on sex, or rather, not having sex

First, the warning: Serious adult themes ahead. Be aware.

Next, the disclaimer: This post is about a book I'm reading and how it's changing my approach to sex, or rather, (as per the title) my approach to not having sex. My opinions may not be your opinions and that's okay. I hope we can share a mutual love and respect anyways.

Now, for the good stuff.

Having grown up in the evangelical Christian world, and having spent the previous 4 years at Wheaton College, that bastion of evangelical higher learning, it should not be a surprise that I have decided to save sex for marriage. I have not, however, kissed dating goodbye. I have more or less "frenched dating hello," as the joke at Wheaton went.

Right, so that's part of my life. I chose the abstinence route and have found it empty and dissatisfying. There has to be a better, more consequential, less teenaged way to describe the commitment I am now choosing to make. I'm drawing a line in the sand right now, at age 22. I just don't know what to call either side of the line, and I feel like I need to identify it clearly as I step.

There's your background. Here's the book: Singled Out: Why Celibacy Must Be Reinvented in Today's Church. The co-authors are both unmarried women, one of whom was actually a brilliant professor of mine at Wheaton (for the record, I worked harder but learned more in her classes than any other!).

This book has helped me define either side of my sand line: Abstinence and Celibacy. I don't mean to say this is what the book says. I mean to say this is a personal conviction to which the book has helped me arrive.

It's like this. What is the chorus of abstinence-promoters? "Wait." Which I will do, of course. But that punch line is predicated on the idea that something is coming next. Namely, marriage. And what's a Christian girl to do when marriage comes later than she expected? Or never comes at all?

The answer then, as I see it, is celibacy. Ah, yes, the term previously reserved for ascetics and that most holy calling of marriage to Christ. ONLY NOT. Celibacy is the new abstinence, people! We're talking everybody from Lutherans and Agnostics and Non-denominationalists and Catholics to those rebels who simply counter our sex-crazed culture are jumping on the bandwagon.

Celibacy (and this idea does come from the book) is a personal commitment you make in the face of the general attitude of life around you. Abstinence is an outward statement, i.e. sign your pledge card, and celibacy is a more mature, internal conviction.

The thing about either short-term or long-term celibacy is that it doesn't really have a place in the evangelical church at the moment. That section of the Church universal is mostly family-oriented. Which is fine, except if you're a middle-age single Christian. Then it could be difficult to truly connect with a group of believers who are, by and large, married with kids. Which is why things need to change.

Personally, I want to be counter-cultural. I enjoy bucking the system (she writes, from her flat in the middle of Nigeria on a laptop running on battery because there's no electricity, ignoring her itchy palms that may or may not be a symptom of tapeworm). See? I like bucking the system. And the "system" I've grown up in uses sex as the primary advertising tool.

Wouldn't I just be the worst consumer in the world if a product's sex appeal did not appeal to me because I was not motivated by sex? What a way to mess with economics. What a way to buck the system!

Celibacy is going to change the face of sexual purity. It's a conscious choice I make, not an unfortunate set of circumstances that has befallen me because I am unmarried. Celibacy is more than just waiting for what comes next. It's not waiting at all. You see, the place I am (which one could call "singlehood") actually has something beneficial to teach me, and if I limit myself to just waiting, or am more focused on what comes next, I might just miss the lesson I have to learn right here, right now.

That lesson, it seems, is that as a single Christian woman, I have a divine, integral purpose in the Body of Christ. My sexuality is a God-given part of me, yes, but it does not make me who I am (i.e. single vs. married or virgin vs. sexually active). Whether or not I get married, whether or not I raise children, whether or not I have sex, I am purposed. As I make the transition from abstinence to celibacy, I may slip up: I may lose my focus on the place I am by looking ahead or by "just waiting". But I don't want to lose sight of that bigger calling, ever. As I stand on the Celibacy side of the line, I need the Body of Christ to support me while I support the Body of Christ.

Bottom line: Read the book. Draw a line in the sand. And if you cross over, let me know. You won't be standing alone.

john piper makes me think crazy thoughts

I've been listening to some of John Piper's sermons recently, which strikes me as odd because I am definitely not a 5-point Calvinist (not even close!). It's like I've been wanting something more, and since Piper's on my iPod...well, why not?

All personal theology aside, I've been gleaning some legit motivation from the messages I've listened to. In the midst of my current employment struggle and aimlessness, this guy...he's reminding me of my eternal purpose.

These are the 3 take-away themes I've picked up: America is comfortable and Christians aren't called to comfort, missions and suffering go hand in hand, and relationships matter.

I'm not sure how to make sense of all this, but I've been reading Philippians, and I think God is beginning to call me to what's next. I don't know where that is, or when I'm going, but I do know that something is tugging at me. And I'm EXCITED.

Countdown: 24 days

thought for the day

Sometimes I worry that my life will never be as exciting as it is right now. Not that life in Nigeria is glamorous, but I am anticipating some letdown, at least initially.

Today I found myself a little piece of two-penny wisdom:

Your life is an occasion. Rise to it.

I will not let myself forget that every inch of my life matters, not just the overseas parts.


For the record, that quote came from the illimitable genius of Dustin Hoffman in "Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium." Yes, occasionally I watch kids' movies. I'm a teacher. Don't judge me.

el cinco de mayo, skype, and coomy automobiles

Due to the public holiday on Monday, I totally spaced out that today was a Wednesday, in which we have clubs after school. I run Spanish Club, which started out really cool, but has gradually gotten lame. (Which is completely 100% my fault, I realize that.)

Right. So I totally spaced that today was club day and forgot to plan a "lesson."

Then I remembered: Today is CINCO DE MAYO.

Excellent. Thank you, Internet, for your vast teaching resources related to Cinco de Mayo. Thank you for your word finds and your word games. Thank you for saving my butt. And thank you, Wikipedia, for reminding me that Cinco de Mayo is not actually Mexican Independence Day (or even celebrated throughout Mexico [hello, Americanized holiday!]).

Two word finds and a game of Guacamole later, I survived Wednesday.

After clubs, I joined my flatmate Jan in her classroom as we waited for the kids' parents to come collect them from class. I called my mom and promised her a million dollars if she would sign on to Skype (I may or not be paying that). She's a great sport--I just wanted her to "meet" the kids of Jan's class (who are my favorite kids EVER).

Thus ensued the most epic Skype session ever attempted from Nigeria. Mom met Muka and Anisa, the girls who are enthralled with my long hair. She met David and Ibrahim, who stopped their wrestling match long enough to say hello. She met Mercy and Naomi, my two closest Nigerian friends. I wanted her to see me, to see us, as we move, as we talk, as we interact, as we are.

It goes deeper than that, of course. I want you all to see me as I am in Nigeria, as I live and breathe this culture, as I become someone I've always wanted to be. Not that Skype can communicate that, of course, but the pictures just will not do it justice. I know that.

On the ride home this afternoon, I saw the familiar sign for Coomy Automobiles. I don't know why but this name has always cracked me up. I think of cars in cocoons. Yeah, I know...weird. Anyways, I saw that sign and got a twinge of sadness.

You will never know what Coomy Automobiles looks like. You'll never see the luxury cars that Mercy and I promised to buy each other for our birthdays. You'll never know what that intersection sounds like or looks like at 3pm on a weekday (actually, I'll tell you: it's absolute CHAOS).

It's such a tiny minuscule part of this whole experience, but it's so sad to me that the people who matter most to me won't be able to share it with me.

Hopefully you can put up with me telling you stupid stories about places like Coomy Automobiles as I try to help you share in the greatest experience of my life. Yes, the greatest. It passed up Parent Trap a long time ago. :)

Hopes and Fears of Coming Home

I've been thinking a lot about what I will take away from Nigeria--figuratively and literally--and what I am prepared to leave behind. It's sobering, but I'm sharing it here so that you, my friends, family, and cheerleaders (HI MOM) can anticipate the changes in me when I step off the plane on June 18th.

I'm going to need closure. Lots of it. This place has endeared me to her people, her traditions, her fashion. Yes, there will be things I won't miss, but they will be grossly outweighed by the things I will carry with me forever.

Some of the things I hope to leave behind include my assumptions about Nigerians, my fear of international travel, my ignorance of the teaching profession, and my innate American-centrism.

I plan to bring back an appreciation for the generosity I have been shown here and a desire to pay it back forward, the self esteem that comes from cutting it in a third-world country, a closet full of Nigerian clothes, and at least 2 bags of pounded yam flour.

By the time I return, I hope to have found the words to describe how blessed I feel to have shared in this life for the past 8 months. I hope to demonstrate my ability to tie a hair tie (no, for real). I hope to testify to the warmth of a people who have been unfairly represented by a greedy administration and foolish religious radicals.

I hope I leave behind my need to schedule everything, my impatience with the speed of life (and the desire to move at break-neck speed in the first place), & my taking clean water for granted.

I hope I will always be willing to drop everything for a friend in need and to express sympathy as genuinely and persistently as the Nigerians do.

I hope I come home a stronger woman with direction and purpose, with compassion and generosity, without rose-colored glasses about life outside the U.S., but with hope and optimism for life in general.

Ultimately, I hope I come back to Nigeria someday.

All these hopes come hand in hand with fears, naturally. I fear that I will forget what it feels like to be loved unconditionally by a classroom of 2nd-graders. I fear that my pictures and blog posts have been wholly ineffectual in communicating the beauty of this place and its people. I fear the strange glances when I use the exclamation, "Kai" in public. (Because, I promise you, that is permanently cemented in my vocabulary. No two ways about it.)

Full Disclosure: I fear that my family and friends will not understand the heart and passion and longing I feel towards Nigeria. I fear that I will be tempted to write off this year as a "gap year" between college and the rest of my life. This is my life. It will never not be part of my life. I'm honestly not trying to be melodramatic here, but there's no going back. I can't undo the impact this year has had on me (though I suspect time will lessen it).
I positively THREW myself into this life and this culture and the fact that when I raise my voice in my classroom, it comes out in a perfect native Nigerian accent is not because I'm an actress and faking it but because that is the genuine Miss Maggie Angry Voice. I perfected it here and so that's what it sounds like.
Frankly, I checked my Americanness at the door and have tried to learn this culture by living it. Maybe that's going to make me one mixed-up mess of a returning expatriate, but I wouldn't trade it. I don't want to change it. I'm just afraid that a) people back home won't understand that/have little patience for it and b) I will eventually forget it, too.

I'm pretty sure that the first time someone says to me, "Yeah, but you were only there a year," I'm going to burst into tears (I'm steeling myself for this comment to occur frequently). Because in the grand scheme of my young life, a year is a big deal. Especially one that has changed a lot about me and helped me see who I really am and who I want to be.

So please, I beg you, have patience with me. Cut me a little slack when I cry watching the news, or complain about the availability of papaya, or give into the desire to wear Nigerian clothes for no reason except that a part of me will always feel at home here and I want to preserve that part for as long as I can.

in which miss maggie misses

A friend from church asked me last week the 5 things I will miss most about Nigeria.

In no particular order, they are as follows:
- That moment when a student "gets it." It feels like watching knowledge literally light in their eyes.
- That moment I don't feel completely out of place. It happens more frequently these days, but it still strikes me each time I do something right, culturally speaking. I will miss feeling like I fit in around here.
- Making a palpable contribution to society. There is such power and simplicity in replying, "I am a teacher" in response to the question, "What do you do here in Nigeria?" It gets me every time.
- The fruit. Seeded watermelon, pawpaw (papaya), sweetsop, guava, pineapple, and mangoes, mangoes, and more mangoes. I'm in real danger of crying when mango season comes around again and I'm not here to enjoy it.
- The contentment that comes with living a simpler life. I go to work, I come home, I rest, I catch up with family and friends back home. Sometimes I go out with friends, sometimes I go shopping at the market, but mostly I'm at home, working, watching movies, drinking tea, and reflecting on how amazing this life is that I'm living and how fortunate I am to be here, doing something I love. That "something" being learning a new culture and sharing my love for literature with kids who think I'm cool.

Now that I've fulfilled the sentimental quota for the day, I leave you with a humorous story:

I took a dozen 5th-, 6th-, and 7th-graders to a U.N. World Book Day event here in town. We took the school bus and drove down Embassy Row (so cool to see all the different embassies! The American one lived up to its nickname: "The Fortress."). We were one of 5 or 6 area school represented. All the students had read a small biography of Nelson Mandela and the Honorable Minister of Petroleum something-something came to discuss the story with them.
Madam Minister highlighted the story in which Nelson Mandela received his first name from an English-speaking teacher who couldn't pronounce his birth name Rohihlahla. The entire audience clicked their disapproval of the renaming. Madam Minister asked the students if any of them had ever had their name changed by a teacher.

One of my 5th graders stood up. (Skewer me now, please and thank you.)

My student told everyone how his teacher couldn't pronounce his Nigerian name so she called him Chris instead. Madam Minister spoke to him, but was looking at me as she said: "Well, I hope your teacher is here today and I hope she realizes that it's not okay to take someone's name away from them just because you can't pronounce it."

You guys, I just about died.

After the student sat down, I leaned over to him and said, "D---, that didn't happen at ICS, did it?" To which he replied, "No, miss. That was at my old school in the UK." To which I nodded grimly and considered that the damage had already been done. Not that it even needs to be said, but I was the only white woman in the room, and everyone gave me cold looks the rest of the day. Even the kids from other schools looked at me with deep accusing eyes; "Name Changer," they all seemed to say.

Oh, it was awful all right. In a hilarious sort of way.

It's been a while...

...but I'm still here, don't worry.

If you're interested in reading my excuses, here they are (if not, skip down a paragraph): I haven't had internet at home for a week, grades were due yesterday so I've been calculating 59 grades in the past 3 days, and there have been no significant changes in my life to warrant a new blog post (based on the last life-altering update).

I'm now approximately 90 days away from leaving Nigeria and am definitely in denial. I experience two strains of thought in some sort of mental inhale-exhale pattern. They are:
1. I can't believe I'm leaving. I am abandoning my students and everyone I've tried to invest in this year. Walking away is the most irresponsible thing I could do. I don't even have a job in the States. I just hope that when I leave, it's not forever. I hope I get to come back someday.
2. I am so excited to go home. I'm so excited to be with people I love, to be known and familiar to people who have known me since before I was Miss Thomas the Literature teacher. I can't wait to read to my nephew, take a road trip with my brother, go on a run in my favorite forest preserve, and experience the change of seasons (Can you say "sweatshirt weather"???).

This is where I am. Some people call it a rock and a hard place. It's not comfortable.

As to the fear of the unknown, a great friend reminded me today, "Look what happened last time you didn't have a job." She's so right - God got me to Nigeria in 5 weeks and I have had some of the happiest months of my life here. He can totally handle the next phase of my life, whatever and wherever that may be.

As another great friend reminded me, He is able.

Getting Flashed...is not what you think

I SO do not have time to be blogging right now, but funny stories take priority over writing tests at this moment in time.

There's a distinct Nigerian cell phone culture here. Everyone's really into getting TV on their phone, listening to music on their phone (kids have music phones as opposed to iPods), abbreviating all possible words in text messages.
I'm not kidding about that last one. The following is a verbatim text I received this week: "They wer al up in ma face bout it. bt I get a secnd chance." Yes, for real. I cn txt jus lyk dat if i rly wnt 2.

We also have this phenomenon called flashing: calling someone and letting it ring just long enough that their phone flashes once. It's technically free, as long as the person you're flashing doesn't pick up. I've been told that flashing means "Hey, how are you? I'm thinking about you."

Today I got flashed by a number I didn't recognize. I was about to call it back when they flashed a second time. Since the phone was already in my hand, I answered on the first ring. I only had time to say hello before they dropped the call. So then I texted the number: "Who is this?"

This is the text I got back:
"Sorry, i meant to call my grandma nd noticed it was a wrong number wen i heard ur voice...FYI, u got a good voice."

Oh, man, I love Nigeria.

Now Taking Requests and Making Decisions

It never occurred to me that at some point in this Nigerian Adventure, I would run out of things to say. My last few posts have only loosely connected with my experience in this amazing (and amazingly humid) nation, but nonetheless, I am currently at a loss.

This is good, on one hand, because it means that my life has normalized--so completely gelled that few day-to-day things stand out in that "Oh, the folks at home might like to hear about this!" kind of way.

This is bad, on the other hand, because it means MaggieinNigeria just became BoringMaggieInNigeria. To delay this terrible transformation, please let me know--via blog comment or direct email--if there is an aspect of culture or my life here that I have failed to mention. That's right: this blog now open to suggestions.

The only thing new these days is that I am under an inconceivable amount of stress to sort out my plans for next year. It is impossible to contemplate either outcome (at this point, everything boils down to stay/go) and I can feel myself grasping at life, trying to make it slow down.

A million moments in my day make me stop and consider the life I lead now: how much I love it, how much I will miss it, but also how torn apart I feel being so far from home. When these moments come, I give myself permission to actually feel my feelings (what a novel concept) about staying and leaving.
For example, when Ezugo buries his face in my shoulder when he sees me in the Library, I allow myself to feel love for this precious little boy and appreciation that he & his little tae kwon do uniform are a part of my life. I also allow myself to feel the sense of loss that will be mine when I no longer see Ez each morning.

The same goes for memories of home. I was in an upscale grocery store today and spied a box of SmartStart cereal, which is my Dad's breakfast of choice. I had this flash of Mom instructing me which type to buy - the one with the blueberries on the front, even though the actual cereal doesn't have blueberries in it - before heading out to buy groceries at Cub Foods. That memory washed over me and was quickly followed by helplessness. I can't do that anymore. I'm too far away. I let myself feel the sadness of separation.

Though this coping mechanism can be painful, I would rather acknowledge that making this decision feels like pinching either way and that emotions are an intrinsic part of that process. Giving myself permission to count the emotional cost of either outcome is how I'm trying to make the most informed decision. Maybe that's too analytical for you, but the whole "God will tell you what to do" isn't literal enough for me. I'm trying to find equilibrium here.

In the meantime, sleep eludes me (as does my appetite) and my face looks like a zitty teenager's.
Oh, hey there stress. Good to see ya. Again.

Music Confessions

I've always been a faker when it comes to music: I listened to whatever those around me listened to, whether they were roommates, coworkers, or (more often than not) boyfriends. Mostly, they were people I admired. As if listening to what they listened to would make me more like them...

Living in Nigeria has shown me the ways I am my own person with individual tastes and preferences. Unfortunately, music is not among them. I'm still trying to figure out where I fit into the music-listening spectrum. While I wait for self-discovery in that regard, I use music to ease the intermittent periods of loneliness.

Sara Groves' music reminds me of my introduction to music, in all the innocence of a homeschooled prepubescent. Her various albums later became guideposts throughout high school, and finally cemented as symbols of my relationship with my best friends. I listen to her when I need to remember life before it was complicated, when I need to quiet my worries. Her music imparts the same kind of soul-calm as a conversation with my best friends.

The following artists have places in my iTunes library because of various boys: Ace Troubleshooter, All-American Rejects, Anberlin, Augustana, Fall Out Boy, FM Static, The Fray, Green Day, Hawk Nelson, Hidden in Plain View, Keane, The Killers, Mae, MxPx, New Amsterdams, OneRepublic, Relient K, Snow Patrol, Starting Line, & Stellar Kart. It's quite a list and I won't waste your time by chronicling the person and story behind each & every one. I will tell you that exactly 4 of these artists are, in my un-influenced opinion, pretty good, and I now listen to those 4 for my own sake.

My college roommates had quite a profound impact on my music listening habits. Whenever I need to remember what belonging to the Wheaton community felt like, I listen to Kepano Green, Matt Wertz, Paul Wright, Iron & Wine, Amos Lee, Ali Rogers, Juanes, The Format, Jamie Cullum, Jack's Mannequin, and the soundtracks to Pride & Prejudice and The Holiday. They bring back the good memories and the overwhelming presence of estrogen.

Belonging to Life Church profoundly shaped my college experience, so now I listen to Asher Lev when I want to remember what it felt like to be part of the body of Christ.

There's a playlist on my iPod entitled "Dad's Music." My father is a particular man when it comes to music and is impossible to pin down to a particular genre. He's a song man, meaning he latches on to particular songs more often than to artists or albums (which must be where I get the habit). He likes sad songs and songs that tell stories. I love John Prine, Van Morrison, Steve Goodman, Simon & Garfunkel, Johnny Cash, Tom Waits, Billy Joel, Harry Chapin, Bonnie Raitt and Frank Sinatra because I grew up listening to their songs in the car with Dad. "Dad's Music" is the most-played playlist on my iPod.

This leaves only a handful of artists I listen to because I decided I liked them: Coldplay, Switchfoot, John Mayer, Colbie Caillat, Train, Norah Jones, and most recently, Owl City. I listen to them for a host of reasons, but also because nobody handed me their CD and said, "Here. Try this and let me know what you think."

So there's my confession: I am a music faker. But in their own way, these artists help me cope with the loneliness that plagues me in Africa. I suppose there are plenty other ways to cope, but most of them would be unhealthy, and few would comfort me the way my music's emotional weight does.

I'm Maggie and iTunes helps me keep it together.

Tough Stuff

I saw a dead body today.

Yes, I really did. We were driving home from school and we came upon this little accident between two cars (seriously, that's nothing out of the ordinary around here; we didn't even slow down). Then as we crested the next hill, we saw a throng of people trying to cross the highway and all these cars stopped on the sides--and even in the middle--of the road. There was tons of dust in the air, and as we neared what we all assumed was a collision, the driver started clicking with his mouth (a cultural habit that would translate to nonverbal "uh-oh" or "oh my gosh").

And then I looked just to my left and saw a piece of burlap covering a woman's body, but her head tie and her feet still showed from either end. Before I could even reach out to shield my young friend (the Alvin and the Chipmunks one) from seeing, she gasped, turned her face into my shoulder and burst into tears. I put my arm around her and felt my face twist into shock - I honestly couldn't believe what I was seeing.

You guys, it was surreal. The woman must have been hit while crossing the road, because we didn't see any cars for her to have been pulled from. And I know that nothing about this tragic accident has anything to do with me, but these were my immediate thoughts, and they're ugly at best:
1. I've seen worse on CSI.
2. I was expecting more blood.
3. Too bad I didn't see it happen.

It wasn't until after I thought all these perverse and disgusting things that I silently prayed, "God, have mercy on her soul" and got around to wondering if the woman had any children. You can't tell me desensitization doesn't exist.

This all happened about 20 minutes ago, so while I'm still processing it, this is the temporary conclusion I've reached: I think God has been protecting me from seeing things like this until He knew I could handle it. Which is why I was able to comfort my friend (although we instantly assumed our teacher-and-student roles in that moment) while staying glued to the side of the road.

Kýrie, eléison; Christé, eléison

Today, I am frustrated.

There's a sad sort of complacency that has crept in these past few days. I'd like to ignore it and say it's just the result of finding a routine, or to blame it on the fact that I'm finally feeling comfortable here in Abuja. But although there is a chair in my living room that has been contoured to fit my bum and my slouchy back, and although I have a weekend routine of laundry and lesson plans, and although getting ready for bed is so familiar I did it in the dark last night (even a loss of power does little faze me these days), there is still this foreign ache in my heart, this feeling that something is amiss.

I feel the ache most when I bristle at my flatmate, when my students bicker, when I check out from the sermon in church, when I grow frustrated with colleagues. I ache when I talk to my best friend on the phone and the delay frustrates me more than the fact that I miss doing life side-by-side with her. I ache when my heart is so full with love for this place and simultaneously emptied by the despair of everyone I left behind.

I think the ache is just me. As in, I think the ache is my Eve nature surfacing again. I have two faces, two Maggies I pull out and put on. Sometimes the switch is so imperceptible I surprise myself. Some days I can ascertain which Maggie will reign based on the number of times I hit the snooze button. That frustrates me - do I honestly lack so much self-control that I can resign myself to being an impatient woman the moment my feet hit the tile floor? It's like self-fulfilling prophecy: I am tired, therefore today's going to be a long, bad day...therefore I'm going to deal with today being a long, bad day by putting on my angry Maggie face in protest.

I read this week that the word essay comes from the French word essai, which translates to an attempt, or a try. The essay itself used to be a collection of thoughts with no apparent conclusion. It was just an attempt at some cogitation and conclusion, and didn't require the latter. It has since morphed into a higher art form, in which the author has an objective and establishes the main points with solid supporting evidence (two words: lit. teacher.), but today, this blog post falls under the category of essai.

Just questions. No answers. Not today.

I have a social life!

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome back my social life! After an extended absence, featuring several instances of lesson planning on Friday nights and various weeks of going only to work and straight home, I'm pleased to announce that my extroversion has made a long-awaited appearance!

All joking aside, I spent Friday afternoon at the home of a lovely American coworker. She's been inviting me over since August, and we finally got around to it! Mrs. C is married to a Nigerian and has two delightful young boys. It was so wonderful to spend the afternoon and evening in the midst of a family. We had lunch - some delicious Nigerian rice and plantain and chicken - and the boys kept bringing me balloons to blow up for them. It brought me so much rest to talk about adapting to culture and staying in touch with family and making long-term decisions that affect everything.

Saturday morning Jan and I made our way to another friend's home. Their daughter is currently at Wheaton (my alma mater) but spent Christmas visiting her parents, who work for the U.S. Embassy. They made us brunch (Waffles and fruit? Sign me up!) and then we spent a delightful afternoon at their pool, chatting and catching up on everything Wheaton.

It was so refreshing to speak with someone who feels such a deep love for all that Wheaton is, as opposed to some of the disillusioned, jaded Wheaton "survivors" I spent the last year talking with. I share this young woman's appreciation for the ways Wheaton has shaped us as individuals and helped us grow, and it felt something like closure for me to reminisce on my Wheaton experience, reflecting on the positive, instead of the negative. The sunshine and 92 degree weather only sweetened the conversation. (Don't worry, Mom, I wore sunscreen!)

This morning was church, and though Sunday mornings look a lot different than it did in August, what with the absence of an official pastor, I know that God is still present in our continually-changing community.
I give thanks today for the blessing of a church family: people who noted my absence and welcomed me back, people who nodded with understanding when I said that leaving home this time was infinitely more difficult than in August, people who asked eagerly if I will return next fall because they want me to come back. People want me to come back. I am wanted here.
As difficult as it is to leave behind the familiar and come back for another 6 months in this place that is not home, it is easier knowing that my presence is desired, and that people will miss me when I leave (and come June 18, I will leave).

On that note, I have not decided yet if I will return for a second year. Some days I lean one way and some days I lean another. Making an objective decision is impossible--emotions are implicitly involved--so prayer is my method. I am praying that God will reveal His plan to me. You may agree with me in that prayer, but I will ask that you do not pray that I will come home (or, conversely, that I will stay).
I'm serving a holy God in a place that makes me uncomfortable, and I'm finding joy and fulfillment in that obedience. Obedience, then, is my primary objective. If obedience means Nigeria, America, or the Galapagos Islands, I will follow where He leads. Pray, please, that I will be obedient, whatever that means for my future trajectory. Thank you for praying. It is sustaining me in this Hot Season.

Diving Back Into Life

I've been back in Abuja for all of 40 hours now, and I'm diving right back into life. Routine feels good. So did the clobbering hug I got from my 6th graders when I walked into class. It feels good to be missed, too.

The New Year is a really really big deal here, much more than I expected. Christians go to church on New Year's Day, people set big resolutions, and "Happy New Year" has totally replaced the standard Nigerian greetings. Now I understand why people were so shocked that I left America on the first day of the year!

My 8th graders asked me about my New Year's Resolutions. (I think they were just trying to delay starting class, sneaky little things.) Their query gave me pause because I rarely set New Year's Resolutions; I generally shy away from imminent failure. Now that I've had a few hours to think it over, I've come up with a few small resolutions (lowercase r because I'm still hesitant to declare it with as much finality).

1. Stop using cliches. I've noticed that my blog post are disgustingly and shockingly overrun with the most trite phrases in my vocabulary. If I want to be serious about my writing and be taken seriously, I need to learn how to state things in an original way!

2. Practice more self-control in the classroom. I'm sure this will shock you, but one can lose one's temper patience quite easily in a room full of middle-school children. I don't want to be a teacher that gets red-faced when students won't settle down. I want to be the teacher who makes Literature so alive that my students don't have time to be distracted. I've seen a few "enraptured" moments happen this year, and it leaves me feeling quite triumphant. For their sake, if not for my own selfish pride, I want to see more of those moments!

3. Figure out my passion in life. I feel like, at 22, there is no overarching or uniting theme to my life. I feel very much like an anthology of loosely connected snippets and scraps; the only connective tissue is the grace of God. My life is full of people who know their life passion, and I want the same direction. Being blindly obedient has brought me many blessings, but this whole "I have no idea where I'm going be in 9 months" thing is more than a little frustrating. That being said, I will continue to follow God wherever he leads me, regardless of whether or not I know where we're going. It worked for Abraham...

Little things: It's hot here. KLM lost my bags; I don't have deodorant or a hairbrush. Our whole house is a hot dusty mess from Harmattan.

Big things: God is still faithful. I'm where I need to be. Amen and amen.

Prayer / General Update

For those of you keeping up with the, ahem, "prayer concerns" of my life, I have an update.

5-year-old I has been diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. Her prognosis is upwards of 90%. She begins chemo tomorrow, and will continue treatment for the next 3 years. Thus, our pastor's family will be leaving Nigeria to be together in South Africa for the first part of her treatment. I'm so glad they'll be united as a family, but selfishly, I'm sad to see them leave Abuja Ark. There are many questions (When? How? Who?) that will be resolved in the next few weeks. Pray for I's parents to have divine wisdom, for their 6-year-old twin girls to have understanding beyond their years, and above all else, for healing for little I.

Secondly, please pray for my flatmate Jan. She was widowed a year and a half ago, and she's still walking through the grieving process. She's been particularly down the past few weeks, and I suspect the upcoming holiday season isn't going to help things. Pray specifically that she is able to spend Christmas with her son. (While I'm gone, she'll be alone.) I'm very unsure of what role I'm supposed to take to support her--all I'm doing now is listening and trying to understand, which feels very futile--so prayer for me to know how to comfort her is also welcome.

Lastly, the next two weeks are going to either fly by or creep very slowly. Whichever the case may be, I need grace to make it to December 12th. This Friday is the Christmas program at school, for which I am the emcee (M.C.?). I'm pretty nervous about appearing in front of everyone, just because I am the new kid on the block...I feel like this is my opportunity to prove to the parents that I deserve to be here educating their kids. Not to put too fine a point on it. :) Somewhere in following week, I have to gather all the information for my visa, pack up my stuff, teach a full week of lessons while maintaining patience and sanity, and try to squeeze out 2 more sets of curriculum so that I don't have to bring work home with me. Then I have to jam 30 hours of travel into a 24-hour day, hopping through 6 cities. Weather permitting. (Speaking of which, I have a 7-hour layover at Heathrow...do I have any readers in London who want to help me pass the time?)

I am so thankful for this chance to be reunited with my WHOLE family (both sides of extended family, too!), get my fill of friends, watch movies with my brother, and generally stock up on some American love for the next 6-month push. I also can't wait to know what it feels like to miss Nigeria. In August, I felt a pull towards this mysterious place, and now that I know all the life that it entails, I can't wait to feel a pull towards familiarity.

Thanks in advance for your prayers. Can't wait to see you!

Delay does not mean Denial

It appears that Mrs. O and I received incorrect advice for the proper way to go about becoming a legal foreign teacher in Nigeria, and as a result, I have been refused the Temporary Work Permit I've applied for.

The Nigerian government has asked me to return home at Christmas and to reapply (from scratch) for an STR visa: Subject-to-Regularization. Once I have this type of visa in my possession, it will be possible to convert that to a Temporary Work Permit during spring of 2010.

In that moment, though, when Mrs. O told me there had been complications with the visa application, I was overwhelmed with fear--not that I would be unable to go home for Christmas--but that I would be unable to return to Nigeria in January. Nothing like the threat of not being able to return to make me realize how much I really want to be here.

To make a much longer and detailed story short, I will be getting an extension on my tourist visa, which will allow me to leave as scheduled on December 12th. Then the school will pay to rush my application for a new visa in order for me to return as scheduled on January 1st.

The Birds and the Bees

Heads up! Today's update is a frank look at Nigeria's cultural attitudes towards sex. Younger readers, redirect your browsers now. :)

I unwittingly entered into a discussion about sex today with a fellow teacher. It was one of those kinds of conversations that completely broadsides you and makes you say How did we get here?--one that I consequently couldn't escape. So, since I couldn't back out, I stepped up. And I learned a lot about Nigeria's general attitude towards sex. Some of it was shocking, and most of it was saddening.

Mr. L works in the science lab at school. He's 25, and the coworker closest in age to mine. We've become friends, but in that culture-clash way where I still occasionally leave our conversations confused about what just happened. Please factor that element into today's story. This bature still doesn't understand Nigerian humor. Or their idea of water-cooler conversation.

He told me the story of last weekend, in which he traveled to visit a relative, which happens all the time for Nigerians with family outside of Abuja. When he arrived, he found a woman staying in his uncle's house (again, not out of the ordinary, since most Nigerians are very generous). His uncle also decided to travel, leaving Mr. L alone in the house with the woman.

One can piece the story together from there, but the crucial detail is that Mr. L denied any fault. He says she made herself available to him and his actual words were: "Well, you know, I'm a man and I can't help myself."

Oh, how grieved I was to hear this. Unfortunately, it's not the first time, either. It seems that in Nigerian culture--and even in the Church--sons are raised believing that "boys will be boys" and are therefore not held accountable for their sexual actions. I have heard many stories of Nigerian men being unfaithful to their wives, and I don't know what makes me sadder: that men think this is normal behavior, or that their wives think this is normal behavior.

Back to the story, though...

Mr. L then asked me what I thought about his story. Baffled, I asked him if he felt any regret over his actions. He said he did indeed feel guilty. I advised him to never let something like this happen again, and to definitely not return to his uncle's while the woman was there. He agreed that that was good advice.

I asked if he had a girlfriend (he alluded to one in a conversation last week), but he said no. I bridged the cultural gap by explaining to him that where I come from, we would call that cheating, and it would be grounds for the woman to leave the man. Mr. L actually laughed at the thought. In Nigeria, it all depends on the woman, he told me. As long as the man still makes time for the girlfriend, most women (in his estimation) don't care who their men are sleeping with.

But really, what does one say to that?

In a society so touched by Islam--a religion which allows a man to take 4 wives "as long as he loves them equally," and to divorce them by saying the words "I divorce you" on 3 separate occasions--I find Mr. L's story a drop in the bucket. This is the one point of cultural diversity I have tried to "appreciate" but cannot. I draw the line at a cultural practice which encourages men to dishonor their women by breaking the marriage covenant and which teaches women that their right to be cherished by one man is subservient to his sexual impluses. If for no other reason, the fact that this principle is so culturally ingrained in Nigerian men will be the reason I would not marry a Nigerian man (and oh, how it has been overtly suggested to me).

On a religious note, the standard is supposed to be different amongst Nigerian Christians. It's supposed to be, but often isn't. I heard recently the story of a woman who discovered that her husband, a pastor, just fathered a child by another woman. What do you with a situation like that?

Don't even get me started on the double standard between male infidelity and female infidelity. I'll give you a hint: in one scenario, no action is required, and in the other, public shaming and scornful divorce is the consequence.

My life be like...

Not every day is adventure-filled. Not every day is boring.
Here are some highlights from recent days.

1. Remembering that my monthly internet subscription runs out at midnight tonight. If I switch ISPs now, I just might be able to use Skype Video. Hmm...to switch or not to switch?

2. Science experiments in 8th grade. They've been reading a short story by Jack London, in which the main character dies of frostbite. Since most of my kids have never seen snow, they had a really difficult time imagining what bitter cold is. Converting Fahrenheit temperatures to Celsius wasn't enough for them; they still didn't understand how fingers can burn from being so cold.
Being a good Minnesotan, however, I decided to give them a taste of winter. I spent my weekend stockpiling ice in my freezer, and then transported it to the freezer in the science lab at school. When class time came around, I appeared with bowl full of ice and nearly-frozen water, and the kids couldn't wait to play my game.
"Stick your hands in," I told the first brave student, "Just take them out when they feel cold." After only a few seconds, he looked up at me with wide eyes. "I can't feel my hands!" When he finally pulled them out, I told him to tie up his shoelaces--he couldn't. One by one, they took turns freezing their fingers and trying to write their names or tie their shoes, or having competitions to see who could last longest in the subzero water.
Point made.

3. Discussing the Civil War with a Nigerian chemistry teacher. He asked me who fought in the war. "Americans," I replied.
"But they weren't originally from America," he countered. "Where did they come from?"
"Europe, mostly. The first ones came from England," I told him.
"Ah-ah, so the soldiers were British!" he concluded.
"No, they were all Americans, just from the North or the South."
"But who was more American, the British in the North or the British in the South?"
"No, Mr. Joseph, no British. All Americans. From America, both the North and the South."
"But I thought they came from England!"
I'm telling you, I was fighting a losing battle.
It's actually not the first time that's happened. Nigerians I've talked to don't seem to get the "melting pot" concept, like they have trouble differentiating between ethnicity and nationality.
Earlier this week, one of the ladies in Accounts saw my ring (a traditional Irish symbol I purchased in Ireland 4 years ago), recognized the origin, and exclaimed, "Oh! You're Irish!" When I responded in the affirmative (it was easier than answering "1/4 Scot-Irish, actually"), she said, "Okay, so which one of your parents is American?" She had trouble understanding how I was Irish in ancestry, but American in nationality.
Sometimes, a smile and a nod is easier than trying to explain.

4. Going to a Nigerian club. The boys upstairs took me to a local hangout for a drink last weekend. (She drinks alcohol? Yes, I do.) I had to explain to the bartender to how to make a rum and Coke (the finished product was definitely more Coke than rum) and nobody was carded. Not once. Toto, we are for sure not in Kansas anymore.

5. Meeting new people. Today at school, a parent I had never met before asked me if I was "the new one Mrs. O brought over from America." Why, yes, I am the nation's newest import. Good to know I already have a rep at this school. Just wait until the Christmas program comes around and I'm the Master (Mistress?) of Ceremonies. Putting the white girl on stage, indeed.

I love my life. It's crazy and full and sometimes a bit illogical, but I love living it. It makes me feel so alive.

Daily Grind

Yesterday, my parents asked me what's new in my life. It's a harmless question, especially considering that I now live on a different continent, but I honestly couldn't think of an answer.

See? It happens, even in Nigeria. Life settles into a daily grind, and monotony creeps in.

Instead of choosing to be bored, though, I'm going to be thankful. I think I prefer routine to the other more dangerous ways life in Nigeria can be "interesting."

So I'm going to keep planning lessons, as I am wont to do every Sunday afternoon. And tomorrow, like every weekday morning, I'm going to get up at 5:45 a.m. and take my vitamins and eat my oatmeal and go be Miss Thomas, the baddest Lit teacher there ever was.

It's a routine, but it's my life. I am so lucky to be living it.

Green Oranges and Other Confessions

I have a couple confessions to make:

1. I didn't write this update over the weekend because I procrastinated too long on my lesson plans and correcting. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

2. My oranges here are green. No, for real. That's not an oversized lime, that's an orange, and it legitimately disturbs me. Oranges are called oranges because they're orange. Come on Nigeria; get with the program.

3. Sometimes I strip God of His omnipotence. Hello, subject change. Yesterday in church, we talked about Psalm 30. The psalmist praises God for delivering him from trouble. The credit for the deliverance is given to God. God is given praise for being, well, God.

And yet, how many times do I say or do things that strip God of the praise He deserves?

Exhibit A: I mentioned that I had a conversation last week with a new neighbor. Part of our exchange went like this:
L: I feel so bad that you have to live with old ladies and go to church all the time.
Me: I don't mind. Really, I don't.
L: Well, do you drink?
Me: Occasionally. Why?
L: Oh, good. Just making sure you're not one of those people who lived in the substance-free dorm at your college.
[Pause here to appreciate the irony.]
Me: Actually, my whole college was substance-free. It's a Christian school.
L: Oh. I knew some crazy girls like that. They were all anti-drinking and 'saving themselves for marriage' or something like that.
[Spoiler Alert: I'm about to deny God.]
Me: Oh. Well, I'm not crazy. I do drink and stuff. It's hard to associate yourself with a particular group of people like evangelical Christians because I'm not, like, extreme like everyone else.

WHAT?! DID YOU JUST HEAR ME?!

Why didn't I take the opportunity to tell him about the incredible, life-changing redemption I have received from Jehovah Mephalti, the Lord my Deliverer? (yep, I Googled it.) Why did I show no hesitation in severing myself from the community of saints I would otherwise call the Body of Christ, the Church? Why did I back down?

My rationale at the time was, Oh I don't want to scare him off. This could turn into a great example of "Relational Christianity."

Ooh, that R. C. gets me every time. I can justify just about any action (or inaction) with Relational Christianity (i.e. I don't want to ram my religion down people's throats; I want to develop a relationship with them so they can see there's something different about me.).
It's a benign concept enough, but I struggle with elevating it above Jesus in importance. Legitimately. Sometimes I take my eyes off Jesus and focus on being relevant and culturally palatable and relational instead of on the one I call Savior.

But that's not the kind of life Jesus called me to live. He's called me to live a life apart: a crazy, radical, that's-not-how-the-rest-of-the-world-works kind of life that points people to Jesus.

And honestly, you guys, it's a struggle for me to keep my finger off Backspace right now, because I'm human, I mess up, I make a mockery of that purpose, and I don't live like I believe any of that stuff I just typed. If you've known me for more than 5 minutes, you know that when I screw up, I go all out. And the last thing Christianity needs is another hypocrite. For all my failings, though, I am never outside the grace of God, and neither are you.

So for all the times I've missed the opportunity, for all the "L conversations" I've had, let me just say this:

I believe it. It's some pretty messed up stuff like human sacrifice and eternity and a God I can't even see, but I believe it. All of it. I believe that if I was the only human left on earth, God still would have loved me enough to send His Son to be the redemption for all my mistakes. I believe that this truth should permeate every level of my existence and that it should grieve me when it does not. I believe that there is a world beyond this one, and when I come to the end of my life, I will be spared an eternity apart from God because of a sacrifice that has already been made, a debt that has already been paid. (Hey, that rhymed.) (English teacher, remember?)

And frankly, my friends, that is why I'm in Nigeria. Because I also believe that God created me, is mindful of me, and cares about what I do with my life. I believe that my purpose is to bring God glory in everything I say and do. Being here is an act of obedience to a God who is bigger than I can imagine and who loves ME, even when I strip him of all his omnipotence.

So actually, yes, I am crazy.

P.S. I tried really hard to leave all the "Christianese" out of this post, but it's hard to undo 22 years of a specific learned vocabulary. If words like sacrifice, debt, deliverance, eternity and omnipotence are confusing to you, give me a chance to tell you what I mean.