Dry Well

 We have had water problems here in our family for over a month now and could really use some rain as our well is dry. I am almost to the point of sending my kids out to try their hand at making a little rain for us.

 A re-post ~

I am not as qualified on this as my children are. My children were making rain long before I was even aware that it was possible to make rain. Silly me, I thought rain was only caused by the climate and certain events out of the control of mere humans. Later, I would find out that even young children can cause a storm!! Yes,and can also stop a storm!

My four children grew up on the banks of the Chajura River in the southern most part of the state of Bolivar in Venezuela. Right in the middle of the Amazon jungle. We say they grew up 'on the banks' of the river, but really, they 'grew up IN the river'.

We used the river for our water supply, it was our bath tub, our laundry, our kitchen sink! Each child would carry buckets of water up to the house several times a day. Even the youngest was given her own small bucket as soon as she was walking. It was a small plastic bucket which originally had chocolate milk powder in it. A Taco bucket. She was very proud of her own bucket!

All of my children swam like fish. Under water, against the current, climbing up slippery muddy banks. Slithering over wet mossy rocks. Climbing trees in search of vines to use to swing out over the river and jump from. This was all fine by me, but, in truth, I never learned to do much more than a glorified doggy paddle. My children felt so sorry for me! Luckily, their father was just as adept in the water as they were. This worked out well for me as I spent many an afternoon in peace as the children entertained themselves in the river.

After a few years living in the jungle, an old lady came up to the house very irate!  We  had a severe storm the night before and had seen the river rise overnight to the highest level anyone alive had ever witnessed. So high, in fact, that a few of the houses closest to the river had actually flooded. This 'nosamo', old grandmother, had awoken in the night to find the water up to the level of her hammock!!! And it was my children's fault!

She came to warn me of the dire events which my children were causing! My sweet innocent, fun loving children were changing the weather patterns. They were causing it to rain! I had mistakenly assumed the Rain Forest was so named due to the inevitable fact that it rained several months out of the year. But it seems, my children were causing it to rain more often and much harder than normal.

I needed to make them stop! I was taken aback, how could I stop my children from making rain????

The old grand mother, having given me the warning, turned and left me standing in awe of thepower and talent of my children! My children could make rain! I did not know how they managed to do this,  but, did they?

A few hours later, four wet, tired children made their way up from the river path, each with a bucket of water, which they emptied into the water barrel beside the house. I asked them,

"Do you know that you made it rain and flood last night?"

They looked sheepishly from one another, and I knew that they DID know how to make rain! And they had done it on purpose!

"So... you know that you are making rain?"

Four small heads nodded in agreement. How could I admit to them that they were so much more advanced than I. They not only knew they had made rain, they knew I did not know beans about it!

I warned them!

"Nosamo came by and said I have to make you all stop causing the rain! She was flooded out of her house last night!"

Four faces looked at me in complete belief.

"Well, what do you have to say for yourselves? You have to stop this rain making business, it bothers the people!"

Four innocent pairs of eyes, looking up at me... aw, shucks! Forget my pride!

"UM...how exactly do you make rain?"

Four mouths opened excitedly to share the details! It seems all you have to do to cause rain is to horseplay on the river too much at the wrong places! If you play around  too much, the river goddess gets angry! She will talk to the other spirits and will cause  a lot of rain!

My children knew this from talking  with the other children. But, the favorite rock to climb upon, the best place to play King of the Mountain, was in the wrong place in the river. My children had decided to play anyway. They wanted the indians to know that they were not afraid of any old river goddess!

They had been warned, but had chosen to continue...thus causing rain. Then they had decided that making rain was fun! It was exhilarating to make rain and have everyone know YOU had caused it!

"Besides," they said, "We can always make the rain stop!"

Once again feeling the fool, I had to ask,

"How do you stop the rain?"

Four smug smirks!

"By cutting  the rain with a machete, of course!"

My son grabbed up the ever handy machete and began to slice through the air in a sideways motion. It seems that is how one makes the rain to stop. I had observed the Ye'kwanas doing this so often and had never realized what they were doing! I just thought it was a habit or something to do when bored. Swing a machete to pass the time while riding in a canoe, or working in the garden. I never knew it was to stop the rain.

But my children knew!

To this day, if it is raining hard, I find myself tempted to 'cut the rain'.

This is what happens when you spend too much time in another culture.

A Ye'kwana man cutting the rain to make it stop
in order to continue the soccer match!

The Holler

 No words  ever evoke such memories of childhood for me as do these two words. My parents are both from West Virginia and the same holler.  My Dad moved the family out to California before I was born and later the family would relocate in South Carolina and Florida, but the one place where I always felt at home and had an amazing sense of belonging , was in that holler. Every summer we would go back and the country roads would still be there. The grand parents and Aunts and Uncles with the many cousins would all be there, seemingly as if time had stood still in my absence and now the art of real living would begin for me anew after my a long delay.

 Those were the days! Long, hot days full of adventures and games in which a child could delight.   The day would begin with the slow opening of my eyes and the quick dawning of the realization that I was in the holler with my family. I would bolt up into action as no time should be wasted in sleep while in this paradise!

Breakfast would be waiting and it would be eaten under the watchful eyes of one of the aunts. A large plate filled with the fluffiest biscuits, smothered in butter and homemade jam, and lots of milk gravy.  My dad taught us to cut this all up and mix it together into something he called a 'rock pile'. This dish may not have scored high points for presentation, but the flavor was there!

 As soon as humanly possible, we children would scramble, barefooted , out the door.  And now the real day could begin. Cousins were conveniently located close by, all within  walking distance, and all of whom were more than willing to come out to play. Our little gang would grow as we went tramping from house to house until we would gather 10 - 15 cousins. A nice number to play just about any game.

Usually we would run around and climb trees  or do anything which would get us covered in dirt and sweat requiring a trip to the slow moving creek. This creek was a second home to us youngsters. We would start collecting rocks in order to build a dam to trap the water enough to form a swimming hole. We knew if we worked hard enough, one of the uncles would see our efforts and join in to help get the job done. These swimming holes would last us all summer!

Lunch was usually eaten on the run. Someone would run into a house and ask the aunt for a bologna sandwich. Then we would all ask for one and there seemed to be a loaf of white bread and a package of thick, sliced bologna in every kitchen. I do not recall ever being denied this request.

Once our stomachs were contented and we had drunk our fill of the slightly sulfur smelling water, we would be back out the door and off to play. The long afternoons would often be dedicated to our favorite games. Red Rover, Red Rover, Statues and one game which involved calling out 'rotten egg' or 'salt' and 'pepper'. I can't remember the rules of this game which would be supervised by one of the unmarried aunts.

As the sun would slip down behind the ridge of the mountains,  we would slow our play and sit around talking and sharing our childish dreams with one another. Slowly, the air would cool and the sun would disappear into its nightly bed.

 Eventually, we would see, coming slowly down the dirt road, the forms of the uncles. They would be returning from a long day of work in the coal mines. I would be mesmerized by their dark forms. Strong men covered head to toe in the black, coal dust. Their helmets on their heads and their miners lights pushed atop.  Each uncle would have a large metal lunch box swinging on his arm.

As they approached us, we would see that the only part of their faces not blackened by the coal, was around their eyes, creating a mask looking like a negative copy of a giant raccoon.  As tired as they were from working in the dark bowels of the earth, they would play the game we all expected. They would come lumbering towards us  with a wild, bear like growl  and chase us around the yards. This game gave me such a delicious  fear. The  hair on the back of my neck would stand out and a scream of delight would escape my mouth as I ran to hide under the porch.

Once the full darkness had settled upon us, we would run back inside to bring out our collection of old jars. We each had a jar of our own in which we kept a variety of insects. Every night we would collect these critters and fully expected them to live but they almost always died. Oh well, we would catch more. The best thing to catch were the lightning bugs which twinkled around us in the evening. Once we had a jar full, we would begin to be terribly cruel to them, I am afraid to say. We would pinch off the lighted parts and smear the yellow, glowing goop on our arms, wrists and necks to make  jewelry which would shine brightly for awhile. Of course the boy cousins were not interested in jewelry, but they would make grotesque mask of glowing war paint upon their faces. Sometimes we would catch chunky june bugs and, begging a spool of thread, we would tie this onto a leg of the bug allowing it to fly around in circles above our heads without escape.

Eventually, some adult, usually one of the aunts, would call us in for bed. We would all claim that we were not in the least bit sleepy and we had so much more to do. We could usually postpone the inevitable bed time until we were caught yawning and then, we had to go inside. And beside, we would be ravenously hungry by now. Good food was always to be found at the kitchen table of one of the aunts.

Since we were visiting, we had no permanent beds and would end up sleeping on the floor on a cozy pallet made of old quilts. I was always sure I would not sleep at all and would be surprised to find my eyes opening in the morning to the light of day! Where had the night  darkness gone? I had only closed my eyes for a moment!

In those long gone days, many of the houses had no indoor plumbing. This was convenient during the day as we could easily run into any of the out houses without worrying if we were tracking in mud or dirt, something the aunts did not like for us to do, but at night, it was not so convenient.

 Every house had a small, white, enameled pot which was politely referred to as the 'chamber pot' but which we children dubbed the' pee can'. This perhaps explains why I have never been fond of pecan pies as I assumed the ingredients came from the chamber pot. Evey morning one of us would be told to take care of the contents. This involved carrying the nearly full vessel slowly, so as not to have it slosh upon our feet, to the out house where it would be dumped. Then we would take it to the creek for a quick scouring and leave it in a sunny spot as we were told the sun would sterilize it. I loathed this chore.

And then, a new day would begin which would follow the expected routine of the previous day. Lest you think we found this boring, I must tell you that each day was full of its own fun and we could never get our fill of the glorious days of summer in the holler.

As things must be, we all grew up and began our own families and lives.  Although most of my cousins still live in the vicinity of the holler, I would be transplanted to South America where I have lived for the last 27 years. I do not get to go back to the holler as often as I would like and I have  feeling of regret that my own children did not get to spend their summers in this wonderland. They did enjoy some visits and did many of the things I had done as a child and now I wish to take my grand kids to the holler to experience the wonderful thrill of a summer's day in my mountain home.

Even to this day, I know, without a doubt that I could walk up the path to any of the homes of my aunts and uncles or of my cousins who are now adults, and knock on  the door and be accepted. I would be invited in to 'rest a spell' and visit. After the rounds of hugs from young and old alike, the inevitable question would be asked, " Have you eat yet?"

 My answer would be unnecessary for whether I was starving or had just left another table, food would be placed before me. I could almost  be guaranteed  to find a plate of pinto beans and corn bread for starters. And as I ate this I would hear one of my cousins in the kitchen  cooking away. Eventually, newly made food would make its way to the table. Probably  fresh biscuits, fried potatoes, sliced garden fresh tomatoes, and if I was lucky, a side of greens. Then there would be a fried pork chop or two, and maybe a cobbler for desert. If at Aunt Carol Jane's I knew a slice of moist home made yellow cake would be available. She always made them and wrapped each piece in plastic wrap which kept them  deliciously fresh and on hand for days. Little Debbie's  Snack Cakes have nothing on my Aunt Carol Jane!

 And I would be home. The warmth of love and belonging would  be such a sentiment that it  would be almost physical; Just as the comfort  one feels when slipping into a warm tub after a cold outing, the warmth of belonging would creep into my soul and light a fire of love that neither time nor distance could ever quench.
.

Such a father as this...

An excerpt from the autobiography of Missioanry John Paton.

My dear father walked with me the first six miles of the way. His counsels and tears and heavenly conversation on that parting journey are fresh in my heart as if it had been but yesterday; and tears are on my cheeks as freely now as then, whenever memory steals me away to the scene. For the last half mile or so we walked on together in almost unbroken silence - my father, as was often his custom, carrying hat in hand, while his long flowing yellow hair (then yellow, but in later years white as snow) streamed like a girl’s down his shoulders. His lips kept moving in silent prayers for me; and his tears fell fast when our eyes met each other in looks for which all speech was vain! We halted on reaching the appointed parting place; he grasped my hand firmly for a minute in silence, and then solemnly and affectionately said: “God bless you, my son! Your father’s God prosper you, and keep you from all evil!”
Unable to say more, his lips kept moving in silent prayer; in tears we embraced, and parted. I ran off as fast as I could; and, when about to turn a corner in the road where he would lose sight of me, I looked back and saw him still standing with head uncovered where I had left him - gazing after me. Waving my hat in adieu, I rounded the corner and out of sight in instant. But my heart was too full and sore to carry me further, so I darted into the side of the road and wept for time. Then, rising up cautiously, I climbed the dike to see if he yet stood where I had left him; and just at that moment I caught a glimpse of him climbing the dike and looking out for me! He did not see me, and after he gazed eagerly in my direction for a while he got down, set his face toward home, and began to return - his head still uncovered, and his heart, I felt sure, still rising in prayers for me. I watched through blinding tears, till his form faded from my gaze; and then, hastening on my way, vowed deeply and oft, by the help of God, to live and act so as never to grieve or dishonor such a father and mother as he had given me.

Real Life Conversation

 Me: I just moved and the Internet Server promised my cable would be installed within 48 hrs.

Server: Yes, we install all the lines within 48 hrs.

Me: But it has been a week already!

Server: We will be sending the technician by to do that today!

Me: Really? Today?

Server: Yes, today!

Me: And what is my name?  I have not told you my name. How do you know they will be here today if you do not know who I am?

Server: I just checked and they said they would definitely be by your house today.

Me: But you do not know who I am! What is my name?

Server: What is your name?

Me: I am the one to whom you are promising to come and install the internet today.

Server: But I need your name!

Me: Exactly! How can you promise to come to my house when you do not know which client I am?

Server: Well, tell my your name, please?

 Repeat the conversation every day for two weeks!
( I find myself humming the tune of  'A little less conversation , a little more action')

The Things I See...

At 3 am I discovered that my kitchen had become a lake.

After two weeks of no water, we suddenly found ourselves with too much water due to a busted pipe!

 Mud pies for dinner?

Checking in...

Stopping by to check in via Jackie's internet.

We have electricity, sorta. 

We have water,sorta.

I can't use my drier or the power goes out. We have water in the sinks and toilets (the toilets all leak) but not the showers. So we are taking bucket showers with very cold water and I discovered today that my coveted heater wont work either. 
The good news is that Clint's flight to Asuncion was canceled due to the volcanic ash from the eruption in Chile, so he is here to share this with me. ( Check the link for some amazing pictures.)


Oh well... it can only get better , right?????

The Things I See...

MOVING BOXES

That's right, I am moving again!

 We found a house for the church  and we will be moving into it for a few months until we are able to move into our new home we are buying. This will make my 7 th move in 5 years so the blessing of buying a home and not having to move again for awhile is a comforting thought!

The Things I See...

Yerba Mate

 (from Wikipedia)

Tereré (of Guaraní origin^[1]) is an infusion of yerba mate (in Spanish) / erva-mate (in Portuguese), similar to mate but prepared with cold water rather than with hot,^[2] and in a slightly larger vessel. It is originally from Paraguay,^[3] and is found also in northeastern Argentina and southern and western Brazil. When hot (mate), the Guaraní people call this infusion ka'ay,^[4] where ka'a means herb and y means water.

One Dark Night

By Jewel Vernoy (my daughter)

      There is a legend among the Ye’kwana Indians that if you leave your house and are seen by the death spirit you will die that night. The Indians feared this spirit so much that they never made windows in their houses. A few people had become Christians and no longer feared the spirits in the jungles, but sometimes, in the darkness of the night, it is hard to hold on to that faith in God. Especially difficult when there is no light and you can have a snake an inch away from your face and not even know that it is there, until you feel the fangs pierce your skin and inject their poison into you. This night was no exception, there was no moon or stars to share their glimmer to give hope to the people of the morning, only a dark blanket to cover the village in. It was as though the darkness wanted to hide something, to keep it a secret, but what?

            I had just turned 15 and thought I could handle anything but those dark nights could send chills through even the bravest man on earth. As I slept in my hammock, or attempted to, I heard feet running towards my house, and they were running quickly. Suddenly, someone was banging on the door crying out to us, “Please help! The baby has come, but something is wrong! Please, please come quickly!”

         My father jumped up quickly, grabbed a flashlight and his medical bag, and ran out after the girl who had come to get him. While my father was running towards the small hut where the young mother was giving birth, the light of his flashlight shown on a large puddle of blood pooled on the ground. He stopped the girl and asked her whose blood it was? The girl replied in a gasp, “Sister had gone to the outhouse and on her way back the baby was born. This is where it happened.”

        As my father listened to the girl and looked at the blood on the mud path his worst fears were confirmed, “Why God? Why now of all times? And, also, why to this woman? I don’t understand?”  he thought to himself and he prayed.

            When my father got to the hut he saw the parents of the new baby. His heart hurt for them. How could he tell them? As the man looked at my father with hopeful eyes, my father knelt on one knee and gently placed a hand on the husband’s shoulder, shaking his head. “How long?” the husband asked my father as tears ran down his face and he lovingly held his wife.

       My father was heartbroken over this scene but replied, “I don’t know. It could be an hour or two…or it could be in the next five minutes, but I will try to make her as comfortable as possible.” My father administered some pain killers to the unconscious, hemorrhaging mother.

 The woman had already lost so much blood! If only she was in a hospital, but even there it would be difficult to save her life. My father looked at the mother and the puddle of blood that was now forming under her hammock.  Once again, my father shook his head. “Dear God, why? I don’t understand. She was healthy and this is not her first child so why did she have to hemorrhage?”

 My father stayed with the family until dawn broke and the mother went home to her Savior. In the jungle a body must be buried as quickly as possible or sickness would plague the village. My father also wanted to make the coffin as quickly as possible because the carpenter of the village was also the husband of the woman who has just died.

 As my father and the new widower built a coffin, others went to the burying ground to dig a grave. After her body was placed in the coffin, we took her to the church and held a service.

During that week we had been hosting a soccer tournament in our village. Because of the death in the village the tournament had been canceled. It was to be expected that the villagers would leave out of fear of the death. However, some villages stayed because they were shocked and could not understand the calmness that the Christians of our village had shown even when faced with a death. Three villages stayed and listened to the gospel being preached at the funeral.

As my father looked around at all the unsaved people, he remembered a prayer my mother had heard during a ladies prayer meeting earlier in the month.

 “Dear God, please do whatever it takes during this tournament to let the other Indians hear about your Son. Amen” and then my father under stood that it was God answering a payer through this death. The simple prayer that the gospel would be preached, that prayer had come from the mother who now lay in the coffin.

Happy Birthday, Paraguay !

Today Paraguay is celebrating Independence Day.

This is the winning logo Jayde designed for her school contest. She will be marching in the parade today, carrying a banner, with the logo, at the front of her school.

Viva Paraguay

Beti's baby

"He's dead! He's dead! He's dead!" was the shout being raised through out the small village. The news roared through the houses like a wave. One woman lifting her voice to pass the awful news on to her neighbor, until it reached my own ears.

But who was dead? At this point, no one knew any longer who had died, just that the death wail had begun. One by one, people dropped whatever chore they were doing and ran towards the Monolo Clan's clearing of houses. The closer we got, the louder and more anguished the wails.

The smallest house. The house of Beti, was surrounded by people with fearful eyes and uplifted grieving voices. My husband and I worked our way through the throng and into the small round hut. We both had to duck to pass through the low door and into the dark, hot, crowded, small, one room mud hut.

The wailing by the women was even more dramatic in here as they were mostly immediate family members.

Beti is the smallest woman I have ever met, standing at barely 4' 6". Her husband had left her and her children and the rumors were he was living in Brazil with a new, younger wife. Beti's youngest child was nearly three years old, the other 4 children ranged in ages from 10 downwards.

The smallest son was lying in a hammock, naked, and dripping wet. In the corner sat a 7 year old sister, crying and pulling her hair.

My husband rushed toward the baby, I rushed to the little girl. She sobbingly told me the story.

She had been sent to the river to do laundry and had taken the youngest with her. He had cried to go along and as is fairly normal, he was taken and allowed to play on the banks or in a canoe nearby. While doing her chore, a few more children came down and the girl became distracted. She forgot about the baby brother, joined in to play, and when done, headed home towards the village. She had arrived a few moments before us to hear the wailing and realized she had forgotten her brother at the river!

Before finishing her story, my husband stood up and yelled out,

"Be quiet! He is not dead! I need to listen to his heart!"

I rushed to his side as the crowd quieted. We began CPR on the baby and after a bit, the child came to and began to cry. First weakly, but more and more robustly!

The people in the house became stone still and eerily quiet!

A new cry began!

" He's alive! He's alive! He's alive!"

Beti took the baby in her arms and rocked him as he calmed down. She told me the rest of the story. She had been to her garden and just arrived at the clearing when another woman came up the path with her son. The woman was Gloria, a christian woman, who thankfully, was not afraid to touch what she thought was a dead body.

Gloria had been paddling home in her own canoe when she found the small boy floating with the current towards her, face down in the water. She had fished him from the water, thinking him dead.

When I had seen the baby lying in the hammock, he looked lifeless and purple. My husband had been able to detect a weak pulse and had revived him.

To the Ye'kwana this seemed like a miracle of a dead one coming to life again. We explained that we had not brought him back to life, but had been able to revive the small spark of life left in him, just as the women would revive the apparently dead fire each morning by blowing and fanning the blackened embers.

We could see the comprehension arise in their eyes, but they were none the less grateful that we had been there and my husband had known to look for the " spark" and had known to breathe life back into the child so that his "fire" did not extinguish...forever.

Had we not been there, this child would have been buried by nightfall ! Instead, he is now a 16 year old, a capable hunter for his mother.

God graciously allowed us to save the child's life that day.

The Royal Wedding

The Royal Wedding as experienced in Paraguay

The littlest princess needed to pee!

An English Tea provided by the Queen

With real cucumber sandwiches!

Prince Charming even provided us with programs

It was almost like being there!

 My favorite part was Prince Harry riding in the carriage with all the children. He looked like someone who had been seated at the kid's table for Thanksgiving but he kept a beautiful smile on his face.

 Did you watch it?

Happy Mother's Day

For those of you celebrating today, I wish you a wonderful, joy filled day. Here in Paraguay we celebrate next week which also happens to be the bicentennial of Paraguay's Independence. That should make for an intersting holiday!

Mothers have a special way
Of saying ‘I love you’
A love that God has given them
A love that will hold true
For Mothers sacrifice so much
Providing for the home
Creating there an atmosphere
That reflects God’s love alone.

The Things I See...

  I was awakened early one morning to the sound of mariachis outside my window. The young lady across the street was being serenaded for her birthday. The music was beautiful and OH! SO! romantic!

But then I became rather confused. I was in Paraguay. Mariachis were singing. The songs were being sung in Portuguese.

The Day I Felt like a Princess

A Royal Invite!

It's so great to be me! I just received a one of a kind invite to the Royal Wedding! Aren't you all SOOOOOOO jealous?????

Wanna be queenies.. ( aka. Rita, Jackie and Jayde and

lil princesses. ( aka: Abbie and Elena and Lexi )

The Queen is pleased to give you a cordial invitation to her palace for tea on Friday 29th April - at 10:30 am to attend the royal wedding ( ie watching a repeat of 5am wedding on BBC entertainment .. yes we got it live in the house).

You will be served lashings of English tea and lots of cucumber sandwiches and cake and we will follow the procession and service etc.. and comment on the dress and stuff.

The Prince charming will NOT be attending the tea and so it is strictly a gals only kind of deal.

dress code - whatever you want - but lil princesses MUST wear appropiate princessy type dresses

RSVP  (  we understand if you are busy or cant be bothered - just let us know asap)

lots of love and kisses

The Queen

ps.  Get polishing your crowns and MINE ...! 

I know you never knew the Queen of England lived here , but my grand daughters are sure it is so and have given the nick name to a dear British friend. It will be a blast to view the wedding with her and to finally eat cucumber sandwiches! 
What is a 'lashing of tea'???

What I have been doing

We had a lightning storm Thursday night that fried our modem and knocked another limb off a tree in our yard.

Friday night we lost power and spent most of the week end without power or running water.

When the water returned it was unusable as it was the color of chocolate milk for another half day.

OH! And we are helping my daughter move. 

The Things I See...

The drive thru at Mc Donald's here in Ciudad del Este.

11A

Día Fatal

For the brave of heart who want to see what it was like on that day!

The Tyrant

Biblical Languages

"And let us be sure of this: we will not long preserve the gospel without the languages. The languages are the sheath in which this sword of the Spirit is contained; they are the casket in which this jewel is enshrined ... and ... they are the baskets in which are kept these loaves and fishes and fragments. If through our neglect we let the languages go (which God forbid!), we shall lose the gospel." 

-- Martin Luther

The Things I See...

My daughter at her piano recital.

Wicked Awesome!

My youngest  daughter recently attended a Retro  80's Youth Group Party. We had fun getting her ready. It brought back so many memories of my own teen years.

It was totally rad!

We had no bangs to do the big bang thing with so we went with the big side pony tail!

And the blue eye shadow!

Valley Girl!

Jungle Mom, vintage photo @ 1981

The Devil's Brew

(My husband's coffee maker. We call it THE HOLY OF HOLIES!)

What do church history and coffee have in common, you ask?

In her aptly titled book, "Coffee," Claudia Rosen explains that 16th-century priests wanted Pope Clement VIII to ban "the devil's drink." They insisted that Satan had forbidden his followers--Muslims--from drinking wine because it was used in Holy Communion. Instead, the devil provided this "hellish black brew".


The elixir made from coffee beans does in fact have a long history in Islamic regions.
--African tribes mixed the crushed beans with animal fat and molded them into balls to eat as a stimulant before battle.
--Arabs made the first hot coffee beverage, in 1000 A.D.
--Dervishes--mystic devotees of Islam's Sufi sect--consumed coffee at all-night ceremonies as fuel for achieving religious ecstasy.
--Arabs also invented the ibrik, or coffee broiler.
--As coffee lost it's strictly religious significance, the first coffee houses appeared in Mecca.

Clemente VIII,wisely, decided to give it a taste test!

"Why, this Satan's drink is so delicious," he declared, "that it would be a pity to let the infidels have exclusive use of it. We shall cheat Satan by baptizing it."

And so, I am now able to enjoy my coffee, which my husband makes and serves me each morning. Now that's romantic!



My favorite coffee is a Venezuelan blend. Cafe Madrid! We are out of it now, but are substituting with a Brazilian coffee we purchased here. My son in law recently left us some great Costa Rican coffee too.

Do you drink coffee? How much and how often? Any favorite blend?

The Three Grands

Grandchildren are God's way of

compensating us for growing old.

.Mary H. Waldrip

"Becoming a grandmother is wonderful. One moment
you're just a mother. The next you are all-wise and
prehistoric."

 

The Preacher's Wife

I was blessed to be born into a family full of pastors, most of whom were Baptist preachers. This has been normal for me my entire life. I have been related to Baptist preachers in just about every familial relationship possible.


When I was born, I was born to the titles of;

The Preacher's great grand daughter
The Preacher's grand daughter
The Preacher's niece.
The Preacher's cousin.

Upon my father's ordination, I also became,

The Preacher's daughter.

Later when I married, I gained the titles,

The Preacher's wife
The Preacher's sister-in-law.

When my daughter married , I became,

The Preacher's mother-in-law.

My son is not ordained yet, but he is already preaching, so I am also now,

The Preacher's mother.

I have several nephews also in school who are preparing for the ministry and so I have become,

The Preacher's aunt.

However, since we are independent Baptist, the one title I will never have is,

THE PREACHER!

Which probably explains why I have this blog...

Here we go again...

 My laptop died a few months back in a freak drowning accident involving a chimney, and, no, I don't make this stuff up! The edited manuscript of my book was irretrievable from the hard drive. This is discouraging, to say the very least but I have decided it must mean that God saw need for a lot more editing to be done on this book. Three years ago, this was fun, now it is getting difficult to remain excited about writing my story. Again.

But I am doing it, again. I have committed to write 1000 words per day, 6 days a week. I may adjust that down to 5 days a week as my schedule with church ministry becomes more demanding. I do feel more liberty to make some changes in format this time around and I suppose it is best to not think of the lost manuscript as wasted or lost time. It was a valuable experience and gave me a chance to grow in my writing style, find my voice, and work on my craft. So it is not truly a disaster but a learning process.

 I decided to share a few paragraphs of the opening of a new chapter I am working on at the moment.
Your feedback is welcome!

How I Became the Village Idiot

The weight of the baby sitting on my hip grew more uncomfortable. I turned and looked towards the path leading from the grass air strip into the jungle. I could still see the two bright heads of my son and daughter bobbing along amidst a crowd of dark haired Indians as they excitedly followed the villagers to the river bank.

My eyes returned to the child in my arms and to my oldest daughter, Jackie, as she stood loyally by my side, holding the diaper bag and other baby supplies. She was slapping at the gnats buzzing around her neck and arms, standing upon one small foot at a time so that the other was free to rub away the annoying gnats biting on her ankles. I blew light puffs of air on to my sleeping baby’s face, trying to keep the gnats from waking her.

My husband was half in, half out, of the small Cessna MAF aircraft which had brought us here. I could hear his conversation with the American missionary pilot, Steve Robinson, arranging the date for our next flight, our next contact with the outside world. He grabbed a few bulky bags from the ground and herded us to the side of the air strip as the plane taxied off to return to its base in Puerto Ayacucho. My husband never looked back at the plane, but began trotting eagerly off down the path to join the others.  With one last look, I saw the pilot dip his wings in a salutary wave.

The dirt path led us towards the rim of jungle on the bank of the Chajura River where a dugout canoe awaited us. It was surprisingly cooler, though still humid, under the jungle trees. I could hear the sound of the river, the sound of rapids above the quiet voices of the Ye’kwana Indians. I could hear my own children speaking in English to one another. The closer we came to the bank, I saw that it was muddy from a recent rain, how was I going to climb down this bank with a baby in my arms?

CSI:Jungle

The Ye'kwana people are very superstitious, as are many tribal people. The stories are their way to explain the unknown. Some of the beliefs are expected and one can understand why the have the belief. Others are not so easily comprehended and one has to wait until it makes sense to you, or someone in the tribe can reveal it to you in a way that a western mind can grasp. Whichever comes first.

One thing that seems universal among the tribes, is that death is never from a natural cause. Whether the death is of a new born or elder, the death was inevitably caused by witchcraft. You can explain that the baby died from dehydration caused by vomiting and diarrhea and they will believe you. They also will set out to discover WHO caused the curse of sickness to be placed upon the child, or the elder, or the healthy young man who dies from malaria complications. Someone sent a curse.

And that is when things get interesting! There are so many ways to go about discovering the murderer. Many tests to run, much evidence to study. Many, many hours of discussions around the evening fires. Eventually, it will be discovered.

We once lost a man to yellow fever. He had been very healthy until his bout with the fever. He died one night, quite suddenly. The family was devastated and it was all complicated by the fact that he was from another village. A village where there was a very powerful witch doctor related to the man. This could not be good.

The witch doctor decided there was only one way to determine the killer. The dead man's finger was cut off of the corpse and placed in a kettle of water hung over the cooking fire. A representative of each clan was called to sit in a circle around the fire. As the water began to boil, the severed finger of the dead man began to spin and tumble. This was watched very closely and with baited breath!

Finally, the water boiled off and the finger came to rest on the bottom of the pot. NOW one could clearly see who was guilty for cursing the dead man by sending the yellow fever, for the finger was pointing to the guilty party! Not the actual person, but a member of the clan. NOW the witch doctor would know which village to seek for revenge, which family was the perpetrator. He would be very busy!

The representative of the clan was not guilty as she had married into our clan many years before and could not have been involved, but she was shamed!

The next day the shortwave radio crackled with the news of the results of the finger test. Many denials, many threats, but everyone felt so much better knowing that the yellow fever was sent as a curse and unless they had an enemy, they could relax about becoming sick.

The clan that had been blamed was angered greatly by this accusation, so they requested another test. This required a family member to travel to their village to be present. Interestingly enough, I heard that this test revealed the same guilty party! So another test was to be done. This process could go on for years much as our court system allows for appeals.

Eventually, the family of the dead one will lose interest in the pursuit, send a few hexes out to pay back the murderers, and move on. The anger of the accused will slowly die down, and they will move on. It is all part of the way they deal with their grief. They need to be able to transfer their emotions to another subject in order to get through their days. If it were a Sanema, it would be a very different story as this could be traced back for generations! The family might decide to wait another generation or two before seeking revenge. But rest assured, revenge would be sought!

I witnessed many interesting procedures used in the jungle to determine the guilty parties. I should probably offer my services to the police as an expert to advise the investigators! I have observed how to examine the placenta to determine the biological father of a new born, what is used in a 'love potion', how to curse someone just by using their foot print, and other handy information.

I was even trusted with the evidence and was once asked to freeze the finger of a dead man so that his family could walk over from their village for the boiling finger test...


So, did I, or didn't I ?????

One Degree of Seperation

This is my family  with the American Ambassador to Paraguay, Liliana Ayalde, Thanksgiving of 2009 in Ausncion, Paraguay.

 And this is Ambassador Liliana Ayalde  with President Obama in January 2011.

Kind of cool ! (even if I am not a fan of the man)

Blood, Sweat, and Tears!

By Rita Vernoy

If anyone asked me for my opinion (like I'd wait to be asked!) on what it takes to be a career missionary, I would answer, "Blood, sweat and tears!" It takes years to learn a language and a culture well. A language is picked up long before the culture is truly understood. In most cases, the missionary can attend a language school to learn a rudimentary knowledge of the language, but there is no classroom to learn the culture. When learning a tribal language, one must become childlike and follow people around and try to imitate sounds without a clue as to their meaning. Eventually, one will begin to hear the different individual sounds and can transcribe,well, that's another whole story! It is much more time-consuming and the culture, of course, is totally alien to the western mind.

READ MORE HERE!

Being a Missionary is not my Real Job!

Thoughts for Missionary Wives


I am often asked what is a typical day like living on the mission field . It is a very hard question to answer. You must understand that every circumstance is different. The missionary's schedule will be dictated by the culture in which he works, the level of his language skills, the ministry role in which he has been placed, and even the missionary's personality.

Our days in the jungle were completely different than our days here in Paraguay. Both were full of ministry but ministering to our flock was different there than it will be here. We do not do any medical work here, we do not need to do translation work, but we still have a ministry.

A common misconception some people hold is in regards to what the role of the missionary wife should be. Wives on the mission field do indeed serve in various capacities, but their ministries will be different depending on several factors. How many children are in the home? Does she have small children? Does she need to home school the children? What are her living conditions? (Carrying water, cooking with fire wood, hand washing laundry do take time!)What help does her husband require of her? Her ministry will be ever changing as the dynamics of her home change.

My job is to be the wife my husband needs, finish raising our children yet at home, which includes home schooling them, and if my husband needs me to serve in a capacity of ministry, I will do that as well. But, in my case, I am only a woman married to a missionary. Being a missionary is not my real job! I do not get paid to be a missionary nor do I punch a time clock. I am a stay at home wife and mother and I happen to live on the mission field.

As a child of God I do feel required to take part in christian service as is every other Christian where ever they may live. I have the privilege of enjoying my life as the wife of a missionary and I also feel fulfilled in my role as wife and mother. Serving my Lord on the mission field is just the icing on the cake!

I would like to be able to instruct younger missionary wives as to the role which they play on the field. Every woman is different and married to a different man. Every ministry will ask different things of different people, but the missionary wife must never feel guilty for putting her time and energy first into her family.

Some families are able to find adequate education for their children on the field and I am not assuming to know what may be best for another family, but even if your children are enrolled in a school your job as a wife and mother will still require much time. Some woman even need to have outside interests and ministry will fulfill this for her, but in balance. This time away from the home duties may allow you to came back refreshed.

The work of a home maker seems to always be more time consuming in third world countries. We do not have the option of packaged foods, fast foods, we do not have central air and heat to keep dust out of the home. We sometimes lack time saving appliances commonly found in the american home. Our electricity and water go out often which requires more work. Buying groceries and other supplies takes much more time as we do not have the convenience of a Super Wal-Mart with one stop shopping. Even paying bills takes a lot of time. We can not do it online or even mail in a check, we have to go stand in several lines to pay each one. Of course, that is after standing in line at the bank to change our money in order to pay the bills, all the while watching our backs to make sure we will not be robbed as we leave the bank, which happened to a lady here just a few weeks ago, shot dead in the parking lot for $2000 US Dollars. Sometimes our homes and cars are robbed and we have gun shots in the night.

How many times have I seen women on the mission field break under the pressure she feels to perform more than she is capable of! This often leads to depression and even leaving the mission field. Perhaps, if the missionary wife would relax a bit and give herself the opportunity to be 'just another woman' this would not happen so often. Remember you are under extra stress just dealing with life in a new culture and and language.

To the younger wives I would remind you that your children will grow up and you will have more time available for ministry then. Never forget your people are observing you and the best testimony is for you to show them a Christian woman who is at peace and content.

I have known phenomenal women who were able to do it all! Sadly, I have known many who gave up, not feeling adequate to the job they assumed others expected of them. Often times this pressure comes from well meaning folks stateside who somehow think the wife of a missionary should be capable of more than any other woman. A Christian Super Woman with special powers! Personally, I think being able to sleep through gun shots flying over your roof is a Super Power! Some even think that the wife is an employee of the mission, which may be the case for some, but not all.

So dear younger missionary wife, don't forget to enjoy your life. Don't forget to be available to your husband as a wife, not an employee, put your best time and effort into your children, and serve God first at home. Remember you also need time to study and promote your own intellectual and spiritual growth as this will only serve you in your capacity as a counselor to others. And you will be a counselor!

God will always provide the right ministry for you that will not be more than you can handle. If you are stressing out, feeling pressured to perform, loosing joy in your marriage, or do not have control of your home and yet still try to be involved in ministry outside of the home, you are doing too much.

God does not want His children to serve out of duty alone but with a heart of joy. Service to Him will never require you to abandon your first calling to the home. If this is the case for you, perhaps you need to step back and re-evaluate what you are doing and where you are expending most of your energy. Plan a little time for relaxation and fun each and every day, it will only make you a better person.

Maybe you need a hobby... might I suggest blogging?

Beware!

 

Jungle Mom had just returned to her home from an evening of church services, when she was startled by an intruder. She caught the manin the act of robbing her home of its valuables and yelled: 'Stop! Acts 2:38( Repent, and be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ for the remission of sins,)

The burglar stopped in his tracks. Jungle Mom calmly called the police and explained what she had done.



As the officer cuffed the man to take him in, he asked the burglar: 'Why did you just stand there? All the old lady did was yell a scripture to you.'

'Scripture?' replied the burglar. 'She said she had an Ax and Two 38s!'

Feeling a little cranky!

"...if I die suddenly, my gravestone might appropriately offer this insight into my departure: "God got tired." I require lots of work."



— Beth Moore (Believing God)



It has been a rough patch we have been growing through lately. No one thing in particular, just a lot of little things that seem to add up and become a bit overwhelming.

For instnace, this weekend we were robbed for the second time in a month. The first breakin was thwarted after a window was broken and the alarm sounded which alerted all the neighbors. We continue to have random gun shots fired around our neighborhood and often within feet of our house. Usually these are guards fireing warning shots at intruders but it is unnerving to have  guns shooting off across the street in the middle of the night and then be responded by another gun behind the house. Or house alarms going off for hours at a  time. Not condusive to sleep.

Saturday night our son in law  left his car with us as my husband took him to catch a midnight bus to another city where he was preaching Sunday morning. When we awoke Sunday morning we discovered his van had been broken into, destroying the consul and a window.  The van was parked a few feet away from my daughter's window. All of his electonics, along with our garage remotes, and theirs, were taken as well as a GPS and other items with his address. This meant Jackie and the grand babies were home alone and the theives had their remote and address. So... the day was spent changing locks and securing the two homes  which was made more difficult being a Sunday and most stores are closed.


It also means the thief was walking around our bedroom windows as we found  evidence of their having been in the back yard as well as the front. I don't like that.

So Jackie and the girls are here with us for now. Brian is in Luque and has a bad virus  (fever, vomiting) and is not up for the bus trip home yet. In the mean time, we are dealing with the car insurance issues.

When it rains, it pours! But God is always faithful!


‎"In God have I put my trust: I will not be afraid what man can do unto me." - Psalm 56:11

I think I will have this blown up and put around our property!

 Go ahead, make my day, PUNK!

My grand babies!

My daughter, Jackie, made this adorable film of my three grand daughters.

The Things I See...

Makes me want to go home and...never mind!

Driving Rules in Ciudad del Este

My husband assures me that there are rules for driving in this city. After months of careful observation I have gathered together the following rules of the road as I see them...


Never pull into a continuous stream of traffic with your eyes open.


Horse drawn vehicles should keep to the middle of the road and weave.

Fast vehicles should stay in Asuncion.

If you are coming from a side road onto the main road, you have the right of way. Do not slow down unless you roll over or hit something. Only stop if the object hit appears to have life.

Hand signals should primarily indicate the driver’s mood.

Only stop at a red light if the car in front has stopped.

At a crossroad when turning left, get into the right hand lane.  Beware of the motorcycle!

At a crossroad when turning right, get into the left-hand lane. Beware of the motorcycle!



If a horse cart hits you, you are going too slow.

If a police car hits you, you are driving recklessly.

If you hit a Paraguayan it's your fault.

If you hit a Brazilian its his fault.

If you hit an Argentine go to the nearest police station and claim your prize.

Do not enter spaces narrower than the width of the car, or a taxi narrower than the width of the passenger.

It is necessary to turn on the windshield wiper a few seconds before any stop.  This will keep some of the wind shield washers from spraying your glass with soapy water.

The horn operation must be checked at least every 10 meters, usually in order to move a cow from the road.

You may also be required to have brakes.

Two lanes are for driving in both directions, whichever side you are on.

The internal mirror is for the use of the driver only - to comb his hair, or hang his icons from.

If you are a foreigner, speed limit signs are in km/h

If you are a native speed limit signs are in m.p.h.

If you are driving on a cobble stone street, the speed limit is as fast as your dental work will allow.

All drivers must comply with the speed limit... or some multiple thereof.