It was two years ago that our family received unsettling news that began an extended holding pattern for us, news which wouldn't be resolved for another eleven months. That period of gray, unsettled twilight will stand out in my life as one where I became well-acquainted--more than I would have wished, for sure--with the chisel of God that is waiting.
Sometimes I’m as much a student of them as they are of me, as they sprawl in their chairs there in the sticky heat or the lazy afternoon sun.
Sometimes when they stand next to me, I have nothing to do but laugh out loud at the picture we must make: me with my German build and American clothing, my skin that best stay out of the sun after fifteen minutes, sky-colored eyes—and them, some even built like ebony marionettes, towering above me at six feet-two or –four, their toothy ivory grins and an arm around my shoulder, their tribal language to a friend resounding like African drums.
At dinner each night of November, see if your family can collectively think of 10 more things you’re thankful for. Keep a running list—and consider making it into a creative decoration for Thanksgiving Day: A vase filled with your list written on slips of paper, or written artfully onto craft paper that covers the table—complete with Sharpies or crayons prompting guests to add their own.
I’ve been thinking about them a lot lately, dreams.
Since I’ve already confessed that I’m a feeler, I’ll tell you that a lot of feelings and thoughts swirl around them too: Hope. Confusion. Anxiety. Zeal. Guilt.read more
I ducked my head at his urgent whisper, peering out the glass. Sure enough—an Openbill Stork. Three feet in height and layered in glossy black, this one seemed shiny enough that it might have just glided in from Murchison Bay, a handful of kilometers from our home. Weeks before, my son and I had sat quietly together, watching the same variety of stork leverage that gapped bill upon of the fist-sized snails that creep somberly across our yard. read more
1. I set a goal for myself while jogging: If I can only make it to that goat.
Everyone speaks more languages than I do.
I have partaken of creatures I would normally not consume by choice, e.g. fish eyes, grasshoppers, and the like.
People dispose of trash by simply throwing it out the window.
A healthy percentage of my most delightful friends were born a hemisphere away from where I was.
I avoid unfiltered water like the Plague. Because I’m pretty sure I’ve seen the Plague in there.
My pothole-per-mile ratio exceeds 136:1.
The concept of “home” feels bewildering.
I answer to a wide variety of names that sound entirely different than the one I’ve answered to for the majority of my adult life.
Fruit and other materials labeled “exotic” in my home country are available at that little wooden stand down the street.
My children asked for a raise in their allowance based on the increasing value of the dollar.
My electrical company is perpetually listed in my phone’s recent contacts.
Sometimes home feels like camping.
Despite the lack of familiarity, there is something about the place I live that makes I feel so…alive.
I adopt an accent when speaking, say, at the supermarket.
My suitcase is filled with odd items, like 6 of the same deodorant, 18 months of underwear for six people, eight pounds of chocolate chips, and 12 jars of B vitamins. My carry-on is where I stash the Hot Tamales and six packs of Slim Jims.
People attempt to compliment me by calling me “fat”, or in regards to my status, a “big woman.” …Yeah. Thanks.
Ants in my home don’t even capture my attention anymore unless in vast quantities or floating in my drink.
The last trip to the States found me saying, “What in the world is ‘Apple TV’?”
I are content with my “dumb” phone, because pretty much everyone else has one, and if it falls in the toilet (or pit latrine) I can afford to replace it.
Cops stop me because I are more likely to be a source of cash.
“I’ll Be Home for Christmas” gets me all sniffy.
My bed is shrouded in netting, but somehow my arms and legs still have telltale welts of those little (literal) suckers.
I keep toilet paper in my glove box. Because public toilets, when I can find them, are BYO TP.
I give up asking for decaffeinated coffee, because people don’t really know what that is (or why you would drink it), nor do they have it.
I can pronounce all of the ingredients in my food.
I am feeling a whole lot more deft with the metric system lately.
My employer contemplates sending out regular deworming reminders via e-mail.