It's a Family Affair

Hello!  First off, thanks for reading our blog.  We are missionaries with the Assemblies of God in the beautiful island nation of Vanuatu.  Below is a version of a story/ paper I wrote as part of an assignment from our head missionary.  I thought I would also post it here to provide more insight to our time on the island of Atchin. The paper is intended to give prospective missionaries a glimpse into familial relations in Vanuatu. If you have been following our blog, there is one section about mother-in-law relationships which will be redundant.  Enjoy!

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As an American, I have a certain mindset of what constitutes a family. Until recently, I figured this was not just an American or even a Western concept but the standard the world over. Just as gravity is a constant or other laws of physics are unchanging, I understood familial relationships to be the same. During our family’s stay on the remote and super-tinsy island of Atchin, off the coast of Malekula, in the country of Vanuatu, I learned a lot about family, the role of villagers in family, and just how skewed my view had been.

It was about a week into our 9 day stay on the island of Atchin when Merissa and I retrieved our notebooks and pens from the small pastor’s office which had become our makeshift home and sleeping quarters. We snuck past the kids, checked on baby Daniel to make sure the fever he had been experiencing for the last 5 days wasn’t too high and rejoined our hosts on the front porch area of Jordan Temple Assembly of God. The generator hummed in an adjacent building, powering the florescent lights above us. Wooden benches backed up to a decorative 3’ high concrete brick wall. A few chairs had been set up opposite the bench with a table in between to set various foods and hot “tea” on. The women sat on a bench a short distance away and perpendicular to where the men were engaged in conversation. 

A quick aside: I put the word “tea” in quotes because this is how the islanders refer to any hot beverage. This was quite confusing for the first few days until I actually had the gumption to ask why they kept calling coffee, “tea”.

“So, ahem, sorry, aren't you drinking coffee?” I asked, confused yet again.

Blank stares. I'm getting quite used to blank stares and raised eyebrows. Not only are the Ni-Vanuatu dealing them out as I struggle to communicate but I do my fair share of throwing down a glazed-over look or two.

“Yeees, this is coffee. Don't you call it coffee?” one of the men replied. 

"Yes, but when you called me over you told me the tea was ready."

"OK."

"OK...but we're all having coffee."

"OK."  

Now here was one of those fun times where no one really knew what to say next.  I wasn't sure what to ask and they weren't really sure I had a question.

"Well, where's the 'tea'?" I said.

"In here..." one of the men said while placing a hand upon the thermos containing hot water.

"Hot water is 'tea'?"

Sighs of relief from the Ni-Van.

"Yes, missionary.  Now you understand."

I went for the whole ball o' wax, "So all hot beverages: tea, cocoa, coffee, hot water...they're all 'tea'?" 

Smiles and nods of affirmation indicated I had super-sluthed my way to enlightenment.  

We had previously warned our hosts that we had a few questions regarding family and life as a tribe. Merissa took a place among the ladies and I settled down into a chair opposite a couple of Ni-Van men who were fast becoming friends.

Merissa had already told me she had asked a few of the women about clan/ tribe membership and had not gotten many specific answers. We are finding that certain topics take persistence and patience in navigating. I thought tonight I would start with something “easy” and ask about one of the men's family tree. Deciphering the conversation that followed proved to be one of the most difficult things to wrap my head around. Reviewing my notes as I write this, I still don’t think I have all the kinks worked out. Hopefully some of the information I provide will not only be (mostly) correct but informative and helpful. Strap yourself in, put on your thinking cap and try to keep an open mind…here it goes.

The person I mainly asked questions to and who’s family tree I was trying to follow was, Bill. I had already learned that to simply ask, “Who is your mother?” could yield various results so I asked who his “straight” mom was. This is necessary to find out who actually gave birth to Bill since plenty of women in Bill’s life are called “mother”.

“Bill, what is your straight mother’s name”

“Joy”

“What is your straight father’s name?”

“Jehu.”

OK, it seemed like this was going alright. I continued for a couple of minutes trying to get names on his side of the family. Then I switched gears and began to ask about his wife’s family. When I asked about his mother-in-law, he became silent and suddenly looked very nervous. It was obvious I had asked something I should not have. The Ni-Van pastor’s wife, Anita, interjected from her seat across the way and told Bill it was OK to tell me his mother-in-laws name. Bill would not do it. Asking if he could write it instead of speak it, I passed my notebook and pen over to him with a disclaimer that if he were uncomfortable with this as well that we could move on to another subject. He agreed to write the name and we began to then discuss why speaking her name was not OK. Bill told me that it is strictly “tabu” in his culture to speak his mother-in-law's name—whether she is present or not. He then went on to explain that were she to find out he used her name he would have to pay her a fee in order to make recompense. Furthermore, Bill is not even permitted on the property where she is unless he is invited in by her husband. After being invited in, he must not address her directly. Any conversation he has with her must be through a third party. These things are all considered a sign of respect. In contrast, I was discussing family with a man from the island of Paama and he stated that initial contact between himself and his mother-in-law was to be through a third party but, after the conversation had been started, he could then talk to her directly for the remainder of the chat.

When Bill wants to talk about his mother-in-law he refers to her as his “paleka”.

As our discussion turned to more of his family and his relationships my “simple” family tree began to branch in all sorts of different ways. Bill would start to tell me how each relative was to be addressed and the wrinkles of confusion across my brow deepened. There were now 3 or 4 men speaking at once trying to explain in varying ways the importance and structure of family on Atchin. One drew a diagram, one gesticulated wildly with his hands, one focused intently and spoke ultra-slow in an attempt to see understanding come to my overloaded brain.

I have drawn my own little diagram based on the night spent discussing family. It can be found below and will, hopefully, provide a bit of insight into a small piece Vanuatu family structure. This is not a comprehensive family “tree” at all. It is just a tiny window into one man's immediate family, how he addresses them, and how they address him during the course of his life. This diagram and it's social dynamic are specific to Atchin though some similarities may be found in other islands. Please forgive any/ all errors. Text in red indicates a “straight” biological relationship—what a person with a Western mindset would consider “true” names for the relative. Blue text denotes the name by which that person is addressed but does not reflect a “true” biological relationship. Did I muddy the waters enough, yet?  

During our discussion I asked if the moniker of “papa” came with the privileges and responsibilities of a biological papa. In one instance, Bill calls a 3 year named, Franco, “Papa” due to the relational structure of Atchin. I wanted to know if that meant Bill had to take direction from the 3 year old at some point—if Franco would ever have decision making power over Bill's life. The answer from Bill was, “no”. He stated that the name was a sign of respect not an indicator of power or position.

Another piece unique to Atchin are restrictions on marriage due to the island being so small with a total population around 1000. There seemed to be some confusion as to the number of generations that must pass but, somewhere between 3 and six generations must separate any couple wishing to be married. If this requirement is not met, men must go to other islands to find a wife, thereby making a more diverse gene pool.

The idea of adoption is big here in Vanuatu. Ni-Van adopt a lot of people and the criteria seems pretty loose. Jim, another resident of Atchin, explained that any person can be adopted by another. His example was of two school mates who meet up again later in life after having kids. These school mates hit it off again and after discussing the “good ol' days” adopt the others' kids. The privileges of adoption are pretty much the same as being a true member of the family. The adopted kids are addressed as “son” or “daughter” and the adopted parents as “mom” and “dad”. I asked about financial obligations which seemed to arrest the discussion momentarily. So much of life and property is already shared among people in Vanuatu that my question must have seemed a bit cold and very foreign. Feeling the need to expound, I explained that in the U.S. we have plenty of really close friends. While these friends are a vital part of our lives they are still their own unit and thereby responsible for their own bills, their own housing, and feeding of their own family. I gave a scenario asking who would be financially responsible for medical if one of the adopted members were to become sick. Without hesitation Jim and the other sitting around said the expenses would be shared because, after all, “this is family”. They then further illustrated the point and said that if an adopted child were walking by he/she would be invited in, fed, provided for, and would have a place to sleep depending on the hour of day/night. Going back to the “sick kid” scenario, they did mention that the lion's share of care of the child would be upon the birth parents. So, it seems even though much is shared in this community, there is still a special bond within biological families.

Within the tribe/clan/village there is a chief who has power to make decisions for the entire group. He is part of a council of chiefs who meet at least once a week. There are two head chiefs over this council with one having clear authority over the other—similar to a president/ vice-president. Any conflicts that arise should be taken to the village chief first. If he can not resolve the issue then it is brought before the council of chiefs. If this council can not come to a conclusion then the head chief will issue his ruling. My understanding is that the second in command is in charge of what is considered the “small door”. He regulates who can come into the council of chiefs and is a sort of gatekeeper for meetings. He has the power over who can plead a case before the council and who can not. I asked if this structure was good for the villagers and the consensus seemed to be, no. Those with whom I was talking seemed to think the Vanuatu government has given too much power to chiefs. For example, let's say a person has a deed to a particular property that is actually stamped and signed off by the Government. The council of chiefs decided there is someone in their family who wants this ground. The council will abuse its power and standing in order to give the property to whomever it wants effectively nullifying the government approved deed.

All in all, our time in Atchin was an excellent experience in learning Bislama and becoming more familiar with the culture of Vanuatu. It is my hope that this document, along with the crazy diagram, will serve as a starting point for any who wish to come and serve in this beautiful country.  

I am a Missionary

I am a missionary.


Standing around the side of the church crying, that reality hit me like a ton of bricks.
It was the morning after our arrival on the tiny island of Atchin. Daniel was on day six of a high fever and I was running on an hour or two of sleep. Don’t get me wrong, the accommodations were pleasantly surprising. We were given a small room in the church next to the baptismal. We had concrete floors. But we were HOT and Daniel’s screams bounced off our concrete walls ALL night.
I had just returned from staring down the “smol haos” for the second or third time when I lost it. Everything within me wanted to hop back on the boat, drive the hour down the bumpy jungle road and wait at the burned down airport for the next plane to arrive. I didn’t care if it was 3 days from now, I was done.
Yes, I was crying over an outhouse. I couldn’t shake the image of a cockroach crawling out of that pit onto poor Ella the night before. So here I was, 10 feet from the outhouse telling God I couldn’t do it. He already knew.

In the few weeks leading up to our departure I walked through a difficult time. Call it culture shock, an identity crisis, a disruption. I believe it was a purposed disruption, an emotional response to something hiding in my heart that I needed to take a look at. God wanted my attention.
I was feeling unloved and unlovely. I wanted my business suits and heels. I wanted my clients to call and tell me how they desperately needed to come talk to me. To wake up in the morning and curl my hair. To feel important, beautiful and valued. If I was honest, I had some serious reservations about living in the jungle for nine days.
I sat with God processing all I was feeling and I clearly heard that I was being humbled. Ouch. I thought I was fairly humble! (pride is funny like that) That day as I wrote in my prayer journal I told God that I was willing to submit to the process, to go ahead and take my will, my stubbornness and fear and make me into the woman He wanted me to be. I told Him I wanted my life to be about Him, not me.
In that surrender, God began a deep and at times, painful work.

It was day four and we were headed back to the mainland of Malekula by boat. I didn’t have too many expectations for the trip but began to get very antsy after a couple hours of trekking about with no obvious goal or objective. Ethan and Ella were on the mend from illness the day before and as we continued down the long dirt road with storm clouds rolling in all I could think about was the fact that the further down this road we got, the further we would have to walk back. Now I know my kids pretty well by now and the hungry/whining clock was a tickin’. I didn't have much time. We finally arrived at a location (a large mango tree) where they said we would be having lunch. As we sat waiting another thirty minutes on bamboo benches for the host family to give the okay to enter the village, the heavens opened up and the rain came hard and fast. Eventually we were invited to enter the village. We crammed into a small dark home and were introduced to an elderly woman and a few family members. We were told she had been sick for over five years. Ella was holding her stomach and giving me her most polite “I am going to wither away and die if I can’t eat soon” face while Ethan wriggled his way up on a chair between the elderly woman and a friend and made himself at home. Daniel quickly decided he had seen enough and filled the small hut with screams. Embarrassed I scrambled for baby food, a clean diaper, ANYthing to make it stop. Everything was buried deep in Jeremy’s hiking backpack and I was quite the spectacle emptying out our provisions for the day, more than most of these families would need in a week. I quickly realized that I needed to excuse myself so I grabbed an umbrella and walked outside into the downpour. Standing in the rain and mud, tired and hungry, unable to provide for my kids…I was annoyed, I was uncomfortable.


An hour or so later the food was finally served and we managed to put on a good face for more laplap, a local delicacy. With my tummy full and Daniel in the arms of another  mama, I felt the Lord tugging at me to go back to the first house with the elderly woman. I did my best to explain to God that I happened to be in a bad mood, but the prompting was loud and clear.

Entering the house I noticed she was no longer in her chair. I looked into a dark bedroom and saw her frail body laying on a mat. I asked her if I could pray for her. As I prayed she began to weep and pray with me. We cried out for her healing and then gave God thanks. She slowly began to gently sing a worship song. Listening to her sing to Jesus and holding her small hand in mine was a precious gift. She looked up at me with teary eyes and said “Jesus sent you here to me.” Jesus did send me, and the work He did in my heart in those few beautiful moments will be with me for the rest of my life.

Practically skipping down the bumpy road home the words hit me again, but this time they felt different,
I am a missionary.

It was dark and I was putting Daniel to bed when I heard the cry. It was sincere and loud. I've noticed in Vanuatu when a child falls down or gets hurt the first reaction is to laugh, the second is to wallop them upside the head. It’s something I’ll never get used to. Kids are on their own as soon as they can walk and I have yet to see any tenderness towards children.
Five or ten minutes later I was able to leave Daniel sleeping and was surprised to still hear crying. I looked around and there were at least ten adults within earshot doing nothing. As I headed out into the dark church yard I found a small boy sitting in a lump sobbing. Two other boys quickly tugged on his arms trying to get him to his feet. Asking them what happened I found out that one of the boys had thrown a large rock at him and the kid was still hurting. Without thinking about cultural norms I put my arm around him. He wouldn't tell me where it hurt. He wouldn't talk. As I rubbed his back and told him it was ok I felt his little body go limp and lean into my side. His tears subsided. I spent the next twenty minutes holding the little guy and talking about the bats flying overhead and soccer. He never spoke but his body language told me he could have stayed there for hours.

I have heard all my Christian life the term “dying to self.” The last month it feels like God has been killing off a lot of “Merissa.” In those moments of weakness, discomfort and fear I die a little bit more. It isn't about my comfort or having what I need to feel in control or familiar. It’s in those moments of risk and total discomfort where God is allowed the space He needs to come in and fill my uncertainty, my doubt and show me what really matters in this life. God needed to bring me to a place of total dependence, total surrender so He could show up powerfully, so I was usable for His glory. I traded in my comfortable house, a great job and my curling iron, but I am living a life that I never knew was possible. I am terribly uncomfortable at times but I am more uncomfortable thinking about what I can miss by living life for myself. Living as though my happiness, safety and plans are more important. I am living for those moments with my little friend, for those times I reach out in the dark to be the comforting hands of Jesus. The times when I crawl into a hut to pray for a woman that has been sick and discouraged for years. I don’t want to miss that. I can still feel her hand in mine and his little elbow in my side and it’s more than enough.

I am privileged. I feel like the luckiest girl on the planet knowing I am right where God wants me. I am in process. I am dying and learning to live.

I am a missionary.

Atchin, Part One: Culture

Rays of sunlight eeked their way through puffy cumulus clouds only to be arrested at irregular intervals in the thick jungle canopy. The resulting patches of brilliantly glowing leaves amongst a dark green backdrop caused me to marvel at the beauty of our surroundings. Underneath our feet the soil was almost black and the wide trail was littered with mangoes of all different sizes and in various states of decay. With each step the mangoes would blur then come back into focus as swarms of gnats we disturbed quickly settled back to their tropical meal. Our hosts, residents of the small island of Atchin, with skin as dark as the path, chatted in Bislama and pointed to different points of interest along our route. Our family would be living on the island of Atchin, as part of our language immersion, for the next nine days and the locals were excited to show us around. Rounding a small bend, the canopy began to open up and we soon found ourselves in a small village. Two of our guides stepped to the right side of the road and paused, looking toward one of the bungalows. Each bungalow in this village is constructed of a concrete floor, walls of woven bamboo which form a checkerboard pattern and a pitched natangora leaf roof which extends almost all the way to the ground. A moment later a man in his 40's hunched through the doorway and then stood erect coming toward us. A knee-high bamboo fence separated our party from what I would describe as a rock garden. After exchanging the morning pleasantries the man began to explain how special the rocks we were looking at were. I wasn't prepared for what I heard.

“This is the mother rock. She was brought from the island of Ambrym. Do you see how smooth and round she is on top? Now look at the bottom.”

The storyteller turned the rock over on its “back” and pointed to a small indentation.

“This used to be all the same as the rest of her but then, after she gave birth, it became flat—just like a human mommy's belly.”

I think I have mentioned it before, but I am horrible at hiding reactions. My face, if only for an instant, registers exactly what I am thinking. I wish I knew just what my expression was at that moment. It certainly wasn't, “hmm...that's swell.”

The bungalow dweller continued, “See! There are new baby rocks even now!” He pointed to two pebbles resting in spot where he had picked up the mommy rock. I glanced over to one of our hosts, an elder with the local AoG church. He looked back at me, pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows, and nodded. Even if I were trying to hide any shock before, I was unable to mask anything, now. My jaw was slack and my eyes were wide in disbelief. Did he believe as this man did?! Part of integrating into a new culture is being sensitive to all sorts of differences. I was failing. Miserably. Fortunately, my new acquaintance took my shock for amazement that mommy had made so many babies.

“Yes, Missionary. All these babies have come from this one mother rock. As you can see this type of stone is smooth and we have no rivers on Atchin. So, there is no other explanation.”

Merissa sidled up close to me as we were led down the dirt path to our next destination.

“Did I hear him right? Did he say that rock gave birth to all the other rocks around it?” she asked.

“Mmm. Hmm. That's what I gathered,” was the only reply I could muster.

The noise of waves breaking upon a reef grew louder and we soon found ourselves on a small bluff overlooking the Pacific. A stiff breeze knocked the tops off the waves and carried salty spray up— refreshing us. We sat on benches made of halved bamboo, as we were instructed to, and waited while some small snacks were prepared. I took the opportunity to clarify the story with our guides/ hosts.

“John, does he believe the story he just told us or is he merely retelling a custom story which is no longer seen as valid,” I asked one of the Ni-Van.

John replied, “He does believe this, yes. There is still a lot of custom here in Vanuatu and people who do not have Christ hold tightly to custom. We know we have been freed by Christ.”

I was a bit relived until John tagged this on as an afterthought, “It is pretty amazing though—that only one rock was brought from Ambrym.”

As our week continued and we spent more and more time around those on Atchin there were plenty of things to see and participate in. Although I was not constantly thinking about the rock momma, the whole exchange was sitting in the back of my mind as we interacted and learned more about those who were kind enough to open their lives and village to us for 9 days.

Both Merissa and I had been given an assignment by our boss, Bryan. He had asked us to map out a family tree of one of new friends and ask some questions regarding hierarchy within the tribe/ family line. After dinner one night I began a series of questions about relationships within the community and ended up with more questions than I started with.

“Bill, what is your wife's name?”

“Mary.”

“OK. What is your father's name?”

“Henry”

“Got it...and your mother's name?”

“Susan.”

“OK. Now, your wife's mother. What is her name.”

Silence.

“Bill?” I thought maybe my Bislama had not come across correctly and there was some confusion. I looked up at Bill and he would not meet my eyes and looked uncomfortable and conflicted as he shifted his weight on the wooden bench.

“Oh. Sorry. Did I say something wrong?”

“I can't say her name,” he whispered.

“Sorry? You can't say her name...or do you not know her name?”

“It is forbidden to speak her name out loud.”

“Bill. It's OK,” the Pastor's wife piped up from an adjacent bench. “You can tell him. It's OK.”

“I'm sorry. I don't want you to do anything you aren't supposed to. Can you write it for me?” I asked.

“Yes. I can write it, I guess.”

After Bill cautiously wrote the name of his mother-in-law in my notebook, I asked him what the consequences of speaking her name would be.

“Oh, Missionary. I would have to either kill a pig and give it as a gift or pay her money for dishonoring her in such a way.”

He went on to tell me that the people of Atchin have many rules regarding family. Bill is not allowed to enter the property belonging to his in-laws until he has the consent of his father-in-law. Once invited in, he must not address ma-in-law directly. All conversation between the two of them must go through a third party. However, these rules of engagement are suspended in the church. I don't mean the church body, no, I mean the physical building itself. Once they are both physically inside the walls of the church building they are allowed to talk freely to one another.

“These are some of the ways we go about it in Atchin. Each island is different and has different rules.”

“Oh, fantastic,” I thought to myself. “Only 83 more islands to figure out.”

This is certainly one of the biggest challenges we face as missionaries here in Vanuatu and is a subject of much prayer. Each island has distinct people groups with their own language and ways of navigating life. A simple “come to Jesus” sermon does not touch the deeper issues—root issues—affecting maturity and lasting heart transformation. Observing life here has revealed that most have heard the Gospel message but have yet to truly surrender their lives and will to Christ. Sound like another country you know? Hmm. I have such a heart for discipleship and the Lord continues to reveal just how incredibly important it is in the life of every believer. Please pray that God will bring us into meaningful relationships which will grow a new generation of leaders here in Vanuatu. I admit it is hard not to look at the huge task and be overwhelmed with the size of the job. I am constantly having to surrender my anxious heart to God. Some mornings I wake, practically paralyzed by these thoughts: “83 islands...150 some odd distinct languages...1000's of customs I don't grasp...culture I struggle to navigate...a language I continue to butcher...Father, how will I ever succeed.” It is then He comes to remind me He is not calling me to sail in and solve the entire puzzle but to be faithful to those things which He calls me to each day. Why is it so hard for me to see? I've never though of myself as a task oriented guy but here in V-land I constantly worry about completing enough, making stuff—quantifiable stuff— and my heart races as I struggle to breath beneath the weight of this yolk of my own making. The other day I ran across this verse in 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18: “Rejoice always!; Pray constantly; Give thanks in everything,; for this is God's will for you; in Christ Jesus” (yup, that emphasis is mine). A huge encouragement to my heart! The questions I wrestle begin to rob my thankfulness and give way to fear and resentment—not fruits of the Spirit last time I looked. As I begin to praise and give thanks to my Creator my focus returns and I begin to take heart that each conversation I have, every visit to the market, every greeting I offer is a building block to demonstrating the love of Christ.

Later in the week were were shown more of the island of Atchin by our hosts. We saw more stones with stories just as bizarre, if not more so, than “mommy” stone.

Merissa and Ethan had walked ahead with one of the Atchin women and were presently standing off to the left side of the trail. Bill, John, and I approached the rest of our party and the tone became hushed as Bill ushered me around the side of a 5'tall slab of rock which had been placed, erect, between the path and a smaller 3' stone.

“This is the girl stone,” Bill whispered grabbing me by the elbow and bringing me between the two stones. Bill picked up a stick to use as a pointer as he began to tell how some people would come to this place to request a boy or girl when attempting to get pregnant.

“See this place on the rock here,” he pointed down low to a fissure on the taller of the two rocks. “This looks just like...”

“Yes,” I quickly interjected not bothering to whisper. “I get it....it's a girl rock.”

“But missionary, do you see how the...”

I cut him off again trying to be even more emphatic, “YES. It's a girl rock...I understand. I understand.”

His attention then turned to the "partner" rock.

“Now we call this the boy rock because if you look over here...” he began to gesture with his makeshift pointer.

“Yup. Boy rock. Got it,” I stated tersely while walking back to the path. As if living in the South Pacific isn't surreal enough, now I found myself engaged in a conversation about intimate relations between inanimate objects. Yowzers.

The rest of the week we learned more about culture and the experience for us was as much language immersion as it was culture immersion. We visited multiple sites where both human and animal sacrifices had been made. Our hosts informed us that the cannibalistic act on Atchin was as recent as 1992. 1992! This is on an island the size of a Walmart parking lot where the evangelistic church has been considered to be well established since the 1970's. We are beginning to see just how much the culture of custom ways is deeply entrenched. Many here have Christianity in one hand and custom in the other. The government has even stated that Vanuatu is a place of custom values and Christian principles. Unfortunately to truly experience freedom in Christ, custom must be set aside completely because, as we are learning, custom here is directly tied to Satanic worship and a desire to utilize black magic to obtain numerous objectives. Below is an excerpt from the newspaper published here in Vanuatu:

“Allegations have emerged that black magic and bribery have been used to help form the next government in Vanuatu.

“One of the oldest Vanuatu traditions is based on use of 'black magic' and there are black magic solutions for good and bad, said custom experts...

“A reliable source told the Independent that one of two camps [Prime Minister candidates] has put aside an amount of VT 5 million ($50,000) to be used for black magic remedies.”

Please continue to pray that we will know how to navigate these difficult issues and build relationships that bring others to a fullness of the knowledge of Christ.

Elvis Rocks

Rain was pouring down.  Sheet after sheet pushed in from the south-east, obscuring both the small islands of Bokisa and Totuba.  I put on my tie and asked Ethan if he was completely ready to go with me to church.

Ella, Merissa, and Daniel were going to stay at home since Ella had spent the last 8 days battling an on-again off-again fever and general malaise.

I walked down the hallway adjacent to the stairwell leading downstairs and looked into the mirror at the head of the hall for one final check.  For a white boy in Vanuatu, I looked pretty good.  However, dress shoes were not going to cut it on a day like this.  Glancing over at a pair of brown flip-flops (thongs, zories, slippers…whatever you choose to call them) I pondered if I should take them along just in case my black dress shoes were suctioned off my feet to become a permanent part of Vanuatu’s soil composition.

Ethan knocked on the door of the downstairs apartment while I opened up a small black umbrella. Pastor Falau, his wife, Mandang, and daughter Erica scuttled out of the apartment wide-eyed.

“Oh, missionary!  You’ll get wet!”

We have run into this a lot.  I’m not sure if a bunch of namby-pamby missionaries washed ashore decades ago (doubtful) but we are caudled at every turn.  When we first arrived we were warned not to go through the ankle deep grass for fear we might cut ourselves.  Ethan has tried to climb trees but ni-Vans get really nervous—acting as if they will sacrifice their own well being to break his fall were he to tumble.  Meanwhile, their own small children are 40’ up a banyan while wielding machetes or playing a game in which they huck baseball sized stones at each other.

I assured Falau and his family Ethan and I would not melt and walked briskly down our concrete path, through the gate, and over to our truck which we park in the middle of our grassy cul-de-sac.  Ethan huddled close since we had but a travel size umbrella.  Due to the severity of the rain, the size of the umbrella and the impressive girth of my masculine shoulders, we might as well have been trying to fit under a cocktail decoration.  Using my umbrella to fight back the spikey fronds of a  15’ oil-palm, I finally made it into the driver’s seat of the Hilux.   As I collapsed my umbrella to stow it, the displaced fronds sprung back in place catapulting giant drops and soaking me entirely.  The Ni-Van family deftly maneuvered into their respective seats and in a single move were safely inside with their 10’ diameter umbrella safely tucked away.   Poor silly white missionary.

The rattle trap of a white truck whined more than usual as I tried to wrestle the steering wheel against intermittent power steering.

Pastor Falau was preaching at a school located 15min outside of town.  Ethan and I were to pick up Pastor Peter, at this same location, who would then accompany us to Hog Harbor.  Now, I have seen Hog Harbor on the map several times and have noted that it is rather close to Champagne Beach.  This beach is super-fantastic.  There tends to be a lot of hype around this beach and, at first, we thought, “What’s the big deal?”  Then, we went to it.  It truly is spectacular.  Just like pictures and descriptions do not do the Grand Canyon justice, Champagne Beach must be experienced to capture the magnificence of its beauty and the infinite quality of its Creator.

When I was first informed of where I was expected to go and preach I couldn't quite make out what the pastors were telling me.

“Ahg-ah-bah,” one would say.

“Ahh-gra-baaa,” I would reply.

“No. Ahg-ag-bah,” they responded speaking even more slowly.

“Oh, wait!  Are you saying Hog Harbor?” I stated, overemphasizing the “h”s.

Smiles all around.  “Yes! You get it, missy! Ahg-ag-bah.  This is what we’ve been saying!”

So, yes.  I am called “missy” here.  “Missy”.  At first I had no idea I was even being addressed.  Pastor Peter would say this word over and over but I figured he would not address me in such a manner—until I realized he would and was.  Turns out “missy” is short for missionary, a revered title here in Vanuatu.  So in his mind he is showing me honor.  In my mind I see myself in pink pumps, a purple leopard-print mini-skirt, and Hello Kitty earrings!!

Driving up the east coast of Santo is pretty easy to enjoy.  The coltar (paved road) is in excellent condition and the tropical scenery is spectacular.  Travel speeds can be maintained at around 80 kph while passing through coconut plantations and cattle ranches.  The ocean can’t be more than a hundred meters away but around here just a single row of forest can obscure just about anything.

Climbing up a fairly steep grade, we came to the top of a hill that provided a different vantage point.  Below and to our left, trees covered in thick vines made a single undulating sea of green with an occasional tree struggling to break free of its bonds like a giant straining against so many cords of an unseen mob.  Once over the rise, we were back among the hall of trees.

I started to recognize a few landmarks indicating we were coming close to Champagne Beach when Pastor Peter told me to turn in to the property on my left.  My heart fell a little.  The day before, Pastor Falau had told me if we got there early enough we could walk down the the sand and enjoy the ocean a bit before starting service.  This was not the case.  We were plenty early but we were still about a ten minute drive from the famous beach so, no splishy-splashy for us.  As it turns out, that was OK.

The church sits back about 50meters from the road and has a wonderful grassy area out in front.  I like this about Vanuatu.  Since most people do not drive, there are no parking lots.  No parking lots means more trees and open grassy spaces on which to play.  Ooo.  I just got chills…not the good kind.  That last statement sounded really “green”.   Let me rephrase.  I sure wish Vanuatu had more asphalt. Ahhh. Better.

Ethan was out of the truck and exploring before the internal combustion engine had stopped…well…combusting.  I had parked under the shade of a pair of trees whose large roots provided plenty of cave-like shelters for him to explore.  His head, already sweaty from exertion, popped up from behind one of the roots.

“Hey, Dad!  What’s this?”  He asked while holding up a stick in his left hand.  The stick had been sharpened on one end and divided into quarters on the opposite end.

“Oh! I’ll show you,” Pastor Peter offered.

Ethan climbed over the root handing Ps Peter the item eager to see it put to the use it was created for.  Ps Peter wasted no time in launching the stick, pointy-end first, into the air and across the property.  The homemade lawn dart hung in the air momentarily then stuck fast into the moist grass and soil. Ethan actually squealed.  After a quick tutorial from Ps Peter, Ethan was running from one end of the property to the other killing Philistines and Storm Troopers, launching rockets into space, and otherwise having the time of his life.

“He is a really good boy,” Ps Peter stated in Bislama.

“Thanks. I’m really proud of him.”

This was a good moment for Pastor Peter and me.  Up until this trip we didn't seem to know were the other was coming from.  While waiting for members of the church to arrive, we talked a bit, watched Ethan play, and were simply—together.  We have been told that just being together is very important in this culture.  Words need not be spoken.  Being together is fellowship and creates relationship here in Vanuatu.  I was able to see Ps Peter in a new light and am super thankful we did not have the distraction of Champagne Beach that morning.

“Missy, this is Pastor Elvis.”

Had this been a sitcom there would have been a spit-take.

There are certain things I never would have thought I would hear a bazillion miles from America.  “This is Pastor Elvis,” is certainly among the top 5.

Congregants started to trickle in about 30min after we arrived and one began to strum his guitar and sing.  Others joined in as we slowly made our way to the church building.

This particular church is pretty good sized, has concrete floors and walls, and a corrugated metal roof atop wooden trusses.  Maxed out, it could hold about 100.

As most churches here do, there were plenty of fresh flowers up front, a podium, and one bench off to the side for the pastors and guest speakers.  I have yet to see a proper vase for flowers and these particular flowers were set in bio-hazard disposal buckets!  At least all 5 buckets matched!  Now, in all honesty, the flowers are so spectacular that I only noticed the buckets after about an hour.

At precisely 10:00am, the service was under way.

There are a few songs we sing for worship here that have hand motions and everything.  The one we sang that morning bumped it up a notch.

“Therefore, we shall be one; love one another…” Ni-Van voices sang out.  I quickly observed that everyone, while singing this part of the chorus, had gotten out of their seats and were busy greeting each other.  It was fun!  I was smiling like a fool by the time they launched into the first verse again.  It was like freeze tag.  Everyone stopped right where they were at and whatever they were doing to do the hand motions which accompanied this portion of the song.  The very moment the chorus came back around, the place came to life once again with shaking of hands, kissing of cheeks, and phrases of glad tidings.  At times I find myself laughing—with genuine joy—at how different and free things can be here.  My hope is that those around me do not perceive something different.

A man up front suddenly took off his shirt, wiped his brow with it, then put it back on.

Glancing from side to side, I tried to discern if anyone else thought his behavior to be peculiar which none did—so, I rolled with it.  

The time came for me to go up front and Pastor Peter’s wife, Janet, was so kind as to invite Ethan to sit with her.  I was grateful to have him there.  Since I don’t have Bislama mastered yet (understatement) about ¾ of my message was in English.  This leaves most of the people completely in the dark since I am not translated.  To put the feeling of speaking a foreign language to a room full of people—who feel they should pay attention but are really just trying to stay awake—is difficult.  I knew, though, that I could look over to Ethan and he would be sitting on the hard bench attentively listening to me preach.  I am so proud of this kid.  I’ve tried time and again to get him to open up about what he thinks about the things he is experiencing for, certainly, he is processing it all in one way or another.  Most of the time he states that he enjoys Vanuatu and the people here which doesn‘t exactly shed a whole lot of light on the inner musings of his 7 year-old mind.  There must be some degree of difficulty for him since most of the 2+ hour services are in a foreign language.  Outwardly, he is adapting so well to each aspect of life overseas.
I wrapped up my final points dealing with how each one of us is called to share the Gospel—not just missionaries and pastors—and Pastor Elvis came up to close the service.

“Thank you…Thank you, very much,” he said with one side of his upper lip elevated.  OK…OK. That didn’t happen.  It would have been AWESOME though!  A Ni-Van Elvis impersonator named, Elvis?!  How great would that be?!

True quote: “Thank you Missionary Jeremy,” he said in English.  He then proceeded to recap the sermon in Bislama. Now, I may not speak it too well yet, but do understand a great deal when Bislama is being spoken.  Not only was his recap accurate, but he expounded on certain points in such a way that I knew he had captured the essence of the message.  What an encouragement!  In our small town of Luganville there are literally dozens of people who hold the title of “pastor”.  Of these it seems that only a few can really articulate the Word in truth and in a manner which congregants leave with more than they came in with.  Pastor Elvis rocks.  He is a bright star, not only among the Ni-Vanuatu but among Christians the world over.

After service the women went to gather items they had prepared for “kaekae” (food).  Men and children sat around under the shade of a large stand of bamboo talking and enjoying each other’s company.  There was one man who spoke English quite well and he began to converse with Ethan.

Ethan pulled over a cinder block to a patch of shade, sat down, twiddled in the dirt with a stick he had found and proceeded to tell this man all about his life back in Arizona.  Soon, there were about six people gathered ‘round him all listening intently to his stories.

“Missy,” Pastor Peter nudged me.

“Yes?”

Ps Peter motioned over to Ethan with a raise of his eyebrows.

“Your son, he is like one of us.  He likes to sit and tell stories.  He is not afraid at all of us.”

“You’re right Ps. Peter.  He loves all the new friends he is making and he does love to share his life.”

“He is already quite a leader,” Ps Peter said.

I had to choke back the lump forming in my throat.  I am so proud of my little man who isn’t so little any more.  God uses him to get to me and remind me of how much truth there is in Jesus’ statement, “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”

Fiola

The first time I walked into Harvest Church, a small congregation with mostly women, I was drawn to Fiola. A single mother that looked remarkably like Jada-Pinkett Smith and held a beautiful baby girl in her arms. At the end of service she went forward for prayer. As I prayed for her I felt God wanted me to pray against deep pain and  hurt caused by a man in her life and bless her with peace and protection. As I began to speak those words her body shook as all the sorrow she was feeling was poured out before the Lord.
Subsequent times to church she continued to ask  me, “tok tok Bislama?” My reply has been the same, “smol smol”.  We would ooh and ahh at each other’s babies and exchange simple greetings but I continued to be frustrated by the language barrier. I wanted desperately to sit with her and chat after church, to tell her all I saw in her and bring some comfort to her.
Last Sunday I worked up the nerve to ask her to lunch. “Yumi go kaekae Wednesday?” My invitation was met with an enthusiastic “yes.” I was relieved that she clearly wanted to go. In this culture a politely spoken “yes” can mean “no” as to not offend.

Our lunch together was a precious time. I can understand Bislama when spoken slowly and she was gracious enough to take her time. I knew just enough to ask prompting questions and keep things flowing. We made small talk for a bit and then I asked her to tell me her story.  She started at the beginning “Mami blo mi, i no wantem mi”. My mother didn’t want me. Ouch. Through tears the rest of the story unraveled, raped as a teenager, 5 children she is not allowed to see, her adoptive parents rejection over her faith in Jesus. Then came the story of her baby‘s father and how she had recently fled to escape the abuse. After she was finished she looked at me and said the first bit of English I had heard from her “Now, you encourage me”.  I knew I was coming to Vanuatu to minister to broken women, this should have been a dream come true. Here was God giving me my desire, but the weight of her request made my insides turn. In that moment I felt so utterly inadequate. I spouted a few things in half-English, half Bislama that felt so trite, so bleh. She smiled and said “Now, Galatians 5:22?” I had to laugh on the inside, my brain was total mush from having to focus so intently on language throughout lunch and now she wanted me to quote chapter, verse?! I was in big trouble so I smiled and said “mi no save”. She smiled and said “fruit of Spirit”. Of course! “U tellem mi, humility?” She wanted me to explain the English words she had read in her Bible. Scripture is read in English in all of the churches and very few have any grasp of what it means. “Now, self-control?” “Gentleness?” It was the perfect scripture. Sitting in front of me was a woman that so beautifully demonstrated so many fruits of the Spirit. I did my best to explain each one, it wasn‘t perfect but she seemed grateful. After lunch we went straight to the store to buy her a Bislama Bible.

I drove her home down a muddy, bumpy road I had been down many times before on my way to church. Shacks and hanging laundry lined the road. She motioned to pull over. She took me around a shack to another entrance. As I stood at the threshold everything within me wanted to flee. I didn’t want to look, to come face to face with her reality. I slipped off my shoes and walked into a “house” no bigger than my closet back home. The front room had a tablecloth covering the hard concrete floor and a small bag of rice in the corner.  The bedroom was barely large enough to lay down and the only items to be found were a mat and neatly folded baby girl clothes lining the wall. I fought emotion and managed to ask if I could see where she cooked. She took me to a ramshackle building that resembled an oversized outhouse. She lifted the lid of a small pot set upon some rocks to reveal yams that appeared to have been there for a few days, waiting to be dinner once again.  As she walked me to the truck she asked me to pray for her to find work. She told me she didn’t feel safe living there, she was uncomfortable with the man next door. The nights alone with her baby were hard. A job would mean a safer place to live and food on the table.

I came home somber that afternoon. I relayed her living situation to Jeremy, he wept. As night fell I kept thinking of Fiola and her baby girl huddled up on the cold concrete floor wishing I had bought her so much more than a Bible and a bag of sugar. The verse about widows and orphans played over and over in my head. To me she was both.  

As I prayed that night, God gave me a picture of two paths. One path would allow me to ignore the problem, see it as too big, allow Jeremy to be the missionary. I could focus on homeschooling the kids, hang out with only ex-pats and live a nice little life in paradise. The other path would ask me to jump into the trenches with these women. To get dirty. To open my eyes to poverty and pain and fight on behalf of these women. Fight for their joy, for their hearts to be made whole by the One who loves them. In that moment I knew what I wanted more that anything was a little dirt on my hands.  

Washin'

"Here is your timer."
"Thank you."
"And, here is your pump."
"Why, thank you."

I took the washing machine parts from Bryan's hand and placed them on the narrow hallway railing.  It's not every day I get excited about washing machine parts but this was certainly an exception.

Ever since we moved into the missions house in Luganville, Vanuatu, we have been without our own washing machine.  The Maytag Performa top loading washer would fill with water and agitate the items to be washed but would neither drain nor spin—two functions which make a washing machine a convenience.  I had a local guy over who works on these kinds of things and he gave me a solution which didn't make much sense to me at the time.  I called an Aussie repairman in Port Vila who advised that it might be either the timer or the pump, but most likely the timer.

I e-mailed our boss, Bryan—who's washer and house we are using—and asked him if he could purchase and bring over these parts from the States when he visited.

Well, I installed said parts and selected the cycle I wanted.  Water began to fill the tub.  I could hear the timer ticking away as it moved closer to the spin cycle.  A click.  Nothing.  No more ticking, clicking, whirring, or any other sort of  "ing".  Bummer.  I looked over at the wall and realized an error I had made.  Here in Vanuatu each electrical outlet has an individual switche that must be turned on to allow power to flow freely.  I giggled.  "Sweet," I thought, "that's easy to fix."  I flipped the switch down and could now see the red dot indicating the "on" position.  Nothing.  Razzin' Frazzin', no good....calm.   Peace and caaaaaalm.

Attempting to keep perspective I reminded myself that we still had a washing machine thanks to an incredible set of missionaries—the Widups.   From bug bombs to Cap'n Crunch they have everything.  Every time they come home from furlough in the U.S., they pack a shipping container full of goodies.

Today, I went downstairs to re-connect all the lines to our borrowed unit.  Reaching towards a pair of rusty slip-joint pliers, I stopped.
"Lord Jesus,  if there is any way you can fix this washer, would you, please?"

I flipped the outlet on and tried again.  Nothing.  An article on the internet stated that from time to time items can get caught between the tub and basket.  I lifted the lid to see about removing the tub.  I was prompted by the Holy Spirit to look more closely at the lid's safety switch.  I thought this was a good idea since I did not want to have the tub suddenly start whirring around, grab ahold of my chest hair—which I can practically braid right now due to me not bringing my Wahl clippers— and fling me against one of the concrete walls of the laundry room.  In an attempt to figure out how to ensure the safety switch was indeed engaged I saw that it was completely inoperative.  Now, understand, I do not consider myself very good at troubleshooting. As an aircraft mechanic I really despised when a broken thing-a-ma-jig would be dropped on my tool box with the instruction to, "fix it".   It's that whole concrete orders thing again (see entry about Daniel's birth).  I like things like, "remove these screws," or, "attach this antenna."  To try and figure out where an item is malfunctioning gives me the cold sweats.

I decided to remove the incoming and outgoing wire from the switch and attempt to test the system by simply connecting the wires.  I selected the spin cycle and grabbed one wire in each hand.  Holding my breath and leaning back a bit, I brought the exposed ends of the wires together.  Instantly the washer lurched to life!  The whirling dervish increased in speed and intensity—then I stopped dancing to make sure the washer wasn't on fire.

Everything checked out.

I'm telling you, the Holy Spirit was leading me step by step.  My prayer was answered in such a cool way that not only builds my faith but was very relational.  No handwriting on the wall or parting of the sea.  Just a small still voice leading me step by step—as a friend.

Our God is a personal God who loves his people and cares about them.  I'm so grateful that He not only cares about the eternal destiny of our souls but the seemingly mundane everyday things that concern us daily.

Two Wongs Don't Make a Right

"Well, to find the best price on milk, you'll want to go to either Wong Sing or Wong Sze Sing."

"And where are those stores located?"

"Go into town and you'll want to pass the new Nu Look..."

"New New Look?"

"Yep. The new Nu Look...anyway, if you see the Wong Store then you've already passed Wong Sing but are really close to Wong Sze Sing, which is across the street and down a bit.  If you just want to get some things all in the same location you should try LCC, LCM, or ESAH.  Got it?"

My blank stare, unblinking eyes, and mouth hanging open apparently did not clue our new friends into the fact I had no stinkin' idea what they were talking about.  I was now no closer to finding groceries than I was 5 minutes ago.  I wondered, "Are they just putting me on?,  watching to see if the missionary will cry, pull his newly grown whiskers out, and run screaming into the nearby ocean?"

I thanked the seasoned veteran missionaries for their "directions" and headed into town.

The road leading from our missions house is paved and, in fact, very well maintained.  The 7 minute drive into town is beautiful with cobalt sea on the left and thick jungle on the right.  The jungle here has as many shades of green as Arizona has shades of brown. Along the road there are a few houses perched on sloping terrain which look across the mile of ocean toward the neighboring island of Aore (Ow-ray).

After a pseudo roundabout, which is not properly observed by most drivers, the foliage gives way to one and two-story concrete buildings.  Sidewalks were constructed at some point but now look more like opportunities for ankle sprains and broken limbs.  In fact, there are holes of such magnitude it looks not like simple neglect but something one might see in a country battered by war.

Shops, stores, and government offices line the street on both sides.  Exteriors of the buildings are severely weathered from intense tropical sun and frequent wind and rain.  Many signs have been painted by hand and are, in many cases, close to unreadable which certainly didn't help us in our search.

"Mer, there's Wong Sing.  Is that where we're supposed to go?"

"I don't think so.  I thought they said, 'Wong Sing Sing'"

"Oh...we just passed the Wong Store.  I don't think I want anything from there.  No matter what they've got it's WONG."

I snickered.  An easy joke?  Yes.  A bit childish and immature?  Certainly.  Funny?  Everytime!  There are no t.v. stations, no movie theatres, and no radio signals here so we take our yucks where we can get 'em.

We pulled over and parallel parked in front of a store which looked shady at best.  Merissa and I exchanged a glance which conveyed the whole, "We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto." feeling we were both experiencing.

There is a Far Side cartoon which depicts a child, book in hand, pushing on a door to a building marked, "Midvale School for the Gifted".  Above the handle a sign clearly reads, "Pull".  I was having one of those moments.  I pulled and pulled even as I read a sign telling me to push.  In my mind the sign must have been wrong since in the States businesses are required to have doors which open outward.  Squinting and pressing my face up to the glass, I tried to see if the business was indeed open when another patron skirted around me and went inside.

Most of the fluorescent lights were not lit and for good cause.  Merchandise was crammed into every nook and cranny.  Food items had "expires on" dates from when hair bands still ruled rock and roll.  Dust covered most of the glass cases except where oily fingerprints revealed where the un-motivated merchant had leaned to rest. We poked around a bit and left feeling more than dejected.  Was this really where we were to find our food and supplies for the next two years?!  Climbing back into the car no one said much. Fortunately, the exterior of the next shop we stopped at looked very well maintained.

I instructed the kids to get out on the passenger side of the truck so as to not get smooshed by one of the numerous taxis speeding by.  To my dismay, as they stepped out onto the sidewalk another truck popped up over the curb and parked on the sidewalk not 5 feet from us.

Entering the store we were immediately impressed and relieved!  All lights were illuminated, there was room for more than one person between rows of highly organzied items, and they had real honest to goodness scanners.  They even had small shopping carts!

"I think we can actually do this, honey," I whispered to Merissa.

Our family has now been in Vanuatu for almost 6 weeks.  We have yet to starve and are actually a lot more comfortable than we could have hoped.  Merissa and I are having a great time getting to know our little town and its many shops.  We even know the difference between all the Wongs...but two Wongs still don't make a right.

Falau: Jeremy's Tale

"Karen, this is Jeremy.  I need Bob here, now."

"Oh, my. Why?"

"Pastor Falau has had some sort of accident and is completely unresponsive."

"OK.  Bob's on his way"


William Falau lives on the first floor of our two story missions house.  He has been charged by our mentoring missionary, Bryan Webb, to keep an eye on our family while we get settled into our new lives.  In addition to being our guide to all things ni-Van, Falau is our language tutor for Bislama, the native language in Vanuatu.

Because Pastor Falau, a ni-Van, does not own a vehicle, he either walks or takes a taxi to destinations of his choosing.  Pastor Falau has a wife and 11 year-old daughter who stay in town during the week to go to work and school, respectively.  Since taxi fare is too cost prohibitive for him to go back and forth to where we are living, he stays below us and his family visits on weekends.   This is, apparently, not a huge issue in this culture.  I was talking to another missionary the other day who has lived here for 8 years.  He stated that many ni-Van men will leave their families for months at a time to work on other islands and seem to think nothing of it.  We have enjoyed having Falau and his family around since we can ask them all sorts of questions about the town and life in Vanuatu.  Ethan and Ella have a great time playing with his lovely daughter, Erica.

In an attempt to get to know them all a little better, we invited Falau, his wife, and daughter over for a meal one Saturday night.

“Are you sure?” Falau asked.

“Yes, I’m sure.  We’d love to have you over.”

“I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“Falau. I am inviting you.  It will be no trouble at all.  Please come.  Is there anything you like?  Anything we can fix?  Are you allergic to anything?,” I inquired.

“No. No. No.  Anything will be fine.  Really.  Are you sure it will be no problem?” He asked again while looking toward the floor and characteristically shaking both hands back and forth with palms facing outward.

“Pastor Falau.  Look at me…we want you to have dinner with us.”   I thought I would take a different tack.  Ever since we arrived he has told me, “You the boss.”   I usually shake my head and mutter something about not being the boss as it makes me uncomfortable—but saw an opportunity to ensure his attendance at dinner.  “As your BOSS, I’m ordering you to come to dinner,” I joked.

“OK. OK. OK.  Em nao.  We’ll be there.”

“OK.  Ale.  Lukim yu.” I replied testing out a Bislama phrase meaning, “see you later”

Usually a real book/ writer/ editor would put an “*” by a phrase like “hem nao” and make a footnote but, well, this is my razzin’-frazzin’ blog so I’ll just put an explanation here even though it messes up the flow of an otherwise expertly crafted story.  “Em nao“, “Em ia nao“, or “Hemi nao” all mean the same thing in Bislama.  It’s kind of like saying, “alright”.   It is sometimes pronounced with an “h” sound before the “em” so the resulting phrase sounds like, “hem now”.

The rest of the week passed and Saturday came without much fanfare.  Ethan and Ella had spent much of the morning down below talking with Pastor Falau and playing his keyboard.  The kids—pikinini (peek-ee-nee-nee) in Bislama—loved that some of the pre-programmed tunes included “Jingle Bells” and “Greensleeves”.  We also heard them singing along while he played worship songs they all knew.

Merissa and I enjoyed ourselves in the kitchen as we prepared some cheeseburgers, sautéed bell peppers and onion, chopped up steak, and baked brownies.

Oh, another quick aside: there is no good chocolate in Santo.  They grow and export cacao but there is no refinery here that processes and makes chocolate.  This means that a candy bars are imported and cost around $5.50 or 500vt.  How awesome would it be to harvest some and make my own!  Hmmmm….

The kids and I went down to his living space to let him know dinner would be served in about 10 min.  We were surprised to find that his family had not yet arrived.  He invited us in and the kids wanted to show me the wonderful things the keyboard could do.  Pastor Falau and I chatted as the kids giggled and made up bizarre medleys out of completely unrelated songs.

I plunked down in a mustard colored plush chair by the door.  As Falau started to take a seat opposite me on a worn futon, his right foot turned in slightly and made a small sweeping motion backward.  It struck me as a bit odd but I did not say anything since nothing else seemed out of place.

Our family had gone to Santo’s second annual rodeo that morning and heard a lot of speeches given by different ni-Vans about how much they appreciated thus-and-so.  Since it was all in Bislama we didn’t get much out of the orations but did have a couple of questions about words we heard repeatedly.

“Pastor Falau,” I asked, “what does ‘yufala’ refer to?  We heard it a lot during the speeches today.”

“Huh.” He began to reply, “Uh, it, uh means…hmm.  Sorry,” he chuckled, “I’m having trouble thinking of it, right now.  Huh…”

This, too, struck me as a bit bizarre.   This word was used dozens of times during the opening ceremonies of the rodeo and Falau is well versed in French, English, and Bislama.

“Pastor, are you feeling OK?”

He chuckled an embarrassed chuckle.  “Yeah.  Just a bit tired I think.”  

He stood to his feet to check on something the kids were doing on the keyboard then returned to his place on the futon.  Once again, his right foot swept back as he sat, but this time with a little more force.

I cocked one eyebrow and looked at him with concern.

“I strait.  I strait”  (pronounced: “ee straight”, meaning: “I’m good”) Pastor Falau said while shaking his head.

“OK. Should we try to call your wife and see if they need a ride or how far away they are?”

“Sure.  But my phone does not have any more credits.”

This has been something for us to get used to, as well.  Cell phones here run on SIM cards and require the user to fill up credits in order to place calls or send texts.  There are numerous roadside stands where additional credits can be purchased and almost all the stores carry similar cards for both carriers—TVL and Digicel. Credits are purchased in the form of a small card similar to a buisiness card in size and shape.  There is a code on the back under a silver stripe that is scratched off to reveal a code which is called in to redeem points.  Using these cards, I don’t miss the Arizona Lotto as much.

“I’ll go grab my phone and we can call her.”

Coming back down stairs I dialed her number as Falau recited it and I heard the automated response, “I’m sorry.  You do not have enough credits to place this call.”

“Grrr.  I’ll go grab Merissa’s phone and be right back down.”

I ran back upstairs and had the kids come with me so they could get washed up for dinner.

I poked around the kitchen checking for Mer’s phone.  Ella was sitting in one of the recliners in our living room and Ethan was hanging out with Ma and Sweet Baby D in our bedroom when we heard a thud and a  high-pitched childlike cry.  It was the type of thud that makes your heart stop because it is so characteristic of a head hitting a solid surface.

“Merissa?!  Everyone OK?!,” I called out urgently.

“Yes…How ‘bout out there?  Can you see Ella?”

“Yup, she’s right here.  Daniel and Ethan are good?”

“Yes.  What do you think that was?”

“Yeah…weird...I don't know.” The sense of immediacy subsided since the family was accounted for.  “I’m gonna go let Falau call his wife on your phone. Be right back up.”

As I walked out our front door I was met by a stange dog I had not yet seen around.  As I exited, he scampered off and I completely dismissed the noise we heard until I looked to my right.

The front door to Falau’s living area was open slightly and I could see his two feet through the opening.  They were turned in toward each other and twitching slightly.  By their position I could tell he was facedown on the tile.

Going instantly to his side I looked down to see a bit of blood by his mouth and heard agonal respirations.  Because of the position of his head and neck I decided to roll him on his side in order to reposition his airway.  My mind was racing!  All sorts of things were happening at once. I was trying to reconcile what was happening while providing some sort of care but with no idea what emergency response looks like here in Vanuatu.

“Merissa!  What is the emergency number?!” I yelled upstairs while trying to find the correct pre-programmed contact in Mer’s cell phone.

“Dad?!  What’s happening!  I’m coming down!” Panic saturated Ethan’s voice.

“Ethan and Ella, I need you to stay upstairs.”

“Daddy?!  Why?”

“Ethan, just trust me right now.  Merissa, I need you downstairs and bring a flashlight.”

A flashlight. That’s all I could get.  No backboard. No C-collar. No duct-tape to stabilize anything.  No cold pack or ice for the growing goose egg above Falau’s right eye. I started to feel very alone and slightly panicked.  It is one thing to respond, as part of a fire crew, to a gnarly emergency.  There's a certain emotional distance that can be maintained and, I think, needs to be maintained to keep the scene under control.  The fact that I personally knew this man, that help was not on its way, and that I was beginning to feel horribly inept began to weigh heavily upon me.  So, I prayed.  I prayed because it was all I felt I could do.  Nothing fancy or flashy but very heartfelt.  God's peace came over me immediately and I was able to take things one step at a time.

 I quickly checked for any obvious deformities along his back and neck before rolling him onto his side.  His breathing seemed to be getting worse.  Checking his right wrist for a distal pulse upped the pucker factor since I could not immediately discern one.  I rolled him all the way onto his back fearing that I would have to start CPR.  His breathing became more regular once he was on his back with his head properly aligned.    I checked his carotid pulse while simultaneously putting one hand on his chest.  I prayed a prayer of thanksgiving when I felt his heart just a pump pump a-pumping away.  I gave Falau a good hard sternal rub and called his name out loudly.  There was no response.

Stepping outside, I dialed the contact listed as “ambulance”.  To my surprise and dismay it was answered by an automated system that, from what I could tell, was telling me to call during normal hours.  I immediately hung up and rang Karen an Bob, our new friends from Australia.

"Karen, this is Jeremy.  I need Bob here, now."

"Oh, my. Why?"

"Pastor Falau has had some sort of accident and is completely unresponsive."

"OK.  Bob's on his way"

Woah...deja vu.  It feels like I've written this before...

My initial thought in having Merissa come down was to have her hold his neck and head until I realized we were going to have to transport him in the back of the truck.  The roads to the hospital are full of potholes and other obstacles which were going to make stabilization almost impossible. She was now at my side with a small flashlight.  I checked his pupils which reacted equally indicating he most likely did not have a stroke. I asked Mer if she thought she could carry his legs while I grabbed his upper body.  She didn't even hesitate.

"I'll do whatever you need me to do."

I instructed her on how to position herself so we could transport him to the truck.

"On the count of three we'll lift. One, two, three."  She lifted up and we headed out the door and down our concrete path toward the truck. Nearing the gate, Bob pulled up and hopped out to help. We lifted Falau into the bed of the truck and started for the hospital leaving Mer behind with Ethan, Ella, and Daniel.

The emergency room doors were locked.  Locked.  Thankfully Falau was starting to come around and was actually talking.  He didn't know the day, time, my name, or his wife's name but at least he was talking.  Now, in the States we would ask certain questions to determine a person's awareness.  I had to chuckle as most of the questions coming to mind would do me no good here.

"How many quarters in a dollar?" Nope...can't do that one.
"Who is the President?" I wouldn't know if the answer was correct or incorrect.

Arrggh.

I asked Bob if he knew whether or not Falau had any seizure history.  He said he thought he remembered something like that but was not sure.

Someone finally came to the double doors we were waiting at and let us in.

I instantly realized we (our family) do not want to get sick here.  With just a quick glance I saw dried blood and what I assume was feces on the floor. There was a dingy bar of soap next to a stainless steel sink which looked like it had not been cleaned in months. In the sink was a small tray containing a couple sets of forcepts and some other instruments in a pool of coagulated blood and water.  Absolutely nothing looked clean and surfaces were cluttered with equipment and paperwork.  In one corner I saw their defibrillator peeking out from a stack of files.

"Hey, Joe!  You, uh, seen da dafibrillator?  This here guy is goin' inta cardiac arrest." (I'm not sure why this guy is from Brooklyn...just go with it.)

"Yea.  It should be over there somewhere filed under "D" in the defibrillator section.  Ha ha!"

I was shocked.  Truly and completely shocked.  I prayed more.

"Father, heal Falau. I don't know if this is a place that will benefit his health.  Come, now, Holy Spirit."

Some ni-Van in flip flops, a worn out pair of shorts and a Hawaiian style shirt asked Falau a couple of questions in Bislama and ordered an X-ray.  As Pastor Falau was wheeled away I walked Bob to his car, which a friend had driven over for him, and thanked him for coming so quickly.

By the time I headed back in, Falau had returned and was noticeably better.  Thank the Lord.

The flip-flop nurse guy said the results would be out shortly and then the doctor would talk to Falau and determine whether or not he would stay the night.  He then pulled me aside.

"He has a history of this.  When he does not eat it makes it worse.  He needs to be checked on to make sure he is eating 3 times a day," he said in pretty good English.

Turning to Falau, I said, "Falau. When did you eat last?"

"Two days ago."

"Two days?!  Why?"

He lowered his head and stared at the floor.  I felt like a jerk for ever thinking I knew what being hungry was.

"Pastor Falau, do you have a seizure history?"

A nod.

"I saw you do this funny little thing with your foot, earlier.  Is that an indicator you are about to have a seizure?"

Another nod. "I usually just go lay down when I know one is coming on."

"So, why didn't you lay down this time?"  I asked even though I already knew the answer.

"Because you were there."

He didn't want to let me down.  He smashed his head and was walking toward death's door because he didn't want to let me down.  Not a great feeling.

The tattered privacy curtains were drawn back to reveal two Chinese men.

"哎。谁是病人？"  one said.

Blank stares from Falau, Flip-flop and me.

"哎。谁是病人？"  The taller one spoke more forcefully and was very animated.  Both Chinese guys were super fidgety, too. Watching them, I felt like I needed to ask if they needed to use the restroom then come back.

"Patient." the taller one pointed to me.

I pointed to the man with a giant lump over his eye seated on the HOSPITAL BED!

Flip-flop tried to explain in Bislama what Falau had experienced.

"Oh. Yes." Tall said.  "He shivah. He cold from flu. Dat why he shivah."  Turning to Falau.  "You need blanket."

I couldn't believe what was unfolding in front of me!  Chinese "doctors" in Vanuatu who could speak neither Bislama nor English!! And they were trying to diagnose a patient!!!

More confusion between Flip-flop and Tall.  I sighed.  I hated to do it but I had to.  I pantomimed a seizure.  This man's diagnosis and treatment had come down to a game of charades.   

"Ohhhhh!  Yes! Yes!  Seee sure!"

"哎。谁是" Tall spoke to his partner who left momentarily then came back with a pouch of Valium.

"You take Valium to relax muscles.  You shake cause muscles tight."

Falau and Flip-flop looked at me to interpret.  I had to laugh!  The whole scene was completely absurd!

Once the "doctors" left I turned to Falau.  "Do NOT take those.  Promise me you will not take those.  I don't know much about drugs but I do not want you to take those pills."

"OK.  I don't like medications anyway."

A ni-Van man in slacks and a polo walked in and talked calmly to Falau.  He took the Valium away and told Falau he would get him the proper meds.  Whew.

"This man has been a doctor here a long time.  The Chinese have only come in the last month and things are not very good at the hospital right now," Falau explained.

He was released after getting different meds and we headed home.

We had a really frank talk the next day about letting us know when he needs things and that I will never be offended if he turns me down for any reason.

Praise the Father that we were home that night, that Ethan and Ella were no longer in the apartment when he went down, that his daughter was not home to witness the seizure, and I had reason to be going down to his apartment.

I am grateful to report that Pastor Falau is doing very well and that the Lord is one who heals.

Falau, Merissa's Side of the Story (Jeremy's to come)

It was a hot Saturday afternoon. Independence Day weekend in Santo. We had extended an invitation to our new friend and local pastor to come with his family for dinner. After asking, “you sure?” three times, he accepted our offer. Pastor Falau has been crucial to our adjustment in Santo. He has been staying downstairs until we feel “settled in”. That means walking 3 hours to work at Jubilee School each day. Falau is a wonderful man, quick to smile and well known in town. His school took a couple days off for the holiday this week so he has been home a bit more. One morning we heard an organ playing downstairs. Ethan being the musical sort ran quickly downstairs and knocked on his door. After a short time Ella scooted down as well. The kids spent the next hour singing and worshiping at his organ. Pastor Falau told Jeremy the next day that it was a very Ni-Van thing to do and he was thrilled to have their company. The kids were equally excited and spent the following 2 mornings downstairs singing everything from “Lord I Give You My Heart” to “Jingle Bells”. 
Jeremy and I spent the afternoon preparing a meal for their family. Knowing that they often had only bread to eat we made sure to have plenty of meat, cheese and dessert. I felt the importance of this meal and there was a joy in preparing it. We were looking forward to their company as well.
The plan was a 5:00 pm meal so we were buttoning things up by 4:45. When 4:55 rolled around we asked the kids to go check and see if they were ready for dinner. They came up with the response that Falau’s wife and daughter had not yet returned home. The next hour there was what I would describe as a heightened awareness. Those times where you just feel like you should be praying. I wondered about the house praying, straightened the place settings and  figured I was in for a lesson on “island time.”
I wish that had been the only lesson of the evening. As 6pm came around I decided to put Daniel to bed so we would be all set to sit down when they did come. A few moments later I heard a cry and a large thump. I did a quick survey of the room to get a head count of the kids. Everyone accounted for. Dogs? Neighbors? Neither of those made sense. Jeremy had heard it too and was out the door checking the yard. Nothing. I heard him shout our friends name. Within seconds Jeremy was yelling “Mer, what’s that emergency number here?!” I could here the tension in his voice. I shouted back “112, no 001, I don’t know it’s in our phones!” as I searched frantically for a cell phone. I had no minutes and no reception in our concrete fortress home. It was up to us.
This is when I saw my hubby go into superhero mode. Pastor Falau was face down in a pool of blood having difficulty breathing when Jeremy found him. He rolled him over and checked vitals. When I came on the scene Falau was still not responsive. Jeremy said, “We have to get him out of here now!” I raced upstairs for the keys, started the truck and I grabbed his legs while Jeremy did the heavy lifting, praying the whole time. Unbeknownst to me Jeremy had found a phone and called our Aussie friends. Bob pulled up just as we were loading him into the truck. Bob jumped in back and supported his head while Jeremy sped down our bumpy dirt road to the hospital.
That’s when I had to trust. Jeremy had not told me he had ruled out heart attack and stroke. All I could think about was the massive head injury sustained. I quickly went down to clean up the blood. I couldn’t imagine his young daughter Erica coming home to that. I was left to wonder if I would see our friend again. What I would tell his wife and Erica when they came up the path? Another concern was hospital care. We had been given examples of minor ailments turning fatal due to poor care. Life expectancy is short on the islands.
The kids and I sat down at the table for dinner. Ella wept, Ethan prayed. Looking at the empty place settings and watching the front gate I fought off despair. I prayed I would have the right words of comfort, regardless of language barrier.
Before I left the bank my replacement had shared his missions experience in the Philippines. He had told me how a day after he arrived a woman died in his arms. He wasn’t a doctor, just “the missionary” who was supposed to be able to fix everything. It broke his heart. He questioned God. After a while he came to the conclusion that he witnessed that so that his heart would be broken for the people. I was praying I didn’t have that same difficult lesson. In that moment I was broken. We had come to love Pastor Falau in the short time we had known him. He was more than our cultural life-line and language teacher, he had become a good friend.
His family never returned that night. They were caught up in an Independence Day celebration in town. I think God kept them away so they didn’t see it happen. I am thankful God had Jeremy home. I am thankful our kids had come upstairs only a few minutes prior to the fall.
Falau had suffered a seizure. He is prone to seizures but this one was brought on by lack of food. He had not eaten in days. I was shocked. Deeply moved that there was true hunger in my own house, unseen.
God, open my eyes to the physical and spiritual needs right in front of me. Continue to break my heart for the people of Vanuatu.