Simeon David

My dear, sweet boy...

You are joy to me.  I remember so vividly your entrance into the world, the earthy and primal and impossible all encapsulated into that fleeting eternity, one fist at your face as though to declare your victory, or maybe just to reach towards the hands of the midwife who unstuck your frame from mine and pulled your blue little body onto my chest so I could rub your back, like so many little stubborn blue bodies before yours, because for some reason nascent newborn souls sometimes need that coaxing before latching firmly onto this mortal world.

 “Breathe, baby,” I said, and then you did. I don’t remember joy at that moment, exactly. But I remember it being right. Righted. And like a little hobbit once did, I marveled that all the sad things seemed to be coming untrue.

The nine months that I carried you were some of the hardest I have ever experienced. Truly, I wondered at times if I would survive it. I wondered if that which makes me human would simply fail to wake up one morning-- if it was possible to become so depleted, so warped by others’ insistence that our motives were impure, our love insufficient, our pain unfounded, our perceptions invalid—if ultimately Reality would shift and fold onto itself, removing me from it altogether. Not because of you. You, my love, were my constant unceasing unyielding companion. You forbade me from claiming isolation, because even when I retreated within myself, you were there. Even as the impossible road unfolded before us, even as so much fear and death were spoken over you as our world reacted to our then-plan to welcome you into our arms in our then-home, even as all the material and temporal that we held dear was wrenched from our grasp, even as every definition of “home” and “family” and “hope” and “fear” and “loss” and “repentance” and “forgiveness” and “pain” demanded refashioning—you were there, steady and strong, not to fill a hole or bear a burden but to whisper love in spite of it all.

And you were there for those moments of uncommon kindness, when steady souls touched ours and reminded us that while not all that glitters is gold, some of it is. The gilded can disappoint, deceive, and bankrupt. But there is still the good and true.

Listening. That’s what your first name means. A very long time ago, in a dusty temple on the other side of the world, a man who had received a promise sat, and waited, and listened. He waited for redemption. He waited for rescue. He waited for the sad to come untrue. He waited and listened, eschewing all else, to look upon the face of Jesus. He had been promised that sight, and it was all he really needed.

"Lord, now your servant may depart in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation that you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and for glory to your people Israel."  

My love, may you also look upon and recognize that face.

And your middle name, David, means beloved. It is your father’s name. I don’t quite have the words to clearly impart to you the depth and measure of his love for you, or mine for him. I suppose instead you shall just have to observe it.


One relationship that simply begs to be expounded upon though is you and your big sister. She adores you. She fawns over your every squeak and wiggle. From the second she knew you existed, she said she wanted a little brother (though to be fair, what she actually said was, “I want a little brother and I want two!”). As we waited for your arrival, she would listen to your heartbeat and exclaim at how happy it sounded. Then she would listen to mine. “It says ‘Love-You, Love-You, Love-You,’ she would say, and I treasured up that thought-- that your little soul was growing inside of me with that song in your ear. She is proud and protective, without an ounce of jealousy or resentment. I’m sure you’ll have your moments as the two of you grow older. But I hope you’re also dear friends, eternally and sincerely grateful for the presence of the other in your life.

Simeon David Suell, I have loved you across multiple continents, two homes, and a dizzying number of temporary residences. In six short weeks we’ll move again. Heaven only knows where the future may take us. But love is borderless, and so wherever we go, wherever we land, wherever you frolic off to without us someday, I hope you remember the sound of my heartbeat.

Love-You. Love-You. Love-You.

Here and There

I am so proud of this kid...

We ask a lot of her.

We ask her to maintain understanding and relationships across two continents and an ocean, to know the faces and voices attached to the names of MeMe and Grandpa and Nanna and a couple dozen other people. We ask her to be distinctly Other and simultaneously blend and fit, because that’s what it is to be a third culture kid. She’ll never really be American. And she’ll never really be Zambian. But that Third Culture, the one that is some blend of the first two with her own distinct pizazz and personal experiences thrown in, that’s the one that’s the most difficult for us as her parents to wrestle with.

Because both the country we left behind and the one we landed in possess cultural tendencies that are venerable, along with some that should be allowed to die (or forcefully stamped out). And in between those two extremes are quite a few norms that are neither here nor there, neither Godly nor reprehensible, but merely expressions of human societal existence.

For example, there’s the issue of culturally-bound virtues, like manners and modesty. Last summer we attended a church camp where the straps on your tank top have to be at least 2 finger-widths wide. Here, shirts are basically optional, but ladies don’t you dare show those knee caps. I frequently think of a story told by Elizabeth Elliot in which, while they were living with the Auca people, her young daughter Val corrected something she had said in a manner that would have been considered extremely rude and inappropriate by American standards. But Val wasn’t functionally American. She lived among the Auca. And in that context, her tone and vernacular were perfectly acceptable. And Elizabeth let it be.

So there’s a very real sense in which when Teresa’s actions are a bit more Zam than USA, I’m relieved. It means she’s adapting, fitting, thriving. But at the same time, T’s situation is not the same as baby Val’s. Teresa lives in a world of media and air travel, a world in which she will be periodically exposed to (and thus expected to function in) the Western world even though “home” is a sprawling little village in the sub Saharan. She needs to be simultaneously completely at ease with hiking up her skirt to pee in the bushes or sitting in the dirt with her friends to eat ubwali, and politely asking to be accompanied to the potty or excused from the table. ALSO, LET’S NOT FORGET THAT SHE’S ONLY TWO.

And let’s face it: we all know that missionary kid, the one who is totally socially screwed up from their experiences, the one who lived 18 years in a foreign country and never learned the language or the culture, because the country stayed foreign to them, the one who holds little love and few genuine relationships with the people and the world they left behind when they were finally mercifully old enough to leave and go to college. And I fully understand the situations and decisions that may have contributed to that outcome—because sometimes our neighbor kids are none-too-kind in pointing out Teresa’s Otherness, or trying to filch her stuff. And full integration into her peers’ world would mean attending a sub-par school (yes, I’m stressing about decisions that are literally years away), instead of the typical home-school or international school or boarding school options that would prepare her excellently academically but edge her out socially.

It is a constant battle of priorities—do we make the decision that is better for her socially, or academically? The decision that allows for close supervision and protection, or the decision that catalyzes cultural integration and independence?

(I also know of fully-functional, well-adapted, bright and brilliant missionary kids who came from a variety of backgrounds and whose parents made a myriad of different decisions that ultimately contributed to well-rounded little members of society. But I’m not angst-y about THAT possibility. So.)

I read a story when I was in high school about a girl with a disability who walked with a cane. She was walking home in the ice and snow and slipped, and she was unable to get enough traction with her cane to life herself out of the slush. The girl’s mother watched all of this from the porch, together with a schoolmate of the daughter’s. When the schoolmate started to go help, the mother stopped her and emotionally explained to the schoolmate that the daughter needed to figure this out. And in a few moments, the girl in the snow calmly examined the end of her cane, removed the slick, soft, rubber end, and jammed the metal end into the snow to anchor herself as she stood to her feet.

The other morning on the way home from church, we walked up alongside 11-year-old Mpundu. Aside from being Teresa’s best friend in the entire world, she is also Teresa’s sitter during the day when David and I are at work. She keeps her for a few hours each morning. Teresa saw her ahead of us on the road and immediately began yelling her name. “Mpundu! Mpundu! Mama, Mpundu! Mama, I want Mpundu!” and proceeded to continue begging to be with her dear friend (who eventually parted ways with us) until we finally got home. Teresa adores her.

But it wasn’t always like that.

The first couple weeks that Mpundu was watching Teresa, there were some really hard mornings. Mornings where Teresa clung to us and cried because she didn’t want to go. Mornings where Mpundu seemed totally at a loss. Mornings where my mama-heart screamed that maybe I should find a different way, a way that kept Teresa at our house around her familiar environment, or just a few feet away from her mother or father at all times-- a way that didn’t dunk her headfirst into a language and a culture that was entirely unfamiliar to her.

Oh, praise God, I am so glad I didn’t.

Because now, Teresa loves ubwali and relish (thank you, Mpundu).

Now, Teresa points to Mpundu’s house and informs me that she wants to play with Mpundu every blessed time we walk down that particular place on the road (thank you, Mpundu).

Now, Teresa dances and sings songs I’ve never heard and can’t place, until a few days later when Mpundu starts absentmindedly singing that same Bemba song while coloring at my coffee table. And now, Teresa keeps coming home with new Bemba vocabulary words. And now, when Teresa eats breakfast in the morning, she emphatically insists that Mpundu be allowed to share with her. And now, Teresa informs me that braziers are “Pye pye!” (hot/burn!) every time she sees one, even though we’ve never even cooked on one, and now Teresa expertly pops an entire groundnut in her mouth, de-shells it with her teeth, and casually spits out the shell, because Mpundu teaches her those things (thank you, dear sweet Mpundu).

(Make no mistake—Mpundu & Company has also taught Teresa some things that had to be, ahem, un-taught).

I know I’m twisting my metaphors a bit here. I’m not sure what exactly correlates to the slippery snow and what correlates to the challenge of walking and what correlates to the cane. I certainly don’t mean to insinuate in any way that a Third Culture kid is inherently disabled.

But they do face challenges. And sometimes, I’m the mom on the porch, watching her slip and trying to decide whether to help her up or let that brilliant resilient mind of hers figure it out.

And you know that old adage that every kid is different? Can we just multiply that times bajillion for the current situation???

Because there’s no point for comparison here. I can’t look around and see how other parents are handling their two-year-olds at mom’s club. I can’t casually notice whether the other toddlers at daycare are more physically or verbally adept than T, because malnutrition and other factors mean that many kids here are stunted and delayed. Teresa is also in the exact opposite situation from her peers linguistically—they speak Bemba and are picking up a bit of English here and there, but she speaks English and absolutely must learn Bemba if she hopes to ever have a conversation that consists of more than pointing and grunting.

She is the only strong-willed, rough-house-loving, ubwali-eating, shoe-despising, Bemblish-babbling, nkoko-chasing, Lego-Movie-addicted, incredibly-hard-headed-toddler-of-partial-Italian-descent living in the Luapulan bush around here. I know other missionary kids, and I know other 2-year-olds, and I fully believe that no challenge has accosted us as parents except that which is common to all men. (Bethany assures me several times a week that Teresa is normal and that eventually she will speak in intelligible sentences and consistently consent to wear underwear. And Bronwyn’s undying love for her buddies Mulenga and Timo gives me hope that Mpundu won’t just outgrow her. And baby Leonie is perfect in every way and thus the embodiment of hope for the next generation. So we are, blessedly, not alone in the journey of Third Culture kid-raising.)
 
I also understand, full well, that there is such a thing as pushing a kid too hard. Just as there is such a thing as sheltering a kid too much. And I know that this Otherness that she must contend with here is never going to truly go away. Not even if she becomes fluent in Bemba. Not even if the customs and niceties of Luapula become second-nature to her.  She’ll always live in that Third Culture.

I think we’re just grappling with the fact that we do have some influence on what her Third Culture looks like. Whether it’s more Zam than American Expat. Whether her--our-- Otherness is reinforced by our choices, or calmly acknowledged but not Deified. We have an intense, painful awareness of every decision we make and every amenity we possess that sets us apart from our neighbors. Even when we believe those decisions to be the “best” thing for our family. But especially when we realize that the harder, more tedious, less comfortable way is the choice we should or could have made.

A big part of that awareness stems from the knowledge that someday, she will realize it too.

But for now, darling Teresa, the biggest tragedy in your life is when Mpundu has to go home for the night.

For now, my sweet dear, you’re only two.

Where the Kiddos Go

I have an affinity for loosely organized chaos.  I also have an affinity for attempting to loosely organize said chaos.  There is a wonderful event here that allows me to participate in both—Under-5 Clinics.

Under-5 Clinics are monthly clinics held at designated sites throughout a Rural Health Clinic’s catchment area.  Fimpulu has 10 zones with an U-5 occurring once monthly in each zone (well, roughly—a couple of the zones are combined into one meeting place for simplicity’s sake). Depending on how you get there, our furthest zone is 35km away from the clinic.

U-5 Clinics serve the primary purpose of growth monitoring and vaccine administration.  Ideally, family planning and antenatal services should also happen then.  For our furthest zones, this is often the only time people are seen by a “clinic worker” (because do YOU want to tie your sick 5-year-old on your back and walk or bike 10 or 20 or 30 kilometers to the nearest health facility? Um me neither). With that in mind, there is obvious potential to expand the services offered at U-5s, manpower and resources providing.

So a couple of weeks ago, Meg the Wimpy White Girl (that’s my superhero name) hopped on her bicycle and pedaled all the relatively short way to Fitobolo. It’s mostly tarmac the whole way there, which puts it in the “easy” category as far as bike rides go, but Meg is super duper out of shape. Holy thigh cramps, Batman! I arrived at a completely deserted shelter, inhabited only by a hanging UNICEF baby scale which convinced me I was in fact in the right place.  30 minutes passed.  Then an hour.  When my clinic colleague finally arrived on his motorbike, everyone heard the engine coming and popped out of the bush grass like children of the corn, but cuter and less creepy.

Then we got started.

First, we collect everyone’s U-5 cards.  I taped back together the ones that were falling apart.  Everyone gets weighed and charted. Cards are then sorted into 4 piles:

Needs vaccination, growing well

Needs vaccination, not growing

No vaccination, growing well

No vaccination, not growing well

The Needs Vacc group line up and get poked. Much wailing and gnashing of teeth ensues. The Not Growing families are, theoretically and ideally, identified, interviewed, and an appropriate intervention put in place. I say “theoretically” because sadly, this group usually consists of repeat offenders.  Nutrition intervention is not as simple as just telling people to eat better, or even giving them food.  But that’s for a different blogpost. 

In order to encourage a change in the normal way of handling patients here, which seems to be based around public verbal bludgeoning and punishment, I also make a point of calling out to mothers whose kids are doing particularly well-- children who have started gaining weight after a drop, or who have started retaining U-5s after a few months absence-- and profusely praising and encouraging them in front of their peers.

Then all the preggo mommies line up for antenatal (palpation, exam if necessary, distribution of vitamins, screening for complications), followed by all the moms who don’t want another baby right now for family planning.  Most women opt for DepoProvera here, which is an injection they get once every 3 months. It doesn’t require the daily vigilance of the pill or the visible evidence (scar) of the implant. Recently, I’ve asked each zone’s Community Health Worker (individuals trained to provide very basic diagnoses and treatment on the community level) to come and set up shop in the corner, testing for and treating uncomplicated malaria and/or pneumonia. The CHW’s attend their zone’s U-5s anyway, so it’s a logical service to provide.

I weave my way through the crowd cooing at babies and looking for any problems that might have been missed. I carry basic supplies with me (like sterile dressings, burn cream, antibiotic ointment, etc.) to deal with the inevitable owies I come across. It's not uncommon to find a child with a half-healed injury that was never treated at the clinic and needs some serious attention.

While all of this is going on, every blessed thing we do has to be charted on a tallysheet or in a register.

I know that all of that sounds relatively simple and systematic.

But it’s not.

It’s a giant cluster of screaming, hungry babies and tired, hot mommas.  It’s chronically sick and underweight kids whose vaccination records are all over the place.  It’s a beautiful churning mass of persistent, unquenchable humanity.

For the moms and kids of Fimpulu, it is life-protecting and health-encouraging.

For me, it is soul-filling and God-honoring.

I’m gonna just call that a win-win.