Missionary or Not? Here I come.

What makes a missionary?

Before, I thought it had a lot to do with location. 

Missionaries were people who lived outside of the United States and got money to “do mission work” Which usually included Bible studies and teaching people to sing “Jesus Loves Me” in a foreign language. And being really close with God-this part was important because missionaries often had to ask God to stop floods and send food so that they could do their Bible studies. 

I switched locations and was called a missionary but found I lived in Mabaruma, Region 1, Guyana with the same set of weaknesses and strengths that I left home with. All I did to gain the title of “missionary” was ask people for some money, take some time out of school, and switch locations from home to here. Big picture, that is easy to do. 

And when I got here I realized, wonder of wonders, that Jesus did not make the rest of the world so that people like me would have someplace to go and “do mission work”. Most people spend a lot of time living here without knowing they are living in “the mission field”. I have come to believe that the important part about being a “missionary” is not the location, it is the following of Jesus. And in reality, once one decides to follow Jesus, living here and following Jesus is just as difficult (or easy depending on how you look at it) as living at home and following Jesus there. 

Sometimes Jesus guides us to new locations, but those are not the point. 

We already have a name for a person who follows Jesus.

A Christian. 

And so the term “missionary”, while useful in some contexts, is unnecessary in others. Being a “Christian” in whatever context and location one is found should preclude using the term “missionary”. And so I am a Christian, someone who is following (or at least giving her best shot at following) Jesus, and I live here.

In Mabaruma, Region One, Guyana.

But calling Christians “missionaries” does give a little more attention to an important aspect of being a Christian. Namely, being on a mission. And if I am following Jesus on a “mission” it behooves me to ask “what is Jesus’s mission?” (Big Question) and then “what is my mission?” (small question). “What is Jesus’s mission?” is a big, beautiful question. When He came to earth did He come to show a picture of what God is like? Draw all people to Him? Seek and save the lost? Put words into flesh and blood? The answer is “yes”. Show love? Show servitude? yes yes yes. Wonderful, multifaceted mission that books have been written on. For my part, I believe that Jesus is big into the leveling of ground. Because in the garden, the ground was level. Adam and Eve walked and talked with God. God walked and talked with Adam and Eve (Gen 2:15-23). Then splits and fractures entered in and blood soaked ground cried out to God (Gen 3-4:10). Banishment, pain, separation, and floods happen with some people IN the Ark and others very much OUT of the Ark (Gen 4:10-7:16). The ground was physically torn up, only illustrating the soul condition of the people living on it. Families grew up, split, and so on and so forth (see the Old Testament). And then, eventually, we get to Jesus. Who lived on broken, torn ground, but preached the gospel of level ground through grace and love. Love you neighbor as you love your self. Level. Do good to those who hurt you. Seek to level. “I am the way, and anyone who follows me...” Level. Talk to Samaritan women, eat with tax collectors, set the record straight for poor women who are giving all they have. Then die on a cross to offer grace to thieves, beggars, pedophiles, and people like me. A part of the answer to the Big Question of Jesus’s mission is level ground for all. But what of the answer to the small question? How do I follow Jesus in my place?

Because here, like most places, is rather broken. But here, the brokenness is sometimes more blatant. There are lots of people who can not read. There are lots of people who are sick. And there are lots of people who are hurting and abused. Women are not always valued and children are not always cherished for little other reason than that they were born here. But I can read. And I have an education and parents who love me. And I did nothing to earn those parents or to be born into a culture of affluence. I am so wealthy for little other reason then I was born there. It is easy for me to feel superior sometimes when I see signs written incorrectly or hear Creole (which is not “proper” English) or listen to people discuss ideas that I find irrelevant or wrong in the light of my education. Because I don’t believe that eating bitter food will lower my blood sugar, nor do I stress about “wetting up me skin” when it is raining. A baby sleeping with his or her little head conked over on one side is not a cause of concern to me. But I have nothing to boast of, nothing to be proud of. I have done little to gain my wealth, just as they have done little to gain their poverty. I am not called to perpetuate broken thinking in a broken world.

In my following of Jesus in this place of uneven ground, I’ve been trying to think about the Great Equalizer. I have been thinking about mission in this place of uneven ground and I keep running into it. Love.  As I begin to run into love I can not help but keep looking for an perfect, tangible example until I bump into the foot of the cross. And at the foot of the cross everything is level, every person is equal. How can I kid myself into thinking I am portraying Jesus to them if I do not live loving them equally and without expecting anything in return? 

So my “missionary” activities of “benevolently” giving out things and “educating” by saying cold turkey, “here, your way of doing that is insufficient, I have a better way to do that” really doesn’t hold much water. It is rather rude and does not reflect level ground. 

Jesus does not love me more because I was born in America, nor to I have a VIP pass to the fountain of grace. 

I can read, and teach, and “share out” because I, for some reason, have been born into a country of excess. I have enough. Having enough, it is easy to feel great about giving stuff or advice, or even just turning up my nose at those less educated or intelligent than I am. But if I do that I have really done a disservice to myself and to the people. More than a disservice, if I only think of them as “people less fortunate than myself” and as vessels to fill with my superior knowledge and piety then I have failed. 

If I do that, I have missed the mark, because that doesn’t level the ground, that is just continuing to work on ground that is not level. 

People in the United States (me)-scary thought-are not going to be saved because they have an academic knowledge of Jesus. They are not going to be saved because they can tell you the history of Christianity and know that their hands should be washed.  Our knowledge credits us nothing because the ground is level. 

I have come to believe that Christian work, mission work, is first about living. Not first about preaching and not first about teaching. Not first about giving out stuff. Those things may come as a consequence of living following Jesus. Jesus does not call us all to be preachers or even teachers. But I think he does call us all to live on level ground. To not belittle those around us because fate handed them a life different than our own. To bask in the beauty of grace and invite others to share in the glow.

In closing, I haven’t got living in Mabaruma (or anywhere) as a Christian nailed. But I claim in my heart to serve a big God who is big into the leveling of ground. I honestly claim it and honestly strive to live it out. As a “missionary” I haven’t done many Bible studies, nor have I been called upon to stop any floods. But I have wrestled with living and loving levelly in places of broken ground. For the last 8 months, the location has been Mabaruma, Region 1, Guyana. Soon, Lord willing, it will be Paradise, California. The location doesn’t matter. Following Jesus does. And that is makes me a Christian and that is what makes me a missionary.

Prayers Please

Monday (4-30) at 5:10 in the afternoon, as I was fumbling with the lock on LaBore’s gate I heard my phone beep. Missed call. I pulled it out and saw Karen Wickwire had called. Pressing send, I waited. 

“Hey Karen, I missed a call from you?”

“Yeah. The buggy rolled.”

“Where?”

“Down by Van Fossens”

“‘kay. I’m on my way.”

Our tense conversation ended and I hurried down the road. The “buggy” in question is an Arctic Cat Prowler-an all purpose vehicle that the Wings for Humanity team uses for a myriad of things-hauling airplane fuel, people, supplies, and pulling the trailer. It is the only four wheeled vehicle between the 3 families and it gets passed around quite a bit. As I hurried down the road toward Van Fossens thoughts and prayers spiraled through my head. 

I hoped that when I rounded the corner I would see a scratched up buggy with whoever had been in it standing nervously off to the side, shaking and nervously grinning from the adrenaline. I hoped we would all say “wow, that was a close one” and hold hands as we thanked God for his miraculous protection. But that wasn’t what happened. 

At the scene I could see where the buggy had gone up the embankment and rolled onto the passengers’ side. There was a sizable crowd of people gathered and Chrystal and Serena Van Fossen, plus Jud, Karen, Jake and Zack Wickwire were already there; clumped around Greg and Brandon Van Fossen. Greg is a Nurse Practitioner and the go to man for anything medical on our team. He was there, not in his customary role, but laying on the ground clearly in pain. Brandon was looking a little spacey as he crouched beside his mother and father. The Ministry of Health truck was already there.

Brandon and Greg had been in the vehicle with two boys in the back when the buggy rolled. From what we can tell Brandon flew through the roof before he landed on the pavement some yards away. The boys in the back landed on the grass embankment and had some bruises and lacerations from the windshield glass but are okay. Greg was also thrown from the vehicle and his injuries are the most serious. At the site we thought both arms were broken-Brandon remembered nothing from the day except getting up that morning. Brandon and Greg were transported to the hospital here in Mabaruma. X-rays confirmed that Greg’s right humorous was broken and dislocated just above the elbow joint. The left arm was judged to be a bad sprain. Brandon was examined by the doctor and then sent “home” to the Wickwires. He sustained a concussion and some road rash. His memory gradually returned over the next 2 hrs. Greg spent the night in the hospital and has since traveled to Miami, Florida to have surgery on his right arm-the break was more complicated than could be dealt with here. As of now, Greg’s travel has gone smoothly. Brandon is recovering well. All in all, we are thankful. Shakily standing on the side, looking at a buggy is quite a bit more than scratched (parts money would be happily accepted), but feeling blessed that it was not worse. Thanking God that the boys who were in the back are okay, that Brandon is doing well, that Greg is anticipated to be fine.

I ask for some specific prayers now. The LaBore family left last Friday (4-27) for furlough. They will be in New York, Texas, Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota, Oregon, and California over the next 3 months. Please keep the them in your prayers as they travel and speak. If you are interested in hearing them speak please contact Laura LaBore at lauralabore@gmail.com or Bill LaBore at blabore@flyawa.org for more information. Please pray for Greg as he travels, undergoes surgery, and recovers. Please pray for Chrystal and the kids as they carry on here. Please pray for the rest of the WFH team-with Greg out and LaBores on furlough all of the flying will fall on the remaining pilot, Jud Wickwire. The annual inspection and go through on the airplanes is happening this month, complete with some mechanics visiting from the States to help out-please pray that all the traveling and parts assembly/installation goes smoothly.

I am returning home from Guyana May 17th. The LaBore’s departure has left me without an official job title-I am no longer responsible for homeschooling Micah and Dani. I have been helping Chrystal Van Fossen and Karen Wickwire homeschool their kids and plan to continue doing that along with where ever else I can do to help out. 

Old Ladies Who Listen to Cricket

A few Sabbaths ago, I went by Sister Iris to peel some yams for her. She opened the door and regretfully explained to me that Nevil (her grandson) had been unable to purchase any fish, and one really can’t have de yams wif out de meat you know, so she didn’t need me to peel yams for her. I offered to read to her. She got a big smile on her face, half agreed, and then took it back. “Cricket”, she said, gesturing toward the radio. “The West Indies and Jamaica are playing.” I almost couldn’t believe my ears. Sister Iris is 88, nearly 89, and lives in what we would call a shack. It is extraordinary that she even gets radio signal in Mabaruma; most people don’t. I blinked hard, and then asked, “Who are you going for?”, reverting to a voice I would have used with a child when asking about their pet rock.  “Well, I’m going for Jamaica. They are up by so many runs, and the West Indies players are looking weak.” Dropping her chin, she explained this with all the seriousness of an avid sports fan. “Listening to cricket is one of the favorite hobbies of mine...”

The next Sunday, when we returned to pipe water into Sister Iris’s house, she was still listening to cricket. Jud surveyed the scene, set Bill and I to work digging a trench, and went off to find more tools. Jake discovered the hidden hazards of the site by standing on an unsuspecting ants’ nest. Tyler documented the proceedings. Trench dug, small geyser quenched, and a few cricket runs later Sister Iris had water flowing out of a facet in her house. Which is handy when one is 88, nearly 89, blind and house/shack bound. 

If I make it to 88 years of age I hope I still live full. I hope that I will have the gumption to listen to the sports I love and cook foods I like right. Self pity sucks. Go listen to some cricket.

Blackwater Part 2

The Blackwater trip this Sabbath was good. I spoke to the women about how last week went and she said that teaching had gone well. She and a friend had used the Moses activity book that we provided her with and they had taught the kids memory verses from another book. “Just like you’alls do.” That was really cool to hear. They had had 8 kids at their home-she explained that it is rather a long way to paddle for the others. Well shoot. Can’t argue with that. I can not say I know many 10 year olds who paddle themselves to Sabbath School. This Sabbath (March 17, 2012), I read the “Baby Moses” story from My Bible Friend Book 1 and we did a craft. I have been coming out to Blackwater with the Wickwire’s since November and it was rewarding to watch the kids work today. They are starting to get the craft procedure down. They know how to use their benches as tables now, have figured out the “paste”, and are getting better at coloring. Part of the craft included writing or pasting Jeremiah 29:11 (For I know the plans I have for you says the Lord, plans to prosper you and to give you a hope and a future) onto the blue background. I asked one of the boys, Akin, if he wanted to know how to find it in the Bible. Yes. I taught him and Lisa and another boy. They found the book, the chapter, and then carefully read the verse. We practiced together during the sermon, the three little kids lined up on a rough bench, Bibles open in their laps.

After potluck, Greg Van Fossen used felts to teach some anatomy and physiology to build a base so that we can help these people combat their “sugar” (diabetes) and high pressure problems. It was noisy and chaotic. When it became apparent that the kids weren’t going to listen to the health talk I brought out shape and color cards (thank you Prep leadership conference group) and taught them to play “matching”. They also thoroughly enjoyed an Alphabet reader (thanks Courtney and Bailey).

I’ve heard it said that every church has a building project, and on the way back to Mabaruma, we stopped at Blackwater’s. A new Adventist church is being constructed on land adjacent to the home of one of the baptized members. The frame work is up and now there are boards sawed and ready to put up on the frame. Tyler Quiring raised money to purchase the paint for the building. This coming week the president of Adventist World Aviation, Ric Swaningson, is coming to visit the Guyana team and we hope to be able to worship in the new church. I am hoping it gets finished up because if we can have church at the new location there is a separate building (a kitchen) where we can do the kids program without worrying about being too noisy during the adults’ lesson study.

Good mission story huh? I get to travel up a jungle river and teach poor little children about Jesus and the Bible. A great “missionary” thing to do. But is that what makes a missionary? Going to new places and teaching people about Jesus? I think there is a whole lot more, and a whole lot less, that goes into being a missionary. Something that isn’t location specific or dependent on the knowledge base of the people....more to come. 

Blackwater Part 1

Some of my favorite Sabbaths down here have been spent going out to the community of Blackwater. Blackwater is located about an hour and a half up the Barima river from where we are in Mabaruma. Wings for Humanity has a former crab fishing boat that we pile into for the ride through the jungle. The river is large, brown, and flat. In contrast, the jungle is filled with different shades of green. Mangrove trees grow right out to the edge of the river and on a typical trip we see scarlet ibises scattered in the trees at least once. We are in a coastal region, and the ocean tides ebb and flow in the Barima and streams that feed in. Houses along the river are built on stilts sticking up from the mucky intertidal zone. They often have little “driveways” cut back into the house from the main river course. “Blackwater”, as far as I can tell, is a loose collection of homes along the river. When we arrive at the church (we think the Catholics built it), Jake or Zack sound the air horn and we wait for people to show up. Once, a while back, someone did an evangelistic series and there are a few baptized Adventist members. Lots of other people come to join us in worship though. I get to pick the story and teach the lesson part of the children’s program. We usually have 20-30 kids. I have been reading stories to them out of the "My Bible Friend" books (the red books) and then we do a craft or color. I love working with the kids out there. They don’t seem to have heard many of the Bible stories before and it is incredible to sit and read to them. My guess is that few of them have been read to before either and the pictures in the books I carry out are fascinating. Being from the river, they have even less exposure to textual materials then the children in Mabaruma do. It is awesome tinged with sad to go through the book with them. Wonderful to get to share, heartbreaking to see beautiful, intelligent children who will probably never get a real shot at a decent education. In general, the “river people” are fairly quiet. These kids don’t talk a ton. They don’t often ask me questions and when asked a question are more apt to smile than reply. But when I point to Jesus, then turn the page, Nalene, Lisa, and Ron (three of my favorites) will search for him and then chorus in soft, high voices “Jesus? Jesus?” as they point. Sometimes I have trouble speaking a response. 

After Sabbath School, we have church and I try and find some kids to “help” me find the songs in my hymnal. Some of them know the songs, some just the tune, but I point with my finger and try and show them that the symbols on the page relate to what they are hearing. During the sermon we look at pictures in my Bible and practice turning pages. Two Blackwater trips ago, a women approached me after church asking if I could bring some books like I was using to teach the children. She wanting to teach the kids on the Sabbaths we aren’t there. Last time we were out there Karen gave me some things to give to her and I got the opportunity of teaching her how to find verses in the Bible. Her Bible did not have a table of contents. With no background, how could you expect someone to know how to find a text!? I hope my explanations made sense and I am interested to hear how things went when we go there this weekend. We also plan to start some health talks out there this trip. I will post on what we learn.

Refreshment and thanks.

I’m writing this blog post perched on top of the washing machine at the LaBores’ house. I’ve pointed the generator away from me so that the exhaust is not blowing into my face and all is well. Generally speaking, the washer works pretty well, but today it is being somewhat temperamental, requiring me to sit on it to make it go. As I mentioned before, all is well. My parents visited me here in Guyana mid January and that was wonderful.  It was fantastic to have them here. My father walked in to my house and immediately found things to fix to make it more comfortable. He tweaked my toilet so it filled correctly, built me a “real” bucket shower complete with a pulley to lower the bucket so it could be filled at the new faucet he installed, built shelves with Micah, and painted. My mom made herself quite busy too, listening to Micah and Dani and evaluating my teaching. She helped me know where I could aim to have them by the end of my time here and what areas to focus on. Besides all that, it was so good just to talk. I think I talked their ears off that week about all that I had seen, experienced, and learned. They listened and encouraged. It was wonderful. My parents also brought with them a plethora of beautiful foods. Walnuts, almonds, brown rice, granola bars, dried fruit. The first night when we unpacked I was totally overwhelmed and nearly in tears. “For you”, my mom said as I pulled out a big bag of steel cut oats, “for you”, as new t shirts appeared, “for you”, as games and notes from friends and pictures came out. Thank you to everyone who sent the games, stories, pictures, greetings, and teaching aids. I can honestly say everything has been useful. Just last week, when I was out at Blackwater, a women in the church there asked for us to bring some Bible stories along next time so they could teach Sabbath School. As a part of an answer to that query, I plan to take them the Bible picture book Mrs. Braman’s second grade class put together and tell the kids where it came from. Thank you.

While my parents were here we also got the opportunity to travel in Guyana a bit. Besides showing them around Mabaruma, we visited Shell Beach, Kaiteure Falls, and Orinduik Falls. Shell Beach is located about a two hour boat ride from Mabaruma. It is one of the few locations where endangered leatherback turtles come to lay their eggs. Mid January is not turtle season, so we did not see any turtles, but we did have an exciting boat ride out there with “Uncle” Audley. Audley and his son Romeo run the conservation station out at Shell Beach. During the off season they farm the land along the coast, keeping title to the land. During turtle season Shell Beach hosts conservationists and scientists, who come to study and protect the turtles; going on patrols to keep dogs and poachers out of the turtles’ nests. We stayed in one of the almost completed guest houses and had a great time.

Kaieteur Falls is one of the largest single drop falls in the world. We arrived to find ourselves the only visitors in the park. We hiked through jungle to the 3 viewpoints keeping our eyes peeled for the “Cock of the Rock” bird. It is red, apparently rare, and sadly, I know little more about it. We saw a one twice and managed to get a few fuzzy pictures. In contrast, tiny Golden frogs, which live only in the Guianas, were in abundance. They live their whole lives in huge bromeliad plants. One has to walk very quietly up to the plants and peek over the edge to catch a glimpse of the frogs before they dive into the water at the base of the leaves. This activity; sneaking up on the plants and then taking a quick look for frogs, was endlessly entertaining to Micah. Not a plant was left unchecked as we walked around the park. The views of Kaieteur Falls were spectacular. We were able to walk right up to the edge of the gorge and right out to the brink of the falls. Railings? Oh please. Don’t be ridiculous. At dusk we sat on the edge of the falls and watched as swifts dove down into the valley and then circled behind the waterfall to roost for the night. It was incredibly peaceful and beautiful. 

The landscape and foliage of Orinduik Falls were completely different than anything I have seen in Guyana. Located on the savannah, straddling Guyana’s border with Brazil, Orinduik Falls is a series of cascades that tumble over slippery jade rock; the water stopping every once in a while to form pools before it is off over the next drop. The air was dry and instead of green jungle plants everywhere, there was sand and yellow grass. It was odd to have the fabric straps on my sandals stiff again and I think my skin was the driest it has been in four or five months. Again, we were the only visitors and had the place to ourselves as we scrambled over rocks, under waterfalls, and through shallow pools. After our travels in Guyana we returned to Georgetown and my parents boarded a plane back to the US. I returned to Mabaruma to finish out the last four months of teaching having been refreshed and encouraged by my parents’ visit. 

For more on Kaietuer Falls:

http://www.world-of-waterfalls.com/latin-america-kaieteur-falls.html

To see the pictures of our trip click on the photo link at the bottom of this page.

Food Comfort?

I am not exactly sure what I was thinking when I came down here. I knew that I would need to eat, and I knew that most food required time and skill to prepare it, but somehow I did not connect that I would actually be spending some time cooking this year. That food wouldn’t just magically be available for me. Novel thought. Going shopping for the first time with Laura was an awakening. She showed me where I could get beans. Dried beans. I remember putting them into my cart and thinking to myself, “Annika, you are so far from Kansas...” The first time I tried to do something with those dried beans I began with stirring optimism; throwing a bunch of split peas into a pot, adding water, then lighting the stove (which in and of itself was troublesome. Humidity+bad matches=no fire. Sometimes I would go through 10+ matches before I can get one to light-I have since learned that storing them next to the stove helps keep them dried out) and waiting for them to grow soft and delicious. Several hours later the beans, which had been merrily boiling away uncovered, were still very hard. I’d heard somewhere, back in the foggy days when food magically appeared, that beans are supposed to be soaked before they are cooked. So I turned off the heat and tried that. The next morning I heated them up again. Several hours later the beans were still hard. I finally admitted defeat and brought my poor pathetic pot of beans to Jud Wickwire. He put them in a food processor and made hummus out of them. At least we were able to glean something from my foray into bean cooking.

Besides the cooking troubles that stemmed from my ineptitude at creating meals that do not include opening a can at some point, cooking in Guyana also comes with a whole new vocabulary. Chickpeans/garbonzo beans are called channa, eggplant is called balange (“bu” as it is pronounced in “bug” lon-jay), pretty much anything a United States American would call a bean, the Guyanese call a pea. The closest thing they have to green beans here is a long bean pod called bora. Cabbage is still cabbage, there is lots of pumpkin, pineapple is just called pine, if you ask for potatoes don’t be surprised if someone clarifies by querying, “Irish potatoes?” The alternative is sweet potatoes. In terms of me cooking anything though, these have been minor adjustments. Vocab words. The actual cooking of channa, balange, and bora have required much more time to learn then the time it took to learn the names. 

Shundel had picked up on my inability to cook in Guyana-being unable to light the stove was probably her first hint-so the first few weeks (okay, months), if she wanted something decent (and by decent I mean edible) to eat, she cooked. I, of course, wanted so badly to help and felt bad that she was preparing most of our food. So I would insist on making some meals. I’m sure Shundel dreaded those meals. Even the oatmeal I made was bad (gluey). Once I tried making a bean soup, and, wonder of wonders, the beans softened a little-much to my delight. I put in the vegetables thinking that the beans, bora, onion, okra, and carrots would finish cooking about the same time. Nope. The vegetables finished, then became mushy, and the beans were still tough. Shundel graciously ate the meal and only poked a little fun at my beans. We really don’t waste much food, but those beans did not get eaten a second time.

Shundel has been gone for much of December and January. There have been visitors in and out of my house, some have cooked for me, some have helped me cook, some I have cooked for. All in all, I’ve gotten a lot better. Sister Carmen taught me how to make empanadas, Esther Wolfkill and I made a pineapple upside down cake together, Chrystal gave me a recipe book and Laura passed along her bread recipe.  Food doesn’t magically appear out of the kitchen, but it does at least appear in a eatable form. I will appreciate a fridge when I get home, I will appreciate canned food. I will appreciate being able to pull a balanced meal together in 20 min. But, for now, cooking food is becoming comfortable. 

Of Sharon and Other Adventures in Creole

That particular afternoon Shundel and I were searching for a slip for Sister Iris. Sister Iris is quite blind and doesn’t go out. Her bachelor grandson is her primary caregiver and she assured us he knew nothing about buying women’s slips. So we clambered onto a bus and rode down to Kumaka in search of a slip. We poked through some stores and found one we thought would work well. We still had some time and decided to swing by a store we hadn’t visited before (it is always closed when we go to market Tuesday morning) and see if they were open and sold “top up”. The way cell service works in Guyana is like this. One purchases a phone that will work with one of the two cell networks; Digicell or GT&T. Then one loads it with the appropriate networks’ cell phone minutes by purchasing a “credit card” or via top up. A top up machine allows the shop owner to load minutes onto the account associated with your cell number. Top up is cheaper here then the credit cards and so we hoped the store would be open. As we came around the corner we saw the green doors were unlocked and we walked in. Shundel completed her top up purchase and I, in my best Guyanese accent (which sounds like my best Spanish accent, which sounds eerily similar to my best Norwegian accent) said, “Please for a thousand top up?”  The woman behind the counter took my phone number, confirmed “for thousand?” and then loaded my phone. When I got it back I was shocked to realize that I now had four thousand dollars of credit on my phone! 

“Yes, you say “four thousand’,” the women reminded me.

“Oh no! I meant for A thousand!” 

She laughed and laughed and graciously let me come back later to pay the bill. When I returned she told me how she had told all her friends about the white girl who accidentally bought $4000 ($20 US) top up. I am glad I can bring such joy to the hearts of Kumaka’s shop owners. 

One beautiful Sabbath morning I was puffing my way to church under the hot sun carrying a freshly cooked (and still quite warm) pot of rice for potluck. “Hey you Sharon?” The men called out to me as they sat resting in the shade. “Nope!”, I called out, laughing to myself a little. The white ladies here are often mistaken for one another. People have asked me for flights before thinking I was Laura, but I hadn’t met a Sharon yet. Oh well; I went on my way. Later it dawned on me. They weren’t asking if I was Sharon, they were asking if I was sharin’; my pot of rice that is.

Before I came to Guyana, I did not realize how much the words I used to communicate relied on the culture around them. Here, I can use the same words, but because of their cultural context their interpretation is very different. If I were to walk into a shop and ask for a credit card, I would get cell credit. In the States, I would probably just get a puzzled look-"aren't I the one who is supposed to ask YOU for your credit card?" Communication, speaking a common language, relies not just on the words we use but on the experiences we share. The right words, even spoken correctly, can get lost in translation if the experience is missing. As I continue to experience the Guyanese culture, I am able to speak and understand better and communicate more clearly. As I build experiences with the missionaries here we are able to convey ideas more effectively. I think the same thing applies to reading the Bible and talking with God. As we experience God we begin to understand what he is saying more and more. The Bible gains layers and texture when we begin to experience the words for ourselves. Whether buying cell phone credit or conversing with the creator, it pays to spend time experiencing and really learning the language.