A Fairy Tale Come True

I just finished working on part of Beth Moore’s Daniel bible study looking at Nebuchadnezzar’s 7 year bout with insanity. It all began with him sitting happily in his palace (Dan. 4:4). He was feeling fine. Secure and rich as you could wish. Last night I looked through a magazine, its feature was a look at which stars were rich and which were poor and what they did with their money.

 

Strangely, I felt torn between, “what on earth do they need that for?” and “wow, that looks nice.”

 

I think we all generally feel that mix of emotions when it comes to wealth, at least extreme wealth that gives you a $12,000 purse and a mansion the size of Connecticut for you, yourself, and well...servants I guess.

 

But at the same time, I have this side that wants to be Mother Theresa. There’s something beautiful about suffering because of love.  We all love the stories about the high and mighty sacrificing everything for the poor and the sick.  The martyrs who will give everything because they love God more than earth and all it can give them. Their are so many fabulous stories of sacrifice that fill you with a feeling of significance with which the most beautiful clothes and mansion really cannot compete.

 

Of course, our favorite stories combine the two, don’t they? The poor beggar marries the princess. The sweet, abused little girl finds out that she’s royalty. But it’s not all material goods—the missionary is killed and his blood feed the soil of the hearts of a whole tribe who come to Christ through his sacrifice.

 

Christmas is approaching. Isn’t it really the ultimate fantastic rags to riches story? Here’s a tiny little baby sitting in a barn with mom and dad in a foreign city. I’ve never thought a barn would be to bad until coming to Africa. There are bugs. Spiders, and roaches, lizards, even snakes. And this is inside the nice house.  I can’t say I know all about the barns in Bethlehem, but I know about nice houses in Africa. And they’re not what we’re used to in the U.S. I don’t want this to sound like complaining about accommodations in Africa. But, I’ve found it hard—at least at first—to get used to the thought that while I’m laying down to sleep, their could be a huge, nasty spider taking a quick nap on the pillow with me, or maybe that little bump by my toe isn’t the sheet but a cockroach snuggling up next to me. These concerns gave me no rest at first—I may have been asleep, but my dreams were about the bugs in my bed.

 

Now maybe I’ve gotten used to this kind of thing.

 

But this was Mary’s first little baby. And this was (I’m guessing) her first night in a barn. She didn’t even have a bed. There’s no way I could’ve slept on the floor my first night here. And really, I probably wouldn’t now. I don’t know how she slept in a barn, and took her beautiful baby boy and let him sleep in a food bowl for donkeys and oxen. Have you seen animals eat? They seem to make everything slimy. My dogs’ bowls were always nasty looking. I wouldn’t have put my head in it, let alone a baby. Really, wouldn’t that get a kid taken away from you in America by social services or someone?

 

I’m not saying Mary abused him, just that it was a pretty rough way to start out for Baby Jesus and Mary. And then I suppose life looked up for a while, until everyone decided it was time to kill him. That would be hard. Even if you are God incarnate, having most of your country wishing you were dead would be awful. That’s why he begged God to do anything else, isn’t it?

 

But look what came of it! Now he’s preparing houses for those who have joined his family and sitting at the right hand of God.

 

He’s King now.

 

From baby boy in a food bowl to Israel’s most wanted to King of Heaven and Earth.

 

It’s a pretty good story. And I’ve always thought—wouldn’t it be nice to be in a story like that?

 

Like some fairy tale, where it may be hard right here, right now, right now, but I know that really I’m a princess, and that one day Daddy-King is going to come. Then he'll give me a hug, whisper my real princess name and tell me he’s proud I remembered and waited for him, and that the I did a good job on the work he left for me to do. Then of course he'll bring me to live in the castle with him. He’ll give me a beautiful princess dress, my dirty face will become shining and beautiful and everything will be a perfect at the beautiful castle—complete with all the world’s problems being solved so that you can really enjoy the beauty and the fun.

 

And today, I realized, really realized, that it’s all true. We really are the princesses and princes in the story. And the best part is, we get to know the end of the story now. 

I don’t know how the princesses in the stories could manage without knowing the perfect end is really coming, but we don’t have to wonder. We can know. He’s coming back for us, and then our joy will be complete and we’ll be His princes and princesses.

 

But for now, it takes faith and some elbow grease*. Cinderella didn’t get to the ball by just pining for her prince at a window—she worked hard, until the time was right.  So we should too—but I think it makes it all better knowing that someday, the King's arms will wrap around me, and that King’s mouth will call me, and that this peasant girl will be transformed into the real princess that she was made to be. And then, we really will live happily ever after.

--Jessica

*in the sense of "bearing your cross" and works that show faith, I don't mean elbow grease that makes (or earns) your own salvation of course.

A few thoughts and then back to what I should be doing

The following may make no sense at all. It's just various things I've been thinking and felt like typing.

Random thought #1

I always thought of death as the most lonely event. You can't die with someone, not really, maybe next to them, but it has no bearing on what happens to you both once you're dead. But we've been studying Daniel in the ladies Bible study here and we just talked about Shadrach, Meschach and Abednego in the furnace. They refuse to bow down and worship King Nebechadnezzar's fancy golden image. So Nebby says, "into my furnace then, and I'm going to make it hotter too!" So they turn it up and toss them in. 

I imagine most of us know the rest of the story: The furnace is so hot it kills the soldiers throwing the boys in. But it can't touch these guys--all it does is burn off their ropes and they start walking around. The kicker is in that there's a fourth man all of the sudden. And Nebechadnezzar exclaims that he looks like a son of the gods. 

Now I don't want to get into who exactly it is--Christ (i.e. God incarnate) or an angel. I just want to say, that it definitely means God is right there with them. And God says that in the bible in different places. But Tuesday night I realised that when you know christ, death won't be isolated at all. He'll be with you through the whole thing. I don't know why I thought that somehow he could be on this side and in heaven, but that he couldn't hold your hand the whole time. But he can--he's God. Why couldn't He?

Well, I hope that wasn't morbid. It just struck me, and I think it's actually really exciting thing to know!

Random thought #2

I get lonely sometimes here. Not always. Most of the time it's great, I have fantastic friends and I really enjoy it. I get lonely when I finish talking to someone from home though. When I'm in my house I'm always hitting the "get mail" button, certain that someone will have emailed me, even though it is something like 2 or 3am and I just checked 10 minutes ago. You never know. One day...I'm sure there will be something. I am always checking Skype and facebook in case someone is online who wants to say hi. 

The funny thing is, as much as I crave getting to talk to someone from home. The worst moment is saying "bye" on a chat or getting to the signiture that signals the end of the email. It's awful. It's the realisation that you probably won't hear anything else that day. Some how, in that second I feel very empty sometimes. It's like for that second I can hear all the quiet lapping waves stretching between me and all the people I love so much.

But then God showed me something. Two somethings. Which don't line up exactly, no analogy is perfect, so this won't be anywhere near it.

1. God wants to hear from you as much as I do, except probably more.

For as much as I long to hear or see the word "hi" God wants it more I'm sure. I think he craves our interaction with Him, afterall, didn't he make us to talk and walk with him? Things got a little messy with The Fall and sin, but that didn't change his desire to have a relationship with you personally. 

2. I feel empty after talking with someone else, but not after talking with God. I've found that when I skip clicking "get mail" 50 times an hour (and you think I'm exaggerating) and talk with God, or read my bible or study it, then I don't walk away feeling like I've swallowed a rock. I find myself encouraged by what I've read or heard, but I also feel enthused. I am so frequently excited about something God's told me, or curious about some new subject to study and learn about God. I've also found that he rewards your hardwork. When I do dig into something, he always reveals something. (segway into random thought #3)Most of the time I learn something I already knew. It's something that as soon as i try and express it turns into a cliché. At first, this frustrated me. I wanted to be able to say what I had learned, but I felt like I couldn't. Now I realise that I have actually just learned what people have always been saying. Sure I knew the words, but now I know what they mean. It's more than comprehension of the sounds, it's deeper understanding that involves the heart alongside the brain. It is a similiar experience as when I realise that I understand the French I am hearing around me. Sure, I can repeat the sounds of what I've just heard, and I'll even recognize words I've heard over and over. But it's when that understanding hits. When I know what those words mean, and when I don't have to tie my brain in a know trying to recall the english version of the French word. That's when I really know what's going on. And now, through my experiences here, I'm really just learning what I've always said and always thought I'd known. You really can't pass wisdom down in words, the words are just an expression of something that God suddenly allows you to truly see. But once you understand it, you really don't need the words at all, except to try and give a sketch of it to someone else in hopes that they have the same understanding as well. 

So---I've not idea if any of that made any sense at all. Just stuff I felt like writing down, and I figured just incase it made sense to someone, I'd post it. If not, you now have a frighteningly accurate portrayal of the inner workings of my mind!

--Jessica

Another post on--you guessed it--FOOD! But this one is really exciting.

I don't have much to write right now. I'm just enjoying my rice-pudding inspired lentil soup. (sounds strange doesn't it?)

This odd little concoction probably would have never crossed my mind (although I cannot say that with certainty) except for a little event Saturday night (I think it was Saturday).

I was cooking my tuna helper with great success. I was turning out quite well, so I decided some multi-tasking was in order and began work on my dishes. Now, my stove and sink are right next to each other, so I wasn't neglecting my dinner in any way--no worries there. In fact, had I left my stove and gone very far, this whole story would most likely have taken on a very different ending and the telling would have probably involved a lot less mirth.

I was on my second dish when I heard a soft "whomph." This noise did not concern me. I have learned that gas stoves make this little "whomphing" noise quite a bit and it's nothing to alarm oneself about.

However, orange flames are a problem. And when I saw the orange glowing light behind my stove and the gentle flickering, I was not soothed by how it reminded me of multiple evenings of relaxing around a campfire on family camping trips. I was not even thinking, "if only I had marshmallows..." Oh no, dear reader, my thoughts were something more like, "well now, that's odd. there are flames behind my stove." A second later, my confusion turned to alarm as I realised that this meant I had a kitchen fire. All my mothers tales of the dangers of gas stove came rushing to me--or not so much the tales as I seem to have been a little slow that evening--but the concept of probably death and certain maiming (which were the morals of the stories after all, I do believe).  The transition took only a second or two. I looked from my stove to my sink to my food, and in a moment of sheer brilliance, I opened the cupboard door beneath my sink and turned off the gas. I stood with relief, certain that without the gas, there would be no fire. But the golden flames still peaked over the top of my stove. 

At this point all I could think was "beat it with a towel." However, this also struck me as a bad idea. Firstly, I couldn't reach the fire, it was behind my stove. Secondly, I was pretty certain that I'd only manage to catch the towels on fire. Thirdly, they are not my towels to destory, I'm only borrowing them.

So I did what any self-respecting person facing an oven fire would do. I ran to Karen and Renee's I dashed into their part of the house calling for Karen or Renee. I saw Renee, and called out--My stove is on fire and I don't know what to do!  in the most desperate cry I could muster. 

Then I stood there for a second, not sure what else to do and beginning to relinquish myself to the fact that I was probably going to burn down the entire house.

Karen and Renee dashed for the fire extinguisher in Karen's car (This is a mandatory fixture according to the Gabonese Government). Then I ran back to my apartment to move dinner off the stove because I had a sudden fear of it being ruined by the fire extinguisher (or the fire).

To my utter glee I discovered that the fire had ended. As I considered the incident, it became apparent that of course the fire would not end the second I stopped the gas. Karen and Renee came running in to my rescue with the fire extinguisher and Karen admitted she didn't know how to use it anyway. So we read the instructions and learned how. We also learned how the fire extinguisher had expired in 1999. 

I'm rather glad the fire went out on its own. I'm also thrilled that my gas tank didn't explode, since it's rather near the oven, and mostly full.

It was exciting. We decided I should not use my stove or oven until this little spontaneous, indoor, campfire has been further looked into. Luckily, my dinner had cooked to perfection--it still had a few minutes on the timer, but the extra heat from the open flames must have sped it up. 

So this leaves me with a toaster oven, microwave and crockpot. Seeing as I tend to forget about the predicament all day, and all my meat is frozen, I was left to google vegetarian crock-pot dishes this evening once I was hungry for dinner. The result is my lentil and rice curry soup with raisins and all the vegetables I had in my freezer. It's pretty tasty. But I'm too hungry to wait for the rice to finish cooking. I think the crunch adds a nice variety to the texture though.

Till next time (when I will really try to turn this "cooking in Gabon" blog around onto some topic other than my culinary adventures, but so I said last week.)

Jessica

P.S. since I was adding that picture, I couldn't resist a few more:

Bugbites after going to church in Mandji--and I practically took a bath in bug spray before going!

A little gecko I found in my bathroom. Normally they're on the ceiling or right next to it and I can't get a good picture, but this one went darting across my floor and I found him hiding and took a good picture. I found an even tinier one on my shower curtain this morning.

Meditations Upon an Unplanned Repast (or thoughts inspired by grab bag meal)

So having played butcher, I turned vegetarian for a night and made veggie burgers. Mostly because I didn't have thawed meat, and did have multiple cans of beans. So a quick search on allrecipes.com inspired me to make my own bean patties.



They actually turned out really well. I'm still a fan of meat, but as far as desiring something that doesn't leave me thinking I forgot the main course, these are a good way to go. Here's a lovely picture...because I was so excited about them!

Anyway, lest this sound like a cooking blog I'd better move on to some other type of subject.

like...Joy.

That's what I've been thinking about a lot lately. I have realised that even in the past two months my entire outlook on life has completely changed. I came here, knowing(most days) that God was calling me here, and terrified of what was going to happen. I think you could say that terror was fair enough, what with having less than ideal health and not all the money I needed and the growing realisation that I had never really gotten myself into something without someone else I knew doing it too. Maybe this is a side effect of being the middle child. I was always old enough to do these with Phillip, or "one of the girls" or still young enough to do things with Kristi. I don't know. But I do know that I was a bit frightened.

I got here, and since I hadn't even been able to think of anything to expect, I generally found that I wasn't too surprised at life. A few things surprised me here and there. But generally I just found myself counting.

How many days have I been here? How many days till I go home? How long till I have to figure out what to do next year? How long till I go to Bongolo? How long till I go back to Libreville...?

Always, I was asking questions entirely focused on what I wasn't doing yet.

And recently I've realised that that is pointless.

Sure, a little planning is necessary. But that's how I felt when I realised I didn't have any meat last night. "Oh no!" I thought, "What am I going to eat now? I should've thought about this before!" But I'm glad I didn't fuss over it too much before, because now I have a whole new, tasty dish I may never have tried otherwise.

This is not to say that I'm giving up meal planning. (of course, it's hard to give up what you haven't started anyway). Rather, I'm simply saying, worrying about the future really doesn't get you anywhere at all. It just makes you miss all your current opportunities. You'll never even enjoy the future, because by the time it comes around you're worrying about the next bend in the river.

Not to say I'm not worrying anymore. I still worry. But I found myself more in more catching myself, shaking it off, thanking God for already arranging provisions for the future so that I can enjoy what he's given me right now. That's what I'm trying to say with my bad cooking analogy. Instead of worrying about what's for dinner, look around and see what God's put in the pantry, because maybe he's got a whole new recipe for you to try. He know's you'll love it, even though it looks a little like vomit burgers (they do too...I'll admit it).

So I'm done with purposefully worrying about life. I think I'll just enjoy searching out all the little hints that God leaves around me to remind me that he's looking out for me and giving me better things than I can imagine, let alone plan for!

Well, so much for leaving the food topic. And sorry for a potentially confusing/cliché post. I find that I keep learning profound things, and then as soon as I attempt to put words to them, they turn into the phrases I've heard all my life. But now I understand the deep emotion and understanding that first gave them voice and led to their continual use till they mean nothing at all to us anymore.

à tout à l'heure,

Jessica

A fine dinner--Jungle Style (except, probably not really, but it sounds good)

PREFACE:

You probably didn't think a post would need a preface (maybe I've been reading too much Dickens of late). Well this one gets one, necessary or not. 

All that to say--The following events happened the the last eve of October, and I haven't put them up because I need to get on particular fabulous picture from Joanna, but I decided to just post this now, anyway, and I'll add said photo later--believe me, it's one you won't want to miss folks. 

31 October 2008

 

Today I saw a dead buffalo. Actually, I just saw parts of him. At about 11:30 I heard someone calling my name. I thought maybe it was Karen so I went to check the hall between our houses, but no one was there. The calling continued and then I had a genius idea: maybe someone is at the front door!

 

Sure enough, Joanna was outside. I was a bit confused since even though we had planned on me coming over for lunch it was still 30 minutes till noon, but she quickly explained that there was a buffalo being cut up by the hospital and sold for meat. I grabbed my camera and we rushed down to the hospital, with Joanna’s already bought chunk of meet in a black bag at my feet. This was terribly exciting!

 

We got down there and sure enough, there was a small crowd of people around a few men with Machetes cutting up pieces of meat and weighing them on a little scale. 

In the pickup truck behind them, the huge heard of the buffalo lay. I made sure it was ok to take a picture and got my camera out. As I was about to snap a picture, a man standing off to the side with a taxi, started shaking his finger at me. I pointed him out to Joanna and he came over and started talking rapidly in French (actually, it may not have been rapid, it all sounds rapid to me, unless every syllable is said as an individual word, but then I get confused because I don’t recognize the words, which are actually syllables) Anyway, I did catch the word “ferme” (closed) and that he was unhappy. He flashed a little card at us. And I quickly figured out what Joanna confirmed a few seconds later: Apparently it is not bull killing season, and these people should not  have killed the buffalo because it’s season is over (here is where I think “ferme” came in) and they shouldn’t be cutting this buffalo up and selling it there. The man was apparently a ranger, or worked with the park rangers or something. I’m not sure why this meant I couldn’t take a picture, since shooting a picture is entirely different from shooting a picture. And I probably could have, but I really didn’t want to step on any toes, and soon after this the ranger/taxi driver and the men cutting meat started yelling at each other. Now I’ve been here long enough to know that yelling Gabonese does not always equal angry Gabonese. But when one is accusing another of illegal business and the accused is standing there holding a machete, I know enough about human nature to decide not to push anything. (OK, so I wasn’t really fearing for anyone’s life, but still, you don’t really want caught up in the middle of angry people anywhere) So since Joanna had pictures and the meat was all sold, we hopped back in the car and slowly drove past the truck so I could see the buffalo’s head.

 

Then we headed back up. I ate lunch with the Thelanders and we discussed the buffalo meat in the fridge. Joanna had offered me the opportunity to cut up the pieces before she gave the job to Ernestine (her house help). I was happy to give it a whack (pun fully intended—sorry!). So we looked through some cookbooks, got Ernestine’s opinion on what part of the bull we were dealing with (Rump/Thigh—the hip socket gave that away). After lunch, I went to. 

Joanna was a little grossed out by the whole ordeal. So I had to contain my excitement and not discuss all the nitty-gritty details about the bones and marrow and tendons (or ligaments...I always get them mixed up, and I don’t know if it was attached bone to bone or bone to ligament anyway, because I only had one end...). There was a really neat blood vessel or something too. It was squishy, and quite large. While I sawed off the bones and tried to get little chunks of meat apart, Joanna and the kids prepared mushrooms and bullion and all kinds of delicious smelling things to make some kind of mushroom beef.

 

Luke and Sarah love to cook, and here they are quite absorbed in watching the meat brown.

It was tough stuff to cut. That bull had some strong muscles. It reminded me off cutting up cow eyes in dad’s office. Mostly the smell was similar, but I was equally shocked both times at how difficult it was to cut through the tissues. Of course, it makes since. I mean, the animal can’t have it’s muscle and fat and whatever else was there just falling all apart inside his body, so why would it get all weak and easy to cut just because it was no longer protected by skin?  Still for an idea of how difficult this was, I was using Cutco (I’m pretty sure anyway) knives, and it was still hard work to get through that stuff.

 

Anyway, it was quite a bit of fun. I didn’t even cut off a finger! I felt ingenious at one point though. The last piece of meat was wrapped around a huge tendon/ligament. I wanted to get it off that because it wasn’t going to be any good to eat. But the tendon/ligament was too slippery to hold onto, so I couldn’t get a good grip anywhere to cut both pieces of meat off the thick white strip. Then I thought of a thumb whole! So I spent the next 30 seconds boring out a hole in the tendon/ligament that I could slip my thumb into. I had no worries of the hole splitting because I could barely get the knife through it. It worked like a dream! I could stick my thumb through the hole, giving me a great grip and a good chance to filet the meat off the tough white strip.

 

So no more flower smelling for this Ferdinand the bull, but I sure am looking forward to the tasty meal we’re about to eat!

 

***later***

 

So it was really tasty!

 And I wrote this whole post calling it a bull and thinking it was the strangest cow I had ever seen. But then, after getting to the Thelander’s for dinner, everyone was then calling it a buffalo. This makes much more since, and it also makes my Ferdinand comment less clever. But, such is life.

 

Anyway, it was yummy, I get some of the leftovers too. Hurray!