Love 'em, Dread 'em, or ...?

What do you do about Sundays?  I remember the conflict dh* and I had back in our infamous “Jungle Camp” training, when the leaders disallowed Sunday services as a group.  The intent was to train us to find our own ways of worshiping and self-feeding, considering most of us would be allocated to places without the option of an English church service.

There we sat with open Bible and a tiny baby in our arms, trying to “do church” by ourselves.  Of course the luggage restriction (one suitcase and one apple box apiece) had been filled with cloth diapers and baby things, so we had failed to bring even a small hymnal.  It was an awkward and unrewarding experience each Sunday of “camp.”

Sure enough, once we arrived in our Guatemalan village assignment, we were faced with the reality of no viable church options.  Often we attempted “church” by ourselves at home.  Sometimes we were blessed to receive sermon tapes from supporting churches.  Then the post office went on strike and we received nothing for many weeks and months, forcing our return to sleeping in on Sundays self-feeding again.

Other times we attempted to join local indigenous church services.  Those were always educational for learning about the people and culture, but rather disappointing if we had hoped to actually worship.  For me, it was the slow torture of sitting on a hard bench with no backrest, trying to keep a one-year-old quiet in the women’s section, while Jim sat across the room with the men, unable to help me out.

Being pregnant at the time, those long services always meant at least one trip to the outhouse with a toddler in tow, and then convincing him (and myself) to go back into the tightly packed pew reeking of the same cook-fire smoke and sweaty feet that sent me to the outhouse in the first place.

Then there was the Sunday we were in the Mam-speaking church, and my baby suddenly decided it would be fun to start showing off his “what-does-the-Indian-say?” trick, patting his little hand over his mouth while making LOUD woo-woo-woo-woo noises.  One by one the other toddlers and babies started copying him. 

Watching to see how the other mothers handled it, I saw them give their papoose (colorfully typical “Mobi” wrap) a tight yank, whereupon each child became quiet instantly.  Not mine.  I had to waddle out into the dirt yard, sit on a stone, and wait out the service with my incorrigible (though amusing) baby.

Those were the days…. Since then we have tried Union Church, home church, local church, Mexican church in the city, and everything in between.  Currently we are back to another “union church” of sorts, using podcast sermons from the Internet, which we watch and discuss with other ex-pats in our community. 

At one point we recognized the irony that we had come to this country so indigenous people could worship in their own language – yet we were requiring our own dc* to worship in their second language.

How about you?  How do you feel about Sundays?  Love ‘em?  Dread ‘em?  Or are they just one more painful reminder that “We’re not in Kansas any more”?

IRL:  For me, “sleeping in on Sunday” is still a weekly temptation no matter where we live.

Worlds Collide

Have you ever had one of those moments where your worlds collide and no one in the room can relate to you?  Think about high school reunions.  If you’ve never been to one, you might someday.  This summer was my first experience in going back in time, stepping into old roles, meeting old friends, and I’ve got to say, it weirded me out a bit, and not because my friends are old.

Last weekend I had the privilege of singing with my high school choir from the 1970s and seeing photos of us on tour wearing pea green polyester leisure suits back when we lived in the same world.  Most of us come from affluent north Dallas neighborhoods—some much more affluent than my own, which wasn’t too shabby in the least.

What struck me as humorous was how diverse our lives are now.  The only equalizing factors were the choir robes and the songs we sang.  Somehow it tickled me to think that only one or two of my old choir friends have any idea where or how I live now. 

While many of them live in lovely big homes to rival those of their parents, successful by anyone’s standards, here I am, a lowly missionary with (gasp!) seven children, living in an adobe “hut” (compared to their homes, anyway), but still one of the richest people along my unpaved end of my southern Mexico town.

I just kept thinking, If only they knew. At the same time, I had another unexpected thought:  Why don’t they?  How is it that I disappeared from their world?  That seems unfortunate.  There are many reasons my home church never sponsored my ministry, but this weekend, it seemed strange.

After a packed summer of being introduced, honored, and appreciated at churches around the U.S. where people were glad to know me and glad to be part of what God is doing through my life, it was weird to be invisible at the one church I called home for eighteen years.

On the one hand, it was nice to have a weekend of not talking about unreached people groups in Oaxaca and about the need for audio Scriptures for non-literate indigenous people. It was great just singing the old hymns and reminiscing with old friends.  But on the other hand, it felt almost disloyal to put my real life behind me and almost pretend that I was a successful Dallasite (with fewer than three children), working a normal job.

Is this ringing a bell with you? Have your worlds ever collided?  Each week I write these different posts, holding my breath thinking none of you will get it, that perhaps I am the only one who has experienced this.  Then you all chime in with your own experiences, and I see that we are all in this together.  Oh, how I appreciate you ladies and your lives. 

IRL* If you happen to find yourselves in a collision of worlds where no one gets your life, you are not alone!

Paranoids are People, Too

Exactly one day after sitting serenely in cap and gown with thousands of other identical Baylor graduates, I traveled to Thailand, thus beginning a career of being “different.” From the early days as a single teacher in an Asian culture where my height, skin, hair, and eye color were a novelty—to later years in Guatemala as a mother with a string of blonde children attached to me, I was destined to stand out in any crowd.

For two or more years at a time, I used to long for a brief respite in my home country of Texas where I could finally become invisible again, blending effortlessly with the culture. At one point, I confessed to a friend that I was becoming paranoid. Even in America, people seemed to be staring at me as some kind of oddity. My friend tried to conceal her amusement as she gently suggested that maybe the stares might have something to do with the now-seven children tagging along wherever we traveled, when 2.3 was the average number in a “normal” family.

By the time the kids had finally grown responsible enough to occasionally stay home and babysit the younger siblings so that I could freely roam public places, I still was not inauspicious, even in the U.S. Rather than keeping a low profile, as I had always dreamed, I was recognized as “that missionary with the big family” who had spoken here or there, particularly in Northern Ohio.

I’ll never forget one incident at a thrift store in Cleveland. After an episode of hollering at the younger ones to stay corralled in a general location and then arguing with an older child about a heavily worn item that was not a good value, a woman approached me with wonder in her eyes, exclaiming, “Why, you were the speaker at our Ladies’ Tea back when…!” I have no idea how much of my tirade she had witnessed, but I was mortified. That was just one of many times God did not vaporize me on the spot as I had wished.

During one of our summer mini-furloughs, I was tired of being recognized wherever I went and a bit weary of people in general. One of our last stops was Orlando, where our home office is located. Back then I only knew a handful of people outside of Missionary Ventures in that part of Florida. Jim graciously agreed to stay at the mission house and watch the children so I could go to the mall and “be invisible” for the evening. Coming out of a lingerie store, I heard my name being called. I couldn’t believe it! Of the six or eight people I knew in the city, one was there at the Orlando Mall, and it was none other than Steve Beam, the founder of our mission.

My lot in life is to stand out and be different. Like it or not, I must guard my words, actions, and attitudes because others are noticing. Maybe it’s just as well. Whether I am a “farang” (foreigner) in Thailand, a “gringa” in Guatemala, or now a “güera” in Oaxaca (pronounced “weda in wah-HAH-kah”), I am bound to be watched by those who know I am attempting to follow in Jesus’ footsteps.

IRL* Aiming to be a good ambassador for Christ whether I’m invisible or infamous.

Bittersweet Bundt

Your heart-felt stories about the “WORST” things in missionary life leave me humbled. Each one is an illustration of our common bond in suffering for the sake of the gospel. Thank you for sharing your comments.

At times I hesitate to share from my heart, knowing how trite and silly it might sound to those who are in a truly dark valley battling for your very life and soul. However, in the spirit of “keeping it real,” I want to add a word about my current struggle.

This week finds me in Wisconsin celebrating the marriage of my firstborn, Chris (the cute one in the tub at Jungle Camp), and his bride. This is my second time as MOG* (Mother of the Groom), first in Canada, and now in the U.S. Since none of the same people will be attending, I have recycled (shortened) the same dress I wore the first time. Maybe my third son will choose a Mexican wedding, allowing me to wear the same dress yet again.

Weddings for me are bittersweet. I remember attending the wedding of a pastor’s daughter in Ohio, and being impressed that most everyone there knew the bride so well. Several stood at the podium and gave quick testimonies of how they had watched her grow into such a lovely young woman.

For Chris, it will be a different story. Only his immediate family and a very select few friends will be able to attend. It was the same when my son Tim got married. I find this to be a tragic side effect of living overseas. It’s not THE worst, but it’s on my list. There are no Sunday school teachers, Boy Scout leaders, or youth pastors who have known and loved my children. Those who share memories of Christopher’s childhood are nowhere close to Wisconsin.

In addition to this, I grieve over the fact that I haven’t been able to share special occasions with my nieces and nephews. I have missed every single graduation and wedding so far. They don’t know me very well, and I don’t know them as well as I’d like either.

My younger children cannot even name all their first cousins, some of whom they have never met. I find this to be tragic, too. After growing up with two parents who were only children (thus not a single cousin, aunt, or uncle), I always thought it would be cool to have a big extended family close by like “My Big Fat Greek Wedding.” Instead I feel like the MOG in that movie, an obvious outsider, contributing a bundt cake, trying to fit in and enjoy my son’s new family.

Once again, in light of eternity, this is a small sacrifice. At least all seven of my children will be together this week, and one of my sisters will be there with her husband. For that, I am grateful. It will be good.

IRL* Viva La Familia~I'm celebrating my son's wedding!

Friendless in Mexico

This month I am blessed to have WOTH publish another one of my stories in their onlineMagazine. If you haven’t seen it yet, check out “Guilt Trip.” It’s not as embarrassing as the Target episode that launched my writing career, but it’s another typical Jamie Jo moment.

Normally when the magazine is first posted, I rush to see what fun photo the editor found to spruce up my writing. Not this time. First thing I will do today is read the bio line for each author.

I am curious to read what others have to say about their favorite national friend. Do others actually have good friends from their host country? For me, I came up blank. Frankly, this is a matter of deep shame and regret for me, to not have any national friends.

Me, the ultimate extrovert. Me, who would have trouble naming my closest three friends out of a dozen truly amazing kindred spirits I consider “best friends.” So what’s up with not having any national friends? I don’t know. I find it nearly impossible to break through the cultural barrier to develop friendships.

Here in Mexico I have many acquaintances. Some of them might even miss me if I ever left for good. But on a daily basis, they simply do not need my friendship. Culturally, the women in our town stay at home, and if they host a special event or take a vacation, they only include their extended family. They need no friends. Even in our local church, I don’t see the depth of friendship among the ladies that I have with my fellow missionary friends.

This past weekend I was blessed to participate in a ladies retreat for the English-speaking missionary community. Just like the WOTH Furlough Retreat last summer, it took no energy or effort for me to relate to such like-minded women.

In contrast, I remember taking a van-load of Mexican women to a retreat several years ago. There was lively chatter and laughter the same as our ex-pat retreat, but the difference was that none of the conversation was directed at me. In fact, the women reverted to their native Zapotec language instead of Spanish, leaving me completely in the dark. I was merely the chauffeur, the benefactor, the I-don’t-know-what. I certainly was not a “friend” the way I would normally define it.

In a closed community that has seen its share of missionaries come and go through the years, even ten years is considered “short term.” In the national women's experience, all the missionaries eventually leave to go back to their passport country. Even after sixteen years of living here, I am still considered an outsider and a relative newcomer.

Just like the movie Sleepless in Seattle, I had to sign my blog post: “Friendless in Mexico.” Sad but true. How about you? Are you blessed with genuine friendships cross-culturally?

IRL* just wondering if my story is unique...