to solve.

“Hmm. Alright. Let's see if this would work. Since we're already halfway to Hog Harbor, would it be OK if we just continued up to the coast and bought the pig? Wanem tingting blong yutufala (what do you two think)?”

“Missy,” Ps Peter demanded my full attention by forcefully drawing his fore and middle fingers across my arm. Twice.

“Missy. How will we pay for the pig?”

“How 'bout I cover the cost of the pig until you get paid by the college president?”

Ps. Peter and Falau glanced toward each other, at which time I caught a small gleam of approval in their eyes. With smiles playing at the corners of their mouths, then nodded their consent to my proposal.

I had passed. The code had been successfully deciphered.

Coconut plantations whizzed by as the three of us approached the area of Bene where we were to pick up Ps. Elvis. Elvis had been to the pig farm before and was coming along for the sole purpose of guiding us along a series of winding back roads.

We pulled into a small area of freshly cut grass and waited patiently as Ps. Elvis went to locate his wife. He had been watching his children as she was across the street at the church leading a women's Bible study. After about forty minutes, Pastors Falau, Peter, Elvis, and I climbed into the Musso with pig on the brain. Each of us seemed excited to have this experience together.

We all talked and joked about various things while making our way along the only paved road on the entire island. Since Ps. Elvis had come along to serve as our guide, I happily tootled along the road at about 80kmph while awaiting instructions of where to leave the main road to head off into the jungle.

In the middle of answering a question one of the pastors had asked me, I noticed the feel in the truck had changed. What had just recently been a jovial atmosphere, was now almost somber. Looking in the rear view mirror, I couldn't get either Ps. Falau or Ps. Elvis to make eye contact with me. I then shifted my focus to Ps. Peter who was staring out the window at nothing in particular.

My immediate thought was that I had mistakenly said something offensive. I tried to replay the last few minutes of my still burgeoning Bislama but couldn't think of anything that could have brought about the current uneasiness.

The tension elevated.

Ps. Falau rung his hands while chewing his lips.

Ps. Elvis sighed, looking nervously about.

Ps. Peter shifted in his chair more than a hemorrhoidal patient sitting on a barrel cactus.

Then a thought struck me. It seemed far fetched, but I thought I'd ask anyhow.

“Did I miss the turn?”

No response.

Rats. I did it again. I asked a very direct question in which to answer in the affirmative might embarrass or shame me—two big no-nos in this culture.

Fortunately the continuing unease and silence told me exactly what I needed to know. I had indeed missed the turn-off.

Hoping to avoid missing the road again, I politely asked Ps. Elvis if he would show me the road since I had never been to this particular destination and needed his guidance.

This tack was successful and the four of us were soon bump-a-bumpin' down a beautiful stretch of unimproved road amongst the tropical beauty that is Vanuatu.

When we arrived at our destination, a Chinese woman of about 50 years of age came out to see what we needed. She spoke neither English nor Bislama and my Chinese is pretty much limited to pointing toward menu items at pagoda shaped restaurants.

After a few feeble attempts to communicate verbally, it was clear that I would, once again, be playing charades. Fortunately, I like charades.

Pushing my nose up with my left index finger, I snorted a couple of times. Our hostess smiled broadly and she motioned for us to follow her.

The pig pens were expertly crafted and very well maintained. The swine were separated by age and, therefore, size.

She pointed to each pen with her left hand and indicated with her right hand how much the various sizes cost. Each raised finger represented one-thousand vatu (about $10).

My ni-Vanuatu companions seemed to think the porkers in the 4000 vatu area would suit our needs well enough. We then surveyed the pigs, narrowing our choice to a fine looking little guy. The four of us were all in agreement on a healthy looking pig about the size of a french bulldog with a pancake sized dark spot on its right hindquarters.

I switched back into charade mode to bring the proprietor in on our decision. She, in turn, expressed that if I wanted the pig, one of us would have to go in and get it.

I looked to my companions. They looked at each other, then at me.

“Ps. Elvis?” I inquired. “You wanna get him?”

Ps. Elvis chuckled nervously then shook his head no.

“Ps Peter? You?”

No eye contact.

“Ps. Falau?!”

My good friend laughed nervously and stated, “No. Bae hemi kaekae mi (he'll bite me.)”

Looks like it was my rodeo now.

Vanuatu held a multitude of surreal experiences. And, how much more crazy can it get than a skinny white man wrestling a pig belonging to a Chinese woman in the middle of nowhere? That just doesn't happen everyday!

As I prepared to hop over the 4' high wooden railing, I looked over at Ps Falau who was experiencing a major internal conflict. Two main fears waged war inside him: 1.) Do I put myself in a position of mortal danger? or (2.) Do I stand idly by while the missionary puts his life on the line?

Now, if you recall, this very pastor plead with me not to walk through ankle length grass because it might cut me. And now?! Now this frail little missy was about to enter the ring with a live—potentially man-eating—cob roller? The poor man was trulyconflicted.

Before he had a chance to object, I was over the fence and staring death in face...that is...if death comes in the form of shin-high, swishy tailed, pink, oinking, piggy wiggies.

The pigs didn't seem to pay much attention to me until I tried to reach down and grab the one we wanted. Then, things became a little more difficult.

I thought I could just reach down and grab the desired pig the same as a cat, dog, or rabbit. My plan was to grab our new pet by the scruff of the neck and take him over to where the owner was waiting with an empty 50# rice sack. As it turns out, pigs don't really have extra skin to grab onto. This little bugger's flesh was taught as a trampoline. He bobbed and wove his way around the other pigs, my legs, and the feeding trough. Somehow, I finally got him alone and in a corner where I scooped him up then gave him a bear hug to keep him from getting away. He squealed, squirmed and flailed the 6' back to the fence where I shoved him into the white woven bag.

Falau, Elvis, and Peter were greatly relieved the moment I had some timber between me and the now startled pig litter.

While the bag was secured and an air-hole cut, I pulled out my wallet to pay for our ham-sandwich-to-be.

We waved goodbye to Ps Elvis after dropping him off at his house. The Musso gained speed as we drove South toward Jubilee Farm—home to both Ps Falau and Ps Peter. My facial expression dial was set to “perma-smile” as I recounted the days events thus far. But, alas, the day was not yet complete.

About 20 min. after we left Bene and Ps Elvis, a horrid smell reached through my nostrils, grabbed the bottom most part of my stomach and attempted to pull the latter through the former. Since the Musso in all its wonder does not have AC, all windows were already down. Having copious amounts of fresh air coming in did little to combat the odor of pig feces.

I looked in the rear-view mirror to see how Falau was reacting to our plight. A look of worry and sorrow gave away that there was more going on in the back seat than just a pig with bowel issues.

“Missy. The pig is loose.”

Ps. Peter was nearly sent through the windshield when I applied every bit of braking power the Green Bomb could muster.

Upon parking the car on the shoulder of the road, I crawled back to investigate.

Not only was the pig loose but it had been doing laps—using its own fecal matter as a makeshift start/ finish line. What had at once apparently been a single pile of poo was now spread all over the inside of the rear interior section of the Chinese manufactured hatchback.

Somehow this situation needed to be brought under control, but we knew we couldn't safely open the rear hatch and maneuvering over the top of the rear seats had plenty of drawbacks.

Due to the responses back at the pig farm, I figured I was on my own to wrangle this wee little pig into one of the burlap sacks which had held root vegetables earlier in the day. How wrong I was.

This was a crisis situation and before I knew what was going on, Ps. Falau had the pig by the ears and was dragging it up and over the rear seats and passing it to Ps. Peter who was already out of the car and ready with a bag. No sooner was our pig once again confined and Ps. Peter set off into the jungle to find some very large strong leaves to clean up the pig's waste.

With the pig bound and in the rear of the truck-thing, we were back on the road.

A few minutes passed in silence until we all burst out laughing.

Now there was only one more hurdle before we could put this wild day to bed.

Bryan was, at this point, still without a vehicle and needed me to pick him up that afternoon. Time was quickly running out but we still had a live pig in the vehicle which was supposed to be a surprise gift to him later that week.

“Missy. Why don't you just drive into town with us. We'll all pick up Bryan, take him where he needs to go, then you can drive us and the pig back to Jubilee and he'll be none the wiser!” said Ps Peter.

“Sorry Ps. Peter. I know Bryan has a lot on his mind right now, but I think the overwhelming smell of pig poop will be a dead giveaway that something is up,” I replied.

Laughter erupted anew.

Everything worked out better than hoped for. The feast in honor of Bryan was wonderful, the pig tasted excellent thanks to the culinary skills of Falau, and Bryan was completely surprised by the main course.

I'm sure there are great benefits to being close to one's food source. I agree completely. Ya just haven't lived until you've had to wrestle your dinner.  

Fall Newsletter

Looking back over the last few months it seems like every minute was jam packed with action and adventure. Here are some of the things our family has been involved in.

Smash-bucking. It's a new phrase I've created to remember my time in South Santo by. Over the last couple of months I (Jeremy) have been going with one of the area pastors to conduct a survey in the southern part of the island. The road is not terribly long, about 30 miles from the edge of town to the end of the road, but is insanely rough! Torrential rain and frequent use take a heavy toll on this unpaved road. So, to make the journey to Tasiriki—which sits at the end of this road— from the missions house takes almost 3 hours! The information compiled in the report will be used in the future to determine the best location for medical clinics and church plants. I especially enjoyed the last day of interviewing chiefs of small villages since Ethan was able to come with me.

In July, the entire family packed their bags and headed for Thailand. This was the location for an area wide missions conference. Over 200 missionaries from Asia and islands in the Pacific attended this incredible time of fellowship, corporate worship (in English! Yeah!), and encouragement. “Spend Yourself” was the theme of the conference and is the new motto for the Asia Pacific region. This theme comes out of Isaiah 58:10. Much of the time centered around the vision of what it means to spend our lives on the behalf of others in service to Jesus Christ. Our entire family was encouraged and rejuvenated by our time there. In addition to the activities directly tied to the conference we rode elephants, ate some really great food, and explored the city of Chiang Mai.

We are still highly involved with the day to day operations at Jubilee school. Merissa helps teach kindergarten students a couple of days a week. When Mer's family visited in August we took them out to the school. Merissa's mom, sister, and brother taught the kids a few rhythms using sticks which the students will use during upcoming missions trips to neighboring islands. The kids caught on super quick. We all had a good time laughing and goofing around—something these students don't seem to have the freedom to do often.

In the month of June, eleven students and two of their mothers proclaimed their faith in Jesus Christ though water baptism. Since we have established relationships with these students, it was such a privilege to be able to share in this moment. The original plan was for the baptism to take place in a river near the school. Due to heavy rains in the days proceeding the ceremony, the river was much too dangerous and nearby stock tank/ pond was used instead.

I recently traveled to the island of Malo for an area-wide Assemblies of God conference. While this island is not terribly far away, getting there is a bit of a nail-biter. The stretch of water from our home island to Malo has strange currents and unpredictable waves. During the crossing all 11 people in the boat became silent as the boat's captain dropped the engine to idle. He allowed the boat to creep forward while studying the surrounding sea. We inched forward until whatever the danger was passed then the atmosphere on the boat became jovial once again.

The conference was really good. I saw a level of joy in the people there that I had not yet experienced. Most of the time at churches here in Vanuatu, people will be singing about joy in the Lord, dancing, raising hands in praise all while staring at the floor with a look of utter despair. Worship on Malo was different. People sang with a fervor and freedom I have not seen before—or since. It is a subject I have brought up to area leaders since the conference concluded.

I was the guest speaker one morning and had a great time sharing what the Lord had put on my heart regarding the enormity of his grace.

In July, we celebrated our one-year anniversary of being overseas. It has been a year filled with new experiences, adjusting to a new land and culture, and God's fulfillment of incredible promises.

In the coming months we ask that you would pray with us in the following things:

• The local church is at a major crossroads right now. Please pray the leadership will seek the Lord's wisdom as they move forward.
• We have seen, firsthand, the devastating effects of domestic abuse. Please pray that we will know how best to share God's love to cultivate a culture of change in Vanuatu.
• For wisdom and discernment as we seek what the future holds for our family

Thank you, all, for your continued support for us in prayer and finances. We are excited to dive headlong into our next year serving the ni-Vanuatu.    

This free photo slideshow made with Smilebox

First Impressions of a Rookie Missionary Living in the Third-World.

Here is a small glimpse into my day to day, the observations I have made over our first year. Nothing deep, nothing spiritual. Just the facts ma'am.

To start I should mention that I had a major misunderstanding of “culture.” Everyone talks about culture and cross-cultural relationships prior to departure. To me culture was how to dress, what to eat and which holidays you celebrate. In my head it was basic traditions- easy. I've been shocked to find out how complex culture truly is. It has meant a completely different style of relating and at times, an entirely different moral compass.

Now for the random thoughts:

Hold on to your toddler while walking through town or you just might lose him to the open sewer.

Americans eat a ton of salt. We thought Aussie food was terrible until our tastes acclimated.

Speaking of acclimation, this desert girl almost waved her white flag and ran home in February and April when the humidity levels hit 96-99% every day. Brutal!

While learning to cross the road without crosswalks, Ethan noted just how realistic the game "Frogger" was.

Earthquakes are no big deal. We typically feel a couple each month and our biggest one was nearly 8.0. We are nerdy and like to see who can guess the most accurate magnitude.

Clean drinking water is a luxury.

You know you're halfway around the world when you tell people you are from America and they ask, “North or South?”

Denomination matters to Ni-Vanuatu. Entire islands are divided up based on where you attend church.

China is planning that massive-scale global takeover, in case you had any doubts.

I continually tell myself that I enjoy hanging my laundry on the line and hand washing dishes. I say it a few extra times when I have to run and grab nearly-dry clothes as a massive storm rolls in and demolishes my work.

The Ni-Vanuatu are EXTREMELY polite. They value relationship and courtesy over a straight answer. I asked a friend if I could buy her a pair of shoes and what size she wore. “Oh, same as you.” Looking down at her feet, this was clearly not so. Ordering lunch with friends is equally complicated. They will nonchalantly peruse the menu and then tell the waitress, “I'll have what she is having.”

When you don't monkey around with nature, everything is seasonal. Fruit you find in the market one month will be gone the next. There are currently no eggs because it's time for the chicks to hatch. Yes, inconvenient but does make you wonder.

Latte Day! Fresh milk is delivered to our house three times a week from the back of a pickup. We boil it for pasteurization and it makes a killer “cuppa” (as my new Aussie friends would say.) Makes my current distance from Starbucks less of an issue. 

“Taem blo spel,” a.k.a. siesta happens every day between 11:30-1:30. Don't plan on getting anything done, the town is shut down. Same applies to Saturday afternoons and all day Sunday.

Locals consult “clevers,” or witch doctors for various reasons. If they are looking for healing, looking for answers to a crime, wanting someone else's wife. SO sad.

Costco still has a big piece of my heart.

Lizards up my legs, cockroaches in my hair, millipedes in my bath towel, 8” centipedes in my sink, rats in my kitchen- normal.

Sunshine is God's disinfectant. It kills everything (bed bugs, mold, etc.)

I've got moldy clothes, moldy books, moldy Candyland, moldy electronics, moldy shoes, think I'll write me a song.

Forget “Hey you!” I much prefer the Ni-Vanuatu loud smooch if you want my attention. There's also the “SSHHHHH!” if your lips get too tickley trying to project your kiss.

Dear Tourists, you are visiting a third-world country. No they cannot accommodate your gluten-free diet.

The sound of flying foxes at night is straight out of a horror flick.

You can have a nice breeze or you can have internet. Never both...ever.

It's the little victories. When I bring home boxes of expired cereal we do a happy dance. It means the boxes I have had my eye on were finally marked down from $8 to $4.

If you see a cute baby make sure to give em' a smack on the cheek and drag your fingernails for good measure. Poor Daniel has had his fill.

Learning to ride bikes and tie shoes will have to wait, but boy they can sure climb trees!

Thankful for a stove. All of the women spend their day working jobs, collecting firewood and cooking 3 meals a day over a fire.

Trash fires took some getting used to, large plumes of smoke no longer alarm me.

I much prefer my weight in kilos. While on the subject, I very much wish that weight and age were taboo topics in Vanuatu...

You have permission to smack me if I ever complain about prices in America. Goods are triple the cost here in Vanuatu.

Bad news, we pay over $9/gallon for gas. Good news, it's a small island.

Living in the land of recalled and rejected Chinese goods makes Wal-Mart look like Saks Fifth Ave.

"Yes, he is tired. No, I cannot nurse him." If I had a dollar...

Go to Costco, buy 5 bags of chicken breast and a crate of broccoli. Eat them in my honor.

If you need the police, be prepared to pick them up. They are often out of gas. 

Thankful that Americans values the well-being of women and children.

Staring is socially acceptable and we are very interesting.

Imagine your life without any paper goods...no napkins, no kleenex, no paper towels, no t.p. Most locals go without. We spring for the t.p. 

Hoping to break my kids habit of clapping on 1 & 3!

No matter how trendy or healthy coconut oil may be, I am completely ruined for it. After driving past the copra processing factories and smelling the sickeningly sweet smoke, I can't touch the stuff.

Locals share everything. Possessions and money are to be shared, no questions asked. However, information and knowledge are fiercely guarded. Presents a problem when trying to stay in touch with local friends, they frequently give their cell phones away.

This is a small piece of my life overseas. So many of these things that shocked me a year ago are just part of the new normal. 

Love, Joy & Pain: Walking With the Women of Vanuatu.

Yesterday I woke up with a rare anticipation and joy. I had been asked to preach at our church for the second time.  This is significant because: 1.) I'm a woman and 2.) it wasn't Mother's Day. The church I'm referring to meets under a mango tree and we always enjoy our time there. The pastor typically preaches but believes this: man or woman, young or old, everyone should be able to speak in church. He receives a lot of flack for this conviction but continues to allow everyone to share their heart with his congregation.

I was excited because God had given me some very specific things to speak about. He wanted me to share His heart and different facets of His love. We have seen a lot of rules and religion here but what I find troubling is a lack of passion or joy. They sing songs like “Jesus, i likem olgeta,” “Jesus likes everyone.” In their head they understand that God is love but I'm not sure how many, if any, have experienced God's love in the deeper places of their heart.

The service was full of tears (mostly from me) as I shared my stories of how God has shown me His love. How I came to an understanding of just how much God loves His people. How there is an infinite God left to be discovered and of His longing to be with His creation. I shared a picture God had given me in prayer a few days prior where God lovingly, and with great care, created each person in that congregation. I saw every detail of their faces and the great time He took with each one. Not a factory, not hastily slapping some paint on one and moving to the next. No. As God's creation, we are His handiwork. No mistakes, no junk, we are His.

Driving down the road a few hours later I experienced something that I don't yet have the right words for. Something I hope to never see again. Along the main road I saw a woman lying in a lump with a man standing over her. He was waving his arm at passing cars. In my ignorance I flipped my car around only to see that he was waving people by, not flagging down help. He did the same to me as I approached but I stopped my car anyway. I repeatedly asked if she needed help and then realized what was really going on. He kept ripping at her arms in an attempt to get her up so I would leave. Her wailing and cries of pain were like nothing I've heard before. I flagged down another truck and asked for help. A man got out helped the young woman up and into his truck. She was unable to walk and her face, the face God meticulously created, was bloodied and beaten beyond recognition. 

As I drove home I questioned my actions over and over. Why wasn't she getting into my truck? Why can't I be with her now and offer love, hope, something!? Other questions disturbed me. Why wouldn't anyone else stop their cars? This happened in plain sight on a busy road. Why didn't anyone stop him? I knew the answers. Culturally, men are allowed to “discipline” their women. They own them. The sight of this woman being pummeled was simply not that out of the ordinary for others passing by.

I cried. I shouted. I prayed. God had filled me with so much love for these people as I had prepared to speak. He had given me His eyes for them, shown me just how much He adores them. I only felt a small portion of the grief that Jesus felt for this woman and I was a wreck. How much more God's heart must break at the evil in this world!

Now, I know domestic violence happens everywhere. I know there is an enemy that comes to steal, kill and destroy. I know it's bigger than this one woman. It's an issue of sin and a battle for the hearts of man. But this happened in front of me, on my road. I saw her face. I heard her cries. It's personal.

A couple months ago a Christian asked Jeremy, “Why does Merissa spend any time with her? You guys know about her right? She's a mess.” Yeah, it is messy. The tears they cry, the pain they feel, that emptiness in their eyes- but  Jesus brings hope. Hope, that there is a God that will never leave them. Hope, that there is a God that sees their beauty and pursues them. Hope, that there is more, that “life abundant” is a reality. Hope, that they can experience peace in the midst of storms. Hope in a defender, a loving Savior, that longs to be with them.

Jeremy's answer to the man that questioned my motives in hanging out with the "undesireables" of society went something like this: Luke 5:31- Jesus answered them, “It is not the healthy that need a doctor, but the sick.”

It's why I'm here. I pray God will continue to bring me close to the brokenhearted. I don't want to look away and I won't keep on driving.

I Want To Hold Your Hand

PART ONE: Dude Looks Like a Lady

Walking down the main street in Luganville, Vanuatu has provided many "huh...interesting..." moments for me.  From the way people dress to the manner in which they interact with each other, there seems to be no shortage of cultural differences to be observed.

A few weeks back I pulled into the main gas station in order to pick up a couple things like bread and peanuts.  Unity Shell is not like the average convenience store back in the U.S.  Inside, there is a hardware shop, a pretty decent grocery, a sizable clothing section, and a place to buy a wide variety of household items.  As I turned off the ignition, I noticed a man sitting down on one of the many benches outside.  Most likely he was waiting for a transport truck to take him back to his home village.  He caught my eye for a few reasons.  First off, he was old.  Being old in a country with an average life expectancy of 55 is an achievement which sticks out boldly.  Secondly, he was in the middle of lighting the tobacco in his pipe.  Thick smoke hung around his head, searching out every crevasse in his deeply worn face then clung desperately to thick, wild, white hair before being borne away on the tropical breeze.  He turned toward me when I shut the driver's side door causing the front of his sweatshirt to be plainly seen.  Pandas.  Cartoon hugging pandas.  Lots of them.  Pandas, hearts, and embroidered three-dimensional flowers were prominently displayed on his hot-pink sweatshirt. One set of pandas were locked in an embrace which formed the shape of a heart.  I realize fashion is not even the idea of a thought here in Vanuatu since extreme poverty dictates that people wear whatever is affordable in the Chinese run stores.  However, the materialistic western mentality of "the clothes make the man" is hard to keep at bay sometimes.

In another instance, a young man with medium length dreadlocks approached the local pastor I was with.  He  had a very warm smile, broad shoulders, and a muscular build which is very common in young ni-Vanuatu men.  This man's faux angora v-neck sweater was red and, while it was not adorned with cute cuddly pandas, it did have a shimmering sequins heart smack dab in the middle of his chest.  Not only was this something I would typically consider to be rather feminine but, this article of clothing was sized more for a 10-13 year old.  His midriff was exposed and the sleeves only made it about 1" past his elbows.  To me, it's not so much the wearing of these articles of clothing which renders me speechless, it's the vast contrast. You see, this does not delve into the realm of metrosexuals—men in western society who feel comfortable wearing salmon and lavender hues, getting manicures, and spending more on personal primping products than others spend on a mortgage — no. Ni-Vanuatu men are pretty doggone manly.  They spit, holler, whoop, dig for boogers in public, work the earth, kill small woodland (jungle) creatures...you know...manly things. So, to see a manly man walking with his head held high while adorned by apparel typically marketed toward the opposite sex exposes pieces of my heart I still need to surrender.

How many sermons have I heard/ preached about not looking on the outside?  Was Christ not abundantly clear regarding which part of a person He looks at and which part of that person actually matters?! And yet I struggle to not make character judgments solely based on woven fabric and thread.

PART TWO: I Want to Hold Your Hand

You know the movie poster for Disney's new movie, The Lone Ranger?  It shows the Lone Ranger and Tonto, two men with passion and purpose in their eyes, ready to take the bad guys to task.  Now, imagine they are holding hands.

Before coming to Vanuatu, my wife, Merissa, and I had been given some insight into the culture here. Of the many new and different things we were told we might encounter, one in particular stuck out to me.  You see, the Melanesian people of Vanuatu hold hands with members of the same sex as a sign of friendship and closeness. I have observed this behavior first hand and it is not just a few isolated cases. This is a prominent practice. On some occasions I've seen two men walking side by side with the pinkies of their inside hands linked while machetes are firmly grasped in their outside hands. Yet another image which I have trouble reconciling in my mind.

The other day I drove up to an area known as Fanafo in order to find some building supplies for a local kindergarten. The local pastor I was with had asked two adolescent boys to accompany us since they are from that area and knew who best to talk with. I had stopped the car in order for the pastor to make a few inquires and looked back to ask the boys how their school day had been. Turning around I noticed they were gently caressing each others palms. My cheeks and ears flushed as I stammered something unintelligible in Bislenglish (Bislama-English ramblings). I'm such a goober.

Before I even had time to acclimate to this manner of conduct, the stakes were raised even higher. Because I am now established in growing relationships, it was certainly just a matter of time before...(gulp) someone tried to hold my hand.

It was a Tuesday. A day that was sure to alter the very course of human history. Alright, a bit dramatic but here's the low down on me. I'm not known for being a super affectionate dude. While in the U.S. I was not a “hugger”.  Many times, I would even have to force myself to give an affectionate pat on the back or place my arm around someone. Even those rudimentary gestures felt awkward. So, for me to hold hands...with another dude?! That's ginormous in my teensy little comfort bubble.

On the bright side, I was sort of eased into this brave new world.

Pastor Peter had told a joke. A joke he found particularly funny. He turned his body and face away from me while fully extending his right arm with fingers outstretched. It was obvious I was supposed to grab them thereby sharing even more in the moment of funniness with him. Was Pastor Peter testing me? What would happen if I didn't take the offered appendage? Am I failing as a missionary? Questions pounded me as I felt my face beginning to form into the same shape it makes right after eating congealed vomit. With a gulp, I took the tips of his fingers in my upturned palm and waited for the world to end. Nothing. Nothing but a strong sense of accomplishment. I, Jeremy Scott Brinkerhoff, had held hands with a man and was the better for it. But now the question of, “when do I let go?” loomed. Pastor Peter's laughter subsided, the moment passed, I gave a slight squeeze and let go. Since I have not received a letter from our sending agency, AGWM, asking for our immediate return to the States, I guess my timing was OK.

My next encounter was more extended and had much greater weight to it.

I had been asked by a local pastor to go and see “Olfala George” who was in town for a couple of days to get a medical issue dealt with. Olfala (old guy) loves Jesus and really wanted to meet the new white missionary while in Luganville. Finding his property, as described by said pastor, I parked my car and starting poking around in an attempt to locate George. Within moments a man about my age came over to me.

“Hello,” he said as he held out his hand for a shake. “What do you want?”

His initial grip was tight which is not common here. As I began to express who I was looking for and why, I began to pull my hand back. Nothing doing. He held onto the tips of my fingers as he dug deeper into his line of questioning. An intensity in his eyes indicated I was not going to be getting my hand back until he was satisfied with my answers. His expression finally softened once I began to relate to him who I work closely with. His grip eased and the interchange took on a friendlier “let's get to know you” air but, my hand still wasn't going anywhere until he concluded our conversation.

PART 3: You Can't Touch This

With all this hand holding going on you would tend to think public displays of affection between men and women would be acceptable. Ohhh nooooo. Quite the opposite, indeed! There is, right now, a major rift in the church due to such incidents. When I say major rift, I am not exaggerating. Pastors within the district are choosing sides—and the accusations are flyin'.

A couple of single pastors have been seen holding the hands of their girlfriends...in...PUBLIC!!! Ahhhhhh!! Through the rumor mill we have been informed this manner of flagrant PDA indicates much more is going on behind closed doors. Since I know one of the accused pretty well, I decided to broach the subject with him. He said he has spent many sleepless nights crying over the nature of the rumors about him. This individual spent quite a bit of time overseas as part of a professional soccer team. During his travels he noticed how husbands and wives in other countries display affection for one another and try to openly operate as a couple or team. In this society, where men and women still sit on opposite sides of the church, his desire for that type of relationship really bucks the established norm. His longing for this style of marriage added to the level of disappointment he felt when he was instructed by church leadership to be married by a specific date. He, along with two other pastors have been given a deadline by which they must be wed. This mandate puts my friend in a bit of an ugly spot. He does not feel he knows his girlfriend well enough yet to make a decision on whether or not they should spend their lives together. On the other hand, he does not want to dishonor the authority of the one who issued the order. To defy this order would be to potentially lose his credentials as a pastor.

In navigating issues of culture, this one has me a bit perplexed. How, on the one hand, can two men hold hands as a sign of friendship but opposite sex hand-holding is seen as the equivalent of fornication. I have attempted to ask this question of the locals but they have as much difficulty answering this question as I have answering why the world I come from is completely opposite.

“Why do you hold hands with friends?”

“Why do you not hold hands with friends?”

“Hey, don't change the subject. My culture is not on trial here...yours is. Oh....”

The topics I have written about above challenge me daily. When faced with issues of culture, it is soooo unbelievably tough to check my perceptions of what is “right” and “wrong” at the door. Too many times I find myself not being, “...all things to all people, so that I may by every possible means save some,” but wishing those around me would conform to my patterns of life. Thankfully I have grown tremendously in this area since being here in Vanuatu. The Lord has been gracious to me and I pray I will learn to be truly gracious to those I am to serve.

Bobbing Along

“Bensin i aot,” the boat's driver muttered to no one in particular. I say “driver” because I don't think the title of “captain” can really be bestowed on a man who pilots a boat into open water with 15 people on board and utters such a phrase. What's more, he made the statement with such indifference, I might have missed the significance of the phrase if the engine hadn't suddenly sputtered—and died.

I didn't know if I wanted to look or not. From the Bislama I have picked up to this point I knew we had not run out of fuel (bensin) because the operator would have stated, “Bensin i finis.” But if the bensine had left (aot), where had it gone? My curiosity got the better of me and I looked aft to see the pilot of this fine craft keeping the engine from dropping into the sea by holding it with his prehensile toes. You see, the fuel line had popped out because the engine was missing one of its clamps and was seconds from joining untold treasures on the sea floor. Nifty, huh?

Fortunately, the waves were only about a meter high. Unfortunately, this is about 3x the height of our dingy. We had been traveling in a direction which took us perpendicular to the waves but, without power, our boat was coming around and feeling more “tippy” every moment. I looked to the man who has served as our guide and friend since we arrived here in Vanuatu. My hope was that Falau would have some reassuring words for us. Maybe he would even regale us with some salty tale of how this very captain had once completely lost an engine, jumped overboard, and pulled his passengers to safety while battling great whites, giant squid, and radioactive seaweed. Alas, none of these things would come from Falau. I truly did not know a man with an ebony complexion could loose all color in his face. Since he is from an island nation I assumed he loved the sea. Quite the contrary. He loathes the sea. He was, at that very moment, wishing to be ashore and trying to do everything to keep his morning meal from becoming fish fodder. I would receive no encouragement from him.

Looking back to the captain and his efforts to secure our motor—and therefore our safety—provided a bit of comfort. He had fully reclaimed the engine, put the fuel line back into its spot and was now attempting to restart the engine. Our window of opportunity was quickly decreasing as our boat began to rise out of the trough. With the tiller fully to one side the captain employed the help of one of our hosts from Atchin to yank on the pull cord. The engine came to life and the bow of the boat swung into the wave and we crossed the crest at almost a perfect 90 degree angle.

Mer used the breath she had been holding to utter, “I want off this boat, now.”

I'm all for adventure and a good plot twist in life every now and again but, the thought of having to rescue 3 drowning kids and a pastor from the clutches of an angry (OK mildly annoyed) sea kind of pushed the limits. I wanted off that boat, too.

Our captain guided the boat past another tiny island called Wala. Being closer to shore and having the island between us and open ocean lightened the mood on the boat considerably. The sea which had looked so dark and openly hostile minutes earlier was now quite docile. Deep blue gave way to insanely clear turquoise waters—we were back in paradise. Dozens of people on shore came out to watch us pass. We are finding more and more that we are passively watched, much as Americans would sit and watch a television show. When we first arrived here in Vanuatu, it seemed as though we were being glared at. Ni-Vans have no problem staring, expressionless, as we walk past within inches of them. It isn't even as if they are trying to figure us out—they're just watching. No malice. No joy. No hidden intent. Just watching. I should start carrying bags of popcorn to hand out so they can enjoy the show even more.

Waving as we passed seemed to jolt the onlookers from “White People Variety Hour”, changing bland passivity to warm greetings.

Our destination island of Rano was in sight as we left behind Wala. Our captain slipped the boat close to shore. I lept into ankle deep water, reaching back to assist Ethan, Ella, Merissa on to shore. Daniel, who had slept through the entire ordeal from Atchin to Rano, began to rouse from his nap still securely strapped to Merissa.

“Oooohh...fatfat!” One of the women of Rano cooed in Bislama.

Fatfat. Yup. It's pronounced just like it looks. And it means just what it says. This is a common reaction to our third born child wherever we go in Vanuatu. This proclamation of his chubby adorableness is often accompanied by a strong, but affectionate, pinch to the cheek or thigh. Daniel once again paved the way for us to interact among the people we were visiting.

We veered right down a well worn path with the sea to our right and the interior of the island to our left. A continuous archway of trees kept us well shaded from the peak intensity of the sun which had begun to break through a thin layer of low level clouds. The purpose for our time here was to visit the outstation which our Atchin hosts wanted to show us. In the U.S. I think we would consider an “outstation” to be similar to a church plant. The congregation is led by an elder on most Sundays and the main pastor visits from time to time to preach and encourage. This outstation on Rano was one of six started by the pastors on Atchin. While the main path continued about 50' from the shore line our hosts took a smaller path to the left and we began to feel the tropical heat now that the thickening jungle hid us from the gentle sea breeze.

Thick random natural jungle flora gave way to purposeful rows of a Ni-Vanuatu garden. Villagers walked about and began to congregate once they noticed us. What affections weren't immediately won by our “fat baby” were gained by the handing out of candy. Nothing says, “I care,” like handing a bunch of sugar to people without accessible dental care. Looking around I noticed something here which I had seen in Atchin as well. Close to a number of homes were rectangular blocks of concrete. Most were about 6'-7' long, 3' wide, and 2' high. The tops of these blocks were gently sloped in some cases and had flowers and an inscription placed at one end. When I asked for clarification my suspicions were confirmed that these were grave sites for loved ones who had passed away. What was even more interesting to me was that plenty of people used them as benches and tables. Just hangin' out with Uncle Moe, I guess.

We had just settled in to conversation about ages of children and such when we were hurried along by our hosts toward the outstation.

The building was similar to most of the huts in the village: woven bamboo walls, leaf roofing, and a concrete floor. We stood for a time, looked at a creepy artist's rendition of Jesus hanging at the front of the chapel and headed back the way we came. How did the idea ever start that Jesus had, not just a fair complexion, but a pasty one, perfectly waved silken hair, blood red lips, and slender delicate fingers that had never seen a hard days work? Man, that's not my savior.

Walking back to the boat, we passed by a bench where some freshly caught box fish, whose faces were frozen in operatic expressions of surprise, had been placed. Within ½ hour of stepping on shore, our party was headed back out to sea. Ugh.

The return trip was a lot less exciting and almost, dare I say, enjoyable.