“How’s language going?” you wonderful people have been asking. First off, thank you for asking! Thank you for caring.

Language learning is best described by this picture:

I am the determined toddler reaching out for Portuguese and each sentence is either going to be very rewarding or a complete disaster. 😉

Logistically, Matt and I have class together with our teacher, Suzanna, Monday through Fridays upstairs in our happy little air conditioned guest bedroom. We have pulled a patio table in there and three chairs. From about 9am until noon we learn and practice new Portuguese (European) vocabulary and sentences about that vocabulary. The hardest for me is conjugating the verbs with the right pronouns… oh right and remembering the vocab words too. 😉 We usually take 2 breaks during that 3 hour period which are mostly dependent on the girl’s needs. We’ve gotten into a good rhythm where one of the breaks happens around snack time and the other one is more dependent on my brain exploding or evading a kid tantrum that’s escalating downstairs.

In the afternoon, Matt and I split up (no, don’t fear for our marriage. hehe) with two different conversants. Matt’s conversant is Paisano (I’m sure I just butchered spelling his name, but it is pronounced py-zon-noe) and my conversant is Laura. We spend 2 hours reviewing the vocab from the morning and heading out into the community to learn new vocab/sentences on the go.

Matt came out of the gate strong with some Spanish background to build his Portuguese foundation and I have been building my Portuguese foundation new stone by new stone. Sometimes I sit in a lesson time with Suzanna and I literally can feel my head spin. Hehe. And sometimes things just click by the grace of God. I love that before each morning and afternoon session we pray (rotating the prayer person for that day). I am also beginning to memorize the Roman’s road Bible verses in Portuguese.

Rachael and Abi also get the privilege of learning Portuguese while they await their Portuguese school to begin sometime in January (on the African school schedule). Rachael and Abi are learning the same way Matt and I are in regards to the GPA approach of exposure to the language through pictures instead of through the medium of translating words from English (which takes longer for your brain to engage since it’s an extra step to translate in your head and then  produce the Portuguese equivalent). Rachael and Abi initially studied together for 2 hours in the afternoon, but now are each having an hour of one-on-one with their teacher, Elsa (yes, she’s royal). It is exciting to watch the light in their eyes as they understand and form Portuguese sentences.

Hannah and Eden are learning Portuguese informally through Emilia, our Portuguese-speaking house helper, who wonderfully and patiently identifies objects and actions for us all as well as gently corrects our pronunciations. It’s so cool to see in a handful of week the difference in the little ones’ understanding of Portuguese as Emilia’s words become more familiar. Hannah has begun speaking the Mozambican greetings to our guard, our language teachers and Emilia. And Eden has been repeating Portuguese words and utilizing a few Portuguese words to communicate to Emilia (i.e. “thank you”, “cookie type crackers”, etc.).

I’m really proud of my girls for their hard work to communicate with others here. We’ve been hanging up pictures around the house, forming Portuguese sentences as a family and doing a lot of team work to try to do our best to understand and communicate in Portuguese with those around us.

Some days it’s really slow and up-hill and some days it feels a lot more natural.

But each day is one step closer to fluency. =)

In the middle of allergic reactions to unknown things, internet outtages for a week of silence, stingy caterpillar hair season leaving little burns on your skin as the hairs get blown in the wind or dry on your clothes, and the busy world of language acquisition, it’s important to stop and be a kid.

It’s important to cover your feet in the bean bin and laugh when you pull them out quickly. It’s important to squeal at water play days, jumping full-force into the big bins we bought down at the Chinese store for a few bucks.

It’s important to go on walks with Mommy, just you and Mommy and her language conversant, stopping to watch the chickens run through a nearby park and feeling the Marginal’s breeze.

It’s important to pretend to be the newest market find, being carried home in a hurry.

It’s important to strap your beloved toys on your back like African babies

and ride in those rickety car carts at the local Chinese store!

It’s important to start an impromptu water fight with Emilia, laughing that she graciously and delightfully played along getting completely drenched. (My goodness how I love Emilia and her willingness to all-out play along.)

So important to take a silly picture in the middle of that long, hot church service

And yes, it’s even important to climb into that laundry basket for a good hiding spot.

Yes, it’s super important to continue finding childhood amidst the adult realities of Africa – laughing at your drying stuffed animals post allergic reaction washing.

We all benefit from a little extra childhood delight for sure. 😉

-Thankful, grateful and beyond blessed.

It has been a month, today. It still hits me when we round certain corners and bends in the road. It still feels surreal.

We actually live here. Like for real.

The dust is still settling in many ways. Sometimes we can still see it swirling. Sometimes it feels like it has settled.

We’re newborns here. But that’s not a bad thing. It’s just a fact.

The world outside of our gate still feels so foreign. And yet so much like home.

The noises are becoming more familiar. The business of the street, the sweeping of the yard at 5am. The neighbor’s rooster. Sometimes we don’t even hear it now.

We’re still just becoming acquainted. Hannah standing at the window, initiating a conversation with our guard. The verbage ends at the greeting’s end. Nothing more to say. So they just stand there. And smile. And poke the screen. My heart is warm that our guard just stands there. Poking each others’ hands in a little quiet game. They both are still invested in the conversation. Words are currently optional.

One step at a time.

We walk the neighborhood sometimes in the afternoon conversation time. It’s still a distant world for me. Language barriers are real and yet so is friendliness. Our block feels less foreign. And the Chinese store down the road. And that one patch of sidewalk at the marginal.

One step at a time.

In some ways a month feels like an accomplishment. Like some large amount of time. And then I remember a month of Eden, Hannah, Abi and Rachael. How we still didn’t know them. But we knew them so much more than their familiar movements en utero. It’s like that here. Just getting to know you, Mozambique. Nice to make your acquaintance. We’re still studying you. I feel like we’ll be studying you for a very long time yet. For years. Maybe even decades.

See, we actually live here, though it may be hard to believe at times. This is more than just a mission. This is our home. We’re not here to make people a project. We’re here to build friendships. Friendships we pray will last a lifetime. We’re not just here to pick up language, but to encourage others and learn from them. To start a conversation over a cup of tea and stop that conversation when the Father directs. We’re not just leaving our shoes at the door, we’re taking them off at the entrance and putting them away. There is no quick escape in heart investment. In life investments hat are fueled by the Father.

We don’t want to embrace the challenge and the heartache, but we will and we do. See, you can’t just isolate stuff. Accept all the good and not the challenge. It will happen anywhere. Sure there are easier things in other places. But that doesn’t always make them better or even worse. It just makes them different. And yet strangely the same.

Yeah, the dust is still settling. That bend in the road still feels surreal. But it’s what You have for us, Father. The real surreal that is slowly becoming home.

Open us, Father.

We are willing.

You know, sometimes Africa gets hard.

Last weekend Hannah started complaining Friday night of a headache. Having spent the day playing in the heat we sent her to bed with an extra cup of water. “Headache” to a four year old has various meanings. Sometime it means her body in general doesn’t feel well, sometimes it means she’s thirsty, sometimes it means she wants to get out of the responsibility of a consequence. So there was no telling what exactly that meant that Friday night.

Then Saturday came with a fever. And a stomach ache. And lethargy. Her face lost most of its color. And that meant only one thing – a trip to the clinic.

In America, this entails a happy little pediatrician’s office or after-hours clinic that gives out stickers and smiles along with their diagnosis. In Africa? Well… here goes…

I took her in with Wanne. I knew it wouldn’t be a good family affair. I purposefully told her nothing. No need to instill panic. Apparently she didn’t need my help because panic hit when we walked out of the house. She was crying and clinging to me as we rode to the clinic down the street. I tried to make things casual and talk up the benefit of having the right medicine to treat her. I’m still not sure if she bought it. 😉

Thanks to Wanne’s Portuguese, registration was pretty simple. Hannah informed me that she thought she was going to throw up so we took a casual trip to the bathroom. The place reminded me of a 1970’s hospital, only with minimal electricity. There was however enough electricity for some spoiling AC in the patient room.

The doctor was a sweet lady, whom Wanne informed me had started this very clinic. The doc knew a phrase or two in English and tried to comfort Hannah some. Hannah was nervous about everyone’s touch… ad even their looks. She had long since decided that she could heal just fine without their presence or their opinions. 😉

Then we were led down a hallway, through a dark room with a sickly man lying facing the wall and into a sterile, latex gloves zone. The mask on one of the nurse’s face made Hannah nervous. The tray of instruments made Hannah nervous. When they reached out for her hand I decided to talk through what was going to happen. Hannah is a needle phobe. It was best she didn’t know until absolute last minute. They used a latex glove as a tourniquet. Hannah was compliant but panicked. I held her face to my chest while they inserted the port and drew a vial of blood for her malaria test. With bandaid applied and port still left in her hand, Hannah donated all the contents of her stomach to the floor. The medical assistants were very quick and managed to save their own clothing. Hannah felt momentarily better, but still couldn’t bear the thought of the port in her hand. Neither could I. I understood why it was there should the results be pretty intense, but still hurt for Hannah that she had such fear.

Then the waiting. And the rocking. And the kissing of her little forehead. She really is still so small. Her port hand tucked under my arm, we just rocked and she rested some.

Thankfully negative malaria test and revealed bacterial infection sent us home with a relieved little girl (once they removed the port) and a few bottles of medication. I went in to check on her fever before I went to bed and discovered she needed a second dose of fever meds. We also made a second sad discovery: Eden was warm as well.

So Sunday sat with a decision: to the clinic or not?

A group decision regarding shared symptoms put us at a two kid count on medication.

Abi felt that two was too low of a number and added herself to the medication count on Sunday. And then Rachael joined the rest on Monday. Naturally Monday became a distraction day and thankfully Hannah and Eden were almost back to normal. It’s like one started feeling better as the next one fell ill. We’ve now moved to minimal upset stomachs and four happier girls. But the memory of Hannah’s clinic experience still lingers.

You know, sometimes you’re just standing there with the toddler crying for her Daddy on the third day of his daytime pastors conference. The water is on rations again and you’re left in the aftermath of solo language learning, running the household, and counteracting the mood swings of four kids who miss their Daddy.

It’s there that you find out in Whom your endurance rests.

Africa will always get hard. And overwhelming. And tiring.

America did. So of course Africa will.

So here I stand, amidst the storm or even in the aftermath surveying the damage. In these challenge and the challenges that will come our way I have found and will continue to find

That His Strength is Perfect when our strength is long gone.

All Sufficient Savior, thank You for how You continue to carry me. Your love is unchanging. I am staking it all on Your Name alone. In Jesus’ Name.  

– Thankful, grateful and beyond blessed.

(pronounced “soozjoo”) is the Portuguese word for dirty. And that brings us to our “daily living in Africa” reality.

Today’s difference between living in the States and here: Super Dirt!

Dirt, dirt, dirt and more dirt.

I’m not just talking about outside. Oooh no, that dirt finds it’s way into everything. It casually floats in through the window, covering everything. Like I’m talking EVERYTHING! My Bible sat on the shelf for 2 days, because I used a different Bible one day, and that shelf Bible had a layer of dust that slid down the cover like it had been on an American shelf for years! Now that could be a sermon illustration in itself about the importance of daily Bible reading, but I’m no pastor. 😉

Dust. Dirt. And more dirt!

This is one day’s worth of dirt.

(Can you tell who wore princess shoes most of the day?)

AND WE DIDN’T EVEN GO OUTSIDE!!!

And we don’t even live on a dirt road!!! And we have a paved yard!!!

Can you tell why we take nightly baths around here?!!

So we have two choices: embrace the reality of dirt or be miserable.

Guess which choice we’ve made? 😉

So next time you dump out the vacuum canister and feel overwhelmed by the dirt, recall that picture of our filthy feet and smile. =)

Sometimes you just have to laugh – afterall it’s Africa!

I wanted to take a moment to introduce you to Emilia. Emilia is our house helper who helps all of us keep this house running amidst the business of language learning.

Emilia comes at 7:30a Monday through Friday and leaves somewhere around 4-4:30p with an hour and a half for lunch break. Emilia helps keep the house clean, helps with the laundry, sometimes makes us tortillas (called apas here) and pizza, and helps care for the girls while we’re in language school. Obviously Emilia does not do all of these things every day, since Matt and I work hard around here too. hehe. But she is certainly CRAZY helpful in picking up where we have yet to get to some chores.

My favorite thing about Emilia, though, has nothing to do with chores or cooking. My favorite thing about Emilia is her gentle and kind heart, encouraging all of us in our Portuguese learning. Emilia will often take the time to identify objects or actions in our home to aid in our learning. Emilia speaks no English, but patiently encourages all of us to learn, even little Eden. She’s also sweet to happily receive our mime actions and butchered Portuguese with shared joy. She even acts things out to help us understand her. She’s a trooper!

And while the language and culture barrier certainly has it’s challenges for the younger kiddos, Emilia stoops down to them, smiles a lot and is quick to run and scoop them up whenever they fall or get a bump. You don’t need language to see her heart. And I love how she goes around and gives each of the girls a hug before leaving each day.

Emilia is quick to praise any effort the girls make in speaking Portuguese (smiling and celebrating Eden’s “obagaga” instead of “obrigada”) and so patiently extending her arms to have them “help” her in her work. Few things are more precious than watching her wring out soapy towels while the girls “skate” the downstairs floor joyfully to princess music, help little hands to kneed apa dough, or patiently wait on a rambunctious six year old to mount the step-ladder and fumble the clips to hang the next piece of laundry on the line. She is patient. She is gentle. She cares for us all so.

-Thankful, grateful and blessed by our dear Emilia.