A Name for One of my Quirks – Trypophobia!

I have a peculiar aversion. It doesn’t come up much, and I’ve never met anyone else who I know has it. It’s an aversion to small clusters of dots, holes, or scaley things. Just typing that word “clusters” gives me the heebie jeebies.

The first time I noticed it I was driving and saw a tire track pattern where someone had “burnt rubber” or whatever it’s called. I had a visceral reaction, suddenly feeling nauseous and completely disgusted. Over the next few years it happened several more times – things like alligator scales; dry, cracked earth; or the images from a TV show about hair transplants (where a guy had hole puncher-like holes all over his head) – before I realized what the common denominator was: clusters of small things.

I even mentioned it to one of my psychology professors in school – not because I was concerned about it, but because we were talking about weird aversions. She had never heard of it.

There’s a story of my father holding me over the wall at Gator Land when I was two-years-old – so I could “see the gators better.” An employee came over and told him to get me down immediately. I don’t remember this, but I’ve always had a (what I consider healthy, but which seems at times a little excessive) fear of alligators and crocodiles. I get all itchy. (If any of you remember the video of me eating crocodile while in the crocodile pen, there’s no inconsistency – I try to face my fears.) Anyway, I’m sure that had nothing to do with it, but it’s fun to speculate. Don’t even get me started on snakes. I’ve also wondered whether it stems from my many severe – blisters and all – sunburns as a fair-skinned, no-sunscreen-strong-enough kid.

The other day someone posted a video on Facebook. It was fake, but they didn’t know that. I don’t even want to talk about it, but it was a picture of a lotus flower pod merged (through computer graphics) onto a person’s shoulder. It was supposedly the result of using a bad shampoo. It was a gross picture anyway, but because it had that pattern I haven’t been able to get it out of my head for a week. It keeps popping up and sticking in my brain, making me feel a little nauseous. If you’re curious, google “lotus flower shampoo.” It’s disgusting, but not much more so than a regular lotus flower pod is to me.

I finally decided to google this aversion. I didn’t know what to call it, so I typed in “aversion to dots.” Turns out it’s a real thing! It’s called “trypophobia,” which literally means “fear of holes.” For me it’s not the holes, it’s the cluster pattern, but it seems to be the same thing (the lotus video even popped up in the search results as a common trigger). It’s not a real diagnosable condition (though research is being done), but thousands of people say they have it, and it even has a Facebook group – which I’m not joining; those people are crazy.

A kind of funny story – after my car wreck I had an approximately 2-inch squared burn on my arm from where the airbag blew a piece of square metal at me (it’s still there but faint). As it healed it had a spotted pattern that grossed me out to look at. It was weird to have such an aversive pattern on my own arm.

Here are some links to images that I found related to trypophobia. Some don’t bother me at all, but some kind of make my teeth hurt. A few are gross on their own regardless of the pattern. In South Africa, there was a candy bar brand called “Bubbly.” The inside always kind of grossed me out. There’s a similar candy on here. I’m glad to see I’m not the only one who enjoys their chocolate solid (it’s kind of cheating to sell chocolate that’s mostly air anyway).

I obviously don’t have it very bad or I wouldn’t post these links – it’s just a once-in-a-while thing that has always made me wonder what was up. It was interesting to discover that what I thought was just a personal quirk has a name, a Wikipedia article, and an urban dictionary entry. I’m curious if any of my friends find the pictures equally disturbing. I hope I don’t give anyone else nightmares.

http://www.buzzfeed.com/daves4/trypophobia-is-a-real-terrifying-thing-and-you-definitely-ha?s=mobile

http://m.ranker.com/list/find-out-if-you-have-trypophobia-/brian-gilmore?format=SLIDESHOW&page=50

Break

Oh yeah, the break I mentioned and forgot to talk about. I’m going to try to blog about once a week at http://theworstrunnerintheworld.wordpress.com as I train for a marathon. Hopefully it’ll be a combination of short spiritual lessons discovered while training (the Bible uses the race analogy a few times and speaks a lot of endurance), updates on progress (I have to go from one mile taking almost 19 minutes to averaging 15 minutes per mile for 26 miles), and maybe some random funny tales now and then – some of my strangest thoughts occur while I’m out for a run.

In the meantime, I’m planning to reserve this blog for…not sure what. Something other than everyday things. Hopefully there will be some outreach efforts to report on in Richmond. But for now, I’ll be next door. Feel free to visit.

Mostly pictures before a blog break (kind of)

I flew to Arkansas last Friday, to surprise my mother for her 70th birthday. I was torn between popping up earlier in the day versus just appearing at the surprise party. I was slightly afraid I’d start crying, because my emotions are always all over the place when I first come home. I also didn’t want to make her party all about me.

I hid out at my brother’s house while I decided. I spent the afternoon being entertained by Levi, my nephew. His preferred method of interaction was repeated questions of this sort, “Aunt Jessica, have you ever seen a [phone, train, lamp, heater, snowman, zoo]?” His language amazes me. He’s 2 1/2, but has been speaking like a person since he was less than 1 1/2. At one point during the afternoon I heard him say, “Mommy, do you think Aunt Jessica has ever seen a water tower?” “I don’t know.” “I’ll ask her when she comes in here.” So weird.

After Levi and I both had a nap, I decided to go ahead and surprise my mother. I hid in the back of the SUV as Carolyn (my sister-in-law) drove over (they live a block away). I had a blanket on top of me, much to Levi’s amusement. Carolyn went in and asked my mother to help her carry in a present (a believable ruse since she’s 6 months pregnant). I was videoing when my mother opened the door and pulled the blanket off my legs. Before she uncovered my face, she was shouting, “I knew you were coming!” She said she didn’t really have any particular reason to think I was, but had a funny feeling. My mother’s very intuitive, which made me wonder if we would be able to pull off the surprise party later in the evening.

The idea to have a surprise party was mine, but I wasn’t able to do much planning, being on a different continent and all. I kept bugging my brother to find a restaurant that could seat about 50 people. Finally I enlisted my sister-in-law about a week before, and she found one and had it announced at NLR. I also invited people in surrounding ecclesias, and my aunt from Texas (whose job it was originally going to be to get her to the restaurant). We didn’t tell my dad because we didn’t think he would remember to keep it a secret. I asked my sister-in-law to get a cake with something nature-y or birds or bird feeders (which my mom collects), and she knew a girl. We wanted to keep it low-key and non-stressful, and it pretty much was.

I drove my parents and aunt to the restaurant (Cactus Jack’s), where we were supposedly meeting just Kyle, Carolyn, Levi, and the fetus. On the way, my brother called my aunt. That wouldn’t have ever been a normal thing, but my mom didn’t seem to notice. I could hear him through her phone, so I kept talking loudly about stupid things to try to distract my mom from hearing.

When we pulled up, I had a foreboding feeling. We were going to have to walk along the side of the building, and the blinds were open and I had a feeling that was the area they would be in. Murphy’s law. (I considered slaying my brother for not thinking to close them.)

I pulled out my new phone and started showing my mother stupid things while we walked. But I had a feeling it wasn’t her I should be worried about. It was like slow motion. As I handed my mother my keys and then asked for them back and then gave them to her again, and anything else I could think of – I heard my father say quietly, “Well, there’s…”

No. Don’t do it! It was too late.

“There’s Barbara and Virgil,” he said. Part of me wanted to strangle him. A big part. “And…and others…”

My mother said, “I’m guessing you weren’t supposed to tell me that.”

I wasn’t sure she heard the “and others,” so I said, “Do you think Kyle invited Barbara and Virgil?” I tried to be surprised.

“Maybe,” she said.

“I hope he didn’t invite other people,” I said, pretty much just talking to kill the last few seconds as we walked into the big room with about 30 people.

“Surprise!” they said. Oh, well, whatever. It was still fun. I guess she was just surprised about 30 seconds early, and by the wrong person. It was hard to be too irritated, since my father rallied enough to come with us, and was in no condition to realize he was revealing a secret. With 20/20 hindsight, my brother and I realized we should’ve told him right before we left the house.

But the surprise wasn’t the point. It was a good evening, with an interesting mixture of people who don’t generally (or ever) socialize. I’m thankful to everyone who came.

[“Move in until you can see your face.” “Okay, I can see it…” (As I walk off) “What was she doing?”]

***

On Sunday morning I got up early and drove to Fayetteville, where I went to meeting. I stayed with the Beelers for four nights. It was going to be two, but I decided to add a day. Then it started sleeting, so I added another day.

[Strangely comforting to be back to this book.]

[Obligatory Fayetteville lip face thingy]

I don’t know what you call the person who was your best friend for like the first 30 years of your life. I guess best friend is still an acceptable phrase, even though we hardly ever see each other and only talk on FB or text occasionally. It doesn’t seem like we really need to talk though. Things just pick up where they left off.

It was Kane’s third birthday. I had the privilege of holding Kane all night the night he was born, so his parents could catch up on some much-needed sleep after a difficult delivery. At the party, his dad, Scott, said they were telling him that story that morning, since he would see me. Scott said he couldn’t help but add the part where he and I changed the first diaper, while Pam slept; and after searching desperately for a trash can, we ended up throwing it in the clothes hamper instead, which was only discovered when the nurse came in to take the laundry.

[Pam told me Kane had said, “I need a new shirt to wear,” so that’s what I got him. I had a feeling it wouldn’t be the most exciting present there. He just looked at it and wondered why this strange lady had gotten him clothes.]

[I was so pizza deprived in South Africa that I ate pork!]

[This guy – am employee of Fun City – meticulously posed the presents. I asked him if he’d ever had to do that at a party full of bowling balls. Maybe I thought it was funnier than it actually was.]

***

I had some Beeler birthday presents to catch up on. I found this really random shirt for this really random kid:

He wore it the next day so he must’ve approved.

The Beelers had a present for me too. Ani had made a sign:

…and they got me an Elf snow globe.

***

Dinner at my favourite Thai place:

[Stuart didn’t fall for my offer to give him $10 and just put my meal on his bill.]

Then a drive through the Fayetteville square.

[“Ooh, cotton candy. Just like the Arkansas State Fair…with fewer rednecks.”]

On Tuesday I went back to Pam’s for dinner.

[I won Kane over by giving him my boots.]

[“Do you remember when you were one day old and I held you just like this?”]

***

One afternoon we managed to Skype with the Szabos, who were all packed up and ready to fly to Canada, where they’ll be living.

On Wednesday we went to Crystal Bridges, a free art museum in Bentonville.

[It was sleeting on our walk along the trail.]

[I found the old man from Up!]

[This cracked me up, and then I realized it was a parody.]

[I found this distasteful…]

[I entered this room first, and then went back and told Kim, “Uh oh, Wyatt got to the next room before us.” She was genuinely concerned when she walked in.]

[I broke the “no flash photography” rule here. This was the creepiest exhibit – a dark room with this large figure and some slowed-down music. It turned out it was a sleeping Mickey Mouse and the music from The Mickey Mouse Show.]

***

That night after Bible class, we dropped the kids off and Kim and Cam and I went to the 21c hotel for dinner. They have an art gallery there too. I had a very cultured day.

[This chain of hotels has a mascot for each branch…this one was green penguins. I still have a mark from a confrontation with a penguin in Cape Town, so it took me a while to warm up to him.]

[I loved this exhibit – one version of Psycho superimposed onto the other; the timing was amazingly similar.]

It was a great evening.

[I’ve always liked this store front, though I’ve never been in. It was Sam Walton’s first store and is now a Walmart museum.]

I took this picture of Ani before I left. Later at my parents’ house I came across this old picture (given to me because I made the dress and [too little] hat). I love this girl.

***

On the way home, I stopped by the house of the family I worked for for five years. This guy was four when I started. He just turned 13!

I spent about 30 hours a week in their home. When I started all I knew about ABA was what I had read online.

I could’ve just sat and listen to him talk all day long. Amazing how his speech has progressed.

Random Otherness

A conversation with the Salvation Army bell ringer:

“Do you have to stay on the square?”

“Uh, not really, sometimes I venture off.”

I was really hoping he’d say yes so I could try to lure him away and watch the fall-out. Also, when will they invent a periscope app to make taking pictures of people without their knowledge easier?

***

The other day I was trying to type some thoughts on the exhort in Fayetteville and realized one letter can make all the difference. “Keep your elves from idols.” ‘Tis the season.

***

I’m working on an African themed picture quilt. Here’s the very rough design:

Here are the fabrics:

You would not believe how many African fabrics had tigers on them. A little research will go a long way.

Richmond Marathon 2015

I’m officially in training for a marathon. And by “officially,” I mean, I paid my entry fee and got some cool apps, but haven’t yet begun actually moving my feet in any helpful direction.

It’s in November. That should be plenty of time to accomplish my goal, which is just to finish before they close down the course and stop blocking traffic and let the cars take care of any remaining slowpokes – like survival of the (literally) fittest.

The time limit is 7 hours. When you register, it asks what your predicted time is. It wouldn’t let me put 7:00, so I went with 6:59. That should be attainable, I think. Any human with two legs (and many without) should be able to do that if that’s their goal and they work toward it. Right? I think the key words are “goal” and “work” …although “two legs” is probably also an advantage.

When I first moved to Richmond, a brother had recently done a marathon. Someone remarked how amazing he thought that was. He replied, “Anyone can do it. Just not tomorrow.” I’ve thought of that often. I guess it’s comparable to what I’ve found to be true with extreme weight loss. Things are possible. Do things.

I’m working on crafting my running schedule – which is my favourite part of running, by far. I think I tend to overtrain sometimes. I’m a creature of habit and I like to run 5-6 days a week. But I progress better when I run 3-4 and focus on other exercises 1-2 days a week.

My main challenge will be speed. I’ll never be fast. Maybe a 6 hour marathon is possible, and maybe even a 5 eventually. But that’s as fast as I would ever have reasonable hopes of getting. I’m a slow person. But moving for 7 hours sounds horrible, so hopefully I can increase my speed some.

Anyone want to run with me? And by “with me,” I mean you go ahead at your pace, then go home, shower, have a nice meal, catch a movie or two, and then come back and meet me at the finish line (with a Reese’s cup and Dr. Pepper in hand).

Seriously, I think we should make this the year when everyone who’s been thinking about it just does it. A typical marathon training schedule is about 16-18 weeks. We’ve got like 46 or something. Maybe you’re like me, and 16 weeks wouldn’t be enough time to train for something like this. But we’ve got not just double, but triple that length of time. That makes it sound almost easy. If you’re on the fence, I think you should do it.

Training starts tomorrow…unless it’s cold, or my workout clothes are still in my suitcase that was sent to Richmond, or I’m busy making Christmas fudge, or…no, I guess training really should start tomorrow.

Interview About Ndumiso

Mdu and I were interviewed for an article right before I left. Other than the fact that Ndumiso isn’t deaf, which seems to persist despite all clarifications, it’s mostly accurate. All quotations are based on what the interviewer thought we should have said. : )

http://highwaymail.co.za/178444/search-continues-for-missing-deaf-boy-2/

An Ndumiso Update – His Birthday and Other Happenings

First of all, there’s no big news. But there are a few things that could use some prayers.

Mdu has been having a tough time the last few days. He’s handled all this remarkably well, so he’s bound to have a rough patch here and there. But the volunteers – and a lot of the locals – are gone for the holidays, at a time when he could really use support.

I asked Mdu back in March or April when Ndumiso’s birthday was. It will be his tenth. He said December 18th. For months I’ve been thinking about that date, hoping and praying Ndumiso would be back by then; knowing I wouldn’t be in the country at that time. Before I left, Mdu and I talked about ways to use that day to bring awareness to the situation. He wanted to have a concert, or to visit the orphans’ home nearby; but I don’t know if anything will happen since it’s a time of year when South Africa basically shuts down for a month. I’m a little irritated with myself that I didn’t plan something in advance. My own life and busyness got in the way. : (

A lot of my Facebook friends “friended” him during the first few weeks of Ndumiso going missing, and I still see them sending words of encouragement and support to him often – though they’ve never met him. I know this means a lot to him.

I was talking to Kim about what to do for Mdu to mark the day. I thought about money. But we’ve raised money for the search, and Mdu and I are in contact about how to use it, and throwing more money at it doesn’t seem appropriate at this time.

I’m still thinking of options (I’m trying to work out a birthday cake, but we’ll see), but one thing Kim suggested was asking our mutual friends to send him messages with Bible verses and words of support. I think that’s a great idea. Prayer is practical and doesn’t have fees taken out – please pray for Mdu and his family, and for Ndumiso’s safe return.

FYI – South Africa is 7 hours ahead of Eastern Time, which might be helpful to know if you plan to send a message for daytime hours on Thursday.

*
A couple of other developments. Mdu got a call yesterday saying that some bones have been found a few miles away and he needs to come check it out. I tried to get more details, but I don’t understand. He obviously can’t check out bones and know anything, and if they’re going to do DNA testing they generally use the mother just in case. So I don’t know what this is about or if it’s even the police that called.

When I messaged him to try to find out details, he said he had tried to message me about something else the day before – a lady from somewhere I can’t find on a map called and said there’s a kid hiding out and she thinks it’s him. He wanted to go see, but couldn’t afford it and didn’t know how to proceed with so many people gone for the holidays. I told him to call the police, and went to bed waiting to hear back.

We’ve heard this story – that someone has spotted him hiding somewhere – so many times before, that my first reaction was pretty blank. Then, as I was lying in bed, I kept thinking of 1 Corinthians 13 – “love hopes all things.” Until Ndumiso is found, he is somewhere. We’re all aware that statistics say he’s probably dead. Occasionally someone will suggest that it’s foolish to still hope or search. I understand that, I guess. “Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.” But you hope because of the next part – “but when the desire cometh, it is a tree of life.” And you hope because you know that faith pleases God, and that faith in God is the only thing that gives any hope that Ndumiso is still alive. And faith in God is what will sustain Mdu and his family if it turns out he’s not. So, is it foolish to hope? Biblically, it doesn’t seem to be.

*
The next development is a frustrating one. I got a message back from Mdu saying that the lady who says she’s spotted him said he mustn’t involve the police. Hmm, that’s not suspicious at all. Maybe she just knows what we know about the police…but still, this screams of a set up.

Before I could say anything, he said that the police know and the plan is for him to go in first, and them after. I would be hesitant to go with that plan even in America, but in South Africa? I told him my fear is that the police won’t know what they’re doing and they’ll get him killed.

Part of me wants to go back. Part of me wishes Rick (who is back from the 3-month safari and in Jo’burg right now, soon to return to North America) and I were there to be detectives again and go check this out. I’m sure both of our mothers are glad we’re not. It’s so hard to be far away when there are finally things to investigate.

I don’t know when, where, or how this will go down. I debated blogging it, but wanted to ask for prayers for all aspects of this situation. “The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.” Prayer is the only thing I can do right now, and it isn’t a little thing. I’m asking all my friends to join me again, 9 months later, and pray for Ndumiso and his family. And please consider sending Mdu a word of encouragement on Thursday for his son’s 10th birthday.

Preface to The Surprise Party

It hit me the other day that for a few days I was at a strange point in life where I did not possess a single key – no car key, no house key, no Africa key. It was strangely liberating. I’m now back in Arkansas with the key to my new car. I drove it last night – the first time driving on the right side of the road in a long time. I warned my passengers to say “bear right” before any turns at big intersections.

*
There was quite a bit of secrecy involved in my trip home – because I’ve been planning a surprise party for my mom’s 70th birthday (which was yesterday) since I booked my tickets in February.

When my father turned 70, we planned a big surprise party at the NLR ecclesial hall. It was touch and go, because he had recently had a stroke and was up and down; we weren’t sure we’d be able to get him out of the house that day. But we came up with a good cover story – going to a ball game with a friend, and then stopping by at the hall to pick something up; where they just happened to be having a youth event (to explain all the cars on a Friday night). He was thoroughly surprised and had a good time. I had asked a cousin who makes cakes to make a big football cake. She did a great job and we lit 70 candles without burning the place down.

I knew for my mom’s 70th, things would be different. It was even less certain whether we would be able to get my dad out of the house, and I knew I wouldn’t be planning any party at the NLR hall. But I wanted to try to do something.

When I booked my Africa flights, I intentionally scheduled myself to come back a couple of days before her birthday. I thought about making her think I would still be in Africa and just showing up, but I knew with my blog and Facebook there was no way to hide when I was leaving. But I told her I’d be too jetlagged to drive so far so soon, and asked if she would be hurt if I wasn’t here. Of course she said no. I planned to drive in and surprise her at the party.

But then life threw the curve of me not having a car. So rather than have someone pick me up in DC, drive me to Richmond, and then take me to the airport there in a couple of days, I decided to just get a cheap hotel in DC and fly from there Friday morning. Which is what I did. I just told my mom I was hanging out in DC till the weekend when someone from Richmond could come get me. She thought I was coming to Arkansas later in the month, closer to Christmas.

The problem with staying in DC, which I realized after booking my flight, was that I would have two suitcases and domestic flights charge per bag. A slight annoyance. I knew the people who usually pick me up and take me would come get it if I asked, but I didn’t want to keep inconveniencing people and it wasn’t that big of a deal. I finally did decide to ask a friend from my ecclesia, who works in DC, if he wanted to meet for dinner and take a suitcase home. He agreed.

So that was a good plan, until I called him that morning to confirm, and he had the flu. He suggested a sister who he said lived kind of close. I like visiting with her anyway, so I called and told her about my weird situation and asked if I could possibly buy her dinner in exchange for getting the suitcase. So we met, she ended up buying me dinner (which I protested, but eventually conceded to), and took my suitcase. She actually ended up taking two suitcases and a pillowcase stuffed with stuff. I had realized that if I could fit everything for Arkansas in my backpack, I could save even more fees. When I got to the airport I was really grateful for that, because I realized I had packed based on the 30 kg limit of my international flights, and that was more than the 50 lb allowed on domestic. They would’ve charged me $200 or something ridiculous.

With that all sorted, I settled in for a few hours of sleep. I had a shuttle scheduled for 3:30 am the next day. When I booked that, they said they would pick me up at 2:30, for my 6:00 flight. The more I thought about it, the more ridiculous that sounded. So I called back and asked for 3:30.

“Ma’am, I want to let you know that we pick up 3 hours before your flight, so if you miss it we’re not to blame.”

It was the middle of the night, and we were no farther than 30 minutes from the airport. I felt good about my odds.

My shuttle driver from the airport to the hotel had been awesome. The one on the way back to the airport was decidedly unawesome. He was supposed to pick me up at 3:30. He showed up early and had the front desk call my room at 3:23. He didn’t say a word the whole trip, except to mutter to himself about which turn to make. Of course, it was 3:30 in the morning so I didn’t mind. He drove 30 mph in a 45, and drove down the center of a two-lane road for an extended amount of time – which really confused me because I didn’t know which was the correct side of the road anyway. He didn’t use his signals and changed lanes randomly. I thought he was asleep at several points. He didn’t seem to know how to get back to the airport; either that or his eyesight was really bad, because he kept craning his neck to read signs and going really slowly. The whole thing was kind of amusing. I thought about reporting him and suggested they get him driving lessons, but I decided I wouldn’t want my driving skill and personality judged based on my middle-of-the-night driving. I didn’t tip, partly because I didn’t have any American cash. I guess I could’ve given him 5 Rand.

Right before we got there, he asked what airline. I had realized just before that I didn’t actually know, and was prepared to guess and figure it out later so I wouldn’t look stupid. I took a stab and was right (United).

It was a little before 4:00 when we got there, and the counter wasn’t even open yet. I was thoroughly glad I hadn’t agreed to the earlier shuttle.

*
Once I got checked in, it was time to encounter the strangeness that always happens at airports, and which always provides endless amusement until my flight.

I went to a simple bagel shop. It was called “Au Bon Pain,” which I can only assume translates roughly to, “The Croissant of Pain.”

There were two ladies behind the counter. One sounded and looked like she was from Eastern Europe or something. Picture “the soup nazi” in female, hair netted form.

I waited while she interacted sullenly with those in front of me. Then when it was my turn, I ordered a two-egg sandwich with cheese.

I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to give her my coffee order, or if the other lady – who seemed to be handling that aspect – would approach. So I waited.

When my order was in the oven, the lady barked, “Next!”

“Did you want coffee or anything?” a friendly Asian woman behind me asked.

“Oh, yeah, um, can I get a peppermint hot chocolate?”

The counter lady ignored me, continuing about her business with her back turned. Then she looked at the lady behind me and asked again what she wanted.

“Oh, well, she wanted a–”

“No, no!” the lady said firmly. I giggled.

The Asian lady looked taken aback and said, “Oh…” and then went ahead and placed her order.

I giggled again. This time the lady behind that counter was watching, but I couldn’t help it.

Finally…”You? Hot chocolate?” she said to me.

“Yes, peppermint hot chocolate.”

“One hot chocolate,” she repeated to the coffee lady, who was well within earshot.

“With peppermint,” I added, but got no acknowledgement.

The lady mumbled something under her breath. By this time, my giggles had infected several other people waiting in line, and we all shared an amusing moment together.

*

In other news, I’m really glad they don’t destroy my luggage every time I leave it unattended.

I’m always amazed at how many whiners there are in air travel. I think people enjoy being miserable. It’s so much more fun to laugh at the ridiculous situations instead of getting upset. I know people are in a hurry, but half the people in the airport act like they’re going home to their mother’s funeral. Lighten up, people.

*

I’ve never noticed this convenient picture of a staple on my boarding pass before. I appreciate the 2D image, because I guess just a line like this ________ wouldn’t have sufficed.

*
This was the tiniest plane I’ve ever been on, except for one time when I flew a Piper or a Cessna or something for my birthday (I was contemplating becoming a pilot). Here is a picture of the picture, which is conveniently on the wall next to me.

There were just three seats in each row – I was in the only seat on my side. Window and aisle – score! The cockpit was wide open and the pilots were just chilling as we walked in. I’ve never seen that before. I bet they would’ve let me fly the plane if I’d asked.

I couldn’t help but notice that the emergency exit didn’t seem particularly secure.

Since I haven’t had a window seat in years, I took the obligatory and ubiquitous window cloud shots.

[Those specks are buildings as we were on the descent into Chicago.]

[Little Rock]

When I fly I have random thoughts, like:

Every time we have a rough take-off or landing, I think, “Thank goodness my seat was upright. If it had been leaning those whole 2 inches back, imagine the catastrophic results we could have had.”

I’ve decided that funny airline workers are the best thing ever. They take what is inevitably an annoying, tiring process and bring some joy to it. The security guy was one of those people this time.

When we landed in Chicago, we walked right out into the middle of the airport. I don’t know, because I haven’t done domestic travel in a couple of years, but it seemed weird to not go out down somewhere near baggage claim. But since I had less than an hour layover, I was glad to just be able to go straight to my gate.

I found myself trying to find E8, and thought I had followed the sign the right way, but all of a sudden I was in a long empty corridor.

A pilot walked by with his little roller bag thingy.

“Do you work here?” Such a stupid question.

“Well I fly out of here,” he said. “Can I help you?”

“I’m trying to find E8 and this looks really weird.”

He agreed. “This is right. It’s just a weird hallway.”

I guess then we had to chitchat.

“Where are you going?”

“What?” [My ears were stopped up. And I was a little inattentive because I had taken some Hydrocodone on the flight since they had started hurting really badly and I still had another descent to get through.]

He repeated it.

“Little Rock,” I told him, barely suppressing the grin that comes from saying the name of your home when you’ve been away a long time.

“Clinton Field right?”

“What? I’m sorry, I can barely hear from the flight.”

He repeated again.

“Probably,” I said. “I haven’t flown from there in years but that sounds like it might be the new name.”

Yeah,” he said, “because one time I flew from Little Rock to Texas and it was Clinton Field to Bush Field.” It probably should’ve been Bush, Clinton, and back to Bush, but it was an interesting story nonetheless.

We were a little delayed. First the pilot got stuck on a bus in the parking lot. Then the flight attendant turned out to be sick but hadn’t called in to tell anyone (which the pilot passive-aggressively announced to us on the flight).

On the flight to Little Rock, the first thing I noticed was the excruciating accent of a guy talking loudly to his neighbour. I mean neighbor.

Daddy? Wait, no. Just a guy clearly unaware of the other 15 passengers (it was another small plane). Still, there’s something about hearing a thick Arkansan accent after so long that screams home, familiarity, comfort.

But I was glad when my ears stopped up again so I didn’t have to hear him talk the whole way.

*

Once I landed in Little Rock, I called my brother – who had somehow disregarded my email about my flight time and thought I was coming in much later. I took that opportunity to plop down in the floor (there were no seats left) and attempt to sleep. He finally arrived and took me to his house, where I slept and played with my nephew while attempting to figure out the best way to surprise my mom.

That will be a later entry. Not because it’s amazing, but because I’m headed to Fayetteville to stay with the Beelers for a few days!!! So excited to see all my Fayetteville people.

100 Thoughts (Maybe Eventually) on Losing 100 Pounds – An Introspective-ish, Possibly Self-Deprecating Look at Weight Loss

I just found a site where a guy gave, “101 Thoughts on Losing 100 Pounds.” I decided to do something like this, because with so much else going on, I’ve never really reflected on how much losing so much weight has affected me. In some ways, not at all – I’m still me, of course. But in other ways, it’s made a profound difference in my life. This guy’s thoughts were all health related. I didn’t lose weight by being healthy necessarily. I did it by running my butt off – literally. But I’m still not a good enough runner to give running advice. So I don’t really know what my 100 things will be…probably just random thoughts or funny things that happened when I was fat…ter. I’ll start now with a few thoughts, and add to it as they come to me.

Here’s a picture to remind you of the before and after.

This picture cracks me up, because A) I had no idea when I had my friend Sharon snap this picture last winter (to highlight that I was still not wearing shoes even though I was temporarily back from Africa), that I was posing in a perfect position to highlight the differences in “the worst picture ever taken” and my current look; and B) I was still “me” in the first picture, even though looking at it is totally weird and slightly painful.

And so we begin…

Thought #1 – My greatest fear with losing all this weight is that my skin will be droopy. I realize that that’s completely superficial, and I’m happy to trade the increased risk of early death with a little bit of droopiness. But still, a huge benefit of losing weight is looking better, so I want to actually, you know, look better. I don’t know that it would really matter if my legs were all droopy. I don’t really wear shorts…I kind of broke that habit when I surpassed a certain number on the scale in my late teens. And I don’t wear swimsuits without something over them. I tell myself it’s because I’m all modest and godly [that’s a joke, by the way]…I tell other people it’s because my skin burns so easily…but everyone knows the real reason. And I’m kinda fine with the real reason. The more weight I lose, the more comfortable I am saying that I’m uncomfortable. Plus…I dunno…why is it okay to wear no clothes in public just because water’s involved? I don’t really get that. Would it work if we said, “Oh, I know I’m not supposed to kill people…but, well…didn’t you see the water?!” (I’m just kidding. I’m not comparing your immodesty to murder. But I just don’t really think showing skin is my thing…even if I lose another 30 pounds and don’t get all droopy.)

I’ve gone back and forth with myself, debating whether I’d ever have surgery to remove excess skin if it was too hideous. At first I thought, no, that’s just ridiculous. Then I thought, heck yeah, if you wanna do that after all this work, do it. So far, there’s not a lot of droopiness because I’ve lost weight mostly slowly. But the last 25-30 pounds will tell the true story. Once I’m at my goal weight, I’ll probably start noticing all the flaws that I was hoping would disappear.

#2 – I didn’t do anything amazing. It sounds amazing, I know. I get kind of impressed when I hear myself say it. But when you break it down, it looked like this:

Jan-April 2011 – I moved to NY and had an extremely stressful job. At one point I was eating something like an orange every 2 days because I had absolutely no appetite. I would pack a lunch, take it to work, be too stressed to eat it (and too busy doing hours of data charting on things that there was no need to take data on), and then take it home. Then I would be too exhausted and depressed to eat dinner, and it was dark at 5:30, and the snowiest January on record in NYC, so I would pretty much just go to bed. The next day I’d take the same lunch, eventually eating a few bites each day until it was gone or I threw it away. I knew it wasn’t headed anywhere good, so I took measures to get out of that job and focus on losing weight in a healthier way. Total weight loss was about 25 pounds.

April 2011-July 2012 – I lost a few pounds here and there, mostly from focusing on running. I was living in an apartment in Fayetteville, Arkansas, working at a small autism clinic. My 3-4 co-workers were a great support to me and we all tried to focus on health. I probably lost only another 10 pounds, but the exercise made things look like they were in the right place.

Aug-Sept 2012 – This is when I got disfellowshipped in Orlando and NLR. I lost 12 pounds in a week in Orlando, and then 25 over the course of a month. It was a little scary, because I was eating normally and still dropping up to 3 pounds a day. I was exercising during this time, but it didn’t account for everything. Right before I was about to go to the doctor, it levelled out.

Oct 2013 – Feb 2014 – I moved to Richmond and was working part-time. I had plenty of time to focus on running, and would usually walk/run 5 miles a day, 5-6 days a week. It was partially therapy, outrunning my demons, so to speak; but I lost weight quickly and healthily – about 40 more pounds total, reaching the 100 pound mark. I still never ran more than 2 miles at once, and my average running mile was around 16 minutes. I’m a horrible runner. But, dude, I lost 100 pounds, so who cares?

March-Oct 2014 – I was in Africa, and ran off and on. I lost probably no more than 10 more pounds, and several times gained and lost the same 5 pounds. Not bad though really, considering most people who lose tons of weight gain it all back really fast.

Nov-Dec 2014 – I lost about 4 kilos (a little over 8 pounds) in the past few weeks before I left – due to exercise – but it was creeping back on toward the end. I left the Szabos scale (which always read about 10 pounds more than the ones I use in Richmond and Arkansas) in Africa, so I’m curious to see where everything has ended up.

So, when you look at it like that, I hope it’s obvious that, A) it wasn’t some amazing feat of personal strength; B) it did take work, but was perfectly achievable; and C) if you’re in need of doing the same thing, you can. You really can. I’d be happy to cheer you on with what limited advice I can give.

#3 – People get very uncomfortable when you talk about being overweight. I’m not full of self-hatred; I just see humour in the struggle and I can’t help but comment on it. Allow me my self-deprecating comments; I assure you they are the sign of a healthy self-view, and not the opposite.

#4 – One of the best things about losing weight is that I can talk about eating Reese’s and drinking Dr. Pepper, and instead of people thinking, “Wow, no wonder she’s so fat,” they just think, “Wow, she better be careful or she’ll get really fat again.”

#5 – Telling someone to lose weight doesn’t work. You may occasionally find someone who is so impacted by a comment that it will shock them into looking at themselves in a different light. But in general, the comments I got from family members and occasionally “friends,” had no impact. They didn’t motivate me to lose weight, because then I would be proving them right. They didn’t make me want to gain weight out of spite. Instead, they made me determined to not let their words influence me in any way. That wasn’t a good thing either.

#6 – I wasn’t ever really made fun of for being fat (by people other than my brother, whose job it was to do that, I guess). I can remember a few off-hand comments by random people, and a few comments I heard about through the grapevine. But there was only one girl ever in school who made fun of me (to my face, at least). Her name was Tanisha and she’s probably in jail now. She stabbed me in the leg with a pencil once. She had other issues. So I wouldn’t say being fat made me the most popular girl in school, but I had friends and had a relatively normal school existence (although I hated every minute of school, but that was just about me).

#7 – I used to hate that I was funny. Because it meant I was the stereotypical “fat, funny girl.” Like the girl in sitcoms who comes in shoveling food in her face and making snarky comments. But then I realized it was better to be fat and funny than fat and boring.

#8 – Being fat is just the worst for fashion. Most stores didn’t go up to the sizes I needed. The plus size sections at Wal-Mart and Target were full of Winnie-the-Pooh shirts and dresses with large hibiscus flowers. I used to protest, “Why can’t they make normal clothes, just larger?!” Also, there was always this weird thing when I needed to dress up. I couldn’t ever look dressy, even when wearing a nice dress. I looked like a farm girl playing dress up (not that there’s anything wrong with that). [This is also the reason I never got the nerve until recently to wear my hair in two braids – it’s easy to look like a farmer when you’re fat.] But then the paradox – when I tried to wear a jean skirt or something casually, like not on Sunday morning, I looked like I was trying to dress up. People would ask what the occasion was. So casual looked dressed up, and dressed up looked…casual, and slightly farm-y. I’m glad that now I can just wear clothes.

#9 – When I weighed almost 300 pounds, I didn’t necessarily live a dramatically different lifestyle than you did. I didn’t order two meals at restaurants; I didn’t hide boxes of Twinkies under my bed. I probably got as much physical activity as a lot of average-weighted people. A lot of my weight gain was due to migraine meds over the years, and issues with chronic mono and chronic fatigue and immune system stuff; but I think some was just the roll of the dice. I think a person prone to obesity doesn’t have room to make the little diet and exercise mistakes people who aren’t prone to it can afford. Maybe I need more movement and less food than the average non-overweight person. I don’t know; I haven’t figured it out. The “why” doesn’t really matter; I just had to fix it. But maybe think about that if you’re someone who thinks it’s a simple equation of less input than output = normal weight. It doesn’t always work that way because of all the other weird things going on with the human body.

#10 – Statistically, no one loses 100 pounds. I found a site a while back that said it was virtually impossible to lose 1/3 of your body weight. Again, I’m not amazing. But God is, and He made something relatively easy that should’ve been impossible. That’s an important lesson for me.

#11 – When I look at the numbers of losing weight, it really hits me. I’m not sharing my actual weight, because that just seems a little too personal. Although I don’t really care if people know; I just feel no need to announce it. But BMI – Body Mass Index – that’s an interesting number. I am currently at about 28.2. That’s in the “overweight” category, but no longer “obese,” which begins at 29.9. At my peak I was at around 45, which is the category of “super morbidly obese.” Not just “morbidly obese,” which is the next one below that, but super. Some sites just say, “super obese,” so apparently “super” is worse than “morbid.” That number is astonishing, because I never felt unhealthy…I knew I was, but I never really felt it. I knew I didn’t have a ton of energy, but I was always able to do stuff – just not as much or as fast as others. But 45! That seems crazy now! Recommended weight loss techniques for those in this range were all surgical! This is astounding to me. I never once considered myself in the range of fatitude that would require surgery, although I know people who weighed less than me who did have it. I remember the day I got on my Wii Fit scale, after having not used it for a year or so. It always weighs you, and I would use it as a gauge for how much I’d lost since last using it. It was always up or down a couple of pounds. Then it would have you put in a new goal, either in pounds or BMI. The day I got on it and it said, “You have met your goal!” and dropped down to a much lower BMI – that was quite a day.

That’s all I’ve got for now. The next few thoughts, whenever they come, will attempt to focus on the physical comforts I’ve enjoyed since losing weight – like fitting in an airplane seat without having to become too friendly with my neighbour.

Last Day and Trip Home

Tuesday morning about an hour before leaving for the airport, Yvette came by to say goodbye and give me a photo book of South Africa that a former volunteer made, and several people had signed.

On the way to the airport, I asked Matt to pull into Spar so I could get him the cash I owed him to reconcile our petrol expenses, and to say goodbye to the samosa girls. The main samosa girl [the one hiding in the background for some reason] – who hasn’t been there the last few weeks I’ve gone – was back. I got a final Coke (shared with “Dumi”) and some final samosas. The girl asked me if I can get samosas in America and I said I never have, but I’m sure I can.

Matt parked at the airport and went in with me, all the way to security. “This is where you leave, I guess?” I asked as we stood under the entrance. We had an employee take pictures, much to Matt’s amusement. She couldn’t seem to take a non-blurry one, so here are a few tries.

Then it was time for the final goodbye.

“It’s like the end of a Seinfeld episode,” said Matt. “No hugs, no lessons.” {I had to look that up when I got to the hotel.) But we did hug. As I started to cry, he said, “No, no, save it for the plane.”

I tried to say something nice, but couldn’t. “Okay, just go,” I finally said, as we both laughed. “I’ll write you a letter later.” (I’m not really going to write you a letter, if you happen to be reading this.)

As he left I called out, “Hamba kahle” (“go well”) and then cried all through security and the walk to my gate.

*

The flight to Jo’burg was uneventful. My ears didn’t even hurt, thanks to the earplane earplugs and the tons of decongestant I’d been taking to prevent it.

When I went through passport control in the Jo’burg airport, the man asked, “Where you going?”

“Home,” I said. “Don’t make me cry.”

“Oh no, it’s nice to go home,” he said with a big smile. “See how everyone is. Come back if you want.” I nodded through my tears, and he waved me on.

I got a few last-minute souvenirs. I have this to say to my sister-in-law, who is pregnant with her second boy: this is why you should’ve had a girl this time. The boy equivalents of these outfits are just not acceptable.

I grabbed a few pair of 20 Rand earrings and some little pens with the South African flag, to keep on hand for anyone who seems to think I should have brought them something. I’ve never felt like I’ve found the perfect SA souvenir for myself – I have plenty of shirts, knick-knacks, and pictures, but I didn’t buy any artwork or anything big because I’m kind of a nomad with no place to put it. As I was in the check-out line, I looked down and saw this. Perfect.

Now I’ll always be on Africa time, although I’ll probably refrain from telling that to my future employers.

I sat in a little cafe, eating fish and chips and drinking hot chocolate. I had a 5 hour layover, which actually flew by (haha, flew). I was pretty much over the crying, but the radio station was blaring songs like, “I’ll be missing you” (the rap version of “I’ll be watching you,” which is kind of a stalkeresque song that creeps me out). Oh…and then they played that version.

[Look at allllll those kind of Pringles! I found some peanut butter M&M’s here, which are even rare in the US.]

As I killed more time in the souvenir shop, I recognized other American accents [although I hope I’m not as loud and obnoxious-sounding].

“Where are you from?” I asked. “I hear other Americans.” One was from North Carolina and two were from Idaho. Then they asked me. I told them, and then said, “It’s good to hear American accents.”

“Yeah,” one guy said, “Few and far between.”

We parted ways (though we were on the same flight and I got to watch the slow decomposition of the girl throughout the journey, as she walked past me to the bathroom several times, each in a progressively worse state of sleep-deprivation and bad hair).

As soon as I sat down at my gate, still with about three hours to go, a lady came up and interviewed me about my experiences, for a tourism survey. My last 14 months summarized by numbers in 3 minutes. Rate South Africa on a scale of 1 to 5. Overall experience – 5. Safety – 3. Value for money – 5. Natural beauty – 5. Best experience – the people and the game parks. Worst experience – I skipped the whole Ndumiso saga and told her about the attempted phone-stealing…no need to start crying again.

She gave me a pen to express her appreciate. As she walked away, I said “ngiyabonga,” although I had a feeling she wasn’t Zulu.

“Oh,” she smiled. “In Sotho we say [whatever] and in Xhosa we say [whatever].”

“Which are you?” I asked. She was half and half. I know Zulu is not as common in Jo’burg and other areas of the country, but I fall into it anyway.

I was actually quite comfortable on my layover, thanks to having brought my own pillow (crammed full of tons of stuff) and having access to a row of chairs without armrests in between. Socks and shoes off, lying down, reading my Kindle for a little bit. Slightly tired because of the meds I had to keep taking for my ears, but overall not bad.

An old American lady walked up and asked if I was on the internet. I was actually just watching Elf on my laptop, but I told her I could help her access her free 30 minutes. Once she got on, she annoyed me by Skyping for the whole time.

I was bored, so I posted this on Facebook: Attention black people of America: please excuse me if for the next several months I greet you with “Sawubona,” and pick up your children without your permission. In return, feel free to call me “umlungu.”

I notice every time I come home, I am so confused by black people. I expect white people to have an American accent, but I expect black people to be Zulu. It’s led to some embarrassment.

The security before the flight to Senegal was the tightest I’ve ever seen. Besides the regular security, a few minutes before boarding in Jo’burg, they made us all get up and line up outside the seating area. I was standing in one of two lines, when someone pointed out I [along with my old lady friend, who was tagging along complaining] was in the men’s line. Oh, I realized. A pat down. They frisked all of us and made me throw away my toothpaste. I guess better safe than minty.

Then when we entered the walkway to the plane, one security person handed us all a card that we had to hand to someone at the entrance to the plane. I guess in case we somehow dropped down from the roof. I almost turned the card down, thinking it was a business card.

I had this thought the first time I used the bathroom on board:

It’s not very convincing that you don’t want people to smoke in the lavatory when you have an ash tray underneath the sign.

I settled in for the long flight [on an aisle seat – yay!], with my decongestant and my homeopathic pills for restless legs (I refuse to call it a syndrome; it’s clearly a symptom of something). I even splurged (not really, it was free) for a little bit of wine, hoping I could go to sleep.

First up, I watched “The Secret Life of Bees.” I’d seen it before. It’s a great movie – about a girl and her black maid who run away in the 1960’s. All I noticed at first were the cars driving on the right side of the road, and the word “colored” instead of “coloured.” Sigh. This is going to be an adjustment.

The guy sitting next to me was a black South African. I’m guessing he wasn’t Zulu, but I don’t know what he was. We didn’t talk much at first. Then when I stepped out of the bathroom, he was waiting.

“Which one is men’s and which one is women’s?” he asked. Well, first of all, you just saw me come out of this one, so I don’t know if you’re doubting whether I’m a woman or whether I can read.

I didn’t say that. I said, “They’re either.”

When we were both seated again, he leaned over and said, “I didn’t think you spoke English.” That was interesting, considering we hadn’t talked at all, but every interaction I’d had with a stewardess had been in English.

“Yep,” I said, and then added, “It’s all I speak.”

He asked where I had been and for how long, so I told him. He asked why, so I told him. Then we both went back to our movies.

A few minutes later, I could see him looking at me. Then he motioned toward my screen, for me to pause my movie. I did.

He looked perplexed. “You were in Durban for a year without your family?” he asked.

“Yes,” I told him. “I wasn’t alone though. I lived at my church with other volunteers.”

He did the typical “you’re so amazing” thing that missionaries get used to, but which never ceases to nearly evoke the response of, “Let me tell you all the horrible things I’ve done in my life, just to re-even the score.” I just smiled and said thanks, that it was my pleasure.

He kept offering me Halls cough drops, which he called “sweeties.” This made me laugh, because Maxwell did the same thing a while back. I refrained. The second time he offered, I said no, and then he dropped his and got another one.

“See?” I said, “You needed the extra one.”

“No,” he shook his head. “That one was supposed to be yours.”

We stopped in Dakar, Senegal, to re-fuel, but didn’t get off the plane. Some passengers did though, and more got on. Just when I was thinking this was the perfect scenario for one of the departing passengers to have left a bomb, they made an announcement for us to all get our overhead luggage out and hold it in our laps while they thoroughly searched the plane.

We were there for about an hour. When we took off again, the plane had several mosquitoes. I wondered if Senegal was a malaria-free country. Good thing Senegal is now free of ebola (it only had one case, of someone who walked across the border with it; and it seems like they handled it really well), because as much as I jokingly liked the idea of a 21-day quarantine, I don’t actually like the idea.

That flight got uncomfortable after a few hours. I was on my second 8 1/2 hour flight of the day, and ready to be home. But it was bearable.

When I stepped off the plane in DC, I found myself grinning and singing, “God bless America” under my breath, like I always do in that situation. The security guy had a Starbucks Christmas cup in his hand, which led me to almost committing an act of terrorism. Instead, I just found a Starbucks.

$10 worth of American happiness right there.

As I interacted with airport staff, I almost said “ngiyabonga” twice.

The main thing I started to notice is how much more polite South Africans are than Americans. Or maybe just people in airports are more stressed and, therefore, less polite than the average person.

I got a little giddy when I saw this outside:

I took the airport shuttle to my hotel (the details of why I didn’t go straight to Richmond will be explained in a future blog, probably tomorrow) and they didn’t have a room ready yet. I had called and asked if I could have early check-in, since my flight got in at 6 am, and they said they would do their best but it would be contingent on whether they had a room yet. Can’t argue with that.

I told the lady I understood and I just figured I’d rather wait in the lobby than in the airport. It was about 8:45 at that point, and regular check-in was 11:00; but she said she did have an empty room that just needed to be cleaned. It could take up to 45 minutes. She was very apologetic, like she expected me to be upset. I’m always amazed at how rude people are to hotel staff. 45 minutes sounded very reasonable, since it would still be 1 1/2 hour before check-in.

The room was ready in about 30 minutes. I was happy to brush my teeth for the first time in over 30 hours (I had a toothbrush on the plane, but hadn’t found the motivation to use the tiny bathroom sink for that). I couldn’t decide between nap and shower, so I went with a short nap. Then I discovered there was no shampoo, and I hadn’t brought mine with me, and had used the last of my baking soda (which I frequently use instead of shampoo) as detergent for my last load of African laundry. I phoned the front desk and they were going to bring some up, but they rang back a few minutes later and said they were out. I used soap. My hair isn’t feeling the best right now, but I noticed it feels thicker – which I’ll take.

I ordered pizza, chicken wings, and a 2 litre of Dr. Pepper, since I’ll be here 48 hours.

It was ridiculously expensive, but I’m soaking up my re-entry with as much American food as possible for a few days, before attempting to work more seriously on the eating aspect of weightloss.

I got right down to business, looking for a phone case for the iPhone 6 I just ordered to replace my lost iPhone 5 and the old, slow iPhone 3 I’ve been back on for the last few months. I almost ordered this case…

…I thought about ordering it anyway and putting a sticker over the superfluous ‘, but then the distance between the ‘T’ and the ‘S’ would bug me. I guess I’ll keep looking.

Last Blog From Africa

Unless something really weird happens tomorrow, this will be my last blog from Africa. I wish I had more to say, but I’m just exhausted. My heart is aching and I’m trying not to cry as I type.

Naomi and I had planned to use today to do the shark cage dive at uShaka and the surfing thing at Gateway, or a surf lesson at the beach; but I had so much to do and was so mentally finished, that I asked if she would mind if we didn’t do it. She still has a week left here, so hopefully she’ll get a chance if she wants to. Those were the last two items on my wish list, but I decided checking them off wasn’t really that important for now. I’ve got to leave some things undone for if I come back.

I only slept about 3 hours last night, maybe preparing for the new time zone. We woke up early and met Yvette, Rene, and Belinda (our volunteer coordinator and two locals) for breakfast at the place where I rolled down the hill last year and hurt my arm. After breakfast, I did some packing, and then took a nap off and on for a couple of hours.

Packing was a painful process. I don’t have room for everything, so I’m leaving behind my biggest clothes (the ones that I’ll soon be outshrinking anyway) and a few other items. There’s nothing terribly important, but the process of sifting through things hurts. I’m leaving two bags full of things for Melta, the maid; and a book for Maxwell (How People Grow, which has helped me tremendously; I’m going to get another copy when I get home, but I think he’ll appreciate it). For some reason, I’ve got that achy feeling in my chest when I think about leaving stuff here. What if someday I need that towel I stole from the Szabos’ donate pile, or the book on South Africa I stole from someone else’s donate pile, or the green scarf I only bought for a special occasion and know I won’t wear again? I know that the objects really don’t matter, and it’s just another outlet for the pain I feel for leaving the people. What if someday I need a conversation with Maxwell at the BEC, or a picture with my Lamontville girls, or a Bible class with Veronica? Ugghhh, this hurts so much. But I know that feeling the grief, not running from it, and doing things to get closure on my time here will help my transition in the long run.

This afternoon, I went to say bye to Mdu. Naomi asked if I wanted to go alone. I said it was fine for her to come. I knew that I would be on the verge of losing it, and having another person around would be a good distraction.

When I opened the door, a small boy I’ve never seen before looked at me and shouted something. The other kids laughed, but Mdu got onto him. I asked what he said. It sounded similar to umlungu, but not exactly. Mdu said it was something along the lines of, “It’s a white girl!”

Mdu thanked me for my help with the Ndumiso situation, and I thanked him for all the work he’s doing in Clermont. I know that great things will happen in that ecclesia with him and Funo at the helm. We talked about future child safety seminars and other ways Mdu will keep working on raising awareness – not just for Ndumiso, but for all the children being hurt and abused in the area. I cried just a little when I told him that if Ndumiso turns up, to let me know and I’ll be back ASAP. I think he teared up a little bit too. Overall, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, probably because Naomi and a bunch of kids were there to serve as a buffer. And Mdu has Facebook, so I know we’ll talk often. I was glad that I didn’t know any of the kids who were there today. Having to say bye to Pinky again might’ve been the last straw. Though now when I think about not seeing his little face anymore…

Naomi took one last picture of Mdu and me. He wasn’t wearing his characteristic exuberant smile, but I like it anyway.

Tonight I asked Matt and Naomi if they wanted to go with me for one last dinner at Mimmo’s. It was yummy and fun.

I have more thoughts about Africa, but I’m going to reflect on them during the long, awful trip home. I still have stories I’d like to blog at some point, but I don’t know if it will happen. I definitely plan to continue blogging in some capacity.

I spent my first night in Africa learning about all the projects, getting excited about the potential, and knowing that 14 weeks wouldn’t be enough. I’m spending my last night in Africa thinking about all the projects, still excited about the potential both here and back home, and knowing that 14 months was enough. Enough to see God work in powerful ways, enough to grow significantly in my own faith and strength and to hopefully help others grow in theirs, and enough to show me that I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength. It doesn’t mean I won’t come back at some point, because I would love to. But for now, it’s enough to let me go home feeling happy and satisfied, and full of hope and anticipation for what opportunities await. I’m still going to shed a significant number of tears when I leave, and pray fervently that God sends His son back very, very soon. I want to spend at least half of eternity in Africa.

“Say not ye, There are yet four months, and then cometh harvest? behold, I say unto you, Lift up your eyes, and look on the fields; for they are white already to harvest.” The fields aren’t just white in Africa. I hope I can use what I’ve learned here to serve my ecclesia and community back home. That’s my main goal for the next year. So as I say, “Sala kahle,” to South Africa, I know good things will come.

I’ve always liked checklists. Even though I feel like my heart is being ripped out of my chest, and somehow my stomach is involved in the process too, I feel good about wrapping this up.

Africa: Check.