It seemed to take on a life of it’s own, kicking off with Black Friday and ending with clearance shelves. That’s right, I’m talking about the Christmas season. Church would add in Christmas music to all the Sunday services, building up to the Christmas Eve service. The music on every radio station. The lights and decorations being donned as the whole city anticipated the coming festivities.

And then we moved across the world. Jumping the big pond. We moved to a road without a street address. We define our house by the color and the location. Hand delivered bills to your gate. Veterinarians come to your home to care for your pets. The stores shut down after noon or so on Saturday and reopen on Monday. Yes, we moved to a small town feel in the heart of Africa. The dirt roads. The power outages. The sun down and life shutting down by 6pm.

So Christmas looks like a two foot tree and our most favorite ornaments that we could fit in the suitcase. Christmas looks like an advent book of devotions counting down to the Savior’s birthday celebration. A toddler nativity and one store in the entire city randomly playing a Christmas song here or there. Christmas looks like the same houses without decorations, but the Chinese store really trying hard to convince the community that an artificial tree is more important than daily food on their imaginary table.

Christmas looks like 100 degree weather and that same Marginal breeze. Christmas looks like normal routines.

We’re told that the church will celebrate Christmas on Christmas Eve and we look forward to that. And we’re thankful for those of you that shared your Christmas tree and decoration pictures as we adjust to the newness of Christmas season here.

We’ll eventually put out the presents under the Christmas tree, but for now it feels unnecessary and a bit showy as the community visits our home often.

There’s still much joy. Still much delight and excitement. Christmas music still fills our home at times, resulting in sing-alongs and dancing together. And we enjoy watching the pictures of snow showing up online… just like the Africans talk of snow in far off places.

I’m so thankful that even in all these changes and adjustments, the beauty of the Christmas season is still found in the truth of Emmanuel coming down to us.

Merry Christmas, all. =)

Introducing: Penny!

We added this little bunny to our household two weeks ago. 
In addition to our dog.

Because we’re crazy.

In love with those addicting squeals.

Of four little girls.

=)

The girls picked bunny’s name.

So sometimes they call her the other 3 names they came up with.

It doesn’t matter.

A rose by any other name.

Eats lettuce just the same. 😉

 
-Tis the Season to be Jolly!

-Compensating for no snow -ha! 😉 Just kidding.

Thanks to our language helpers and Emilia, we recently had a little fun with African braids. =)

It’s nice to take a break from daily washing their hair. =)

Oh the squeals as they have joyfully danced to the bathroom mirror to check out their reflections when I pull their braids back into pony tails. Hehe.

Just a little good, clean fun and sharing life together.  =)

He lay there, a skeleton of a man. His every rib exposed and sunken in stomach spoke of a year of new sickness on top of his lifetime of other sicknesses. The shell of a once-strong and confident man crumbled into the hospital sheets. He stared off into a distant land. Unmoving. Laboring for breath.

Her demeanor,

her eyes,

and her reserved expressions

told a tale of a lifetime of respect and honor to others.

She reached out to his arm and stroked it, whispering in her native tongue. A tongue I can’t even begin to wrap my mind around and yet instantly knew dripped with compassion. She moved slowly, spoke quietly and almost floated to the other side of the room with the basket. Slowly each dish came out and was carefully set in its proper place. A mixture concocted. The family all watched her move. And stir. Slowly. Carefully.

The bowl rested on the side table as she removed her shoes and climbed into the bed. Her firm yet gentle arms slowly pulled him up. His blank stare, his helpless expression. Her biceps straining as she climbed behind him in one smooth move and propped him onto her chest. His full weight laying back on her as she crouched behind him, supporting his frail sitting. Carefully, gently she wiped his face and adjusted his shirt. He didn’t speak a word. She motioned for the bowl and her mother loaded the spoon full of his lunch. While the mother fed him, she propped him up with such strength that finds a backbone in love.

Three spoonfuls today and relief was found in her eyes…. until he coughed. And then she caught it all, wiping his mouth and his nose. Her hand was merely a tool. A tool used in sacrificial love. Not once did she think about her comfort or her needs, he was her sole focus. He couldn’t keep any of it down. The reality hit like a brick. Her face showed no expression, but her eyes told of great pain.

She waited patiently, receiving the last of the washing. Gently she laid him down. Tenderly she wrapped him in his sheet. Her eyes carried her heart. She stood there and watched him. His chest rising and falling. She adjusted his legs. She fanned away the flies and spoke quiet words to her mother. She cleaned up the dishes, rising some in the nearby sink. She emptied his bed pan. She redistributed the baskets and items to return home.

And then she leaned in, her arm gently touching the pillow by his head. She overflowed in tenderness. Her words floated in the air. He responded weakly. And in one word “vamos” we found ourselves in the hallway.

She would repeat this process until the situation changes. This is a familiar street for her. This road she has traveled so many times before. Sacrificially mounting her bike and riding what takes us 30 minutes by car to reach. Three times per day. Delivering three meals and caring for her brother. While she’s still working her full-time job. And raising a child. By herself. As a widow. At so young. She doesn’t speak of it. All attention she shifts to praying for her brother. Her example of selflessness as she falls asleep during her lunch break from sheer exhaustion.

These are the stories we don’t see.

The reports we don’t read.

And this, my dear friends and family, is your sister in Christ.

Lord, teach me. Open me. Change me because of this sweet sister.

This Christmas season stirs up those thoughts every year. A humble stable with meager rations welcomes the very Lord of Life, Emmanuel.

Humble means.

It hangs in the air a bit longer this year.

He walked into his home. Sticks and mud with one concrete front wall announcing a step up in luxury. When the rains come he can rest assured that at least the front wall will still be there.

One hallway and 3 rooms. 2 plastic chairs. 1 bed. 1 bike, a few buckets and a meager supply of dishes. For a family of 5. 3 small kids. The parents sleep on the floor on a mat because the bed is for the kids. The cost of their whole home is equivalent to the change on our dresser.

This is not some kicked-puppy ad stirring up temporal sympathy and fleeting compassion. These are real people. Real norms. Your brother and sister in the Faith.

You know, sometimes I think of the Savior’s entrance in a pathetic poverty light. Only a stable. No room. The fear of labor pains lingering on a young new mother as it’s all played out in the desperation of that night.

Then I recall the pride beaming from this man’s face. Years of accomplishment resulting in his house which was made with his own two hands. Uncountable hours in the rice field out-of-town resulting in sustainable food. Two meals per day but still sustainable food.

Pity can creep to the front of my mind in light of the comparison. A desire to swoop in as if they need rescuing.

Sure I’d love to hear of plentiful fields resulting in three meals per day. I pray abundance over this precious family. I long to see the reward for their perseverance. Anxiously looking for their prospering amidst their daily challenge. I do not know if they will have it in this life, but I pray for it fervently.

But then I think of the Savior. The circumstances. The humble means. The daily realities of those humble means.

It starts to buck my thinking. It adjusts my heart to his perspective. See it’s not a heart of pity, but one of love.

Mary and Joseph offered all that they had to offer. And in that moment their contentment was not found in what could be considered a bleak offering compared to worldly goods.

Their contentment was found in offering literally all that they had.

Such heart. Such love.

It’s not that the circumstances have changed.

But His love stirs up a gratitude.

A gratitude altering perspective until it reflects His light.

A light that penetrates even the darkest of dark circumstances.

Lord, consume me with that kind of gratitude. And help me to learn from the surrounding humble means the true definition of gratitude and praise. Lord that You would be glorified in all things and in all circumstances. For no offering in Your hands is too lowly. 

***This time and in the future I will continue to choose to protect too many revealing details  when sharing things that the Lord is teaching me here. I am using discretion in sharing out of respect and honor to the names and legacies of those around me. Thank you for continuing to respect those that I share stores about. I share out of a heart of love, that you too could walk alongside of us in this journey and rejoice at God’s work among the people of Mozambique.

She’s hardly ever alone.

Nope, she almost always has her shadow.

Copying her every move.

Repeating her every phrase.

No, it’s certainly not a bad thing.

It’s quite a compliment actually.

Yes, these two little ones are two peas in a pod.

And I just adore watching them do life together.

They are indeed a Joy and a Delight.

– Sisterhood is beautiful.

-Thankful, grateful and beyond blessed.