Waitress Lovin’
05 Jul 2011 Leave a Comment
I wanted to take a minute to share a sweet encounter that we had a couple weeks ago. I was in Tobaccoville with my soon-to-be-in-laws, and to celebrate my finacé’s mother’s and my birthday (same day, cool, huh), Faron, Jane, Jimmy, Laurie and I were at O’Charley’s for supper. This was a Tuesday. We had a good meal and towards the end of it, Faron (Jim’s dad), told the waitress that he felt the Lord was saying to her that there’s an obstacle in her life that He is helping her overcome (in so many words). She was receptive, seemed grateful, and we left. So on Friday, Jim and I ended up back at the same restaurant just to talk over margaritas and enjoy each other’s company. Well, we’d been there maybe half an hour before the waitress from Tuesday came up and said hi, asking if we remembered who she was. We did, and talked with her a little bit. She said to thank Faron for his word on Tuesday, which we agreed to do, and then Jim asked her if it meant anything to her. She told us that the next day, she’d been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. I’d like to mention here that Brianna (the waitress) is twenty years old, a very sweet black girl. Everything about the term “ovarian cancer” provokes a contradictory response when you look at her. It was just so obviously wrong, you know? Anyway, we asked if we could pray over her, and rebuked the cancer, spoke healing over her body, etc. I know she was encouraged, and of course so were we! We went to sleep happy.
The other amazing and interesting part of the experience is that the Lord was pouring out His sweetness on me and Jimmy when He led us into that divine appointment, as is always the case when He does so. But what interests me here is that it wasn’t our word–we just piggy backed off of Faron’s faithfulness, and were invited to have a part in the story. I just love that. The Lord is so wonderful. 
Bridals
13 Jun 2011 1 Comment
On Saturday I had some bridal photos taken by my engaged friends Nate and Rachel, who will also shoot our wedding. I had so much fun! Without going into too much detail, since Jimmy might stumble across this post, it was so lovely. Rachel did my hair and makeup, and we shot in front of a field in the afternoon light, as well as in a field (yeah, that was an adventure in a wedding dress), at the opening of a wooded driveway sparkling with fire flies, and in my dad’s chapel. It was fun scouting photo opportunities with Nate. The man has a good eye. I felt really comfortable with Nate and Rachel, partly because I’ve known them for a bit, but also because they’re such laid back people. There was a lot of joking and laughing, but of course classy posing. 
I actually feel less nervous about my wedding day since doing the photo shoot. I guess it’s because I have an idea now of how I’ll look (and I like it), and I am confident in my photographers’ abilities. That’s cool.
Today I’ve been sorting through a lot of stuff, mainly letters and cards that I’ve collected over the years. I don’t want to take a lot of stuff to our apartment, but I also don’t really want to leave much here. There’s an art to this moving thing. I am ready to move on with this new chapter of my life, or our life, I guess I could say. To me, that is somewhat synonymous with getting rid of things that don’t exactly fit into it. It was okay for me to keep stuff since grade school in a box in my closet up until now, but I just don’t feel I need most of it anymore, and I’m good with that. It’s a nice feeling. On the other hand, I’m trying to hold off on throwing away some items that I’ve grown tired of; my reason for this is that the other day Jimmy proposed decorating our apartment with some of his high school art. In what I hope was a gracious manner, I told him that I just wasn’t envisioning Bill Cosby looking down on me as I sleep. So I’ve decided maybe I should hang onto some wall art just in case I need to pull it out later…
Honoring the Gold
25 May 2011 Leave a Comment
I want to take some time to point out some of Jimmy’s great qualities. I believe this is an awesome thing to practice, so here goes.
Fair: Jimmy stands out to me as someone who is remarkably calm and fair in his judgement. His judgement is seldom thwarted by emotions and he often serves as a grounded second opinion for me and other people who need advice.
Honest: I’ve never heard Jimmy lie to anybody, including me. I’ve seen him time and time again choose to tell the truth even at personal expense.
Faithful: When Jim makes a choice to do something or be a certain way, he is motivated to honor that choice. I’ve always been surprised at how this quality manifested in him at a young age. When he was a kid, he decided he wanted to save up for a drum set. Apparently he shoveled manure, or dirt, or something, for a dollar a wheelbarrow. Homie did this until he had enough to buy a set that cost more than you’d care to know. As a kid?! This same drive to honor his choices has played out enormously in our relationship. Goodness knows I take pursuing, and Jimmy has been faithful to do so, to honor his choice to love me and to keep each other close.
Fun: Jimmy and I have explored the great Victoria Falls together, gone hot air balloon riding, rhino tracking, played at water parks together, been hiking, running, swimming, and biking together, played countless games of Egyptian war and scrabble, been fishing, shared maybe ten plane rides, traipsed through the woods, been lost in strange towns, spent many hours making up dialogue while people/animal watching, and more. Not to mention the typical dates, which interestingly only really started to happen somewhat later in our relationship.
Honoring: Jimmy has intentionally been cultivating his ability and choice to honor other people. This doesn’t just apply to me, although I’m probably the one he puts most effort into honoring, since it’s constant, whether or not I’m having a bad hair day. There is one specific time I remember from a few months ago when I was having a bad hair week, to be honest. I wasn’t cooperating or really accepting the good, optimistic, truthful things that Jimmy was offering me. So he got a piece of paper and wrote down the reasons he loves me; really, he wrote down who I am according to the Lord, which is awesome, because I imagine he wasn’t feeling thrilled with my attitude or actions, but in his choosing to view me and treat me the way the Lord does, he caused me to come around. He is good at pulling out the gold in people, and his patience especially makes a difference.
Generous: All I’m going to say is I once told Jimmy I could never break up with him because I’d owe him way too much money.
Obviously I could go on, and if you know Jim, then you know it’s true. He’s amazing, and it does my heart good to sit back and applaud who he is along with all the other people who love him. Being married to him is going to be cool. I anticipate seeing how the Lord sanctifies him!
Wedding Excitement
10 May 2011 Leave a Comment
Today is the first day that I have worked for about six hours straight on wedding stuff…namely collecting addresses and writing them on envelopes. I’m so proud of myself! This morning Dad and I visited Hermon Baptist, where the ceremony will be held. I must say, I was very pleasantly surprised by the interior of the sanctuary (I had only seen pictures up till today), and I think will a little sprucing up, it will be great! I did experience something I wasn’t quite expecting though…nervousness. I felt so nervous imagining myself in front of all those people as their focal point of the next half hour. Ahh!!! What am I going to do? Sweat.
House Hunting
07 May 2011 4 Comments
Hi everybody, I know it’s been about a year since I posted anything, but apparently Kimberly Humphrey still regularly checks to see if I do…so, here’s a tribute to her!
Over the past few weeks, Jimmy and I have been searching for a place to rent during the upcoming school year. Like most couples, we have our wish list of desirable characteristics in a house—price point, location, space, etc. Being a drummer, Jim would love to have a house where he could play at will (play drums, not just play), but being college students, many of the houses in the more appealing locations are above budget for us. Still, we have continued searching, gradually expanding our geographical radius wider and wider as the list grows longer and the phone calls increase. We have seen some lovely homes out of budget, as well as others on the opposite end of the spectrum.
601 McCormick would fall under the latter subheading, a structure best described as a hovel, comfortably nestled on a corner lot across from a fenced in plot where a variety of weeds and onions grow happily in abundance. It is the perfect site for a junkyard, if the owners can get a pit bull. Anyway, the Jim and I had an appointment to see the hovel (the appointment having been made prior to actually viewing the property), with one M. Driver, the man in charge…well, in all honesty, I’m not sure what he is charged with, but he isn’t the owner. We waited some minutes, distastefully eyeing the overgrown holly bush blocking all light into the tiny front room. A struggling oak tree was growing in the bush, and an inexplicable amount of fluff was strewn about the carpet-square yard. I was beginning to examine the mold on the descending roof when a loud SUV screeched into the cracked cement driveway. A tall, built man of thirty or so stepped out of the SUV, wearing sunglasses and a decidedly unwashed tee shirt whose pit stains betrayed its age. He introduced himself as M. Driver, the man we came to see, and hastily proceeded to fiddle with a heavy padlock on the front door. It took some time to successfully insert the key, but Driver eventually kicked open the door and excitedly led us into the dark cave of the living room. We were instantly overwhelmed with the aged odor of cigarette smoke, soaked into the stained carpet, the peeling wallpaper, the dingy curtains. Driver smiled hugely and gestured widely around the gloomy space, further depressed by a pair of dull blue curtains killing any possibility of sunlight. He led us through the small kitchen talking loudly, trying his best to sell the house while assuring us that the monkey curtains were a part of the package deal. Our train passed through a room the size of a closet (perfect for children, according to our host), a slightly larger “master bedroom”, and a bathroom that appeared to have been there since the advent of indoor plumbing. Driver showed us the washing machine, impossibly crammed into a corner, and enthusiastically informed us that the dryer was housed outside on the sliver of a back porch. I wondered at this.
We finally came to the apparent object of Driver’s delight, a gas heater, installed after the unusually harsh winter storm of 2003. Our host told us the story of the genius owner who intentionally left the unit stuck to the wall of the living room for people like us who could “huddle close and stay put” during any unpredicted winter weather. The horrifying thought of being trapped in this cigarette dump, unable to leave the premises, married or not, was almost too much. I welcomed the fresh air as we returned from the house to the front porch. Driver relocked the door with unwarranted precaution and proceeded to inform us of the enormous advantage that we as students would have living at the particular location.
As we were already aware, UNCG is expanding in the upcoming year, and much of the neighborhood will be demolished as campus invades its space. Driver made a peculiar attempt to convince us that said expansion would be a great benefit to us since we would be much closer to the school’s boundary…right across the street, in fact. I pondered how gullible he must have hoped we were to try to persuade us that a) construction noise would be no inconvenience and b) that construction would be anywhere close to finished by the time we moved in. On the contrary, it would only have just begun. Still, we smiled, nodded, and tried not snort in disagreement.
Driver’s dreams came true when a college kid of twenty-two or so pulled up in front of the house and emerged, tattoos visible, sunglasses mounted. He greeted us and introduced himself as the brother of the young man who lived in the unkempt house across the street. As he proceeded to extract two clinky brown paper bags, two mostly empty Coke bottles and a video game from the trunk, Driver invested in the fresh opportunity to show off the neighborhood. He asked the young man what he thought about the place, to which he replied that although he didn’t technically live there, it was everything he could ask for. He confided in us that they were very good neighbors, save on weekends when the excitement sometimes overcame them. We told him that we understood and he welcomed us with open arms. I could swear Driver was about to march up to the young man and kiss him on the forehead when the young man carried his liquor and video game into the parallel yard and disappeared through the door.
After a few more minutes of his sales talk, we shook hands with our host and listened as he instructed us where to download the application form online. Needless to say, we haven’t called back. Somewhere out there is another college kid who can’t be bothered with roaches or light, will sleep in a closet, use the gas heater and make M. Driver a very happy man. And he’ll get the monkey curtains thrown in.
Home Again, Home Again, Jiggidy Jig
05 May 2010 Leave a Comment
Dumela everyone!
Jimmy and I made it back to the good ol’ US of A. We thank G-d for a smooth flight, absolutely perfect save a few very unhappy children on the long 18 hour flight home…(nothing is ever flawless). We were warmly and animatedly greeted by family and friends at the Charlotte airport and went out for breakfast…mmm, fatty American pancakes. So now Jim is in Tobaccoville (yes, it is a real place), and I am in Waxhaw. I miss my friend, but it’s all good! I am so happy that he was with me through all of the frustrations and delights of Africa; it makes it easier to come home. I do not have to explain everything to the people around me because I know my friend experienced all of it, too. We have the inside jokes that I would have to recreate for people here; such effort! So, this is to say thank-you so much for following my blog while I was in Botswana. I doubt that I will keep updating it, at least regularly. I will let you know of my next adventure, for which I will refresh it.
Khaleboga my friends! You’re the best!
Love,
hm
In Company with Kings
30 Apr 2010 Leave a Comment
On Friday night Jim and I accompanied Professor Amanzi, Professor Fidelus Nkomanza., and another exchange student from PA named Shelly to dinner at the luxurious Gaborone Sun Hotel. After months of putting up with Curry Pot food and wishing for better food for better prices, Gabs Sun shone its brilliant rays into our damp spirits and begging appetites. I cannot begin to describe to you the heavenly qualities of that evening; it was not simply the rich African decoration, the slow and peaceful music, or the soft glow of the dining room lights. It was more than that…it was the all-you-can-eat buffet. Let’s just say that I wish I could have eaten more, yet after the salad alone, my very happy tummy was not expecting it. Imagine the surprise when a main course and dessert followed! We (my tummy and I) could hardly contain the joy! We do not deny that over the past couple of days we have found ourselves reminiscing over our dinner, the romaine lettuce, olive oil and herbs, peanuts, grated carrots, potato salad, purple grapes, coleslaw, the little board beautifully displaying seven different kinds of cheese (an expensive delicacy here!). It was true bliss. The cheese alone was true bliss, and yet it only marked the beginning. After finishing my initial plate (as previously described), I was no longer feeling hunger pains; in truth, I was slightly afraid that I might not make it through the main course–and yet I willed myself onwards! When do I ever get to go to Gabs Sun?! As a main course I did not choose the previously prepared dishes of more traditional Botswana cuisine (let’s face it, I get enough of that on campus), nor the tempting Indian dishes featuring basmati rice and pompadoms. Instead, I opted for the stir-fry, cooked in front of you with the ingredients of your specific choosing. I made a small bowl of mushrooms, peppers, cucumbers, carrots, peas, corn, and baby shrimp, and also a bowl of low mein noodles to mix. This was cooked in olive oil and a sweet chili sauce of the chef’s recommendation. It was amazing to watch him make the stir-fry in his large pan, throwing nearly the entire contents of my dish into the air and half a second later scooping them back into the pan, all with the grace of a falling feather. I nearly asked if I could try, but the common sense in me begged me not to. Let me just assure you that the stir-fry was delicious. I almost couldn’t finish it, but I made it all the way! Fortunately, it is mostly true that there really is always room for dessert, so on came the scoop of delightfully chocolate ice cream, the little almond and raisin bar, and half a chocolate puff (that I actually really didn’t like because it had coconut on top which some people fancy but I just can’t get into…). Add all of this to a glass of cold water, and you get paradise on a table cloth.
I would be remiss if I did not also tell you of how lovely the people I ate with were. Dr. Amanzi is an adorable little old(er) Motswana, and a professor of theology. He is also an Anglican priest, and is one of those gentlemen who smiles a great deal, hears reasonably well, and laughs frequently. Dr. Nkomanza was our professor of The History of Christianity class this semester at UB. Dr. Nkomanza also happens to be a king; the king of the Botswana Ndebele, to be precise. We learned some interesting facts that night on our way back to campus. We were asking Dr. Nkomanza questions about being a king, the conversation similar to something like this:
Who rules in your absence? My uncle. Do you like being king? Myself? Ish, it’s not bad. Do you have a special kingly outfit? Yes, I have it. It’s not made out of leopard print, is it? Yes, of course it is. Ah, sir, we don’t believe you. You don’t believe me? It’s true! Do you have kingly duties to perform? Yes, I am going up north this weekend. Do you get paid? What? No! It’s community service!
Such a noble king, wise in his ways, respected by all. Well, respected by me, at least, especially since he paid the bill. As I was thinking about this exquisite evening out over the past couple of days, I considered how it was very much a picture of the love G-d has for me. I felt His love through that meal at the hotel with the king. How like Jesus to feed us a variety of high quality foods when we find ourselves really, really hungry, and how like Him to spare no expense. Thank-You, Lord, for the cheese, and thanks for getting the check, too.
Snapshots of Africa
19 Apr 2010 3 Comments
1. If people watching is good, and kid watching is the best, then African kid watching is nothing short of quality. It is a Sunday afternoon, and I am sitting with my friend Jimmy on the balcony of a restaurant, when my wandering eye notices an upright toddler with a balloon that has been twisted into the shape of a giant flower–giant in comparison to the person holding it. It is taking full concentration to maintain possession of the enormous flower, two little hands glued to the stem, tiny nails turning white from the applied pressure. I especially like the way he runs, or rather trips repeatedly while mostly managing not to fall, his entire baby fat body teetering at a dangerous angle, completely reliant upon the two tiny pitter patter feet in contact with the floor. He grins a baby teeth grin from behind the balloon, stumbling after his dad, skyscraper-high above him, pushing the cart to the very end of the impossibly long corridor….
2. It is a remarkably hot Wednesday afternoon, between the hours of 2 and 3, and I am sitting in the red chaired classroom of my history class. My professor is the man with the astounding stutter, I’m sure you’ve heard him around the walkways, heard him repeatedly, in fact. We are dying. He is droning on and on about forms of resistance in colonial Angola, as he has been for the past two weeks. Outside the open windows butterflies are fluttering, as they always do when the sun is out; they appear like magic, tiny white and yellow afterthoughts, what you thought you saw hovering above the tall grass, but cannot place for sure. The hum of a generator hangs heavy in the heat, to the right a group of students chatting around a stone table, up above, workers making plans to shorten the limbs of a precarious and imposing tree. “For-for-forms of resistance, forms of resistance, yes, the Angolans had forms of res-resistance, isn’t it, they sabotaged crops, they sabotaged crops, they had forms….” Suddenly an enormous crash fills the air, and thirty seven dying students lying limp on their desks think, “This is it, this is the end, we knew we would die someday, it may as well be now,” only to gradually (and somewhat sadly) fade back into the reality of liberation struggle in colonial Angola on a hot Wednesday afternoon. I don’t think anyone else has even noticed that the workers outside the window have managed to achieve exactly what they were attempting to prevent. There is now a gaping hole in the roof of the covered walkway where a large branch was mistakenly sawed from the wrong angle. Notice the quietly horrified workers on the roof, bending over the edge, wondering if they will have to fix this, too.
3. There are foreboding clouds gathering above us in the dark sky, and the wind has begun to blow. The wind always blows before a storm, the crazed trees thrashing back and forth as in traditional rain dance. We are rushing home from Choppies, the grocery, before the rain is unleashed, plastering our t-shirts to our skin. Look to your right, no, there. See the monkeys in the dumpster, scrounging for food? Up in the trees! How is he holding on?! And now, faster, the rain is falling, one curious baby monkey running parallel to me, even right up along the fence….
4. I like it when the cleaning ladies greet each other upon arriving on campus, early in the morning. They are all middle aged women, some short, some a little taller, and all roughly the same pear shape beneath their thin-pastel-cotton-button-down uniform dresses stamped “Cleaner” on the back. They arrive before most students are even awake, congregate in the courtyard, chatter away in Setswana and laugh and laugh and laugh. They eventually scatter to their separate floors where they mop, scrub, and sweep in between necessary cups of bush tea with biscuits. Some days, after lunch but before “knocking off”, they gather in the empty common buildings, get ahold of a sound system, haul in tables and chairs, and turn up their gospel music deafeningly loudly. They then situate themselves in their plastic chairs, forming a circle in the center of which they take turns dancing. There is singing, clapping, general hullabaloo, and everyone is delighted to be with everyone else. You know, the little things that keep a working woman sane.
What’s for supper?
19 Apr 2010 Leave a Comment
While traditional Botswana cuisine will offer you sorghum, papa (also known as maize meal or mealie meal), rice, chicken, beef, liver, seswa (pounded meat), mophane worms, and chibuku (traditional beer, also known as ‘shake-shake’), there still secretly lurk in the halls of UB a handful of alien students who silently crave for the occasional variation of the above menu. Rumor has it that some even cry themselves to sleep at night, longing for pizza, macaroni and cheese, or whatever they left in their kitchens in countries far away, and drift helplessly into dreams of floating hamburgers and plates of lasagna, ‘Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs’ stuck on re-play in their unconscious minds. After weeks (for some, only days), of enduring the monotony of foreign food, they treat themselves to meals out, where chips (french fries) flow in abundance, ravioli, sandwiches, or salads can be tasted and savored, battery life for the coming visits to the campus Curry Pot. Every meal is a pep-talk, the valiant speech the sergeant gives before leading his men back into the war-zone.
For us, refuge is found in supper at Henna’s, every Tuesday and Thursday at 8 o’clock. Jimmy, Matt (an energetic and patriotic Seattlite), and I migrate to the graduate block where Henna lives, and make use of his stove. It is wonderful to be able to cook your own food! Most often, we throw together a mix of pasta, chopped veggies, and hot sauce. Easy peasy Japanesey, and tasty, too. As we are coming to the end of our semester and time here in Botswana, I find myself looking around, senses sharpened, taking mental pictures in attempt to remember the small things that I realize I love about this place, and one thing I love is supper at Henna’s. There is a general atmosphere of jolly gaiety, where all is laughter and high spirits, further heightened by Henna’s neighbors, who all share the common kitchen. There is one man from Lesotho, Silas, who lives next door who will often come out and enthrall us with his knowledge of one of southern Africa’s famous ‘click’ languages. It is amazing to hear him explain the differences between the clicks of the tongue, and hilarious to try to imitate. This is one endeavor that always ends in failure.
There is also John, across the kitchen, a Congolese man who we always miss if he does not show up. Being Congolese, John speaks French, a number of other African languages, and English. I very much enjoy attempting conversations in French with John; he especially likes my [father's] phrase, “La vie est dure sans confiture.” Translation: “Life is hard without jam.” Things John enjoys: football matches, VW hatchbacks, alcohol, and eating. Things John finds boring: his graduate program, and cooking. Several times I have heard him tell one of the neighbors, “I hate cooking, but I love eating” in his very matter-of-fact manner of speaking that he is loved for. John is a high school teacher, has a wife and baby daughter in France, and loves Paris. The reason I am telling you so much about John is because I enjoy his company so much, and would like to introduce him to you, if I may, and also remember him myself. I would like you to see the very relaxed state one always finds John in, thin frame often without a shirt, slightly slumped in front of his laptop on the kitchen table, because he prefers to be with people than alone in his room, which he says is “only for sleeping.” John very nearly yells everything (we don’t know why), smiles frequently, and uses his arms to emphasize his words. To all appearances he loves everything everywhere, ever, and recently exclaimed loudly that his dream is to open a church, his arms held shoulder height, eyes closed dramatically, slightly and endearingly reminiscent of a monkey. John is the man with the plan.
On a different note, the other night, we were all eating together, and Silas was telling us about his experiences in certain sections of the city. He tells us that prostitutes charge 20 pula per appointment (US $4), and 40 pula for unprotected relations. (Disclaimer: Silas knows this from word of mouth, not experience). Many of the city’s prostitutes are from neighboring Zimbabwe, a country that has been in crisis for approaching 30 years, hoping to earn cash little by little to keep their families fed. There is so much that happens here that I don’t see, like everywhere, I suppose. A few weeks ago, Jim and I were on our way to catch the bus to Mochudi, a neighboring village, to see our friend’s football game, and were walking through the bus station when a man handing out leaflets offered us one each. When I looked at it later, I realized it was an advertisement for a witch doctor. There was a long list of topics that one could consult the doctor about, including relationship issues, illnesses, financial problems, or enemies. We ripped them up and threw them away, but we were certainly surprised. Even though we are in the city and at a university, and thus in a westernized bubble, there are places not so far away from here where dark things happen, often under the name of tradition. A few years ago, there was a case with a small girl who went missing and later found mutilated. Her body had been used for liretlo, or medicine murder, as an ingredient in a spell. These things are spoken about in hushed tones, but they happen. As with anywhere, it is important to know where you are and who you’re with! G-d is a powerful ally.
This is just an idea of our conversations during supper at Henna’s. So you see why those evenings are so enjoyable? We’re with funny, interesting people, we don’t have to eat chicken and rice, and we learn so many different things about the country we’re in. Feel free to join us on Tuesday evening at 8; there aren’t many suppers with Henna left…
