Dumpsite VBS

Seem a little extreme? A camp for kids mostly between 4 and 14 ... hosted at the local trash heap (more like a mountain). The ground surrounding the dumping site is sprouting almost as many glass shards as scraggly thorn bushes (which are everywhere) and broken electrical equipment is lying haphazardly all over the place.

It's not exactly ideal, but it's definitely where we need to be.

Every day, dozens of children (and almost as many adults) head out to the dumpsite to (1) - gather recyclables, wh
ich the government pays them a few cents a day to do and (2) - search for bits of food and other things that could be helpful for their survival.

Most kids wouldn't sacrifice their day at the dump to walk somewhere else and hear a few Bible stories, so the mission team decided to make it easy and bring the camp to them.

Driving to the mainroad on day one - in front of us is the other kombi (driven by the other missionaries with us) with some of the kids riding on the back. The Back of our car looked pretty similar!

The dirt road leading up to the main dumping site. This is the area where we were working.

  A girl hanging from the side of our car.

 

 My Mom and sister helping wash hands before snack time.

Hoping ...

My Darling Readers,

Things are like a rollercoaster right now - I can honestly say, the night before the Babies left, I felt like someone in the front row as the cars go up the tracks ... on the jerky ride to the top of the first hill.

 I wait, I wait.

 I regret, my heart jumps - I see the tracks falling down the otherside and suck in my breath. That sweet, painful relief as you scream all of the tension out from the top of your lungs.

No joy in this, but I hate to say I feel a little bit of relief, since I don't have to look at those sweet faces.

The social workers came and took the children on Friday (September 7th). My heart bled out in tears as I kissed each one good bye, especially Baby D. I'm afraid they might never come back to this house again.

But, thing is, there's hope for that.

Before I yank you along on the rollercoaster that's changed our family so much,  I'll stop and let you think. There's a little hope, and it grows in our home day by day - like a potted sprout that leans towards the sunbeams coming through the window.

No promises that it will survive the cloudy winter, but it sure is nice to have a shoot of green in my house again.

Much love from Africa.

Missionary support

Days have passed in tiresome work. It's just one of those days when I go from one thing to the other, and in the end I feel like I'm in a fog - everything I got done is really nothing, because my brain is swimming together like a puddle of consciousness whispering 'stoooooooooop, you are neglecting meeeee'. I have successfully ignored both sides of the brain; I have excercized no logic whatsoever and done nothing artistic since the moment I woke up.  I've just gone back and forth between computer and chore, computer and chore ... Pinterest, laundry. Again and again. It rocks, but I don't really feel anymore accomplished or happy at the end of the day.
I'm preparing mexican food. My mom cooked the meat, spiced it, and got out the tortillas, which we use sparinngly (we treasure our burritoes, since tortillas are incedibly hard to find in Africa). The rest of the work is for me. Tomatoes, onions, lettuce, cheese. I'm standing in the kitchen, getting lost once again in thought.


BAM!!!


I get hit by a wave of horrible music.


Coming from the livingroom. I stop shredding the cheese and cock my head. After a while of listening, I recognize the music. My mouth turns into a grin.


It's the da Silvas.


Aah, my old friends. The music is so sudden and silly, it's like they are here with me. This family lives in the United States, about the area where my family is from. We've been old friends with them. I met the two pretty sisters through ballet class (ages ago), then when my brother discovered all of their brothers, I guess our two families had to meet. So we've known each other for years. They've supported us through the move to Africa, the transitions, everything.


So they made a video for us. This was about three years ago, and all six crazy kids helped make it. I haven't watched that video for *phh*, I don't know how long.


And one of my siblings just put it in the DVD player. A wave of memories comes over me. I can't even see the screen from where I'm standing. It's just the horrible music SOMEONE was playing during recording. I start laughing.

The foggy feeling that I've experienced through the whole day is dispersing. For a few minutes, I remember the goofy person I was at the age of twelve, the crazy dreams I shared with my friends, and the inside jokes that will never wear out. The 'da Graham's as we were called.


All of this brings back a clear mind, a happy face, and a little more energy.


If I may say so, a lot of missionaries (new or not), struggle emotionally if they are unable to bring their own world - the American culture, comforts they grew up with, old friends - into contact with the culture they are presently living in.


This could mean living so deeply in the present that one forgets where they  have come from. Or maybe the people from their first culture simply cannot understand the trials or experiences of the new culture they are living in. Some, during the first few months, shut out the newer culture to dwell on the past (*aghem* made much easier through facebook). All of these prevent transitioning or comfort in the lives of missionaries.


I guess this is a way overdue thank you to my old friends. :) Their rediculous jokes, acting, and music-playing brought a new light to my day. This is also an encouragement to any readers with missionary friends. It might seem like no big deal to write a letter, send a little gift, type up an email or tag them in some silly old picture. But those things matter, and simply asking the question, 'how is the ministry going?' can bring a new life to their ministry that nothing else could.


If you ever choose to make a twenty-minute movie about the missionary family you miss, go all out. For all you know, three years later, you'll bring some laughter into their long, weary day.

Otjiwarango, Namibia

               The town I live in (OH-chee-vuh-RONG-go) is not really a big town, though it is considerably larger and more first-world than the many Namibian villages that are scattered throughout this region. We are a town of about fifty-thousand people altogether. Forty-thousand people live on the East side of Otjiwarango and the remaining ten-thousand live on the West side, which is the ‘well-to-do’ area.

A person driving straight through the town from East to West will notice drastic changes; at first, you’re on a dirt street full of pot holes from the recent rain … lined with shacks made of wood scraps, sheets of metal and wire. As you drive, the road levels out and among the self-built homes you find barbed-wire fences and the occasional cinder-block wall supporting the rest of the home.

The homes you see after that are made entirely of clay bricks or cinderblock. Before you know it you’re driving on pavement and the sidewalks are lined with people selling veggies, clothes, and cheap candy. On every other corner is a bar blasting loud music to the world.

Next you come to the ‘center’ of town (which is way off center), where you find grocery stores, clothing stores, and shops dedicated entirely to the passing tourists. Unlike your average Namibian town, this place also has a handful of small cafes and movie rentals as well.

 On the other side of this area are a number of happier looking homes; thatched roofs, green gardens and healthy trees promise that when you look inside, you’ll find tiled floors, large sofas and paintings on the wall. And quite probably four bedrooms. That are altogether larger than the homes of entire families on the opposite side of the town.

Widest income range in the world? Hmmm … I think yes!

My African Saturday :)

  Another day passes and I am at home. Waking at about 8 A.M., I take in the beautiful light of the rising sun on my light pink curtains. A moment passes as I take in the still bedroom. When I step out my little door, I will walk into chaos. Not a negative kind of chaos, and I'm not really afraid of it. I'm just hesitant to leave the peaceful bedroom, because I know what's coming; two little girls clinging to my arms and crying out in broken English, "Kailey! Kailey, come look. Look at baby." They'll pull me past three preteen sisters talking, laughing, playing computer games and my dad just leaving to run errands and pick up my brother from a sleepover. My teenage sister will be in the kitchen, searching through our masses of food for something healthy to eat. My busy mom will be sorting through laundry, calling out our names to come and get our clothes and, Kailey, there are eggs on the stove if you want them. No thank you, I say, maybe later, at the same time that I trip over my little dog. I apologize and try to stroke his head quickly before the girls are again shouting, "Come, Kailey! Coooooo-muh!"


  Then finally, in the livingroom, they will gesture to our ten month old baby brother behind the couch in some awkward position in a basket that they put him in .... just so they could show me.


"Oh, that's very nice!" I respond with a smile, just before I rescue the confused baby and bounce him in my arms. Oh, shoot.


  The toddler has my cell phone.  I shout and dive to take it from her. I check the phone and breath a sigh of relief. My three year old sister hasn't called anyone today. Where did she get it anyway? I marvel for a few seconds at how ironic it is that my half-deaf sister seems to be in love with cell phones.


  I have dog duty today. All of us have chores that switch each day of the week, one day sweeping, one day putting the kids' toys and books away, another day cleaning bathrooms. Except for me; practically every day I have dog duty. That means I start my morning by feeding the dogs and refilling their water bowl. We, by the way, have two galumphing, enthusiastic, hundred-plus pounds german shepherds with an uncontrolable appetite. Next to them my fifteen -year-old sister has a doschund and I have a spotted jack russel. It's a miracle the monstrous dogs haven't swallowed our lap dogs whole.


  This is a normal Saturday morning for me; I wake to the warm African sun, I hang out in my room for about an hour, then I venture out to the jungle of my twelve member family - more than twelve if you include the young lady staying in our flat. And the four dogs mentioned above. And the many little pets that run through our yard and the people that visit every day who might as well be family.


  I leave my bedroom and things go almost exactly I would have guessed, except that two ladies and an infant are here to visit, adding to the number. The house is surprisingly quiet for a busy Saturday morning, but I could blame that mostly on my absent brother (still at the friends' house).


  What will I do today?


  It's hard to plan my Saturdays here in my little town of Otjiwarango. There's so much I should or could do, but Africa surprises you. A friend could come over unexpectedly, my parents might have to leave suddenly (which means I have to watch the siblings), or we'll end up with a new critter in our yard that I absolutely HAVE to examine, take pictures of, hold.


  I think, through it all, regardless of what may come my way, I will find time to dance.


 Dance is what makes life light and breathable, but keeps me grounded in who I am. It is the flavour of the ruddy Namibian earth that I spin over. It is giving thanks to God for the life coursing through my veins, my beating heart, and the muscles that I care for with every stretching, twisting, stomping, twirling step I take. Dance is a breath of pretty pink in a very, very dark world.


  Dance is exactly who I am. Dance is what the baby laughs at, and the toddler does her best to mimick and my other sisters and brother check in on every once and a while, just to make sure I'm still dancing. To make sure I'm still me and be certain that I still hope.


I love dance, nearly as much as I love all of them.

Love,

 Kailey Brooke Graham