Back in the US

Friends,

So we've made it back to the US with almost all of our luggage and sanity intact. We're still missing a suitcase, two bags, a $200 stroller and any real sense of where we currently are living. I'll go back to the airport this morning and see about the bags. Hopefully going there in daylight might help the more geographic problems.

Atticus, it must be said, was just amazing. He had his squirmy moments on the planes but really didn't have much in terms of tantrums. He didn't run away at the airports and despite throwing up on Nana as we waited for our bags at our final destination, was a gem.

Now the tasks before us include renting a car for the next few days, setting up our cells so you all can call us, getting those remaining bags, and, oh yeah, Christmas.
We'll look at relocating after the new year so if anybody knows of an available (cheap) house and has a need for us to be near them, let us know.

I'm thinking Kevin Moon party sometime in February.

Jonathan

And the hits just keep on comin'

I've really come to terms with leaving but I feel a bit guilty for the reason. If you know where we live, do a news search. Entire organizations are being split based on nationality. Tensions are rising. Police seem to have gone home but Tuesday and Wednesday things were a bit tense. Diplomats are not allowed to leave the city

It's a bit like realizing you don't have enough money to supersize and then you see the homeless guy outside.

Our plans now are to be home for Christmas then take some down time in New Orleans in January to figure out where God wants us. (Yes, I see the irony in being kicked out of a country only to leave for a hurricane disaster area. But it is a step up.)

Oh, a plug for Tina Lowry. I bet if enough people bug her, she'll post one of those pregnant belly pics. Now if only Phil Stowers or Sheri Storer would start blogging...

Three million people can't be wrong

So we're leaving. It’s official. We’re out. Or at least it looks like we will be within a week or so.

Our meeting on Thursday was short and to the point. The gov’t wants us out by Christmas. No explanation was given. No, we can’t know which gov’t office gave the order. No, you can’t have an extension through the New Year or until the semester ends. And yes, you’ll need to pay for the exit visas and a departure tax at the airport.

On the plus side, we at first thought we’d have to be stuck in Dubai for a while and try to find a way home from there but now it appears that we’ll be able to fly from here to Frankfurt and then home. Even with a delay or two, we’ll definitely be home for Christmas.

The negative is that we now have a total of 8 days to close up things here.

Our gate opens in five and a half hours for our garage sale and I still haven’t priced my tools.

Could the last one to leave the country...

Please turn off the lights?

It’s Wednesday which must mean we got our weekly call from Immigration. Tomorrow at 8 am (an hour earlier than the two previous meetings) we will sit in a room that probably is not really the office of the man asking the questions. We will tell them the truth and then get frustrated when they can’t understand what a check is or why Amanda doesn’t work. This time they didn’t even pretend that it was because of my poor handwriting.

This, along with some recent int’l developments, confirms that the garage sale we’re having this weekend is the right thing to do. Maybe tomorrow we’ll have a better idea of just how much we need to try and sell.

During my freshman year at Eastern, I got in the habit of simply not sleeping on Sunday nights throughout speech season. We’d normally get back too late on Sunday and since we missed our Friday classes I’d need to play catch-up. Now I’m getting in the same habit only on Wednesdays only I spend my time reading and reflecting and wanting to sleep.

Keep us in your thoughts.

A Victim of Prophecy???

I remember in college hearing someone (maybe Pete H. or Jason Hel. or one of the Johns) tell me about an encounter he had with someone who knew all sorts of things about him that this person shouldn’t have known. I don’t remember details but I do remember coming away from the conversation skeptical. At the time, I think I could have accepted supernatural acts of healing, vague glimpses of the future, or even the odd David Copperfield miracle but that particular act wouldn’t qualify.

In the last few years, I have come to accept that the Spirit does more than offer nudges in the right direction. While the voice isn’t loud yet, I have no doubt that it does speak when I’m in the right place and listen.

So several months ago when Tor and his wife, two internationals I’ve known since arriving, told Amanda and I that they’d had visions about us, I listened openly but with some of that past hesitation. In the visions, it was clear that Amanda and I would be having this problem with Immigration. In Tor’s version, it included another international friend. Ignoring the obvious fact that everyone has problems with Immigration sometimes, it does bring up an interesting dilemma.

If it is a true prophecy, what should my response be? What can I do about? Nothing. Neither of the two people were given the discernment to offer a direction for Amanda or I. Does the vision mean that we should pack up now? Not from what they said. Does it mean we should move or stop doing what we’re doing or distance ourselves from our friends? No. Did it really offer anything in terms of guidance? Not really.

So we continue to be light and salt. We attempt to be good stewards and be prepared without being led by fear. We use the wisdom we have been given and continue on with life. We listen. We try and take the opportunities presented. We try and grow and learn.

I guess that’s all any of us can do anyway.

Update

The past seven days have been a bit of a whirlwind around here. On Wednesday we received a message that immigration would like to see us on Thursday. So in addition to trying to coordinate a Thanksgiving gettogether we had the stress of the unknown hanging over our heads.

Thursday’s meeting was…curious. In addition to refilling our an immigration form we’d already filled out nine months ago, we were asked a series of questions ranging from our educational background, to our past travels, to our known associates, to our financial status.

Since then we have been looking at ways of downsizing our lives. We’re selling off major pieces of furniture. We’re giving back things we’d been storing for other people. We’re looking at ways of possibly getting things home. Basically, we’re gleaning our lives downs to what we need.

It seems more than coincidental that at the same we’re coming to terms with getting rid of stuff, John is talking about having a greater dependence on God and Jake is talking about existentialism and an old episode of “Ed” (remember the bowling alley lawyer?) is talking about Walden and the need to simplify. Songs like Remember Surrender by Sarah Groves and references to “Be still and know that I am God” keep running through my head. My conclusion – we are not in control but know who is. We can attempt to focus our dependence on Him but we still need to realize that no earthly methodology or formula can prepare us for the unpredictable and absolutely abundant blessings He will be giving us

Yesterday afternoon, a week after we were first called to the Immigration office, we again received a message that we needed to come in. This time it is to follow up on the questionnaire we initially filled out. Apparently it is because they had problems reading my handwriting.
The “B” I got for handwriting in the third grade may finally be coming back to haunt me.

For your immediate concern

Just a quick request that today as you're thanking God for your turkey or turkey shaped soy substitute, think of Amanda, Atticus and I. We'll be meeting with some gov't officials today for an unexpected meeting. A similar meeting took place with some of our friends this summer and they were asked to leave.

Please lift this up.

Hopefully we'll have an update for you before your dessert is served.

Blessings

An Unemployed University?

Imagine what would happen if all of us had a sudden, fair and accurate job evaluation. It wouldn’t look at qualifications or past performance, just are you doing what you’re supposed to be doing. And are you doing it well. A positive evaluation (say C+ or better) would allow you to keep your job. A lower mark would require immediate retraining and a failure would result in your termination. Would you still have a job?

Or more importantly, would any of your colleagues still have a job? (Since anyone reading this is, of course, the perfect employee.) I’m frustrated with teachers who don’t teach or seem to want to. I have a friend who recently complained that students taking his graduate course, a course he specializes in, were “horrible”. Ah, it must be the lack of preparation; the poor standards set while they were undergrads; the rotten teachers from years before; the third and fourth year classes that failed to challenge, prepare or accurately familiarize them with the material…Except for the fact that he was their professor for those preparatory classes. His field of specialization is unique enough that only he could have taught them, or failed to teach them, the relevant material.

Another colleague rarely uses English to talk to majors or graduate students in the subject. Imagine two people trained in the field of English talking about a paper written in English that outlines problems with teaching students how to use spoken English effectively only the whole conversation is taking place in some other language.

And of course there are stories of PhDs bought through the internet, sold A’s, sexual harassment, non existent office hours, fifteen minute class sessions and so on.

In all fairness, there are those I work with who are still interested in helping students learn. There is my boss; an underpaid, overworked mother of three, underdog opponent of the Indian boy’s club. And the one who works for free since the gov’t decided that they’d been mistakenly paying her an extra couple of dollars a month for the last couple of years. And the graduate students who would love to think for themselves but know that if they challenge their professors too much, they might not get the grades needed to go for their PhDs elsewhere. These, along with the students so desparate to learn, are why I am able to continue teaching.

I accept that I may not have the credentials of some of the staff I work with but I do actually love teaching. I enjoy having students come to me to discuss what they’re learning and interested in. I love showing them that it is ok to have original ideas. And that it’s even ok to change those ideas. I suppose that since I’ve only been teaching a few years, I shouldn’t be so critical about those who may have burned out. But I’d like to think that when I do burn out, I’d have the grace to allow myself to be replaced rather than hold on to a profession I should be fired from.

After the Scramble

So I’m finally back in the land of the blogging after being stuck in 738 pages of literary purgatory. A while back a friend picked up a copy of Thomas Pakenham’s “The Scramble for Africa” and, like any idiot, I figured that since I live here I should read it. How difficult could it be? The whole book covers less than forty years (1876-1912) and in pages is shorter than most of the Harry Potter books. Over fifteen years ago I conquered my first one thousand page book, and that was during junior high basketball season. Piece of cake.

But L. Ron Hubbard didn’t write with a British accent. And Rowling doesn’t make obscure references to 16th century British parliamentary history. And neither is printed in a ten point font. With the exception of Ulysses, which I still haven’t gotten through, it may have been the most difficult book I’ve tried reading. (Barry, how goes your attempt?) Too many names and difficult to name places. Lots of anecdotes that seem insignificant until three chapters later by which time you’ve forgotten the details. Lots of blood, hands and ears but not nearly as graphic as “King Leopold’s Ghost.”

But the book was insightful into how the lines got drawn here in Africa. Some negotiation but a lot of it was determined by minor battles, when the supplies of scouting parties got low or when disease simply destroyed caravans. People like Churchill and von Bulow and quite a few others I’d largely forgotten about, got their starts in dealing with the “savages” – normally by killing off entire villages of those who wouldn’t allow themselves to be bought off by blank treaty forms or rolls of velvet cloth. Other leaders who could have come to power because they had the right sort of pedigree or professional background became obsessed with, ignored because of, or financially destroyed by this last unknown place on the planet.

If you’ve got some time on your hands – like while in prison or stuck in a hospital room with three channels with a hacking insomniac for a roommate – it’s worth the read.

Don't Stop Giving

It 's the fallout that results a short time after any tragedy that really motivates people to act. They pull out their wallets to help the less fortunate, be them victims of 9/11, the typhoon-tsunami in Asia or Hurricane Katrina.

Those are all worthy causes but what normally happens is that people don't give more, they give differently. They stop giving to their normal charities and simply shift that money over. Most of those groups that depend on consistant funding to remain afloat see their accounts dwindle after a tragedy like Katrina.

I'm not saying don't give to the victims, I'm saying that we need to be sure that we don't forget about those who still need our support. Give sacrificially. Dig deeper.

Please, keep giving to your church, to campus house or CSF, to the local shelters (for animals and people) to the schools and little leagues. Don't forget them.

Friends and stuff

I’m trying to come to terms with my friendship with a man based almost exclusively on the fact that he has stuff that I want. We started meeting because I had some political questions that he had answers to. His wife and daughter were out of the country and he needed to vent some culture-shock stuff so we had tea.

Come to find out that they have some baby food that their daughter has outgrown so, sure, we can take it off their hands. Oh, and since they are leaving the country soon and have stocked too much food ordered through the embassy commissary, we get first dibs on purchasing their American toilet paper and sugar and ziplock bags and vegetable oil and…Would we be interested in buying an older computer? – No – but it comes with a media card and a satellite dish – Absolutely.

I genuinely like the guy but I doubt we’d have become friends if he didn’t have more than I did. Like the kid in the neighborhood with the Atari or ping-pong table that kids used to hang out with because he had all the stuff…(Isn’t that from Seinfeld? “He had a ping-pong table! I would have been friends with Satan if he’d had a ping-pong table.”). He and his wife just don’t seem happy here. They don’t seem to enjoy the people or the culture or the food or the weather. They seem like they’re just here to do a job. It’s sad.

On most days, this would be a “There but for the grace of God go I” or “What good is it if a man gains the whole world but loses…?” entry but what is most disturbing is that even as I view his life as unhappy, his purpose less fulfilling than mine, I find myself envious. I want to be able to have meat and cheese shipped in from the states on dry ice. I want to be able to get Hershey’s chocolate syrup whenever I want. I want a job that, at least by the title, appears prestigious. I want to know ambassadors and world leaders. I want a fountain in my front yard and a guard on the other side of the gate. I want the stuff he has.

So even though I’m truly happy, even though I love my jobs, even though I couldn’t ask for a better family, even though I feel like I am exactly where I am supposed to be right now, I still want the stuff of this world.

Some days I just feel shallow

Gas

For all those growling about the cost of gas:

Our price for regular: $6-7 per gallon. (If they have it.)

Stupid Katrina!!!

The Birthday Boy

Just a photo or two (depending on how many they'll let me load) of our beautiful birthday boy.

Birthday Thoughts

Atticus is now officially one year old. It only took two visits to the hospital, thirty-six hours of labor, several thousand miles of travel (some of it by plane), three continents and two scrape/bump-leaving falls to get this far.

The party was simple. Local food and a cake. Presents and cards. No traditional white suit or stick. Maybe twenty-five people covering four nationalities. Atticus got banana cake with a taste of the chocolate one when mom left the room. After everyone left, some additional friends stopped by to break a loaf of bread on Atticus’ back to guarantee strong bones (maybe that’s what went wrong with mine). He was down for a nap three and a half hours after the festivities began.

I wonder how different it would have been in the States. It would have been hotter. There would probably only be one language used as people sat in their little groups. The cards would have been Hallmark. The toys would have been from Wal-Mart or Kaybee’s or Toys R Us. Nobody would have been concerned about which water was safe to drink but somebody might be concerned about the potato salad. Mostly it would have been the same except all of you would have been invited. Consider this your invitation for next year.

Not giving away the ending...

Just over a week ago I finished reading Donald Miller’s Searching for God Knows What. Earlier tonight Amanda and I finished reading The Half Blood Prince. I don’t know with which ending I am most disappointed.

One peaks with an analysis of Romeo and Juliet as a deeply profound retelling of Christian reconciliation. (For those of you who haven’t read either Miller’s or Rowling’s books, I won’t say which one. Oh, and climb out from under your rock.) I loved the book and was a bit let down by this “let me prove I was an English major” stretch that, while I could accept the premise, seemed so unlike the rest of the text. Having forced my share of comparisons – Ngugi/Wordsworth, Mau Mau Rebellion/Industrial Revolution, The Tick/The Nixon Presidency – I proudly admit to the plank in my eye but offer my disappointment nonetheless.

The other book was an equally engrossing book that I also loved reading. My disappointment came with the “now you’re forced to by the next book whether you want to or not” ending. What kind of Back to the Future II kind of closure is that? And now I have to wait another six months to, maybe, get some resolution.

Oh, and if you dig Miller’s lifeboat metaphor (which I really did) you might want to try reading Yann Martel’s Life of Pi. Better yet, skip the whole lifeboat thing and take an elevator with Colson Whitehead’s The Intuitionist.

Finally, a Picture!!!

This may or may not be my son's residual self image. Let's hope he grows out of it. Or at least learns how to crawl bakwards.

A Tail of a Residual Self Image

This is hardly an original idea. For those of you who don’t live under a rock (or some developing country), you might remember The Matrix brought up the idea that we all have a true image of who we are. My wife and I have discussed this and Tammy’s blog reminded me that even as we grow up (and out), there is still a kernel of who we are that really doesn’t change. On a recent Sunday as I was getting ready to go out, I looked in the mirror and saw my (almost) exact residual self image.

Thin, metal-framed glasses. Ancient, huge, Ironman watch. Khaki pants with a brown belt. Brown shoes. Long sleeve dress shirt in a solid primary color (sometimes blue but in this case white). Sleeves rolled up. Unremarkable tie, loosened slightly.

If you have a picture of me at some planned, even remotely formal gathering, I probably am dressed in some variation of that. Maybe I have a suit jacket on. Maybe I’m in a polo shirt or have jeans on (likely with a suit jacket). The watch might be different. But those are just variations.

When I really think about it, though, I’m missing a tail. My residual self image needs a long tiger tail curled around to the front. When I was something like five I used to wear a tiger costume whenever I could. I would chew on that tail. Maybe it was some fascination with the Wizard of Oz – I would also jump out from around corners and try to scare people when I wore that. I think that’s part of me that I just can’t shake. And I don’t think I want to get rid of that part of me.

Yeah, even now, I’m pretty sure I need a tail.

Missing Home...r

Today I was watching my son play with his favorite toy and I realized how much I miss my family. There’s something to be said for visiting every night, or at least every Sunday night, with those you truly love.

I miss living in the shadow of the power plant. I miss riding my bike up to the lemon tree – or where it used to be. Or listening to the Lovejoys on Sunday mornings. Remember what we used to learn at the chalkboard after school? We gave Principal Skinner such a hard time. I miss visiting Moe at his tavern and Grandpa Simpson at the old folks’ home. I hear that a certain someone finally came out of the closet. I miss Maude (may she rest in peace). I miss stopping by the comic book store.

I wonder if Bart and Lisa and Maggie have changed. I wonder if the Mayor has finally been charged with a crime…I wonder if Barney is okay. Is Crusty still funny? Is does life continue there without me? Does everyone still remember me there? And would they call out my name when I come to visit or would I be like every other Cliff who stops by?

I miss my Springfield.

Getting older

I got older this week (Thanks Jessica for pointing this out.) But it has little to do with age.

We don't get old simply because we live longer. Days, weeks, months, years really don't matter. I got old when I moved out of my parents' house. I got old when I stopped being mistaken for a student at Eureka. I got old last year when I fell out of a tree and a month later was back in the hospital for the birth of Atticus (if I was a different person this might have confirmed my immortality but that was determined only by an invitation from someone else.) We get old when events force us to leap from who we were to who we are to who we will be.

Two people who Amanda and I are very close to left this country on Wednesday. They taught us a ton by loving us and putting up with us. They were and are amazing, talented, gifted people who will do great things whereever they are. We continue to be busy with work but now so much of what we do will lack their counsel, insight and passion. We have to grow up.

Their absence will mean that Amanda and I have some growing to do. Atticus will have noone to call him Gizmo. The learning curve will be steep for a while as we grow into the next part of our lives here. Sitting at lunch yesterday, it was clear that two chairs were empty. During a meeting, two voices weren't being heard.

I clearly still have some grieving to do.

My point is that getting old is much more than counting coffee spoons.

Juggling porcupines

One of the things I love about my current home is that "porcupine quills" really are one of their major exports. You can get them on ashtrays and bowls and nicknacks. It's great!

But for the last week I feel like Amanda and I have been juggling live, hyperactive porcupines. Suddenly I am not just a professor and father and husband. I've had to learn to fix computers, calm the nerves of two college visitors and one mother-in-law, practice my pediatric dental expertise by reassuring my wife that that our son is fine even though it appears that he will be getting forty-seven teeth in at the same time (it's like he's getting multi-row shark teeth or something). I'm also becoming an expert packer/mover/papershredder. It's a good thing that my car's odometer doesn't work because I've been making runs all over town. Today is the first day I've been in the office in a week.

So what I want to hear is your most stressed out, porcupine juggling story. I'd tag some people but I'm too busy. I figure it'll be good for me to hear somebody else's stories. Revisit that time in the airport, snowstorm or being locked in your grandmother's bathroom...

Anybody can juggle chainsaws. Let's see Sheri Storer do this.