Wear Warm Clothes

Returning from the wild and crazy fun time that is choir rehearsal, I was piled with layers, wearing leggings all day in addition to my jeans, my MMTA hoodie (the warmest sweatshirt I've ever had), gloves, red pashmina scarf and my Great-Grandma Chickie's hunting jacket (complete with back pocket for newly acquired dead pheasants---eeww!) . That coat's gotta be around 60 years old but it shows no sign of falling apart soon. And oh, how warm and fuzzy it all felt!
I was kind of expecting mass chaos with this 7 inch first snowstorm, but it seemed like people who didn't need to drive their car didn't, the people who did were mostly careful, and we didn't die. Yay!

If only it was the right type of snow, then I'd try and make a snow human/angel. I've always wanted to do some grand Calvin & Hobbes-like snow project. Maybe an ice and snow replica of the Easter Island faces. We can't sled for awhile because our sled is broken, which is something that needs to be addressed. But time and the lovely warmth of inside are what's keeping me from doing all these things year after year.

Yesterday, we embraced the weather--kind of. I shoveled snow off the driveway (and today I really feel it too), which pretty much wiped my wimpy self out, so I read a book to fight off boredom (A Gate at the Stairs by Lorrie Moore--it's real good so far). That's the thing when you're home schooled and there's a snow day. It's basically like all your other days, at least for us. So I was trying to find a way to make it less normal, but because I had been outside freezing my mouth closed and getting the most epic of hat hair, I didn't want to go outside and make a snowhuman or whatever. There will be other times, I'm sure.

What we did do was make krumkake, the Norwegian cookie, and we turned on Garrison Keillor singing Scandahoovian Christmas music. That definitely warmed the house up and kept us busy for a long time. I was training in my younger brother to be krumkake roller, and I watched the stove. This is the second batch we've made this week, as we like to give a bunch for Christmas presents for teachers and friends. One of our regular krumkake recievers is doing an internship in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, however, and unfortunately I don't think it'd be the wisest thing to ship it all that way. If he got it, it would arrive as crumbs, and that's no fun.

And of course, while everything else in the county was cancelled for the day, choir still went off without a hitch. The hymn says, "No storm can change my inmost calm...How can I keep from singing?" Indeed.
I walked out the door thinking that I looked like a lumberjack, which led me to sing the classic Monty Python song that goes, "I'm a lumberjack, and I'm okay...", which led me to think, "I'm not just okay, I'm warm!"

May all enjoy winter and wear warm clothes.

Em: Christmas Music

I love Christmas music--to a point. I love singing it by myself and in church choir, I love listening to the good old classics sung by Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald, and Bing Crosby (especially his duet with David Bowie!). I love it all, but I could never spend my days listening to the radio station that only plays Christmas music. There's enough that people stress out over during the holiday season already, and I would not want to be stressed out even more by something that I usually enjoy. Every store you go into to by gifts, it seems like, is always tuned to that radio station. Most of the Christmas music I like the best though is the church stuff. I mean, that's what Christmas is, a church holiday. I've always found it so interesting how it's supposed to be about celebrating Jesus' birth, but the way we celebrate it has so many pagan influences. Christmas trees did not grow in Israel, I'm pretty sure. Santa Claus, although showing goodwill towards all people in a way that I think Jesus would be proud of, he's...well, I don't know where he came from or why.

One Christmas album I could listen to forever is "Keepers Christmas," a collection put out by Minnesota Public Radio that has simply beautiful renditions of tunes I thought I would hate--but don't-- and some very nice original ones as well. Lots of the musicians are from the Twin Cities, and if you listened to MPR's morning show, you'd recognize lots of voices, like the Steeles, the Roches, Neal and Leandra, and Butch Thompson. I think you can still buy it online and in the Minnesota Store in Mall of America. My parents have played it every year since I was little, and without even trying I could sing along with every track, it's so ingrained in my mind.

On December 13, we'll be having a big Christmas hooha/concert at our church. It's lots of fun, but being in the choir and the bell choir makes it a busy night for me and my family. It lasts about two hours or so, and my feet always hurt afterwards. The price we pay. We always sing the "Hallelujah Chorus" at the end, and the audience stands up and is given music to sing with us. It's so funny to see them try really hard to sing the parts in the beginning, then eventually fold their arms in resignation and just watch us. I don't blame 'em though, it's a hard song to sightread.

Now, Hannukah is coming up on December 11th, sundown, but I only know one song for this: "The Hannukah Song" by Adam Sandler. In this song, you basically learn the name of every famous Jewish person in showbusiness, and many creative ways to make the word "Hannukah" rhyme with everything. I'm sure it doesn't really show the true meaning of the holiday, but if you like Sandler's humor, then you'll laugh through the whole thing. But I'd rather find a Hannukah song that doesn't include the words "smoke some marijuanikah, it's time to celebrate Hannukah." Any ideas?

Pictures from the trip

Here are a few pictures taken on our trip to Tanzania. We've had some camera difficulties where most of the pictures taken in Tungamalenga have strange color tints, but we have a photoshop expert on the case. Here are a few that turned out well from the end of the trip:

On our last day in Tungamalenga, Mom and I went exploring around the village while we waited for our friends to return from safari. You'll find many places to get your hair cut or braided, like the Francis Hair Cutting Saloon.

You'll also see lizards scuttling around. Aren't they cool?

When our group returned from safari, there was a send-off service for us at the church, and we had to say good bye to our friends. Here we are under the mbuyu, or baobab tree, with Barabeig evangelist Alex, his wife and their three children, right before we had to leave.

When I got on the bus, Alex's daughter told me through the open window, "Tutaonana tena, Mungu akipenda."

We will meet each other again, if God wishes it.

I sure hope so.

When we got back to Iringa about five hours later, we managed to get in touch with some university students sponsored by Shepherd of the Valley. This is Grace, whose mother Neema is a student at Tumaini University in Iringa.

Grace had been covering her eyes and being shy, but all of a sudden she popped up and gave this big smile, and she warmed right up to us.

Mom toured the Ilula Hospital (in the town of the same name, east of Iringa), where many of the patients are women and their newborns. This woman just had twins.

A stove for cooking at the guest house in Ilula, the morning we left for the airport to return home.

My Day Not On Safari: Part IV

Sometime in the afternoon, we took off in the landrover again with the same people, but minus Alex and plus Barnabas. We went to Mapogoro, the next village over, to visit the Mtwavila family , who's daughter was also sponsored by my church to attend Idodi, and died in the fire. This family was of the Hehe tribe, I think, and lived in a very nice brick and cement house. We met the father and adult brother, and three women, one of whom was a sister. We all sat in a livingroom-type area on cushioned chairs, and Jacob, the evangelist for Mapogoro, led us in a hymn from the Mwimbieni Bwana, their Lutheran hymnal. Mom gave them words of comfort, a gift of t-shirts, and a necklace for the sister. It's hard for me to think that these two girls had survived all the more common causes of death in Tanzania--malaria, AIDS, bad water etc.--and had gone to school, a place of hope and opportunity, but that is where their lives tragically ended. The only thing we can do, though, is to move forward with them in mind so that we can change things for the better.

This visit was interesting because it was so different from the last. I saw the father wipe a tear away from his eye, but other that, it looked to me like they were in the acceptance process. They were solemn. I wonder how the grieving process varies from tribe to tribe, between women, me, and children. How are they expected to act? A question for my next trip. There were prayers, Mungu akubariki's (God bless you), and pole sana's (very sorry). The brother invited us to his duka, shop, for drinks, so we headed for what I guess you could call downtown Mapogoro. We all sat outside the store in plastic chairs drinking Pepsi and Mirinda and Coke, and the atmosphere seemed to change 360 degrees. We were talking, joking and laughing. I sat and listened, and wondered if we were acting appropriately. I quietly asked Mom, and she gave me the I-don't-know-what-to-tell-ya shrug. "It did kind of happen already," she said. Okaaay. So I just went with it. Next door to us was a bar, and it sounded as if someone was watching a sci-fi movie like Star Trek at very high volume. There were booms and bangs and it was kinda strange. Alex arrived on his bike and approached our group. "Get your book out, Mom, quick!" I whispered. She did, and greeted him with her newly-learned Barabeig word that she read from her notebook. Alex giggles and shakes her hand. Mom is a bit confused now, because on our return she looked at her notebook from her previous trip and found the Barabeig words she learned then. Her last trip, aguna maida bash bakhoda meant good afternoon. This time, we were told praise the Lord. Did something get lost in translation, you think? I love language.

We stayed at the shop for maybe half an hour, then we headed back to Tungamalenga Camp in the good old landrover. We all got back, sat down under the mango tree and talked until dark (and dark in Tanzania is dark). Then we said goodnight to them all, went to have our dinner, and just crashed in our rooms after the long, but very good day. I really enjoyed being there when nothing was really set to happen, we could just wander along at our own pace, and see people living their real lives, not trying to make everything perfect for the wazungu (white people). I feel very grateful for the experiences and memories I have been given by this day in Tungamalenga: sad ones, and happy ones, discouraging ones, and yet hopeful ones. It is something I will not forget.

My Day Not On Safari: Part III

We drove to Isanga, another preaching point nearby. Isanga is a mix of Hehe, Bena and Masai tribes, and the chapel they worship in is just a bit bigger than my bedroom (i.e., not very big at all). There were five girls there who were afraid to go back to Idodi Secondary School after the fire. That disaster had to happen when students were preparing to take their national exams. After the fire the school was closed for three weeks and students were sent back home. But there was hope at Isanga, too. We saw the piles of bricks they planned to use to build a house for the evangelist there, which is something of great need. We didn't stay too long there, but we sang, we prayed, gave gifts and recieved gifts. The whole trip seems to be one big act of humbly accepting gifts from our Tanzanian partners, whether they are tangible gifts or not.

After that we drove back to Tungamalenga for lunch at the parish hall. Alice, a primary school teacher who also helped prepare lunch, asked me, "Emmy, how many Swahili words did you learn today?" I confessed I hadn't practiced during our drive. The only person I wasn't afraid to make linguistic mistakes in front of was our translator, who was asleep most of the ride. Alice and I always practiced though. I felt kind of proud because when people would be talking in Swahili, I would sometimes understand the gist of the conversation, not just a few random words. Progress!

After we ate, Mom and I learned another language. We already knew basic greetings in Swahili, Masai and Hehe, and now it was time for Barabeig. One of our traveling companions was a young evangelist named Alex, a member of the Barabeig tribe. He came over to our table and at Mom's request taught us a few words in the language. I can't even explain how hilarious our lesson was. Alex only speaks Barabeig and Swahili, and Pastor Paulo next to us only Masai and Swahili, so we enlisted the help of Alice's husband Barnabas, clinical officer of the village dispensary, who was on the other side of the room, to translate for us. Here's how the conversation went: Alex would say a phrase (aguna maida bash bakhoda), Mom would say, "What? Say it again?" Alex wouldn't understand, Barnabas would repeat her question in Swahili, then Alex would say it again slower (a-gu-na ma-i-da bash ba-kho-da), Mom and I would say it back again (aguna maida bash...?), he'd correct us, Mom would exclaim, "Ooh, let me write this down!" and Pastor Paulo and I would look at each other, laughing and laughing. Repeat all this for maybe 20 minutes (with different Barabeig words of course), and you have one of my highlights of the trip. Alex was so nice and patient with us, too, firmly shaking our hands when we said something right. As a matter of fact, he seemed in slight disbelief that we were trying at all. It's nice to find out that language can be a bridge and not a barrier.

Em:My Day Not On Safari, Part II

Picking up from where I left off:

The sympathy was for the friends and family of Chake Kuyaa, a young student sponsored by my church who died in the Idodi Secondary School fire on month ago, with 11 other girls. There wasn't much we could do at all except offer our condolences and our prayers.

At certain points we would have a 3-language translation going, with Petro speaking in Kimasai, Pastor Paulo translating to Kiswahili, then our translator Mfaume ending in English. After the formal speech making, the women, who had been cooking something a little ways away, served us all groundnuts, goat meat, and pop. The meat was good, kind of greasy and tender, but I never knew which part I was supposed to eat or not. The meal was even better washed down with a pop called Mirinda Mango. Everybody ate with us, though I felt bad only Mom, Mfaume, Pastor Paulo and myself were sitting on stools and chairs. Everyone else sat on the ground , kneeled or stayed standing. On the other hand, if I just sat with them, I'd be disrespecting their hospitality. Hosts and guests each have their own role to play. People sang while we ate.

Afterwards Mom, the rest of the landrover group and I walked a short distance to the house of Chake's mother. We were going to make a "consolation visit."

Now, Masai houses are very different, even from other African houses. They are called bomas, and the one we were in was made of sticks and a thatch roof. It was held up by thick tree limbs, had two rooms, dirt floors and was about four or five feet tall. There were threee women inside sitting on a cow skin, Mama Chake in the middle and two old women on either side. Two calves stood in the corner. Mom and Mfaume took two wooden stools while I sat beside the women on the cow skin, and the others stood. Mama Chake looked so devastated and lethargic, as if her daughter had died last week instead of last month. She said that her husband was very old and that since the fire he's been living with a relative because she didn't have the energy to care for him. My mom spoke with her, held her hand and hugged her. I was glad that she could always think of fitting things to say for that moment, and that it was her job to represent our group as a whole. I would not have been able to find any words to comfort Mama Chake. Mom also gave her a card that had been signed by many people at church who had heard about the fire (along with a bit of money) and a card from Chake's sponsors. Mama Chake had been sniffling the whole time, but now she just broke down and cried, and Mom hugged her. Pastor Paulo led us in a prayer. During the prayer, to my astonishment, the calf in the corner started peeing. You could have knocked me over with a feather. All I could think was OH MY GOD! That calf was so close to the women, too. One of them kind of swatted her hand at it, but other than that no one reacted. A holy moment interrupted by life. After that we ended our visit, maybe 20 minutes, and said our good byes, shook hands, and then continued back to the area we had gathered at before. As we neared our vehicle, Mom discussed something with our group. She wanted to give a gift of money for their chapel construction in honor of Chake. It felt like the only thing of use we could do. The people were grateful for that. You may think that worshipping under a tree (like we were) is romantic and liken it to Abraham's time, but to construct an actual building for that purpose sends out the message that the Masai are serious, and they are here to stay. The people were grateful for it, and I cannot wait to see the chapel when it's finished.

Em: My Day Not On Safari, part 1

On Wednesday, our penultimate day in Tungamalenga, three members of our group got up bright and early to go to Ruaha National Park for a day-and-a-half safari. My mom and I stayed in the village while they were gone. Mom had done that twice before and loved "kuzunguka zunguka-ing," walking circles around Tunga, meeting people in a much more informal manner, and having freetime for long and contructive conversations. I did it with her because: You've seen one giraffe, you've seen them all, I saved a small amount of money by staying, and I liked the idea of "kuzunguka zunguka-ing" too. I wanted to spend more time with the people I'd met before time ran out.

After the three left, the landrover Mom had hired arrived. We were going to the Masai village of Mahove, and with us came our driver Titus, associate Mchungaji Paulo (the first ordained Masai pastor in the diocese), five evangelists and partnership committee members, and our translator Mfaume, a soon-to-be university graduate. Ten of us fit in the seven-seater, with Mom and I sharing the front passenger seat, and we were soon on our bumpy way to Mahove. It took perhaps 20 minutes, where we went through several villages, and then through a rough path in the Tanzanian bush. We didn't have a clue how Titus knew his way, when there was hardly a road to follow. I imagined the directions sounding like, "Turn left at the tree. No--the other tree. Yeah, that one. Then, see that bush? The little one with the pointy needles?" It all looked the same to me.

We were nearing our destination when we stopped. Blocking our was was a large bundle of sticks, a woman's kitenge cloth, and a pair of shoes. Titus called out something to the trees in Swahili once, then twice. The second time, people slowly started appearing from behind the trees, they gathered their things and we continued driving. Titus laughed and told us, "They thought we were soldiers." I found out that Mahove is part of a reserve, therefore it's illegal to cut the trees for firewood, which they need to cook their food. Mahove doesn't have easy access to water either, and it's a long walk to get it. The government told the Masai, traditionally a nomadic herding people, to settle in this one place, far from these necessities, and isolated from other villages and people. I have no idea why they were put there.

Shortly afterwards, we arrived at the preaching point and we popped out of the landrover. We were greeted by evangelist Azuberi Mhema and people of the congregation. They showed us to some small wooden chairs on a tarp, and we were mercifully shaded by another tarp hung from two trees. Azuberi and Petro, the other evangelist who is Masai, led the people in songs you can't help but clap to. Azuberi read a report, telling us there are 106 church members, 51 of whom are adults. Their main goals are to build an actual chapel--presently they worship outside--and they're in the process of organizing to buy cement and collect the bricks. And of course they asked for help to build a well. This was the second time a group from my church had visited Mahove. Mchungaji Paulo got up and read a verse from Colossions in Kihehe, a very different tribal language from his own. People were impressed and entertained by that.

After that, Mom got up to say words of thanks and sympathy. The thanks was for welcoming us so graciously, and for working hard to build a chapel.

Tanzania: October 16

Our group has returned to Iringa after six wonderful days in Tungamalenga! We are all doing well and in good spirits. We have enjoyed wonderful hospitality, laughter and tears, dancing, Swahili lessons, and more joyful dancing.Our partnership is going well.

Major progress was made in completing the interior of the Tungamalenga Chapel and altar area; a new chapel at Mpalapande that was just a foundation in January now has complete walls and roof! Several other village congregations have begun to make bricks and gather foundation stones for their own planned chapels.

At the dispensary, Dr. Barnabas is in negotiations with the district medical officer to establish a maternal child health clinic--this would provide well child visits, prenatal visits, and vaccinations with the costs supported by government funding. He is also in the process of getting the dispensary approved for the Community Health Fund (sort of like universal health coverage, which is affordable for Tanzanian families and services are reimbursed by the government). If all this planning goes well, there will be many patients at the clinic.

We are meeting scholarship students everywhere we go, and collecting letters for sponsors. The thanks we receive for scholarship support is overwhelming. We are always reminding people here that it is not just those of us they see who provide scholarships, but the many families at home at SOTV, and we will take them our thanks.

We had a very moving day at Idodi Secondary School. To see the burned dormitory, now being readied for rebuilding, to see the bathroom window through which some girls escaped with help from those outside, and then to walk up the hill to an enclosure where twelve graves are mounded and covered with wreaths of flowers, marked only by numbers one through twelve---I have no words for the sorrow we feel. As we visited several village congregations, we also met students from Idodi who were afraid to go back to school, and parents who were afraid to send them. Please continue to pray for all those affected by the fire.

While the rest of the group went on safari to Ruaha National Park, hosting Pastor Naftal and his wife, Emily and Kirsten remained in the village for a few more visits. We made two "consolation visits" to the families of Chake Kuyaa and Elisi Mtwavila, two students sponsored by SOTV who died in the fire. At a Maasai village, we met the mother of Chake. She is desolate. At Mapogoro, we met the father, brother and sister of Elisi. We prayed, cried, and prayed again. We have a new understanding of the phrase, "the consolation of the saints."

Tomorrow is the graduation of Mfaume Kisakanike at Tumaini University. We are so excited to spend this day with him. The assistant bishop of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in Tanzania is here for the occasion. (The really big potato, as they say here.) Then Sunday we will worship at Ilula, tour the hospital, have dinner with Dr. Saga, and drive part way to Dar. On Monday, we drive the rest of the way to Dar and fly home, arriving Tuesday afternoon if all goes well and we don't miss any connections.

Thank you for your prayers and your support of this partnership. We are learning every day what an amazing impact we are having among our partners, and how grateful they are for our partnership.See you soon!

Tanzania: October 9

We have arrived safely in Tanzania after our long air flights and an even longer than usual bus ride from Dar es Salaam to Iringa. We were driving in tandem with another vehicle yesterday, that vehicle had a breakdown, we spent a few extra hours going for the needed part and repairing the vehicle, and finally arrived at the Lutheran Center after 13 hours on the road. It was a good day! We really enjoyed seeing the variety of terrain as we crossed from the tropical coastal area, across the savannah and then into the highlands. As we drove through Mikumi Game Park we saw our first giraffes, impala, zebra, elephant, and baboons.

We traveled with a group from Arlington Hills Lutheran in St Paul, and with old friends, the Rev. Tom and Beth Hansen who are coming to staff the Bega Kwa Bega office for the next two months, and with Rev. Lamont Koerner, who will be teaching New Testament courses at Tumaini University this semester.

Today we visited the office of the Iringa Diocese of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in Tanzania and were greeted by old friends, Dean Gavile and General Secretary Nayman Chavalla. Bishop Mdegella is in Rome this month, attending meetings of the World Council of Churches. We also got our newcomers acclimated to the Iringa market, visited the Neema (Grace) Craft Workshop, which employs people with disabilities. We purchased medicines for the dispensary with the help of Dr. Saga from Ilula Hospital, and we were joined by Pastor Naftal Ng'amillo from Tungamalenga as we went about our meetings and errands.

This afternoon's highlight was a visit to Huruma Orphanage, where we played with the children, delivered gifts for Christmas, and learned that the cows we have sent are providing milk for the children at every meal. We also received updates about the four students sponsored by SOTV from this orphanage. Three are attending school in Iringa while living at the orphanage, and all three are doing well. The fourth, Christian, was accepted at a school for especially talented students in Dar es Salaam, and Mama Chilewe tells us he is doing very very well there. There are seven more children from Huruma who will be ready for secondary school in January 2010, and we will be seeking sponsors from SOTV to help support their education.

Tomorrow we will purchase four bicycles and then be on our way to Tungamalenga for the coming week. Barnabas Kahwage has been attending a medical seminar and will be meeting us for the ride back to Tungamalenga.

Today we have had just a taste of the warm hospitality of our Tanzanian friends, and have heard from those at the diocese how much they appreciate the support that SOTV provides through this partnership. I'm sure we will experience even more of that as we go to Tungamalenga to be among our closest friends.

Miss you all, wish you could all experience the wonders and joy we are experiencing here! We are so grateful for your prayers, for our safety and well being, and for the work we do here with our partners.Mungu akubariki! God bless you!

Make me an instrument of thy peace

One of my favorite prayers....the prayer of St Francis of Assisi.

Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace,

Where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is sadness, joy; where there is darkness, light.

O divine master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console; not so much to be understood, as to understand; not so much to be loved, as to love. For it is in giving that we receive, it is in pardoning that we are pardoned, it is in dying that we are born again to eternal life.

Tomorrow Em and I are traveling to Tanzania, my sixth trip and her second. This prayer, and a little book of meditations based on it by South African writer Alan Paton, will be daily devotional material for our traveling group.

When we travel to a new place, especially a place as far away in terms of distance, culture, comfort, and values as Tanzania is from suburban USA, it can be hard to step outside our bubble of self awareness. When we're struggling with basic comfort--toilets, bottled water, crowded buses, 4 inch foam mattresses, food that is new, language differences, cultural gaps--it's hard to get to the point where every experience is NOT "all about me." It can be hard to realize that the plumbing is not a personal affront. It can be hard to get past the feeling of how "heroic" we are to simply be there, and get to the point where we can really experience being there.

I'm in my comfort zone in the village. My wardrobe fits in a carry on bag, two skirts and a half dozen t-shirts. Hiking boots to protect my weak ankle. Every morning, a shower, sometimes warm. Lots of Purel in my pack.

As I walk through the village, children shout "Mzungu!" ("white person!") I've been there often enough that some shout "Mama Kirsten" or "Mama Christian."

It would be easy to get a big head, to think that we are somehow bringing the kingdom to these people.

But no. God was here long before we came for a visit. God has been here blessing this community with a deep love, with broad connectedness, with deep compassion. What we found when we first visited was a joy that defied the poverty, a hope that defied the hopelessness, and a compassion in community that we americans envy.

The little bit of good that we do--bringing medicines for the dispensary, bringing scholarships for secondary and university students, funding the micro loans and agricultural projects that bring a small bit of economic development--seems like a drop in the bucket of the great needs that exist here. We are simply instruments, simply hands and feet participating in the ongoing work of God.

Em:Waiting

Lots of people have asked me if I'm ready to leave for Tanzania. The answer is yes. I've been bored since Saturday. What to do, now that I'm all done preparing and packing? Thank god there's a football game on tonight--and a Vikings vs. Packers one at that! Should be very exciting. It's the perfect Last American Thing I need to experience before we leave. Because football is definitely a unique American thing. If you ask anybody in Tanzania about football (or in any other foreign country for that matter), they'll be talking about soccer, the ball game where you actually use your foot. It'd be no use asking anybody their opinion on the Favre un-retirement, just like it'd be no use for them to ask me about David Beckham. But anyways, Go Vikings, don't fall down, Brett, and run, Adrian, run.

When my mom and I are in Tanzania, we'll be pretty busy, but if we have any down time and are near a computer--like during our layovers and time in Iringa--we might have a chance to update the blog every once in awhile. Although we won't be posting pictures until we get back, but I'm sure there will be stories to tell. So keep reading!

Em: The Lark Ascending

Last night I went to the Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra concert at Shepherd of the Valley Lutheran Church (and drove halfway there!) My parents get in free because they usually work as ushers, and I like to come along and help. These concerts have been happening a couple of times a year for three years now, and it's really gotten me more interested in classical music. It's a whole lot more exciting to sit twenty feet away from one of the best violinists in the country--to witness the emotion of music--than to hear it on the radio, where you have the option to turn the volume down. I look at these amazingly talented people and think--as a violin student--"I got a long ways to go...but maybe I'll get there someday."


Last night there was a beautiful viola solo piece (I didn't recognize the composer), and I decided right then and there that women performers should never have to wear heels when playing classical music--it's too dangerous. You take a fall and you're toast. I love the low, rich tone of the viola--put that on my never-ending list of instruments to play.


The big piece of the night though was Ralph Vaughan Williams' The Lark Ascending, which was inspired by a poem of the same name. I was sitting way up in the fourth row, and hearing this lovely, delicate song was unlike anything I had heard before. It was a face-melter. I hoped I wasn't the only one slightly bobbing her head with the music, but even if I was I wouldn't have cared. I could just picture a little bird flying around (kind of like the feather in Forrest Gump). We have a recording of it at home that I listened to again today. I love what the liner notes have to say about it after they've printed the poem: No other description of the music is necessary. That's how awesome it is!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FsOOQB0uA5Q The announcer is annoying but the performance is beautiful. Check it out.

Traveling Companions

My traveling companions met tonight for a final preparation meeting before our trip in October. We have one more packing meeting scheduled, and then we depart for 16 days together in Tanzania.

We talked about covenant tonight. The ancient covenant between Abraham and God. The covenant relationship between our congregation and the congregation in Tungamalenga. The covenant we make with one another as traveling companions: to remember that we are traveling not as tourists but as ambassadors of our congregation, to put the needs of the group above our individual needs, and to put the needs of our hosts and this partnership even higher. We agree to roll with whatever comes our way, to be flexible about itinerary, to go out of our comfort zone every day.

The conversation reminded me how dependent we are on each other in a situation far from home. We're traveling together, and no one gets left behind, no matter what. There's an acknowledgement of the reality that the success of the trip is dependent on the group and on every member of the group.

I think of my last five trips, and the companions on those journeys. The first trip, we were all new to this place and to this partnership. We had a wonderful doctor in the group, who each morning would greet us at breakfast with, " how did you sleep" and "so does anyone have any diarrhea?" We got to know one another really well, and we looked out for one another. There have been great photographers, and quiet people who had amazing one on one conversations as we rode the bus from one village to the next. There have been teens who organized games with the village kids--even though neither could speak a word of the other's language. There have been nurses who looked out for members of the group and then spent the day doing rounds with the village doctor, treating diseases they'd only read about before.

My companions on this journey are an amazing group of women. My daughter Em, 16, with her gift for languages and music and her resilience. A couple years ago when she first visited Tanzania, she walked four kilometers to a village even on a day when she was sick, and then she led our singing. S, a retired early childhood teacher who walks faster than I can walk when I am on a moving walkway at the airport. L, our nurse who has already helped us prepare for a healthy trip. Pastor D, whose gift of pastoral care will be sorely needed at this time, and whom I treasure as a co-coordinator of this partnership.

Em: Important Question

The question of the day for me-- no, more like month-- is this: What happens if you die before you return your library books?

Not that I plan on dying. But really. This random thought has been rolling around in my brain for a few weeks now. I don't even remember how it came up. I just want an answer. If I died unexpectedly, my family would be too busy making funeral arrangements to return a few books, right? So they are overdue for a few days, and then they are eventually forgotten about (what with everybody too busy grieving still). Does the library have to be told of my death so that my overdue fees can be forgiven, or does the city pick up the tab? I like libraries, but I never thought of them as forgiving. Maybe my next of kin just has to pay for it. They probably wouldn't like that, because I always get lots of books. It's really been bothering me for some reason. I've been afraid to ask my local librarians, because it is a kind of wacky thing to ask.

I heard awhile ago on Minnesota Public Radio that the longest overdue library book was checked out in the late 1800's or early 1900's (can't remember exactly when, but MPR doesn't lie). The overdue fees were probably in the thousands.

Do you think there's an answer to my question? If anybody has any idea, let me know, then I'll start thinking about better things, like whether Goofy is a dog or a human, and how to bring peace to the world.

Em: The Other Side

So on Wednesday night, church choir started again!

I walked in with my parents (Mom-- first soprano, Dad-- baritone) and wondered where I should sing this year. I had previously been a first soprano, but I realized I couldn't always sing a high G when the music told me to. After a bit of pondering, I decided on being an alto. The women around me were very welcoming. "Welcome to the Other Side!" they said. "Glad you saw the light!"

The Senior Choir is primarily made up of adults.There's no rule against us youth joining, it's just that nobody had done it in a long time. My sister was the last one to do it two years ago.

Then she went to college, and back at home I decided to join the Choir too. I was ready for more challenging music. Thing is, all my friends were expecting me at the youth choir. The director told them I had gone to Senior Choir, and one week later two of my fellow highschoolers were at rehearsal with me. Eventually there were five youth in a sea of... older people. Everybody seemed happy to have us though, and most of us are back again this year.

This week I had to get used to singing harmony all over again, although it eventually came back to me. It was fun! When we were done with rehearsal, my soprani friends assumed mock outrage and asked, "What's with the defection?" "You're not singing with us anymore?" I had gone over to the Dark Side. Oh well. The Dark Side is my place...for now.

Anticipation

Em & I had our travel clinic appointments this morning. One more item on the pre-travel to-do list checked off.

Over the past seven years, I've had my arms stuck a few times. Yellow fever, typhoid, meningitis, hepatitis A, B, and previously C; tetanus, influenza. I'm caught up for another year or two. Just had the fall flu shot today. If H1N1 is available before we leave, I'll get that too.

Em had three pokes, since she needed a new typhoid and the last dose of hep A, plus the flu shot. Not as bad as the last time she went, when she had six shots the same day.

The travel clinic nurses are really good about going over all the precautions for safe and healthy travel. While we're in Tanzania, we'll only drink bottled water, remember to brush our teeth with bottled water, and we'll close our eyes in the shower when we're lucky enough to have one.

We'll skip the salads, eating only cooked food, or fruits that we can peel. No dairy unless it's a ceremonial gift that would be rude to refuse. And we'll bring our stock of routine medications....Pepto, Immodium, Cipro, Advil, antibiotic cream. We'll wear sunscreen and protect ourselves from mosquitoes. We'll take our malaria prophylactic every morning. Sometimes when we visit the rural clinics, I have the feeling that I carry more medications with me on a two week trip than their doctors might dispense for a whole day's worth of patients.

I'm getting excited about the trip, thinking about the work to be done, the relationships to renew, the people who feel like family. But I always get a little dread in my heart before a trip, because I've attended a funeral on nearly every one of my trips. Who will it be this time, the child or parent of a dear friend? We've already heard of a huge loss, with the dormitory fire that killed a dozen students last month. We'll visit their families, meet with students who were injured, find out ways we can support them. And as always, we'll see the world through different eyes, trying to make sense out of the abundance we take for granted and the scarce resources for which our friends are so very grateful.

Setting our musical goals

My first week of piano lessons is done. I have amazing students, ages five to seventy five.

I've been asking students to identify some long and short term goals. Finish the sentence: someday, I want to play.....

In five years, I want to play....

This year, I'm going to learn....

And the reponses I'm getting blow me away.

Some day, I want to play.....Beethoven Sonatas, the Pachelbel Canon, Fur Elise (okay, no surprises there), in the jazz band, duets with my friend, for church....

In five years, I want.....to play for people in the hospital, to be the drum major of the marching band, to play the Entertainer....

This year, I'm going to.... learn my bass clef notes (YES!!!), finish the level one books and move on to level two, make a DVD of me playing my favorite songs, practice every day....

This piano teacher's job is to make those dreams come true. Wish me luck.

Em: Tanzania...Again

After a year or so of hard work, earning ,saving and praying, I am thrilled to find myself getting ready to go to Tanzania again. In October, my mom and I will set off for East Africa with three other women to visit our partner congregation in the village of Tungamalenga. After my first trip in 2007, I never thought I'd be back so soon!

We'll fly via Detroit, Amsterdam, then land in Dar es Salaam, TZ. We'll spend the night there in a hostel by the Indian Ocean, then the next day we brave the 8- to 10-hour bus ride south to Iringa, a city of about 100,000 people. We'll have lots of work to do, people to see, and people to get to know. After a couple of days, we'll drive three more hours south to Tungamalenga. We'll visit preaching points spread out around the villages, visit the schools, the dispensary, meet with many people, and accept wonderful hospitality. When I was there, I fully realized the meaning of the phrase "community of Christ." We may speak different languages, have different cultures and customs, but this is something that brings us together. We are bega kwa bega-- Swahili for "shoulder to shoulder."

The two weeks I spent there were and will be a humbling experience. The people I met there were amazing, and they are my rafiki-- friends. When you come home, you know you have family halfway across the world. What I found difficult was re-entry into my own culture. Air-conditioning! The waste of perfectly good things! Target! The bananas aren't as sweet!People think Africa's only story to tell is poverty!.... The list goes on and on. I know it'll still be tough. But I cannot wait for this adventure.

Em: Books

I just finished reading three good books in the last couple of days. One is called The Graveyard Book, by Neil Gaiman, who is a British author now living in the Twin Cities. The Graveyard Book is a take-off on The Jungle Book, by Rudyard Kipling, and Gaiman puts his own magical/fantasy twist to this novel for children. A boy named Bod (short for Nobody) is raised and educated by a graveyard of ghosts after his parents and sister are murdered when he is a toddler. He evades the murderer, and lives in safety in the graveyard, but the murderer keeps searching for Bod. I don't want to give anything away, but eventually they meet up again under certain circumstances, and Bod has to accept the fact that he is alive, all his friends and family are ghosts, and he must join the living out in the world. It all sounds a bit dark, but it's a very touching story, and the universe that Gaiman has created is wonderful. Any kid (or adult) who likes books like Harry Potter would find Neil Gaiman's books enjoyable. He can write a really good scary, suspensful and hilarious story.

The second book I finished was Leaves from the Notebook of a Tamed Cynic, by Lutheran theologian Reinhold Niebuhr. I found it very interesting, although I cannot possibly explain everything that he says. I often find myself trying to translate Theology Language into Em Language, and not always coming out with an answer. But he is a very social justice-oriented person of faith, which I can identify with right there. Living in Detroit in the 1920's, he was an outspoken critic of the working conditions at all the car factories and things. In his collected journal entries he talks about the difficulties and joys of being a pastor and the positive role religion can play in our society. I first heard about him when I was at Augsburg College in MPLS for a week of theology-delving with other youth (WAHOO!). We were studying the life and work of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and Niebuhr happened to be one of his seminary professors in New York. Sounded like a cool guy. 'Twas a very cool book.

The third and final book I have conquered is Tears of the Giraffe, by Alexander McCall Smith. It's one of the books from the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency series. I love how Smith writes about Botswana, where he was born, and how it is not a doom and gloom African story. It doesn't ignore the fact that there's doom and gloom in parts of Africa, on the contrary, Smith talks a bit about the white people's philanthropy philosphy through the character of private detective Precious Ramotswe, about orphans, disease, and equality. At the same time though, it's still a light hearted, amusing--but smart-- mystery story. I always enjoy his books.

Ordinary Days

I like weekends, holidays, and vacations just fine. But it's my ordinary days that really make me grateful. Days when I wake up, stretch, feel the energy to exercise or at least remember that I'll feel more energized when the exercise is done. Days with my kids learning and reading and talking, days when the sun shines or it doesn't, days when I look at my to-do list and feel a sense of purpose that makes me dig in and get things done. Days with students who sit at my piano bench and show me what they've done all week. Days that end with my head so full of memories and plans that I have to just sit and chill a bit. Ordinary days that, in their routines and mundane details, reveal the shape and purpose and trajectory of our lives.

Eight years ago was a day that started like most others, with some early morning students, and my own kids showering, reading, listening to the radio. We heard the news, we turned on the TV, we watched and cried, prayed. And an ordinary day turned into something else. I remember feeling "on guard" for several months, vulnerable. Then the build up to the war began, and the feeling intensified, so much seemed beyond control.

Today most of my energy is once again focused on my very ordinary life. Living, learning, working, volunteering, being a friend and mom and daughter and wife all take some time and care. And let's be real, 9/11 affected my life in distant, not intimate ways.

But an anniversary like this comes around, and there's something that pulls at me...be a better person, take a little more care, appreciate the little things, do what you can to make things better in the world, in your ordinary way. Play on...

Em: Talking About Music

Talking about music is like dancing about architecture. ~~ Frank Zappa

Mr. Zappa may be correct in some regards, but I prefer not to take advice from a man who names his children Dweezil and Moon Unit. Here I go, talking about music:

Right now, I'm working on a few awesome piano pieces. One is Arabesque No. 2 by Claude Debussy, a very fast paced song meant for someone with much larger hands than my own. I'm trying not to over-practice it, or else my hands hurt. Once I learn it though, it will blow your mind! I actually like it better than his first and more popular arabesque. The other song is by Haydn. I just got it from my teacher this week, but I can't remember the name of it! It's in the key of G, if that helps. She gave me a bunch of songs to choose from to learn for the state contest in February, but I think I really like the Haydn.

All other music studies go well. When I play violin it doesn't sound like a mass of dying cats anymore, and when I play accordion it no longer sounds like a bunch of honking. Success! One can only take so much accordion music, though. I haven't pulled out my harmonica in months. I have one of those things that holds it, so I could play guitar and harmonica simultaneously, but it's like acrobatics for the brain. Takes a lot of concentration. One time--after lots and lots of practice-- I managed to play guitar and harmonica while also tapping a tambourine with my foot. It was an odd sight to see, but not exactly a bad thing to hear.

I'm surprised that the neighbors have never come to our door with torches and pitchforks, telling us to stop playing Beethoven at 7:30 in the morning (Mom, not me), stop the screeching violin, no more Johnny Cash and "Waltzing Matilda" on the accordion, and please turn down the radio. But that's never happened. No neighborhood petition, no nothing. One time, the guy on the other side of the fence said he actually liked to sit on his deck and listen to my mom's piano playing in the evening. But that's not surprising, I guess.