Charity No.3: Chicumbane, MZ

(Here's another story from my time to Mozambique! You can read my previous posts about the trip here, here, and here.)

Between eight team members, two missionaries, and three MKs, we easily had (at the very least) nine cameras and 2,000+ photos of our twelve days in Mozambique and South Africa. There is one day of photos, however (the second Thursday, to be precise) when yours truly mysteriously vanished. Was I on a spiritual walkabout, communing with God amidst the beauty of the African bush?

Haha. I wish.

I was actually sick as a dog, holed up in my tent, and wishing Bert was there to make me toast and tea. (The thought of eating and drinking was revolting, of course, but the idea of having him close by was comforting.) That’s right: I was the team’s lucky and sole recipient of the self-titled “24 Hour Bush Bug.” Go Team Sarah.

After spending a few nights in Maputo, our team camped for a luxurious three days/four nights next to a church in a small town called Chicumbane. We spent one full day there, then drove deeper into the bush the next morning for the day. (This was the day we spent in Manjacaza.) That night, while driving back to camp over teeth-jarring roads that make PENNDOT look like God’s gift to transportation, I started to get a headache.

Now, in and of itself, that is a fairly normal occurrence. I get headaches all the time. I even have an app on my iPod to track them and rank them according to how bad I want to die. On a scale of “Nothing” to “Give Me a Lobotomy,” this was somewhere around “Did I Just Run Into a Brick Wall?,” but given the bumpy ride and the long day we’d spent out in the sun, I brushed it off and tried not to think about it.

Everyone was tired by the time we got back to camp, but I was exhausted. As in, "too exhausted to eat," which is not something I usually suffer from. (They don’t call me Hoover for nothing! And yes, unfortunately, they do call me that…) Upon our arrival, I immediately went to bed and slept straight through till six the next morning, quite the feat considering the roosters start yakking around three and the witchcraft drummers never stop.

I woke up feeling tired, more headache-y, and – fun! fun! – nauseous. I got up and went through the morning routine, hoping I'd feel better if I started moving around, but to no avail. (For some reason, I always think this will work. It never does.)

Well, to shorten a long story full of too much information, we all decided I should just take it easy that day. (Decided? That makes it sound like we sat around and discussed it. No, I physically could not get off my air mattress and they refused to bring it in the 4x4s. So that was kind of the kicker. ;)

One of our resident missionaries, Adrienne, stayed behind with her munchkins to keep an eye on Gimpy and to give the kids a break from the car. (Adrienne is like the African version of the Pioneer Woman, although she is very modest and would never tell you that. ;) She closed my tent when it was cold, opened it when it was hot, and made me sit up and get some fresh air halfway through the day.

And it worked. (Super Moms are the best. I hope I’m like her someday.) My nausea went away sometime mid-morning and I slept till about four (minus my “fresh air break”), despite the bands of children staring into my tent and wondering what was wrong with the white lady in her funny pajamas. The rest of the team did not get back until long after dark, so I spent the rest of the evening in my tent journaling, playing solitaire on my iPod, and munching on bits of Portuguese rolls. (Fun Fact: Mozambique has an amazing supply of carbohydrates. Many thanks to the Portuguese for infusing this bit of Western culture.)

All this has been a very long explanation to explain why I was in my tent, alone and in the dark, when choir practice started.

Now, I've said before how much I love African music. I don’t think I need to explain that much further. So when choir practice started up a mere twenty feet from my tent, I was glad. The chorus of foreign female voices permeating through the dark and quiet camp was beautiful and calming. And strangely familiar.

Where have I heard this before? (And yes, that question is as crazy as it sounds considering I was sitting alone in the dark on a continent I had spent a grand total of three weeks on. But it is not crazy when you remember I was kind of sick. ;) Technically speaking, I had not heard it before.

But then it came to me. When I lived in the Berkshires, my friends and I spent several weekends at the Abbey of Regina Laudis in Bethlehem, Connecticut. Regina Laudis is a Benedictine community famous for – among other things – their Gregorian chants. The Abbey observes the full, eight hour Divine Office, which begins with Matins at 1:50 in the morning and ends with Compline sometime around 9.

Over the span of two weekends, I think I made it to Matins only once – must be in the middle of an REM cycle ;) – but it was well worth it. Even though the chants are in a different language (Latin), the sonorous chorus of women praising God in the quiet dark is not something you easily forget. Nor is it something I expected to find thousands of miles away smack dab in the middle of a culture equally as far removed from the hills of New England.

There is no moral to this story and I have no punchy point to end on. Only the thought that as I lay in my tent and listened to these women sing in the dark of the light, I marveled at how true worship sounds the same in pretty much any language. And that is an awesome, awesome thing.

Charity No.2: Manjacaza, MZ

Between my previous trip to Uganda and this past month’s trip to Mozambique, I’ve been vaccinated for everything from Hep A to Yellow Fever, yet I still managed to come home with a doozy of a cold. Excepting a fever, I've had all the symptoms of malaria, so my psychosomaticism has been in crazy mode the past week or so. (Confession: I went out last Tuesday – braving all malarial symptoms – solely to buy a thermometer. And I may have checked my temperature hourly. JUST TO BE SURE!) But my temperature has stayed consistently normal for me (usually not higher than 97°), so I think I’ll probably survive. Huzzah!

In the meantime, it’s been frighteningly easy to slip right back into the old PA routine, like nothing ever happened. I’m generally not one prone to large swings of any type of emotion – I’m not expecting a Hallelujah Chorus to start following me around or anything – but I do think it’s important to reflect on my time in Mozambique. What did happen and how does it change things?

Well, to be honest with you, I am still figuring that out. That’s why I’ve been home for two weeks and barely written a peep about it. ;) So rather than give you a day-by-day journal account of the trip - I tried to write one of those for Bert and only made it to Day Three! - I've decided to do an experience-by-experience account instead. A “highlight reel,” if you will, of moments that really stuck out to me and are somewhat indicative of the trip as a whole.

(If you need a quick brush-up on where and why I went, you can read some background here and here. I am going to assume you’ve read those and jump right into things. ;)

I’ll start with the photo I posted early last week. This was taken in a small village called Manjacaza. Manjacaza is in the bush. The way-far-away bush. The “only place that didn’t serve us Coca-Cola” bush. That's how remote they are. Even the American capitalists can't find them. ;)

We were camping in a not-quite-so-remote part of the bush (i.e. Coke was aplenty) about three hours away and arrived in Manjacaza via our two Speed the Light 4x4s sometime around midday. (Time is mostly irrelevant in these places, so I judged things by mealtimes. It was before lunch. ;) We’d come for a church service, which started when we arrived and was held underneath a large shade tree in the center of the village. As the guests, we were given molded plastic lawn chairs. Everyone else sat on bamboo mats.

Like church services in the States, theirs started with music – my favorite part of any African service. I love how they sing. I love that they sing. I love that everyone – boy, girl, man, woman – belts each song out as loud as they can – regardless of skill – with absolutely no sign of embarrassment or self-consciousness. I wish we sang like that here.

And I love that they dance. Let me tell you: the older women in this town could really break it down. And they did. All the time. For every song and for any reason. It was absolutely fabulous.

At each village and church we visited in Mozambique, three of our musically inclined team members played through a small set of Portuguese worship songs they’d learned ahead of time. Most of the villagers in Manjacaza only spoke Shangaan – the local dialect – but when they started playing one lone woman still got up to dance. And while I watched her dance, I felt God say to me, “Get up. Dance with her.”

Uh, what? (Why, yes. I am that unbelievably well spoken when I talk back to God. You'd think if I was going to be sassy at least I'd be smooth about it.) Sure, I love that they dance, but I’m not really a “get up and dance” person myself. That’s my mother. Surely you must have us confused.

“No. You were okay with coming halfway around the world and now you won’t do this one simple thing for me? Get up and dance.”

It was a complete and utter Namaan Moment. Do you know that story from the Bible? It’s one of my favorites because it’s a situation I find myself in all the freakin’ time. (Slow learner? You could say that...) Namaan was an army commander who suffered from leprosy. He traveled miles and miles to ask Elisha to heal him, then got all cranky-pants when Elisha told him to go jump in the Jordan seven times.

“I could’ve jumped in a river at home, Elisha,” he said. “Thanks for wasting my time.” (This is the Unofficial Sarah Paraphrased Version, of course. The USPV? Sounds like a disease… Maybe that’s what I caught.)

Fortunately for the Nam-ster, his servants pointed out that he was being ridiculous. “My father, if the prophet had told you to do some great thing, would you not have done it? How much more, then, when he tells you, ‘Wash and be cleansed’!” (That is from the NIV, just to give this some sort of legitimate edge. The whole story’s in 2 Kings 5, if you’re interested.)

So I hedged that God had a point. I was all up for long plane rides and sketchy border crossings and brushing my teeth with bottled water, but I wouldn't dance? Like Namaan, I suddenly felt kind of ridiculous. What was I doing besides saving up pride for some sort of nebulous, Super Christian feat that would mean nothing to no one but me? Bah.

So I got off my buns and danced. Is it possible to look cool while dancing in Tevas? Absolutely not. (Do I still love them? Absolutely yes.) Do I dance as well as Mama V.? Not on your life. But was I obedient? Yes. And I'm glad I was because it was surprisingly fun. (And they gave me a bag of fresh cashews for my skillz. That was nice. :) For a brief moment - regardless of language and culture and everything else that makes us different - my lady friend and I worshipped our God together. And that was pretty cool. I'm glad he pulled me out of my seat.

Charity No.1: Mozambique

As much as I love the W-B, there are a few things the Wyoming Valley just doesn’t have. Anthropologie, for one, which is probably a good thing – always best to keep your kryptonite as far away as possible, right? (In related news, they just put in a Banana Republic Outlet. I am so dead.) There’s also a legitimate lack of coffee shops open past five, which I find ironic seeing as how the packies are always open much later. But most importantly – and probably due to a water supply that only suffers from sporadic contamination of the mining variety – there is a serious shortage of Typhoid vaccines. And travel clinics that supply them. And doctors who know where a Typhoid-vaccination-seeking-traveler could even begin to look for one. (Oh, yes, Dr. F., I am talking about you!)

And so last week I found myself driving to a travel clinic down in Hazleton, a town I know only from passing on 81. (During the college years, I always stopped at the much-more-interestingly-named and a bit-more-farther-south establishment of Frackville.) I refused a flu shot (27 years and running!), explained the powerhouse that is my remaining thyroid, grabbed a box of live Typhoid pills (currently residing - quite happily - in our fridge next to the cheese), and went on my merry way. The question is: why?

I thought everyone knew I was going on a missions trip to Mozambique in September until I mentioned it to one of my besties and received the “Huh? What?” response. “Oh, you didn’t know?”

That was 150% my fault. The decision to go was made about a month before Bert proposed and immediately lost in the wedding hubbub. We decided not to send out support letters, since it seemed a bit rude to ask for money so soon after the wedding, and I just assumed everyone would find out somehow. Like through osmosis. Or carrier pigeons. (Full Disclosure: I was so relieved to nix the dreaded asking-for-money letter, which everyone knows is like a cover letter, only 1,000 times worse. Read an excellent/hilarious explanation of the whole process here.) But as our molecules do not seem to be communicating and the pigeons are nowhere to be found, I can think of no better place to explain the whole shebang than my very own soapbox.

Ahem.

I am going on a missions trip to Mozambique in September. Ta-da! (If you’re not up for a long blog entry, that was your early exit. There's no pictures in this post until the end, so you gotta be in for the long haul. ;)

Obviously, there’s a bit more to it than that. This will be my second time in Africa since 2009. My first trip to Uganda was run through an organization called Engineering Ministries International (eMi), a group I first heard about in architecture school, then again in 2008 when Papa V. went on a trip to Congo. eMi is a "non-profit Christian development organization made up of architects, engineers and design professionals who donate their skills to help children and families around the world step out of poverty and into a world of hope." This includes helping churches and NGOs realize their visions through the design of hospitals, schools, orphanages, bridges and utility supplies.

My Uganda team, a mix of American and English architects, engineers, and surveyors, was asked to survey and design a site layout and facilities for an orphanage run by Show Mercy International. (You can read more trip details here in an article I wrote for iBerkshires.com.) In the two years since then, Show Mercy has done a miraculous job in building out the site. What they've accomplished in 24 months would be impressive for a Stateside nonprofit, but in Africa it is absolutely unheard of (and usually impossible). You want to see some evidence of divine intervention? Check out the photos here.

September’s trip to Mozambique will be a little different. This trip was organized by my parent’s church in Connecticut and managed by their youth pastor and the ever-adventurous Papa V. (For those who know either of those persons, you know that “a little different” might garner me the “Understatement of the Year” award. ;) We’ll be in Mozambique for ten days (plus two days there and two days back) and running around like mad men for the most of it. I hesitate to say “we'll be doing this” or “we'll be doing that” because, quite frankly, we will be doing a little bit of everything: children’s ministry, teen ministry, adult ministry, prayer ministry, and any other ministry that God feels like tossing our way. I am quite possibly the least flexible person on earth, so for me, it will be an interesting exercise in patience and faith. (I shall henceforth be known as the "Flexmaster," if only to prepare myself for things to come. ;)

Papa V. and I will focus on designing a new ministry center for the missionaries we’ll be visiting. They currently live in the capital city of Maputo, but would like to move farther north to where they own a small plot of land. We won’t be able to visit the site while we’re there, so we’re working exclusively from photos and drawings to come up with a set of plans. The 1,000-1,200 square foot ministry center will initially function as a house for the missionaries, but later on (after another house is built) will host offices and short-term guest housing. We’re still kicking around a few conceptual drawings, but I hope to have at least a rough set of construction documents done before we leave. (This is a lot harder when you’ve lost all access to Auto CAD. I never thought I'd miss it!)

So, that's a rough outline of September's trip. Now, if this post were the aforementioned dreaded support letter, this would be the part where I asked you for money or prayer (but really just money). And I won't lie: my inner control freak had a major panic attack when we decided not to send letters and to instead rely on God to provide. I mean, that is something you say to sound good and holy, but it's not something you would actually ever do, right? Right?

It amazes me how God can use a missions trip that hasn't even happened yet to teach me a lesson or two. He has provided the money so far (even if it's as humble as Mama V. picking up quarters from the side of the road), and I am (oh-so-slowly) beginning to realize that, hey, he'll probably continue to provide, both for this trip and in other areas of my life as well. (Fun Fact: Newlyweds are chronically broke. So broke, in fact, that we hack into Mama and Papa V.'s Netflix account on a daily basis. That broke.)

I've also begun to realize the importance of prayer (and not just money) in an endeavor like this. The turning point? When my friend told me she didn't know I was going, my stomach did a little flip-flop. Was I nuts? Who tries to do something this big without prayer? (Mmm...I do, apparently.)

So that is how I will end this letter/post amalgamation: with a very serious request for your prayers. Design is a struggle for me sometimes - I know people with architecture degrees aren't supposed to say things like that, but I'm a big fan of saying things I'm not supposed to say, so I'll say it anyway - and it's been difficult to work on this project while being so far away from the rest of my team. I am also really bad at working in metric. And, you know, we'll be in Africa. There's a whole continent-full of prayer requests right there. But God will provide. I am learning that. Slowly.

To get a better idea of where we’re currently at, take a look at a few of our schematic plans. (Rendered by the talented didn’t-go-to-architecture-school-and-still-draws-better-than-me husband, of course. He even put shadows in the bathtub. I love that. ;)