Both of my roommates work on an island camp for girls during the summer, so I only see them once a week. Other than their days off, I’m living alone for the first time in my life. It stinks.

First, I miss them because I love having people in my home. It’s not in my DNA to desire loneliness or seclusion. I grew in the womb with another human being and I don’t think that God created man to have an entire apartment to himself.

Second, I miss the accountability I have with them; especially in the morning. While I do enjoy getting in the shower and not stress out about who’s getting in next and if there will be enough hot water, running those questions through my mind in the morning helped get me out of bed. It’s also much quieter around here than it used to be in the mornings. So:

no shower stress + no roommates waking you up with the sound of coffee grinders = sleeping through your alarm.

Not only does living alone not suit my personality, but it also makes it very easy for me to ignore my alarm and wake up an hour later. Last week I slept through my alarm twice, each time waking up when I needed to be at work. This isn’t a good habit for me to be in, so I need to come up with some creative ways to get myself out of bed in the morning.

If you come up with anything, please let me know. For now, I’ve come up with this:

Meet Clocky. His description from his manufacturers:

If you’ve ever had trouble waking up with a regular alarm clock, it’s time to meet Clocky! Clocky is the uniquely designed mobile alarm clock that is guaranteed to get you on your feet. It gives you one chance to get up, but if you snooze, Clocky will jump off of your nightstand and wheel around your room looking for a place to hide. Extremely athletic, Clocky can jump from as high as three feet and maneuver over both carpet and hardwood flooring with ease. Features include a range of snooze settings, early low battery warning and the option to disable the wheels. Mischievous and loud, Clocky is both hands-down adorable and surprisingly effective – give it a chase and see! Screen flashes when beeping/running Alarm beeps in random pattern.

If anyone is interested in funding my ability to get up in the morning, you can go here.

Right now, we’ve got two maps hanging in our room; a world map and a map of the USA. One day, while gazing at the globe on our wall, she says to me, “It’s my goal to know all the countries of the world and where they are.” Mainly, because her heart truly lies in the nations of the world and what the Lord is doing through missions, but secondarily because that sort of knowledge would be really cool. At least to me.

So I seconded her statement and made it my own.

I found a blank map so we could practice filling it in (I gave up much sooner that she did the first time around) and I found this game:

I highly recommend playing; it’s educational and incredibly addicting. Tumaini and I will sometimes sit at our perspective computers and race to see who could get the highest score in the shortest amount of time. She always wins.

So my dear friend, when you get around to reading this post, this is for you:

Let’s start memorizing this right away.

• Went to church, and said goodbye to a family whom I’ve grown quite fond of these past 3 years.
• Played laser tag with the youth group, and ate really bad pizza.
• Watched The Count of Monte Cristo with Tumaini. I just finished the book last week and was really looking forward to the movie. I was sorely disappointed. Sorely.
• Slept in.
• Made breakfast for a good friend.
• Laundry.
• Ate lunch with Tumaini and made plans to work on the Tapawingo CD.
• Broke the floor.

Yes, you read that correctly. While we were cleaning up from lunch we heard a loud BOOM with corresponding floor vibrations. Tumaini says, “it felt like the time a tree fell on the lean-to I was sleeping in.” So we immediately ran outside to see if a tree had fallen on the house. To be honest, I was more concerned about my car being crushed, but we didn’t see anything wrong with the exterior of the house. By that time our downstairs neighbors had told us the sound had come from above them, and they were concerned that one of us or something had fallen. For us, the sound came from below or outside; we did the math and figured either something had indeed fallen (not the case) or something was up with the floor.

The floor in the kitchen had a new creak in it, so upon further inquiry (walking back and forth, shifting weight in the area; all very scientific) we found that our floor is broken. See below.

It’s hard to see, but the black line is where the shadow should be lying. The red line is where it is lying. For now it doesn’t seem like a huge deal, but because of the decibel level of the BOOM we’re concerned and following through with the proper maintenance men.

There’s never a dull moment here…

I was nervous.

It’s not every day that you have the privilege of moving in with someone respectable and godly enough to hold that sort of position; director of an all-girls Christian camp. I didn’t want to mess up.

Over the months, living with this amazing woman broke down many barriers in my heart. Her constant desire to be my friend, and all-consuming love for the Lord taught me so much about life. Amidst all the lessons I was learning that first year out of college and being truly away from everything I had ever called home, some of the biggest lessons I learned were in her failures.

The first few weeks of living here, I had built up this ideal of perfectionism in my mind and she just happened to be living with me. Now, I knew she wasn’t perfect, but my actions and thoughts spoke differently. I was living the lie that she was, and that was to be my example to follow.

I really don’t remember when I came to the realization that she wasn’t perfect but when I finally did, I came to appreciate my roommate even more. She was and is who she says she is; a sinner saved by grace, trying to please the Lord in all that she does. She has done so much for me, but the biggest gift she had given me was her example. Through that example, I have learned that my life needs to be lived without masks, it needs to be lived plainly for all to see, and that a heart for the Lord can be the most contagious thing ever.

So, now that my dear friend is moving away, I thought it appropriate to share this. And if I give all the credit of these lessons and her character to her, she’ll kill me.

So, Miss Angie, I truly do thank the Lord for the work He’s done in your life. In observing His sanctifying power in your life, He has also taken the time to mold me towards Christ-likeness. And that is a legacy that will not be forgotten.

I promise to pray for you and Mike (see here and here) as you brave The Great White North for the first time together, and I doubly promise to come visit.

When I walked into my house that evening prior to dinner my roommate and I had an interesting conversation.

x: G, I won’t be home for dinner tonight.
g: Why?
x: I’m going to so-and-so’s house for dinner.
(As I walk away, she yells after me)
g: I don’t get you.
x: Why?
g: Your facial expressions never make sense.
x: That’s the point.
g: You just gave me a look like you were going to meet a boy.
x: Actually, I’m meeting so-and-so’s parents. The one’s who run that orphanage in Zambia, remember? I’m a bit nervous about it, so it’s kinda like I’m meeting a boy. Except I’m meeting Africa instead.
g: I don’t get you
x: That’s the point.

Dinner went very well. So-and-so’s parents are older, about the same age as my grandparents, so I immediately felt at home around them. They’ve lived in Africa for so long that their English has a very distinct “I don’t know where I’m from, but it’s not the states” accent and since my grandmother’s accent is very dutch it was like soul food in my ears. They are incredibly welcoming and loving. Their ministry in Zambia is incredible. On top of running the orphanage, they also run a school and a health clinic. They deal with witch doctors and semi-corrupt government officials. It all sounds so authentically African, as it should.

The night was filled with questions, stories and photos, and I walked away with more information than I could imagine. All of the questions one asks about how to get to their orphanage and what to bring were already written down for me. If I were to visit Zambia this fall most of the preliminary research is already done. How convenient.

Afterward, I got to thinking about that conversation I had with my roommate. My feelings prior to and during dinner were very much like the “I’m meeting a boy” feelings. There was something fantastically exciting about meeting African missionaries with the intention of figuring out part of my future on the continent.

At one point during dinner the question of husbands came up. Mrs. Africa was telling me how her and her husband met and I somehow ended up telling them my philosiphy on marriage. Surprise, surprise. I said something along the lines of, “As I sit here and look at these photos and hear your stories, everything is confirming to me that I need to go to Africa. I feel like discovering who I truly am lies in African relief work and I cannot imagine marrying a man whose heart isn’t in the same place.” Mrs. Africa loved that I said that, which I was glad for since saying such bold statements often gets me into trouble. I’m not necessarily saying that I won’t marry a man who isn’t already pursuing Africa. My heart is solely set on pursuing the Lord and what He has for me. I will marry a man who shares that heart. If the Lord calls us to Africa together, it will be because of the Holy Spirit’s work in our hearts. Until the day when I have to make decisions with my husband, I will pursue Africa.

Along with all the fears of being a misionary (potentially living in the bush, being incredibly poor, etc.), my very being feels at peace when I ponder the Lord’s work in Africa. At the same time, the calling I feel on my life to go over there puts me at a deep unrest. The idea that I may actually have a clue as to what I’m supposed to be doing with my life brings peace but frustration as well since I am not yet there. I am at a place where I can either walk in patience and honor the Lord with my attitude (since He is clearly calling me to wait) or I can live frustrated with life, Upstate NY and this endless winter.

I choose peace.

I know you’re all wondering if I’ll be going to Zambia this fall. I’m wondering that too. I’ve been praying for wisdom in that decision and feel that it must be made soon. I will be sure to let you all know when I find out. And after I tell my parents. They like hearing these things over the phone, not the web. In the meantime, you can continue to pray for me. Pray for wisdom and guidance and also for the strength to step out in obedience to the Word. I want to choose joy versus frustration. Thank you.

 She recently spent four months in Africa and is now spending a few months here at the hood, while preparing to move to Africa for an extended period of time. I’m so excited to be living with her because she’s such an example to me in so many ways. Once things calm down here (if things calm down) I think she’s going to help me learn Swahili. (-:

So I came home the other day, and she asked if she could read me something. As I sat and listened, her short story (can I call it that Age?) took me to places I can only dream of and at the same time reminded me so much of my home here. I asked her if I could “publish” it here. Please take the time to read it, I promise it will be well worth your time. I think it would also be neat and encouraging to Adrienne, if you could take some time and comment too. Who knows, maybe she’ll become a regular “guest” on my little slice of cyber-space.

She wrote this on Sunday, during a large snow storm.

 

Getting to church today was an adventure. Wrapped and smothered in layers, sporting the always fashionable skirt and boots combo, the routine began with brushing, then scraping, then shoveling the mounds of still accumulating snow off my car. The forecast had called for twelve to eighteen inches, and the sky was determined to get it all down as quickly as possible, and of course right at the moment when I desperately wanted to get to church, instead of any one of a number of other convenient times it could have picked. Rubbing my hands by the vents still blasting out icy air, I kicked the car into four wheel drive and managed to roll over the slight snowbank I was parked behind and inch onto the road.  If a car can meander, that’s what the pace was down the partially-plowed highway, and so as I settled back for the slow, cold ride I found myself thinking about another time I remember getting to church being an adventure:

            It was a perfectly sunny Sunday morning, one in which you wake up joyful and comfortable in the day and everything it might bring. A moment after that awakening thought, however, I remembered I was in Africa, thousands of miles from home, beginning my third week in a country that was as different from everything I’d ever known as possibly could be. The view outside our tent door was different, dressing for the day was different, breakfast was different, and getting to church would be, I knew, different. Still, it was Sunday, and somewhere in the magnitude of differences between cultures there is a precious commonality that brings us together on Sundays. And so with this hope we gathered to leave for church, and were met by a woman, probably young, but made older than her actual years by what life demands of young women in Africa. Her smile was ageless, though, and beautifully joy-filled. It was all she had to offer, understanding none of our language, and us very little of hers, and so she seemed to will it to burst forth from her face, that we might somehow read her welcome in it. She had brought her daughter, and someone explained that she was taking us to her husband’s church in one of the villages in the mountains above us. So we set off down a narrow dirt trail, which quickly ran into a river. We jumped from boulder to boulder, taking our flip-flops off to avoid slipping into the muddy waters below. On the other side the trail became practically indistinguishable, choked in brambles and weaving through trees. Several times, as the long skirt I hadn’t yet got accustomed to wearing got caught in a stray thorny branch and yanked me backwards, I wondered at the unswerving grace of the woman in front of me, who was no doubt accustomed to traveling to the extent of her known world by foot through these trails. The sun rose and began to beat on us, and still we walked, weaving up hills and past fields until finally, 45 minutes later, we arrived at church. An empty doorway and windows cut out of a building of red brick slightly larger than my college dorm room greeted us. Inside, a few beams lain across more bricks served as pews, instigating gratitude that very little time is spent sitting down during African church services. The setting was simple, no doubt, and the pastor a man who spent his weekdays building roofs for a living. Being only a pastor in this place would never be an option. As the first song began, however, and the praises of 15 voices swelled to sound like 30, it was if the walls fell away. This building was not the church, and they realized it. Suddenly I knew in so many ways I was the simple one. We worshiped together and then the children sang, the shuffling of their feet in rhythm and the pure joy in their voices and eyes coming together in a sound I will never forget. A sermon and a long series of greetings, as is always necessary, and we headed down the mountain again, following the pastor’s wife. It was now the middle of the day and the heat was relentless, but tears of humility stung my eyes as we reached camp, said goodbye, and she turned to make the 45 minute trek for her fourth time that day, undoubtedly rejoicing in the sacrifice, while I longed to tell her it was us who had been blessed in ways not quickly forgotten.

            Getting to church was an adventure, but not one I ever would have traded for the easier option, the option that will always be there. And so, two years and a world away from that Sunday, this morning’s slow snowy ride took me back, and I was humbled once again by realizing how quickly I am inconvenienced in my world of unbelievable ease. At church, worshiping with the few others who had braved the weather to come together, I felt again the commonality with my brothers and sisters in that red brick building. I felt renewed with the reminder of what the church is, and what it means, in this place, to be a part of the worldwide fellowship of believers. Sometimes we need a Sunday morning reminder to keep all things in proper perspective.