Puppy Thief

Even before we arrived here in Papua, we made plans to have a family dog. Dogs are important here for protection from potential intruders. A good bark will both scare away and warn us of anyone who might attempt to break in.

Beyond the practicalities, I especially looked forward to the companionship of a family dog. An animal lover at heart, it could only be a matter of time until our home included a furry friend.

So when the language school director’s dog had puppies and she offered one to Isaiah once they were weaned, I was ecstatic. Yes! A puppy!

Isaiah talked a lot about bringing ‘Jake’ home when he was big enough and had learned everything he needed to know from his mommy. Jake, a very cute brown puppy with a white stripe on his nose, was an absolute love. The sweetest of the bunch and always keen for a cuddle, Jake was my pick of the litter too.

Each day, as we arrived to the school, we would make our way to the back where the puppies were. Giving cuddles and receiving many puppy kisses in return, visiting the ‘babies’ quickly became a favourite break time activity too.

Today, as we opened the school gate as usual Isaiah said, “Mommy, let’s go see the babies first. Then go inside.” I persuaded him to go inside with the promise we’d head to the puppies as soon as we said good morning to everyone.

“I have some sad news.” The school director told us. 

On Sunday someone had set out poisoned food. Another of her dogs and their cat had eaten the food and both were dead. Then someone, presumably whoever set out the poison, broke in and stole all the puppies. Only the momma dog was left. The poor sweet momma was now in pain as the puppies had not yet fully weaned and she could no longer nurse.

“Let’s go see the babies!” Isaiah tugged on my hand and pulled me towards the door. “Come on, Isaiah. Let’s go to where the puppies usually are. I have something sad to tell you about them.”

Ben joined us and as we sat on the step near where the puppies would play we told Isaiah what had happened. Of course, it’s hard for a three year old to understand what poisoned means or why someone would steal all the puppies, especially his Jake. 

I am both angry and sad. Why would they do this? They are so awful! 

As we walked home at the end of class, I remembered my own past and my heart turned. I’d like to meet the thief one day, I thought.

What happened is terrible and I am very angry and sad about it, but I truly would like to meet the thief because this doesn't have to be the end of the story. 

I’d like to tell them about a teenager who habitually stole jewellery and clothing from stores until one day she got caught. I’d like to share my own story. And I’d especially like to tell them about how great Jesus’s love is, even for a thief.

Isaiah and the puppies last week.

Wait, What's My Message Again?

It is the end of the week here in Papua and I am exhausted. It's been 100+ degrees every single day and with two nights in a row without electricity and therefore without a/c I haven't been sleeping well. Our bedroom, with no window ventilation, easily reaches 90degrees on hot days even with the a/c on. The wall next to my side of the bed is hot to the touch in the afternoon sun.

Mostly we've adjusted to the heat well, but night time is a different thing. It’s hard to sleep when it is so hot. We toss and turn on sweat soaked sheets.

Last night Isaiah didn't sleep well either and so when my lack of sleep encountered his lack of sleep, we had a major blow up. He was ridiculously whiny, I was ridiculously short tempered. Lots of time outs for both of us.

I'm sure our neighbours heard everything. The same walls that let the heat in, let the sound out with the same ease. So when we have one of those insane yelling fits that Christians aren't supposed to have, everybody knows it.

Attempting to keep up appearances is hopeless. When you live this close to your neighbours, they are going to see your worst days.

So while I'd like to be the shining example of “Hey, look how well I follow Jesus! He’ll change you too just like He changed me!” I instead have a knock down drag out fight with the question Does my life match my message?
 

By Otto Koning

If you’ve never heard The Pineapple Story it’s one you must hear. The story takes place in Papua New Guinea, where a missionary has his crop of pineapples stolen day in and day out by the people he went to serve and spent years in angry yelling chasing thieves. One day he finally prayed, “I give up! These are YOUR pineapples Lord!” and stopped trying to stop the thieves. After a wacky chain of events that followed the people noticed a difference and in one humbling encounter told the missionary, “We figured it out! You are not angry any more. You must have finally become a Christian!”

Can you imagine? You move across the world and your daily life does not match your daily message. That’ll break your heart.

What is my message and does it line up with how I live my life?
 
This is a very real and ever present struggle. One that forces me to lay my heart bare and ask for correction and forgiveness nearly every day. Perhaps the only message I have is, I know a radical Love that reaches into my mistakes with compassion and forgiveness. If you’ll let me, I’ll tell you all about Him.

Used Up Words

It's hard when the novelty of being a westerner wears off. I've used up all my words and any new conversation is tedious. The neighbours have seen in my home. They see how we dress everyday and see what we eat. They've heard our tone of voice when happy or upset and know our weekly schedule. Our daily habits no longer as interesting, our interactions reduced to "Good morning" and a friendly wave.

I told my teacher I'd run out of conversation and he simply replied, "Yes, but you still have to try. You are getting better."

Humph.

I am so eager to learn. Eager to move past the surface level conversations and talk about deeper things. I want to connect and build real meaningful friendships.

But when people stop trying to talk to you because it's just plain difficult and takes forever to communicate anything - What's a girl to do? Even a girl who is eager to learn?

Ben, Isaiah and my frustrated language lacking self attended church on Sunday. Everyone smiled and shook my hand, but offered no conversation beyond the usual "Happy Sunday!"

After the service we stood on the church patio enjoying snacks and smiling awkwardly when my one English speaking Indonesian friend came bounding towards us. "You're back! How was Wamena? Did you like it?" We began offering answers in English and she interrupted, "When can we speak more Indonesian?" Ben and I looked at each other, "I don't have more Indonesian." I said with a shrug. "Well, everyone here wants to talk to you, they just don't know what to say!"

Wait. What? People still want to talk to me?

"Really?" I asked, not quite believing it. "Really!" she responded with a smile. And I quickly went over to Ibu Gembala to ask for a ride to the woman's Ibadah on Monday. Through limited words and mostly hand gestures I managed to arrange a ride.

People still want to talk to me. It's amazing, but she was right and so was my teacher. "You still have to try. You are getting better."

So I reach back into my brain and try to put my few words into new sentences. At the Ibadah I stumble through the sharing time and even add a request prayer. The women, staring at me with huge smiles, almost will the words out of me.

Turns out that even my neighbours, who had given up trying to talk to me, are still interested in conversation. I just needed to listen to my teacher and stop complaining about the words I don't have. Difficult or not, I needed to try again with the words I do have.

And you know what? I managed to arrange a trip to the salon this week with Ibu Gembala. If there was ever a perfect place for building relationships with local women, I'm pretty sure the salon is it.

Ripped Off

I love going to the market. Pasar Baru, the New Market, is only a short half mile walk away and teeming with local traders pushing fresh vegetables, fruits, fish, meat, and a million other things. 

There's a modern supermarket in town and although it requires a taksi ride to get there, is much more convenient than attempting a big shop at the Pasar. Still, you can't beat the Pasar for fruit, veg, excellent street food, and interesting conversations.

Without fail, someone always rips me off. Today, the big rip off was a handmade bag.

My new bag: the rip off

A Papuan lady sat on her mat on the ground knitting bags. She had several on display as well as a few pineapples and vegetables.

"Berapa harga ini?" I asked her for the price pointing to the bag. "Dua ratus" came the response. I knew it was high. She was asking for 200thousand, about US$17 dollars, for the bag. I asked about the pineapples and she gave me a much more appropriate price. I picked one out and handed her the equivalent of about 40cents. Then I added the bag and paid the exorbitant price with a smile.

I didn't barter for the bag, even though it is culturally acceptable to do so, mainly because I'm still not very good at numbers. We deal in hundreds and thousands in this currency and mostly people just say the hundreds part, leaving me to guess whether they really mean hundreds or hundred thousands.

Besides this, I have many mixed feelings about what price I should pay.

Should I pay 40cents for a pineapple? Or 90cents for the watermelon I also carried home with me? This may be the usual market cost, but is this really a fair price for the local farmer?

Once, in Benin, I bartered hard for a beautiful wooden chess set. I wanted it as a gift for my brother and I didn't have much money to spend. In the end I paid so little that when I told a local friend he was actually upset with me. "That man didn't make any money on what he sold you. He gave it to you for cost." Is a tight fist really the impression of a Christian witness I want to leave? I have never forgotten that lesson.

I'll keep going to the Pasar. I'll study up on my numbers and get the hang of bartering. I'll eventually pay less than I do now. I'll chit chat with the women and look for new things to try. I'll keep walking the tension of what should I pay? And still, I'm certain, I'll keep getting ripped off.

Reaching the Clinic

“Even with vaccines people get typhoid like illness. This sounds like that.” Dang, I knew it. I thought, staring at the e-mail.

I’d woken at 1:30 in the morning, my stomach gripped by painful spasms and spent the next 5 hours in and out of the bathroom. I can’t do this again. I’d been sick for the last week, but my symptoms had begun to improve. Now it was all back and even stronger than before. 

In between vomiting fits I’d managed to send an e-mail to the local expat doctor. At 8:30am I had an e-mail response with her suspicions confirming mine and instructions to get to the clinic for a blood test. 

Our driver licenses are still processing at the local police station so getting to the clinic wouldn’t be as simple as jumping in a car or on a moped. I texted an expat I thought might be able to take me. She responded that she could, but it would be later in the morning. Anxious for relief, I decided to make my own way to the clinic. I would walk to the main road, take a taksi to the bottom of the hill, and there hire a motorcycle to take me to the top where the clinic was. Easy.

I got dressed, filled my water bottle, and put on my back pack. I can do this. Ben and Isaiah prayed with me and I set out, only thinking of the medicine I needed to feel better.

I walked slowly to the main road and caught a taksi. So far so good. Getting out at the bottom of the hill near the clinic I looked for a motorcycle to hire. There were none. Perhaps if I walk up a little to the fork in the road I’ll find one. And I set out slowly.

The farther I walked, the more it became apparent there were no motorcycles to hire. Spotting some Papuan women, I asked for help. “You can’t get a motorcycle here” they told me. I thanked them and walked away in tears. The day was already heating up and what little strength I had was fading fast. I would not be able to walk up the 600ft hill to the clinic.

God! I prayed, because sometimes there just aren’t any other words.

At that moment a silver car turned the corner and my eyes met with the driver’s. It was an expat woman I did not know. Flagging her down I asked, “Are you going to the top? Can I have a ride to the clinic?” She smiled and let me in. Thank you, God! I silently prayed. 

I got out at the clinic and went in for the blood test. At the check-in desk a bright blue painting caught my eye. You can do all things through Christ who strengthens you, written in swirly cream letters. 

A half hour later it was confirmed; I had a bacterial infection similar to typhoid. I took the first double dose of antibiotics there in the clinic along with a deworming tablet for good measure. I wasn’t leaving anything to chance.

With no ride back down the hill I put one foot in front of the other, made it to the bottom, and caught a taksi home. Exhausted and again in tears, I took a cold shower and fell into a long sleep. 48 hours later my symptoms were nearly gone and even now I continue to improve.

Of course, it’s obvious that I should have waited a few additional hours for a ride to the clinic. I would have returned with much less stress on my body. Next time I will. 

But now I know a little what it must feel like for many who become ill without the luxury of transport. I understand a little better how much emotional strength and determination it takes just to reach a clinic.