On Uncertainty (and Stink Bugs)

We have two problems at the Stock Household: 1) a recent major disappointment coupled with personal uncertainty and 2) a stink bug infestation. Let me start with the latter.

Stink bugs, according to my limited research, seek refuge inside homes while the weather is colder. They come into window cracks and fireplaces, fly around into walls and lamp shades for a day or two and then flip over and die...usually in the areas of the house where I am most prone to step on them in bare feet. Lydia loves to catch these stink bugs in her new critter catcher. She "feeds" them grass and allows them a plastic snake to "play with", then releases them into the wild (or the siding next to the windows of our house).

Onto the other more complicated, less containable problem. Some sweet friends and co-workers are not being allowed back in. There is no reason. For them, no goodbye hugs. Not even the closure of packing up their own home. We grieve and worry. And we can't help but thinking about us.

Surely we know God is in control. Surely uncertainty is something we live with and maybe, in very mature moments, embrace. But I don't like this getting so real, so close. I don't like breaking news like this to my kids.

We told the girls on Monday that their friends (four kids...like cousins to them) will not be back "home" when we go back. They won't be coming back. We might not see them again...at least for a very long time.

At first, there was crying and questions. Quickly, there was anger. Lydia didn't want to be hugged or consoled. She was on the defense. There was a wall put up. It was small, a six-year-old wall; but I could see it.

She ran to her critter catcher, at that time home to a rescued stink bug. She hugged the cage. "I'm never letting you go."

Now, my daughter was clinging for control, for stability...and yes, it was a stink bug. Isn't that exactly (minus stink bug...plus other distraction/relationship/organized kitchen spice cupboard) what I do? My wall is much bigger with plenty of bricks. Yet I suppose a coping mechanism is never too silly as long as we can quickly see the futility of it.
There has been a lot of conversation about stink bugs and Jesus at our house this week.

Cages cannot hold Him. A tomb could not keep Him. But He will never let us go. 

Swans are "Bad Guys" (and other things we learned in Mississippi)

It seems like everyone knows geese will hiss at you or maybe even give you a little nip on the arm if you get too close. But I have never known a swan to wrestle a six-year-old.

Two swans had come to the edge of the lake. I thought, what a perfect opportunity to go up and see them. My three girls and our hostess Becky walked up to these beautiful birds. By the way, swans are HUGE. Just a side note. We were a generous 10 feet away when out lunged one of the swans! He grabbed Lydia's t-shirt and (I'm not kidding) would not let go. Lydia, of course, screams and falls to the ground while the relentless swan beats his wings. Whilst holding Isabella (also screaming) and securing Molly (also screaming) I begin to kick the swan. Yes, I kicked the swan...hard. But I swear that bird did not care. He's just holding and flapping and my poor little Lydia is understandably freaked out. Finally, (probably about 5 seconds into this ordeal) Becky...sweet, grandma of five, gentile Southern Becky...grabs the swan's neck and wrestles it to the ground (again, not kidding). She pries him loose, rolls to the grass and the swan swims away. 

Lydia has some serious bruising on her legs and wounded feelings about swans in general. This is the same girl who had a juice box stolen from her hand by a monkey. She continues to LOVE animals, but I'm a little anxious about the petting zoo. 

Other things we learned in Mississippi this past week:

1. A gift is called a "happy". We received a "happy" of BBQ sauce and gave a "happy" as a hostess gift. I like it. Made me happy.

2. Mississippi has a funny and catchy state song. Google it. 

3. Roads are bad. Food is good. I'm willing to drive to the restaurants. I think that shows my economy of the situation. 

4. Mississipians make fun of Louisiana. Like Georgians make fun of Alabama. But we all know we are all just Southerners. 

5. Famous pottery made from MS mud is coveted...but genuinely cool. The Georgia red clay market is wide open as far as I'm concerned. 

Redundant

"Are we there yet?"

The great American road trip, this week in Mississippi, isn't the most fun thing. We've been in America for a month and our kids are just plain bored with the wide open spaces: grass, suburbs, parking lots, the back of the mini van.

We do get to see friends, meet new people and see new places. That's fun. There are new sleep-over spots, cereal choices and playgrounds in new cities. But for all that "new", there is certainly a lot of redundancy. Back in the car. Back on the highway. And where are all the people, the cows, the cars? Where's the "what in the world are they carrying on that motorbike?" and "Did you see that?"?

I admit, compared to the chaos and crowded streets we are used to, America is boring. It's cruise-control-redundant.

And so here I am missing the things I never thought I would: the traffic, the crowds, the chaos. Am I crazy with nostalgia? Maybe. But maybe that's one of the things I have come to love about living in a city with millions, surprising variety and frustrating inconsistency. We never grow bored (and on the flip side, never completely comfortable) with the everyday.

With all this travel, the questions from the backseat get redundant. Even a trip to the grocery store is boredom inducing. I'd like to say I'm patiently comforting my children with every "How many more minutes? This seems like FOREVER!" that comes my way, but I am not. The best I usually do is, "I know kiddo. Try to be patient."

[Here's where I compare God with chaos and traffic]

During one of these trips, my mind wandered into wondering if this is how I go about my relationship with God....zooming past on cruise control, from point A to point B. When I living out my week I get bored. In between events or moments or experiences, I wonder, "Are we there yet?"

So I wonder, does God have to jazz it up a little? Throw in a couple of ridiculous typos to catch my attention? A cow. Five people on one motorcycle. Blue chickens (seriously saw this one time)?


The problem, however is not God. Nor was it Mississippi on our road trip or the fact that in America, you have to drive across vast parking lots just to buy a non-blue chicken. The problem is [every Reformed pastor's favorite zinger] me. Here I go, zooming past. Getting bored. Thinking this living and active and amazing God is redundant. I reinvent Him. I jazz Him up. But mostly I wait impatiently (not eagerly) and wastefully. And I do it over and over again, redundant as the Spirit of the Living God makes mercies new every morning. I don't live in Him the way He invites me to do...starring out the window, asking around "Did you see that?" and falling more and more in love with all that He is.

Lizards and Mermaids

Two homes. Two parties. 

Lydia turned 6 the week we crossed the ocean to visit America. Why not have two parties? She picked the themes. 

Party One: Lizards. We invited friends and neighbors (25 kids!) to our house decorated with green balloons, streamers and toy lizards. We had a story time ("Alexander and the Wind-Up Mouse"...don't worry, a magic lizard makes a crucial cameo). We picked up "bugs" with straws in our mouths and made a craft. 

 

Party Two: The grandparents planned like we had invited those 25 kids over for a mermaid party. In fact, it was simply our family. Lydia got to dress as a mermaid for sweet time with her aunts, uncles and grandparents. Grandma's sunroom turned into the ocean. 

Mermaid Princess. Lizard Lover. This little girl turned 6 in style. 

What's it like?

"So, what's it like there?"

The most general question. And I'm about to hear it thousands of times. I know the heart behind it. I love the genuine interest. But I really hate answering that question.

We are leaving this home and headed to that home in a week. Packing, cleaning, visiting, goodbye-ing and lots of day-dreaming. How will I answer? What is this place like? I have a tragic lack of pictures, but I want to give a few answers. Why not try?

What's it like here?

It's hot, most of the time. Sometimes, I say it's freezing...when it's more like 65 degrees. My body has gotten used to it.
It's dirty and polluted. Trash is everywhere. Water is something I'm in fear of (what's in it?!). I should dust everyday. I wash my feet before bed. I notice when I smell grass because every other smell (diesel, trash burning, sewage) is all kind of normal.
It's vibrant. Color is everywhere. Saris and dump trucks and slum houses and milk packets are bright, multi-colored. The tropical climate makes things grow. Coconut trees and passion fruit vines, bananas and mangoes. Women sweep the streets (with their stick brooms) daily to gather up flowers the trees have dropped. What if they didn't sweep up the petals? Would we be covered in flowers by now?
It's dark. Idols, calls to worship, corruption, detailed criminal accounts. Abuse, intolerance and disdain on faces...creeping into my heart (out of my heart?).
People are everywhere. I always here people talking or working. The noise of a car or a pressure cooker. There are no quiet moments. There is no searching for a fellow traveler. There is always someone there.
It's quirky, frustrating, funny, endearing, infuriating. A lot depends on the mood. The store will be out of something but they always promise it will be there tomorrow. It won't be. But maybe later. And when I buy it, the clerk will not have change. There is never change. So he'll give me 3 rupees worth of candy. The candy is not good. And even though it's 3 rupees, it can make me mad. Or it can make me smile (because my kids don't have refined candy palates).
I saw 4 young men riding on two motorcycles today side by side passing back an wall-mount phone. What was that about?
Oxen pull carts. So do men. A cart may contain carpets, pots, garlic (just piles of garlic!) or any number of things for sale. A man comes by twice daily to deliver chai to security guards, maids, and others. Another man comes to call for newspaper recycling.
The electricity goes out often. The meetings always start late. Snacks and cold drinks are easy to come by.
My kids take baths in buckets, say "garden" when they mean "yard", take off their shoes automatically when entering a house, rejoice over imported cereal and occasionally bobble their heads.

Is that enough? No, I suppose not. What's it like here? "It's like that only." It's like home. It's not. And maybe I shouldn't be in dread of that question. Easy answers are not that interesting. 

Poor Little Stump

"What is that?"

Things like this don't usually stick out anymore. We drive by, shop next to and eat near obviously-worshiped things here everyday. But we were stuck in traffic. To one side sat this stump. One of the girls asked why it was decorated. For Christmas? Is it painted? Who painted it? What is that anyways?

It's a stump. I'm guessing from a banyan tree. 

Next to a parking lot of a sports store, across the street from a mall sits this pergola (?!) enshrining, or at least sheltering, this remains of a tree. It's wrapped and painted. It's garlanded and streamered (sometimes you just have to make up words). It's worshiped. "Poor little stump," said Molly. 

That stump cannot give life. In fact, it's not even a full tree. It cannot grow anew. But Molly's comment reminded me of the passage in Scripture we had been reading this Advent. 

"There shall come forth a shoot from the stump of Jesse, and a branch from his roots shall bear fruit. And the Spirit of the Lord shall rest upon him..." Isaiah 11:1-2

It stuck in my mind because we had to explain to the girls what a stump was, and why it is so miraculous for a shoot to grow out of it. A failed, broken family tree...cut down...and in God's providence, the tree grows anew. Same root. Same history. But now we can see life. And not just a boy to continue to the line, the family name. But a Savior, a branch that will carry many shoots. A tree that will include all that are His. Here we can grow and rest. 

"In that day the root of Jesse, who shall stand as a signal for the peoples- of him shall the nations inquire, and his resting place shall be glorious." Isaiah 11: 10

Let us not worship the stump. Let us come to the Branch, the Giver of Life!

Why I Am Not a Feminist

This was the title of a little article in the "Times" here last week. It caught my eye and I did something I rarely do: read the entire article (not just the headline). It wasn't long. It wasn't deep or even very well-written. But the writer, a local humor-writer "Mrs. FunnyBones"...yes, that's her pen-name, caught me off guard.

In my naivete, I supposed this to be a piece on the equality of women while rejecting the lies of feminism: that women can and should do anything a man can and should do, that there is no difference in design or role or desire between the genders, that a woman has a right "over her own body" (and therefore to end any other life within her body) and is defined by her "sexual liberation". A good many books have been written on these sad assumptions and agendas of feminism. I have been shaped by them and their call back to Biblical womanhood and away from the culture's guise of "women's rights". I don't know why I thought Mrs. FunnyBones would fall in line with these books. Like I said, I was naive.

The article basically tells of the writer declaring to her (pink-haired, single, feminist) friend, "I am no longer a feminist". Shock and awe ensues. The accusations and "How could you?"s fly. And Mrs. FB quickly gives some statistics about women's IQ out-ranking men and studies showing women's brain-processing speeds higher than men. This, and her own experience as a woman of course, has given her reason to believe not only are women equals with men, but superior to men. The pink-haired friend calms down. They laugh knowingly...to themselves.

And I put down the paper, looking at my three girls at the breakfast table. I'm disappointed.

Because I'm not a feminist. But unlike this writer, and I suppose the vast majority of women, I have different reasons. I believe in the equality of men and women. All people are made in the image of God, male and female, old and young and unborn, healthy and sick. Women are worth just as much to God and should be treated with the same respect (paid the same for the same job, for example) as men. Yet, women are not superior. Since when did IQ tests prove that anyways? Is this what personhood is based on?

It's going to be an exhausting battle if that is what women are fighting for, to prove they are as-smart-as, as-strong-as, as-emotionally-unattached-as, as-liberated-as, etc any man. I am not a feminist because I am not fighting to show my value in IQ, multi-tasking, job performance or argument. I see what God has designed and what He has declared about His creation. And I will declare that, fight for it, to myself and those around me. This is not the feminist agenda. It is the gospel. It is good news to the oppressed and liberating to those held captive by cultural bias but also captive to their own identity-proving treadmill.

I could write extensively about this...many more paragraphs about my non-feminism. But it's late. And I have to get up early to proclaim the beauty of the gospel to three little girls. I get to show them their beauty and worth in God's eyes and mine. I point them away from earning favor or value and towards resting in what Christ has done for them, calling them His own. I have the privilege of unmasking the lies of this world that say "If you really want to be somebody you have to be _____". And I get to be their mom. Not a superior-than-their-dad sort of mom. Not super-mom or anti-feminist mom or purpose-less mom. I get to love and hold and fail and repent and sing and care for them. And I hope one day they say, "That is one reason I am not a feminist."

Short People

I'm 5'4". I am pretty sure this is on the shorter end of American height. But here, I feel like what my tall friends must have been feeling all along. Put me in a crowd of local women and I'll stick out...for many reasons...one being my towering five feet four inches! I'm even taller than a lot of men I know.

You don't really notice the height difference between our countries until you
1) are in a crowded elevator and are asked to reach above everyone else's heads to push the buttons,
2) easily find your husband in the dark, in the middle of a festival, on an extremely crowded street,
3) are asked to be in a group picture...back row please, or



4) your three-year-old easily reaches the sink in the public bathroom. "Mommy, it's Molly-size!"

Should I break it to her that this country was not made just for her? That her stature will soon surpass her friends and neighbors?

Maybe not just yet. It's fun being short...just like everyone else. 

Starfruit

Bet you didn't know this.

It's starfruit season. 

Rejoice for a little while, but then remember that no one actually likes starfruit. It's bitter and weird.

No one likes it....except perhaps Teresa's daughter. She spent 5 rupees (15 cents) a few weeks ago at a street food stall for some pickled starfruit with chilies (note: in my opinion, this does not improve the taste of said starfruit). Well, Teresa put a stop to her daughter's flagrant spending. But you know us moms. We'll do crazy things to make our kids happy.

So here's how you get to Teresa reaching over our balcony with my kids' butterfly net to snag a few starfruit. It was great fun for all. Plus we got about 30 bitter, unpalatable starfruit. Teresa's daughter was thrilled. She pickled them and added plenty of chili.












The best thing we use it for is stamping crafts.

Aunties and Uncles

"When you're here, you're family." So, says Olive Garden. I don't like to dwell on American restaurants with amazing salads and breadsticks.......for too long.....but I think their little slogan is true of the community here. Not the country as a whole, no. But I feel like we are really becoming good friends, like family, with so many people here.



A cool family thing about here is that kids call any adult older than them "Uncle"or "Auntie". For my American readers, here's the formula:

For people you know: Name+Uncle/Auntie (Manoj Uncle)
For people you don't know: (just) Uncle/Auntie
For people you don't know and are not addressing but want to talk about: Descriptive Adjective+Uncle/Auntie (Ironing Auntie, Fish Seller Uncle, Big Mustache Uncle)
This also applies to adults referring to older adults with respect. It can backfire though. Once a twenty-something called me "Auntie"....









Anyways, my kids have this formula down. It's normal life for them to interact with uncles and aunties every day. Kids, in general, seem to "get" community and welcoming quicker than I ever do. I love this part about being here. They learn to enjoy being with Brian and I as we interact with adults. We do most social things as a family, with other families. We have people in our home and are welcomed into other homes.

Of course, that means Brian and I are "Uncle and Auntie" to some kiddos here too. I, uh...don't know how that is going to turn out. :) 

Molly Turns 3

When you turn three and want a "painting chicken mermaid party" you get an "under the sea" party! There's a limit to birthday theme choices.

She wanted a craft. She wanted a chocolate cake with a crab and fish on it. She wanted a sign for the door, storytime and hot dogs cut in the shape of an octopus. We delivered. Because you know, it's fun to make this little girl happy. 

We made jellyfish out of paper cups. My friend, somehow, made this amazing cake! Lydia and I created a sign for the door. We read "The Singing Mermaid" to a riveted audience of children. I even made octopus-ish looking creatures out of hot dogs. Thank you pinterest. Nailed it. 

Also, we managed to unknowingly introduce a few friends to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (I called them peanut butter and jellyfish...ha!). I was tempted to take credit for this flavor combination, but alas I confessed it was the most popular un-glamorous sandwich in America. 

So, we made Molly happy. She does her share of making us happy every day. I'm supposed to say "I can't believe she's three!" but I can. Because, truthfully it feels like our family is a family with Molly. And it's only been three years since she came along. To think, only three years that we've had this daughter who loves to help, makes up silly songs and lights up a room. What a privilege and joy!

Maybe next year we'll do the "painting chicken mermaid party".