Speaking of Missy's OVARIES.... (a.k.a. "How Annoying is Your Fish Bowl?")

Once I heard an American complain about all the rude foreigners at Disney World who pushed right into him as he patiently waited in line for the rides.  North Americans have an enormous bubble surrounding them, which they fully expect strangers to respect. 

Touching is perceived as pushing. 

Most global workers eventually adapt our concept of “personal space” so we can survive without being so prickly with those we came to reach, where personal space is an almost non-existent concept.  However, what about emotional space?  Have any of you experienced the trauma of having a very personal issue treated rudely?

Today I am calling on the collective wisdom of our WOTH readers to address a tender subject: how do you handle infertility cross-culturally?  Short of wearing a t-shirt saying “Please stop talking about my ovaries!” what can be done to get the message across that this is a private matter American women do not want discussed publicly?

Missy (not her real name),  a global worker in her early 30’s, works here in Mexico and has been married for almost five years with no children.  She is a private person who struggles with the fishbowl effect of living in the public eye, where everyone seems preoccupied with her apparent inability to give her Mexican husband offspring.  Mind you she has never seen a doctor or had any “problem” diagnosed, but since her sister-in-law seems to be “Fertile Myrtle” it is presumed there is a “problem,” and that the "problem" is hers and not her husband’s.

The humiliation she has endured is unbelievable.  Can you imagine having people actually touch your belly and weep aloud over the death of your ovaries?  What’s worse, people say hurtful things about how Missy is selfish for not caring that her poor husband has the embarrassment of having an infertile wife.  One woman told her she should stop focusing her attention on helping other people's children (which is her ministry), and then God might consider giving her a child of her own.  Really?

Almost comical (if it weren't true), meddlers regularly offer Missy home remedies like powders in her drinking water, special teas, and fermented pineapple cores.  Once she was given a foot massage to stimulate her reproductive organs.  The very worst are men who make public prophesies and suggestions too graphic to print here, and tell of visions they have had of Missy’s birth canal.  Really!

Missy herself would be at peace with God opening and closing her womb according to His will and purposes.  She would be content to wait several more years to start a family or to adopt children if that’s what God wants.  Her husband and dmil* (see side bar) are supportive, though probably clueless as to her predicament.  If and when she does get pregnant, she would like the glory to go to God, not to the "friends" who offered advice and potions.

Her question to you is this:  How can she communicate to her adversaries that she is a private person who is quietly trusting God?  How can she be gracious, while calmly but strongly telling people to shut up stop meddling and leave her alone?

Is it possible to relay this message without offending people cross-culturally?  How would this scene play out in your part of the world?

IRL:  Living in a fish bowl can be pretty annoying sometimes.

P.S.  I voted against the "Stop Talking About My Ovaries" t-shirt, but I did find this one at www.AdoptionBug.com.
that says "mom-to-be:  Just waiting to find out WHEN." 

The "M" Word

Now that I am home in southern Mexico again after a summer of fund raising partnership development, I’d like to continue the discussion from last week on the shift in the English language and how some words are taboo and new ones are deemed appropriate.

We used to laugh at a notorious old linguist here in Oaxaca who would purposely cling to old vocabulary no longer in use.  He would talk about visiting “the tribe” (instead of the language group) and about working with his “informant” (instead of language associate). 

All the while I was snickering at him, some of you were maybe cringing to read all the posts where I continue using the outmoded term “missionary.”

After talking with some women who frankly don’t read this IRL blog, I concede that it’s time I change my vocabulary and clean up my act if I intend to be an encouragement to women of the harvest whose internet connections are not secure, and where eyes might be snooping to see what websites you are accessing.

More and more brave souls are now branching out to work among people whose lives would be in jeopardy if they associated with people known to be (whispered) missionaries.  That alone is reason to tread softly in identifying ourselves with that word.

Another thing is that on the field, the translated equivalent of the “M” word is associated with Jehovah’s Witnesses and Mormons, not necessarily with evangelical “C’s.”  It’s becoming necessary to clear up any confusion there.

This has been an eye-opener for me.  What I envision when I hear the “M” word is not at all what other people see in their minds.  When I was growing up, my heart was tugged to serve God in a radical way outside the U.S. because of stories I heard from missionaries who proudly wore the label missionary.

Nowadays younger recruits are shunning the “M” word in favor of other more relevant terms that are less obvious.  In order to attract these hip new global workers, we should tread softly over the “M” word and start using language that better reflects the work they will be doing overseas.

So, what is the word you prefer?

IRL:  I’m willing to join the young folks and drop the moniker of missionary if someone will just tell me what to call myself now.

Zest that Exudes

When I die, just put me in the box as is, or is it as am?  As I will be? 

Some women beg their friends to promise there will be no open casket when they die.  Why?  Mercy, they say, what if my hair isn’t done just so?  What if they put on the wrong color of lipstick?  Ew, what if I look gross?

As for me, I say put me on display for all to see.  Don’t bother with my hair or make-up.  Let everyone comment about how horrible I look.  Maybe people will finally appreciate all the effort I put into looking presentable at this season of life.

At the same time, tell everyone that for the first time ever, I do not care about my appearance.  Finally I will be free from my mortal body and sin nature that always cared too much how I looked and what people thought. 

Then I will be truly beautiful inside and out with no vanity or wrong motives.  Let my decaying body be a reminder to all who see it that I am not there!  Don’t waste money on embalming and beautifying my corpse.  Let my pale wrinkly old face serve as an object lesson.

I’ve shared before about my ongoing struggle against becoming a frumpy missionary, but as I grow older and wiser I wonder why on earth I fight the inevitable.  Money is precious, and worldly beauty is costly.  How can I rationalize the haircuts, the makeup, the clothing, and the shoes? 

Yet I look in the mirror, and I shudder to think what my family would be seeing all day if I didn’t touch up the results of a restless night’s sleep. Lord, help me to find balance!

This past week I met an exuberantly vivacious (is that redundant?) old woman who epitomizes true beauty.  I want to grow up to be her.  She radically changed my definition of loveliness.  True beauty has nothing to do with glamour, jewelry, clothing, hairstyles, or even teeth. 

If there were a missionary magazine looking for a centerfold of the most beautiful woman on earth, I would submit Valentina.  She has curiously split ear lobes, no teeth, failing eyesight, wrinkles galore, unruly gray hair, feet that shuffle, posture that stoops, and a voice quality that warbles and squeaks.

But you know what else she has?  Valentina possesses an inner glow, a zest that exudes joyfully from every pore of her being, even though she lives spitting distance from a cemetery and within sniffing range of the city dump. 

She is the me I want to be when they put me in that pine box someday. 

I want people to stand around and tell stories about my life, not about my decaying body.  I want people to smile and remember the real me, the radiant me who reflected God’s beauty and glory, just like Valentina.

What made me chuckle is that even my hero, Hermana Valentina herself, attempted to smooth down her long gray braids when she saw the camera, braids that were once carefully tied with red satin ribbons.  Vanity is an issue even among the world’s most astonishing beauties.

IRL* When I grow up, I want to be a Valentina who still acts young, not an old person trying to look young.

Missionaryesque

“They laugh alike, they walk alike, at times they even talk alike.

You can lose your mind!”

This silly song has been running through my head for days. If you were born before 1970, you might recognize it from watching reruns of the black and white TV series called “The Patty Duke Show” about two identical cousins. Yeah, like that is even possible, right?

What triggered this endless tune was a comment I saw on the WOTH Writer’s Blog where one of the readers coined the term “Missionaryesque” in her comment. She inspired a topic that could be a future book title: Missionary Stereotypes and the Women Who Defy Them.

When I first landed in Guatemala in August 1986, my mental image of a true missionary was pretty much everything I wasn’t. She was quiet, even bordering on mousey, very subservient and a bit plain, with no trace of make-up or styled hair. I also had vivid impressions of the taboos—things she would never think, say, or do. Where exactly these ideas came from, I have no idea, but it didn’t take me 24 years to figure out that a “typical” missionary is as fictional as identical cousins.

One of the greatest blessings of attending the WOTH Furlough Retreat last summer was getting to meet 99 unique women with diverse talents and personalities. If you look at the photo from my very first IRL blog, you can see that each one was a true beauty from the inside out. Some were enduring epic battles, and still managed to glow as we worshiped God together. I noticed that same quality at the infamous women’s retreat I helped organized this past spring. A group the world might not glance twice at, but who possess a deep inexplicable beauty and charm.

What I propose this week is a “Women Who Defy” Hall of Fame.

I want you to nominate a woman missionary and tell us how she has touched your life, how she is different from any other “woman of the harvest,” and how she does and says things that defy your earlier impressions of how a missionary should act. (For security reasons you might not want to include their full name or country of service.)

As I’m cleaning house, packing bags, saying goodbye to my two college kids again, and then returning to Mexico on the 16th, I look forward to taking a break from the blog and reading your nominations. Please submit them to editor@womenoftheharvest.com and we’ll start posting them next week. I’m counting on you to provide the content for next week…so please defy the stereotype and contribute!

IRL* Debunking Missionaryesqueness