Before that first year, I’d filed “agriculture” in the card catalog of my head, in the same general place as “nature.” As in many things, I was so wrong. Farming, I’d discovered, was a great and ongoing war.” -The Dirty Life: A Memoir of Farming, Food, and Love, Kristin Kimball

First of all, let me explain this photo. The goal was a picture of me standing with two friends while we held the sorghum I had harvested, so I could, as they said, show my friends in America my hard work. After numerous attempts, this was the best I got. Apologies to Vida and Jennifer who smiled sweetly for a photo they weren’t actually in, and to Jocelyn who had to deal with taking a photo with a never before seen ipod, and to you, dear reader, for having to see it. Let’s call it creative and move on.

Believe it or not, I actually helped plant this sorghum in the summer. Christine and Acacia and I spent a day with our church, learning a little about digging and a little bit about cooking and a little bit about planting. And while we were there, the seeds were sown that over these last months have sprouted, grown, and become sorghum that will be ground into flour to support my church.

A couple of weeks ago, the time for harvesting came, and back into the garden I went.

Have I told you that I own a Leatherman? I use it so rarely that I usually need a refresher on how to open and close the blades, but still it makes me feel tough and gutsy to have it. I mention this because to harvest sorghum you need to use a knife, and I chose to carry my dependable and sharply under-used Leatherman. And about 2 minutes into the harvesting process, I managed to nick my thumb. I tried to shake it off and hide it from the other harvesters, but given the eagle eyes of watching children, everyone knew immediately, and I was sent to cover the wound in salt, wrap it in a thick piece of wet grass, and sit in the shade.

Thankfully, things improved after that, and I actually managed to harvest a few bundles, one of which I am proudly holding above. Then I had lunch. And tea. People here know how to work, and they know how to rest.

I’ve been thinking about the rhythms of seasons. How those with me for the planting aren’t here for the harvesting. Acacia back in Kenya, Christine back in America, and me still here, harvesting what they helped to plant. And of course that isn’t the whole story. Jocelyn and Vida and Jennifer, and many other church members were with me from beginning to end. But still, goodbyes and transitions are wearying, and I miss sharing simple celebrations with friends who leave.

That’s part of the rhythm of the life I’ve found in Sudan. As regularly as seasons come and go, people move in and out of our team and in and out of our Moru community. And I too move in and out, a fact I’m realizing again as I prepare to leave in less than a week for time in Uganda, the United States, and Kenya.

I recently enjoyed reading A Dirty Life by Kristin Kimball. In it, she describes her transition from being a writer in NYC to being a farmer. And she talks about how, from a distance, farming and agriculture seem simple, but that actually working the land usually feel more like a battle than a walk in the park. After my bloody thumb on the battlefield of sorghum harvesting, I see what she means.

Living out faith can be compared to gardening:  knowing that ultimately you can’t make anything grow, but you can plant seeds, and pour on the water, and wait for the time of harvest. Battling stones of sin and unbelief, and fighting against the weeds of pride. One thing I know, you can’t do it alone. At each season, you need others in this battle to plant and grow and see beauty come into places of brokenness. From a distance, (even if you’re just gazing at the life of your neighbor who seems to have it all together), this life of planting and harvesting can seem simple. But I’m sure for each of it, it often feels like a war.

I want energy to fight, and wisdom on when to plant, when to water, when to wait. And I am thankful that in the midst of a world that seems ever-changing, these seasons of growth and change continue to happen the world over. I’m thankful that, even though the goodbyes are hard, in every season of my life a community has come alongside me. And, though perhaps it’s not so spiritual, today I’m thankful for Skype, which allowed me to talk and pray with my former teammate Kim even though she was starting her day in Baltimore and I am ending mine in Mundri.

Finally, here’s a greeting from a friend in the field, who sends you peace (and says hi to my mom) as she harvests sorghum. So glad that this is place where I am able to plant and to watch things grow.

We were late for church. And I mean really late. For an excuse, let me say that generally our church follows “local time,” which means it begins later than the stated start time. Honestly though, I just have trouble getting it together on Sundays, and I am usually a little late for church. But this week, I walked in during the middle of the sermon, which happens near the end of the service. It was kind of embarrassing. Turns out that the church leaders were cracking down on lateness, and had started right on time, even with, according to Richard, “only 6 or 3 people there.”

The benefit of this early start is that my church, for the time in my memory, finished before 1pm, leaving the afternoon unusually open. As Melissa and I prepared to wheel back home, one of our pastors called us over, and invited us to his daughter’s birthday party which was starting at 3. Is this the real reason church started and finished so early?

Regardless, Melissa and I wove our way through the snaking dirt paths that are hidden off the road, and after a couple of wrong turns and backtracks, we made it to the party.

There, under the shelter of a towering tamarind tree, we sat with our small church family, sipping lemonade, hearing the story of this girl’s life, and also another sermon, which was appropriate since I have missed half of the one at church. We sang and prayed and had a meal together. Not anything life an American birthday, where I doubt any 10 year-old would celebrate with a sermon. 

But fun for us to rest in the shade with our friends. To be invited, and included, and to see the home life of these people I see every Sunday. The family hosting the party recently grieved the death of their newborn baby and now celebrates the life of their firstborn. In life and death, joy and sadness: Mundri is showing me the importance of finding shelter and safety in a community faith that covers us like the shade of a sheltering tamarind tree.

“What is a weekend?” -Violet Crawley, Downton Abbey

Who doesn’t love a good Saturday? Even here, where the lines that separate workday from weekend are a little blurry, Saturdays still make me smile. This week, we slept in until 7!! and at which point the ladies of team Mundri dominated the YogaX DVD. Then breakfast, and cleaning and cooking while listening to This American Life.

I may have mentioned (ok, complained liberally about) our propane shortages. They actually aren’t so bad, but I feel like hyperbole makes everything more interesting. Since we’ve been conserving propane, Melissa and I decided it was high time to experiment with the charcoal oven. Now, I know that normally baking is a soothing sort of activity, done while you also wash dishes or talk on the phone. Not so with the charcoal oven. It required full attention from Melissa and I, plus advice from Karen and Caleb, but with teamwork, we were able to become experts at the outdoor baking process. I did feel like I got as toasted as our bread in the noonday heat. Maybe we could cook here simply by setting it on the porch and allowing the sun to do its worst. Note to self: perhaps late afternoon is a better time for charcoal oven baking.

Nevertheless, pita and granola and Melissa’s green bean casserole all turned out terrific. As we were wrapping up the cooking process, that classic song Survivor by Destiny’s Child shuffled onto the stereo, and we sang to our propane tanks: “Thought I couldn’t live without you, but I’m livin’; thought I couldn’t cook without you, but I’m cookin’…I’m a survivor, I’m not gonna give up.”

Here we are in Mundri, having survived another Saturday, thankful for weekends and friends and charcoal and granola.

In the car, along with the radio, to my teammates: there are so many moments when singing makes everything better. I sometimes wish my life was more like a musical.

BUT, I don’t actually know anything about singing. I don’t understand harmony, or keys, or reading music. Though what I lack in talent I make up for in enthusiasm, I’m not really the first person you’d pick to perform a song.

Perhaps you can imagine it then, me sitting quietly in my church pew, waffling between trying to understand what is being said and getting distracted by planning what to make for lunch. I notice the ladies’ choir being called outside, and suddenly, I hear my name. “I must have misheard, or misunderstood,” I think to myself. I look at Melissa, and she too has heard my name, and we’re both wondering what I’m supposed to do. And then I realize: They are calling me to join the choir.

I hurry outside with the ladies, looking questioningly at Jostina, who nods encouragingly. I find myself a spot hidden in the middle of the line, figuring I can at least hide unobtrusively in the between a couple of strong singers. We march and sway, single-file, until we’re at the front of the church. And that’s when I realize that being in the middle of the line puts me front and center for songs. Gulp.

And this is it: my Glee/Grease/pick-your-favorite-musical moment. When the wallflower finds her time to shine, and finally shows ‘em what she’s got. It could have been so great. Except, I didn’t actually know any of the songs. And there are no song books. And, I don’t really speak Moru.

So I did what I do: I swayed a little and clapped a little, and sang some “Alleluias” and “Aroboyas” and laughed a lot. And when it was done, I followed the ladies back outside, and they whooped and hollered and hugged me like I had just performed a major musical accomplishment. And maybe it was. Not in the Hollywood, “I hit all the right notes and aren’t you impressed,” sort of way. But in the quieter realization that there is beauty in joining in even when you don’t know all the notes to sing, and that you can be a part of the celebration even when you don’t quite know the songs or understand what’s expected of you.

I’m not saying I want to perform in the choir every week (or even ever again), but I am grateful for my brief musical moment, and for my church friends who make me feel like a rock star just for showing up.

These days I’m loving:

*Road-tripping it to Juba for immigration paperwork, an airport dropoff, and one glorious afternoon by the pool. Managed to eat my weight in pizza, Mongolian barbecue, Palak Paneer, and produce, often while sitting by the infamous Nile river. First time in 5 months that I had been to a restaurant with an actual menu (or used an actual flush toilet, but maybe that’s TMI).Golden pineapple slices consumed on the side of the road equals one moment of perfect happiness.

*Group participation in cross-word puzzles. To pass the time, we bought a paper at the Juba airport, and after reading of the heartbreaking fighting in Pibor, we worked together on the crossword puzzle found at the back of the paper. Who knew “larder” would be so hard to come up with as the answer to “food store”, or that we would feel such a sense of accomplishment in finishing a crossword designed for non-native English speakers??

* Reading one fascinating book after another.  Not sure which I think is scarier: snake handling, or the challenge to make real, life-long, dependent relationships with those from divergent backgrounds. Both books challenged me to observe life more closely, to move towards those who are different from me, and to see the wonder of where I am and what is happening here. And of course, they both made me homesick for the South.

*Making plans for a Feb trip to the USofA for six weeks of counseling classes, catch-up with friends, and one awesome family wedding. Turkish Airlines, hope you carry me safely home, and that you are well-stocked with movies, because 11 hours is a long time to be on one plane!

* Enjoying coffee gifted from Scott before he left for Christmas. In a world without fresh dairy, my coffee creamer options are powdered milk or UHT boxed milk. For the length of my time in Sudan, I have been solely a powdered milk girl. But, this week, we bought some boxed milk, and I’ve been loving it in my cafe au lait!

*Beginning tentative plans for a counseling center in Mundri. Not sure where the plans will go, but looking with expectation for how mental health care, especially counseling and psycho-social education, can expand in Mundri this year.

Yesterday, we took down the Christmas tree. Our lovely living branch, brought in from Arua and decorated with handmade ornaments, lights sent from Heidi, and popcorn lovingly strung. We swept needles out the door, put away candles, took down paper snowflakes, and cleaned house. It’s amazing the amount of dry season dust and cobwebs that can be contained in our home.

Just like that, Christmas is over. The fun of making homemade holiday gifts, and singing carols, and baking stocking shaped cookies is, once again, behind us for awhile. What we had been looking forward to has come and gone.

There is something nice about reorganizing, establishing routine, returning to normal after the busyness of the holidays. But, there’s something hard about it too. We have remembered the coming of Jesus and we have recognized the promise that He will come again. But, as I put away all the stuff of Christmas, I realize that even after all the gifts are opened, we are still people who are waiting. We  look towards another coming, another visitation. In the messyness of today, Christmas seems pretty far away.

A couple of days before Christmas, a month-old baby from my church died. The son of my pastor and his wife, the child had been sick and in a place terribly lacking in health care options, there was no help for the child. As I made my way to place of grieving (here, there is a several day period of grieving between the burial and the funeral, when people go and sit with the family), I saw a large group of women from my church on the road, and so I picked them up in our vehicle. They explained that they were on their way to the funeral of another man from our church, a teacher named Santilli who I had visited fairly recently. I prepared myself for a day of funerals.

Death was therefore tied to this year’s Christmas celebration. Feasting with team and friends, and yet also grieving with friends. At church, celebrating with a congregation-wide feast and on the same day taking up a collection for the funeral. Realizing how tenuous life is, how grasping the grave. Not knowing how to rejoice that the Incarnation has changed everything, when in some ways, it feels like nothing had changed.

I guess death and loss is always a part of the Christmas story. The animal sacrifices Joseph and Mary made at the temple after Jesus was born. Simeon’s prophesying in the temple about many rising and falling, and Mary knowing a sword will pierce her heart, too. All of those babies Herod killed, and Joseph and Mary fleeing to Egypt. And of course, the Christmas story carries us to a cross, where the One who came for us will be killed for us.

As I sat this morning with my coffee and books, I realized Christmas didn’t end when we took down the tree. Today, Dec 6, is Epiphany,  the actual last day of Christmas. On Christmas Day, at least according to church tradition, we celebrate incarnation. But on Epiphany, we celebrate manifestation. In other words, the way Jesus showed Himself to be God among us, both to Jews and Gentiles. Often times, that has to do with remembering the Wise Men, who journeyed to Jesus and worshiped Him. But, we also remember Jesus’ miracles, and the Spirit descending during His baptism. Not just His birth, but all the ways we see evidence that Jesus really is God with us.

After the Christmas clean-up, I need pictures of His manifestation, of His presence then and now. Signs of hope that He is with us in Mundri in the grittiness of life with funerals and cobwebs and grieving mothers and rumors of fighting in neighboring states. I want to be like the wisemen, who didn’t miss shining signs in the dark of night. I want to be like those at the wedding feast of Cana, who drank from water jars the sweetest wine. I want to be like Mary, who treasured everything in heart, who did not shirk back, even though her heart would break.

I am not saying we should be like these Bible characters in some moralistic, “be just like them,” way. But I am encouraged to remember that Jesus’ incarnation was manifest to unlikely or insignificant-seeming people, in out of the way places, at unexpected times. And that each of those people, whether found in genealogies, or open fields, or star-capped stables were a part of God being made manifest to the world He loved.

This Epiphany, I wait again for the manifestation of Immanuel here in this out of the way place. And as dusk darkens the last day of Christmas, I realize that while our Christmas branch may be gone, the true Branch that has sprung out of what seemed to be the dry stump of the Old Testament story is still here, is still growing, and is still creating a picture of the hope of resurrection. And like all of those names and stories hidden in the Christmas narrative, so we too are a part of God being made manifest to the world.

Here’s me in the market with my sweet friend Sylivia, wishing all of you a Merry Christmas. 10 points to anyone able to easily understand her accent, and 20 points to anyone who overlooks my generally scruffy appearance. I may be taking this missionary thing a little too seriously, at least the parts about not wearing makeup or styling my hair. Actually, I blame the heat more than the missionary handbook.

And finally, it’s been so fun to have Acacia back on our team for the last few weeks! She’s tagged along in the Land Cruiser, handed out gifts to students, attended funerals, visited friends, put up with my terrible taste in pop music, gone out for Ethiopian, kayaked, and made our team laugh. We’re savoring these last few days before she heads back to RVA.

So, here’s my final Christmas greeting of the season. Hope your days have truly been merry and bright!

Yesterday, Melissa, Acacia, and I visited friends and helped make Christmas cookies. Of course, mixing hot oil with flour and sugar in a basin is a slightly different method than my go-to sugar cookie recipe. And, cooking with a charcoal oven is harder than it looks.But still, the day was delightful, the cookies were delicious, and the company was fantastic. Even though Christmas always makes me miss home, I was happy for a day that made an old tradition seem new and special here.

Merry Christmas from South Sudan! May your traditions, new and old, give you tastes of hope and home.

PS-Thanks to Melissa for the lovely photos!

Sing for joy, O heavens, and exult, O earth;
break forth, O mountains, into singing!
For the LORD has comforted his people
and will have compassion on his afflicted.”-Isaiah 49:10-13

In Moru, tabiri means hunger.

Funny how context drives language learning. I still can’t say much in Moru, but I know enough to hear hunger. It’s just one of those things you need to understand if you’re going to live here. Perhaps this is because in South Sudan, most people understand hunger in a way that I haven’t really experienced. Or perhaps, hunger is such a universal, daily experience that you learn it early on in any time you learn a new language. Whether your pantry and pockets are full or empty, you still start every day looking for bread, feeling hungry.

Over the last week and a half, my teammates and I have been visiting primary schools, distributing small Christmas gifts to students who have returned to Mundri after experiencing displacement. On Tuesday, Karen, Acacia, Caleb, and I gathered at Janga Primary School. Janga is a small village outside of Mundri I’ve visited once for a funeral and once to help with harvesting g-nuts and corn.

My friend Isaac is the head teacher (principal) at Janga Primary School. He is a wise and kind man. He leads in his local church, was my neighbor during my short home stay, attended teacher trainings that Kim and I led. He always encourages me Moru learning, even when I fail miserably. And, he is always ready to laugh.

We arrived at the school early, and watched as the kids swept the compound and cleaned the school. The school is not much more than a couple of mud buildings, and a wide, tree-shaded spaces with benches under the trees.

We met with the small group of returnee kids in one of the small classrooms, and heard about their journeys. Short sentences summarized packing up in Khartoum, heading to the waterside town of Kosti, waiting for a boat (sometimes for months), being on the ship for days, landing in Juba, and then finally making their way to this out of the way place in Janga. Many of them had never been here before.

When we asked what had been difficult about the journey, the word “tabiri” bounced off the mud-walls, springing immediately from the children’s mouths. Hunger. And my heart broke, because children shouldn’t be hungry and shouldn’t characterize months of their childhood as being hungry. The word that immediately followed “tabiri” was “nyinyi,” the Moru word for mosquito.

Sitting on a boat for weeks, wanting to have enough eat, and getting eaten alive by mosquitos instead. Not the easiest of journeys.

This is the final week of Advent, the season when we remember the One who journeyed to be with us. The One who left home and came to this place of hunger, and mosquitos, and loss, and sadness. And Isaiah prophesied that because of His coming, there would be a day of no more hunger. That He would have pity on His people, that His compassion would lead them home.

Advent reminds me that Jesus came because of our hunger, and that he experienced our hunger, but more than that, He satisfies our hunger. He, because He was broken, became for us bread and sustenance and life.

It’s hard to know how to think about that in Sudan, while north us thousands of refugees suffer true physical hunger. While I see kids and adults in my daily dealings who have known hunger in the not too recent past. And while I too live grasping so often, as if I don’t have enough or as if what I have been given isn’t sufficient.

It is a hunger too great for us. And so, we hold then tension of calling for comfort, and hearing Isaiah’s promise that the Lord come to us, “has comforted His people.” I see His coming in the laughter of primary school children who’ve come to Mundri and who today aren’t hungry. I see His coming in the resiliency of people who are planting gardens and serving neighbors and recovering from war. And I see His coming in my own life, as I see the sufficiency of the grace I’ve been given to be here, as I have the privilege of giving small gifts to those who came here hungry, and to realize that I always receive much more than I ever give away.

And in the places where we hunger still, the world looks for another Advent and cries this week again, “O come, o come Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel…”

Well, not exactly refugees. Returnees is what you can call formerly displaced persons who are coming home. Because now, as the popular Christmas song playing on Sudanese radio says, “war is over.” At least for Mundri (though sadly not throughout Sudan: please pray for peace in upper nile), separation has meant peace, and so people are returning to Mundri after years away, and they are bringing their children with them. Thanks to some generous donors from the US, our team assembled some Christmas gift packs to welcome these returnee children back to Mundri, and over the last week, we’ve been distributing them. We’ve visited 7 primary schools, some of them more than once, and distributed 220 bags of soap, sugar, pens, notebooks, candy, and cookies. We’ve exhausted holiday shuffle on our ipods, and hit countless numbers of potholes on the crazy roads, and been stared at by thousands of inquisitive children.

We’ve worked together as a team. Various teammates purchased supplies in Juba and Mundri, and assembled everything into bags, and tied on notes for each of the students, and prayed for God’s work in the students’ lives, and traveled around our state distributing the bags. I am so grateful for the chance to work with this team, and I am amazed a everyone’s kindness and generosity to help get everything given out.

We’ve seen some great teachers and leaders at schools, and been welcomed with songs and smiles. Of course, it wasn’t all fun and games, and some things were downright discouraging, but overall it was great to see all of ways education is happening here.

It’s almost Christmas, and we celebrate these returnee families who’ve come back to be with us in Mundri. But more importantly, we honor the King of Kings, who left His home and came as a needy and helpless child. Though we didn’t esteem Him, He cared for us and came to us.

Wherever your travels take you this holiday season, hope they are filled with warmth and welcome, and lots of laughter and some fun Christmas tunes. For those of you near a Trader Joe’s, please have some peppermint Joe-Joe’s and Christmas coffee in my honor. And if you’re looking for dust and heat and potholes and joy this holiday season, we’d love to have you stop by our home in South Sudan.