Numbers or Letters?

We sat outside a small hut, on a mat the size of a modest area rug. We were at the home of Andire Demande, a dear friend of the Vanderkoois. Andire was blinded as a child from an epidemic that killed a majority of his generation at the time. His wife, newborn baby, and oldest daughter, Diane, sat with us as we asked about how planting the fields was going, how their baby was doing after a recent respiratory infection, and other village updates. Andire did most of the talking, and sometimes his wife would chime in, but Diane mostly just sat there quietly, scratching out pictures in the sand. The conversation eventually died down, and Diane Vanderkooi (it gets confusing, sorry) took the opportunity to talk to Andire's daughter. She was 11 years old and had not had the chance to go to school, since she leads her father around so he can plant his fields. She was still scratching the sand with a stick drawing shapes and different pictures, when Diane Vanderkooi asked her if she knew how to write her name. She looked down sheepishly and responded that she did not - she had never seen her name written. She didn't know what it looked like. Diane Vanderkooi took her finger, and began drawing the shapes of the letters in the sand, sounding out the letters and explaining how to draw them each. The girl just giggled - what funny looking pictures! Diane prompted her to try, and after quite a bit of encouragement, she timidly carved out the letters, each one under the one Diane wrote, studying them intently. I wished that somehow that moment could be etched in my mind, forever with me as I see a girl marvel at the name she has been given, seeing it for the first time in the warm sand of central Africa. 

I am frequently asked what I did while I was in Chad. What the Vanderkoois do in Chad. What we accomplished while I was there. Often it seems that as well-meaning of a question it is, I am supposed to come back with numbers - how many people were treated at the clinic, how many people heard the message of Jesus, how many people accepted Christ. All these are good things, and I can supply you with those from the ministry that God is doing through Mark and Diane Vanderkooi in Tchaguine. 

But... 

I think sometimes it is good to look back and remember the letters. The brief moment when a girl who lives in a culture that would deem her insignificant, was invested in, even in such a small way as showing her how to write her name. The times outside the Vanderkoois' house where the kids would teach me words out of the Kwong Bible stories. The countless times when small, sandy hands poked at each letter of the alphabet, then at the picture beneath it that started with that letter. The reading classes with the women after church, where we would struggle together, letter by letter, to read God's word in Kwong. The times I sought to decipher the words on the clinic "carne" (a small booklet of the individual's medical records) of an ill friend, not being able to make sense of the medicines all written in French. None of these instances count as something that was on my "to-do list" in Chad, and I don't have any numbers to bring back to you besides maybe the number of games of Uno I lost to kids half my age. No, I can't show you much in the way of numbers, but it's all the letters that make up the story of my time there and how God continued to write my story in the context of a beautiful culture. 

Oh! That reminds me of... never mind.

I'm in the stage of processing where everything in America somehow reminds me of Chad.

The blistering heat.
Singing songs at InterVarsity.
Drinking hot tea.
Walking to class.
Bacterial Pathogenesis.
Endocrinology.
Fuzzy socks.
Church.
Doing laundry.
Doing my hair.
Eating ice cream.
Drinking Coke.
Eating Pringles.
Walking into Walmart.
Sunday school with 4th and 5th graders.
Killing spiders in my apartment.
Drinking milk.
Reading.
Taking pictures.

Anyways, there are a lot more, but every time something reminds me of Chad, I get this urge to tell someone about it, to have them share in the memory with me.

Too bad no one else was there.

What is Poverty?

When I was in Tchaguine, I met a 40 year old woman named Masana. She hadn't eaten solid food or drank much of anything for 4 months. Her family kept her in the hut while she practically rotted away from a disease that no one cared to treat. When Diane and I went to visit her, it was much too late to restore her physical health. But as we sat there, flies swarming, the smell of months of urine seeping through the grass mat, Masana was living in what was closest to hell you could get on earth. We prayed with her, Diane read stories from the Bible to her, and she acknowledged (as much as anyone who is half-dead can) that Jesus is the Savior.

Yesterday, I was at my uncle's retirement party. The food was great, and there was such an abundance that the waiters and waitresses would come around and pick up the empty plates as people went up to get more food. As I sat there, looking down at my mashed potatoes, fried chicken, pasta and breadsticks, Masana flashed into my mind. In that moment I realized something. We were living in what was closest to heaven as you could get on earth, but some people in the room may not ever accept Jesus.

So who is poor?

From whom much has been given...

This trip has made me keenly aware of the privileges I have. I am one of few who can say that I have grown up in a country with a beautiful Christian heritage, with access to an education, financial freedom to pursue that education, and a supportive and loving family behind me in the process. I have been given intelligence and the ability to excel in classes. I have been given good health and freedom from mental illness. So what? How am I going to steward these gifts and blessings?
Before going to Chad, I was seriously considering not applying to medical school. I was considering at least taking a year off (which isn't bad at all... still considering it in the back of my mind), rethinking the whole medical career. It wasn't until this trip that I realized my true underlying motivations for wanting to back out of something I have been passionate about since I was 5.
I am deathly afraid of failure.
Through this trip, I have realized that I not only have all these privileges, but I have a sovereign God who works for my good, who delights in my work, and who wants me to walk by faith, not by sight. He has given me a passion for medicine, and I am going to trust that He is going to use that passion in me.
So from now on, I'm not going to fear.
I'm not going to do schoolwork half-hearted.
I'm not going to cringe at medical school applications.
I am going to pursue excellence in my classes.
I am going to ask God for wisdom and perseverance, and let Him guide me through the rest of my education.
And I am going to rejoice and thank Him for everything he has given me.

Her Name was Kuyom

She was 7 years old. She came to our VBS that we were doing, just a mini-skirt, and nothing else on. She was a cutie. Her dad, Capitan, is a good friend of the Vanderkoois. She died today, after being sick only since Sunday.
We went to the compound where the koo kina mati was going on, about an hour after she died. They hadn't wrapped the body yet or buried it. All the men were sitting outside the compound, and all the women were gathered around the family and the body, weeping and wailing. Capitan is currently in nursing school in the capital, so when he got the call that his daughter was ill he headed home, but he didn't make it back in time. His other children were wailing, crying for their dad. This scene happens all too often, and since I have been in Chad, I have been to 3 koo kina matis, and there have been several other deaths as well. Last weekend, 3 infants died within a few hours of each other. I went to visit a lady named Masana who will probably die soon. On the way to visit those who are sick, I meet more who are ill.
How long, oh Lord? How long until you redeem the earth? Until there are no more tears?

It's a Boy!

Yesterday I thought I would stop by the clinic, just to say hi to the workers and see if there was anything going on. Much to my surprise, there was a girl, probably 16 or 17, who had just gone into labor and was about to deliver her first baby. Epaphras, the nurse at the clinic, shooed me in the way of the baby birthing room, and soon enough I was standing next to the girl and her mother, fanning her to keep the flies off as she went into labor. I can honestly say it was one of the most surreal experiences I've had since being in Chad. I don't know that I would have guessed that I would be cheering on a  girl, most likely 5 years younger than me, while she brings her first baby into the world.
Most women don't name their babies until about a month later, when they are sure it will survive for a while at least. Especially with their first child, the chances of surviving are not all that great. Many times, if you ask someone how many children they have, they will say how many are living and how many have died, and in my experience there are usually 2 or 3 (sometimes more) that have died, unless the person is really lucky. A lot of this can be easily prevented, a lot of it they have the resources for, and I haven't even scratched the surface of understanding how healthcare works in this culture. One thing I do know is that everyone here has confronted death. They process it. They take time to grieve. And I have learned a lot from their perspective.

What Can I Give?

Confession: I came to Tchaguine with the expectation that I was going to serve, to give, to teach, to pray for, and to bless the people here. I realize now that I overestimated what I have to give, and underestimated what they would share with me. The people here serve me so well. The children give me mud and clay models of cows, nomads, horses, and other pieces of artwork. Everyone I'm around helps teach me about the language, the culture, their perspective on God and his creation. I have had 3 Chadians tell me that they pray for me every day, that I would learn the language and that God would keep me safe and healthy while I'm here. Many people have come by to visit, to pray for me, to just welcome me to Tchaguine. I have never felt more blessed.
God is already here, and he doesn't need me to save his world. He does delight in his children serving and loving each other though, and I have seen that so clearly during my time here in the village. The church, the people, the songs, none of it is the same, but the people here are recognized as disciples of Christ by their love for one another.

Say What?

Something I have come to love about the Kwong people is how they use language to illustrate their thoughts and feelings. I have been learning basic Kwong from Luk, one of the pastors at the Kwong church here and one of Mark and Diane's good friends. Although I can understand a decent amount of what people are saying now, sometimes I get thrown for a loop. The language has a rich use of idioms, and a lot of times they make no sense to my western mind as to what they mean. One, for instance, that I learned while sitting in on the translation of the book of John, is the phrase for "eternal God" in Kwong. In order to say that God is eternal, the Kwong say "he sits with his eyes". Similarly, when translating that someone is still alive, the Kwong would say "he still has his eyes". There is always an exception though. In the book of John, there is a story of a man who comes to Jesus to ask him to heal his son who is sick at home. Jesus tells him to go home and that his son will be well. As he is on his way home, his servants meet him and say, "your son is alive". In Kwong, instead of saying "he still has his eyes", apparently in this case "he still has his mouth". Don't ask me why, and they won't give you a reason either, but little things like that are why Mark and Diane never translate without the help of at least 2 Chadians. Another interesting fact is that, even though the Kwong language has significantly less words, the book of Luke in English is 25,000 words, and the book of Luke in Kwong is 40,000 words.
Sometimes there are words in English that don't quite have a good translation in Kwong, but other times there is just the word. For instance, in recent past the Kwong had a tradition that when a child was sick, they would bring a goat, rest the child's forehead on the goat, then kill the goat (sounds a little bit like the old testament, huh?). That word, kilinye, is about as close as you get in Kwong to the word "atonement" in English. It probably actually means more to the Kwong since they still witness animals and goats being killed on a regular basis. It brings the atonement of Christ's blood to life in a way that the Kwong understand.
Another neat thing in the Kwong language is that there are phrases or sounds that can be added in that don't translate to anything in English, but give the preceding sentence or phrase a certain meaning. For instance, when saying it is lightning, the Kwong say "Kumoyn bilaayye bic bic" which translates directly to "God made it flash, beech beech". Another one that you hear a lot is "krabb krabb krabb" which is added when something is done "just so" or very exactly. Depending on the emphasis intended, it could be repeated 4 or 5 times, very rapidly. Another one is if you don't forgive someone very quickly, you "let your stomach cool off, oyn oyn". No idea what that means. It throws me off guard because usually the sounds have an extra emphasis and they don't follow the phonological patterns of the rest of the language, and sometimes they can sound very funny to an English-speaker's ears. All the same, I don't think I will learn very many while I'm here, but it is fun to hear them in conversation.

Welcome to the 21st Century...

When we have the time, Diane and I take walks out to the bush. On Saturday, we took a walk to go see some nomads who had settled down on the other side of the airstrip that borders the edge of the village. Nomads are almost all Arabic, and Diane knows some Arabic so we were hoping to get to talk to them and hopefully see the inside of one of their tents. As we walked past a few of the tents, some kids came out and talked to Diane. They were real friendly, and we wished we had brought our cameras since it seemed like they would maybe let us come and sit down. While we were still talking though, all of a sudden I hear a "click" and one of the nomads had pulled out their cell phone and had taken a picture of US! Well. Welcome to the 21st century. Even nomads in the bush in Chad have cell phones that can take pictures.
We took a walk today also, past the nomads and out to the peanut and rice fields that the Kwong people cultivate at the beginning of the rainy season. We stopped to say hi to a man that was cutting down trees and bushes, preparing a place to have a rice field. We talked to him for a bit, found out where there were more people planting, and walked on... and while we were walking, I hear another "click". The man's son had pulled out his phone and had taken a picture of us as well.
Diane and I do a VBS on Fridays for the kids in Tchaguine, and last Friday was the first lesson. Before we started, we were just playing with the kids outside the church, and one of them came up, pulled a phone out of his pocket, and took a picture of me. I motioned to see the picture, and when he turned it around, I realized it actually wasn't a real phone, but a phone that he had made out of clay, and he had conveniently stuck a picture of a very cheesy looking white person where the screen was meant to be! Chadians apparently really get a kick out of the way us Americans look!

What to post...

There has been so much that has gone on since I left almost two weeks ago, and although I have journaled about much of it, it is hard to determine just what to post on a blog. That being said, I'll give an overview in this first post of what all I have been doing, give some prayer requests, and maybe give some shorter stories in more detail as I have time later to post.
I arrived in N'Djamena on June 11th and stayed there a day with Mark and Diane, my hosts, while we got my visa registration figured out and did some last minute shopping before packing up for Tchaguine. They do their grocery shopping for 6 months twice a year, since the local market in Tchaguine doesn't have a lot of the essentials. We packed up on Thursday and made the 7 hour trip to Tchaguine, stopping by the koo kina mati (funeral) of a pastor in a neighboring village on the way. There was another koo kina mati going on next door to us when we arrived at Mark and Diane's home in Tchaguine - funerals here are much different than ones in America. Chadians entering the compound of the deceased person's family will start wailing loudly, laying on the grave, weeping, spitting, singing songs about the person. It is definitely an eye-opening experience for a North American. Then, the family of the deceased person serves the visitors tea - I actually saw a few ladies get very angry and start shouting at the family because they never got their tea....
Once I got settled in, we took walks around the village, met some people, and went to the church service on Sunday. I got sick Sunday night and spent Monday and Tuesday sick, but was able to start language learning on Wednesday. One of the Chadian men, Luke, comes over every day at 8am and helps me learn the language for 2 hours. I have picked it up pretty well so far, so I hope to be able to make some conversation by the end of my time here.
There is plenty more to share, but for now I will close with some prayer requests:
 - That the Chadian church would continue to grow and flourish
 - That Mark and Diane would continue to lean on Christ and draw strength from him as they do ministry here.
 - That I would stay in good health and that I would continue to adjust well to the high temperature and humidity.
 - That I would make some friendships here in the village and be able to learn more about the culture here in Tchaguine through the Chadian people.
 - That I would continue to discern whether missions is a good fit for me in the future.