All in a Daze Work

On Mondays, I work at the refugee clinic.

This week I spent the morning shirking my duties in favor of wooing a 4-year-old Nepali girl into becoming my best friend.

She was not impressed.

I offered stickers, and she snatched them and crumpled them up. I gave her crayons and a coloring sheet and she shredded the crayon wrappers onto the floor. I made faces at her. I animatedly bit the heads off of animal crackers.

She just sat sullenly in her chair and stared at me, the wild-haired slightly disheveled mess of a blonde white girl hopping around on one foot like a complete idiot in my attempt to make her smile.

But I noticed that no matter what I did, she watched me.

So I hid from her.

I stepped behind a door, and she leaned to the side to find me. I slipped beneath a table, and she found me there too. Luckily she was at the age where all I really had to hide was my face, so this game wasn’t too difficult. Finally she had to slip off of her father’s lap and take three full steps to the side to find me. And then another step. And then one more closer. Before long, she was four feet away from me, giggling and chattering in Nepali. I made a movement toward her and she panicked, so I just stayed where I was and tried to hide behind my own hands. She started to get nervous. I grabbed a hair elastic off of my wrist and gently shot it at her. She startled, but then picked it up and shot it back at me. Of course this was terrifying and I tumbled over dramatically.

The next half hour was full of giggles and laughter and all the joy that one little conference room could hold. The Cuban couple in the corner delighted in watching this little one play. The little boy having his blood pressure taken stopped crying. The whole room was transfixed by the joy of a child.

Afterwards, a translator I have never met before came up and introduced herself. "You did wonderfully today," she said. "You're a natural. Keep it up."

Mondays are good days.

On Tuesdays and Wednesdays, I work at a family homeless shelter.
My job is to hang out with the kids and transport them to whichever camp they are going to that week. Quotes from our journeys:

Chloe, age 11: “Miss Meg, you’re gonna be a good momma.”
Me: *flattered* “Well thank you. I hope so.”
Chloe: “Yeah. Remember when you yelled at us for choking each other on the bus the other day?! You were just like a mom.”
Me: ……….

Imani, age 8: “Wow Miss Meg, you work 3 jobs?! You must be so rich!”
 
Me: “Dayon, are you wearing a seatbelt?”
Dayon, age 13: “mumblemumblemumble….”
Me: *hits the breaks slightly harder than necessary *
Dayon: “OKAY! I’LL PUT A SEATBELT ON!!”

On Thursday and Friday, I nanny for a 9-month-old.

She’s pretty great. She’s just learning to talk and will mimic literally any sound I make.

So I taught her to say “dada” while simultaneously growling.

She sounds just like Darth Vader.


So that’s my week, over and over again. Never boring. Sometimes exhausting. And occasionally interrupted by something marvelous, like today’s phone call from Zambia. A dear friend is there right now and let the village boys use his phone to call us. I may or may not have cried a little. 

David and I spend a lot of time thinking about last summer and dreaming about the future, which is hurtling towards us at the speed of light. I certainly get my fill of kids here—refugees, inner-city homeless, and 9-month-olds enticed by the Dark Side. But my heart still drifts to those dusty red streets at night. I dream about them—about the ones who have passed away, and the ones who are growing up without me, and the ones on the streets who can’t seem to stay out of trouble. A few years can seem like a lifetime to a child, and so I wonder what it will be like when we return. Some of them we may never get to see again. Allan has moved to Chipata. Gift is in Lusaka. Others are still there and probably always will be, like Albert and Nicholas. Some were so young that they won’t even remember us—little Mercy and Eunice.

I dream about learning their language, living alongside them, stepping out of time and into a different world where life is terribly hard and beautiful. I dream about the clinic and the mission hospital, and I wonder where my place will be. I dream of a classroom packed with 9^th graders and I know where David’s place will be. I run my hand over the rough cover of our Bemba Bible, and my heart aches for a people who have heard of Christ but scarcely see His hands and feet.

Oh, I have so very many dreams.

But they will have to wait for another day, because it’s time to pick up Chloe from camp now.

Gotta go put my mom voice on.