The Huntress

Pigeons, pigeons everywhere and not a dropping-free surface anywhere.  The perpetrator is our church next door.  It’s a grand old theater with literally thousands of pigeons roosting in its roof.  One of our friends at church suggested poisoning the pigeons, but that didn’t go over so well with animal-loving folks on the same committee.  And what happens after you poison them?  I’m envisioning a mess.  Lots of dead carcasses that no one can locate stinking for weeks in the Caribbean sun.  Another person shared how her U.S. city fed pigeons something that killed them hours after they ate it.  She said it resembled Armageddon with pigeons falling from the sky. 

Enter into this dismal scene one quasi-feral cat, who’s had three batches of kittens this calendar year alone.  When she’s nursing kittens (she had five in her last litter), she takes down a pigeon a day.  In-between litters, her tally is slightly lower. Previously known as the cat of questionable origin and dubious vaccination record, who goes through our garbage, sleeps in our kids’ stroller, and leaves piles of blood and feathers in the wake of her kills; she is slowly winning our affection through her hunting enterprises.  She even lets the kids pet her.  Naomi is her biggest fan.  Hannah vacillates between “bahhhhing” her away and shyly attempting to pet her.

Now that we have animal-loving neighbors, she’s become our friend.  In cat world, this means we now have the honor of being among the first to see her kills.  She proudly shows off her pigeon catches.  This week she even ate the bird right in front of our house.  Ewwww.  Cristen, one of our new animal-loving neighbors, did the honors of moving the half-eaten carcass downstairs so that our new cat friend could finish enjoying her hard work.  Thankfully, Eddie, our building maintenance man who “owns” the cat (which as far as I can tell only entails finding homes for her kittens vs. feeding or caring for the cat), cleaned up the rest.

Pass the Soap, Please

Naomi is in the midst of her 15-18 month picky-eater stage.  At least this is what her U.S. pediatrician assured me.  “Keep presenting balanced meals, and don’t make it a battle.”  Her Dominican pediatrician informed me that I needed to offer her each new food at least 14 times before she will try it.  Well, we’ve long surpassed the 14 and no luck.  Naomi still won’t eat a piece of fruit to save her life. 

In November, Naomi decided crackers were the world’s only edible food.  “Cracka” was her first intelligible word apart from our names.  This month she’s living on pretzels.  In truth, she’ll usually eat Joselyn’s oatmeal for breakfast (not mine) and rice and beans too.  The poor kid didn’t do too well in the U.S.—no proper arroz y habichuelas, no Joselyn oatmeal.  Thankfully, we did have crackers. 

The one funny aspect to our food predicament is what Naomi will eat.  Soap?  Oh, yum.  Paper?  Pass it on over.  Crayons and markers are also favorites.  Her mouth is regularly green or purple from sucking on markers Hannah carelessly left lying on the floor.  Sigh.  Our bar of bath soap literally has little teeth marks all over it.  In this picture, she's featured proudly drinking the bathtub water, which is not potable—we live in the Dominican Republic.  Though maybe I should remove the cup from the bathtub toy collection.  While she won't drink regular water from a cup, apparently forbidden bathtub water is irresistible.  

We’re eagerly awaiting this eating stage to pass.  In the meantime, we’re supplementing the soap with gummy bear vitamins.

A Christmas Picture

Does this happen to other families?  First of all, neither Andy nor I are particularly photogenic, so our expectations were low, but really?  I cropped this photo from a larger family picture of all the grandchildren taken at my parent’s house in order to demonstrate what we’re working with.  Andy and I died with laughter when we saw this picture.  

While I cannot put it on a Christmas card, I can put it in a blog entry!  Someday I am hoping for a nice family picture with all four of us facing the camera and smiling naturally, but unfortunately that day has not yet arrived.  My fridge is covered with adorable family photos from friends with kids around the same age.  How do you guys do it?  

Believe It or Not

I’m pretty sure the Dominican version of the FDA either doesn’t exist or is woefully negligent in carrying out its mandate.  This entire bag of (very delicious) deep-fried plantain chips is only 30 calories and 8 grams of fat.  Really?  Food labels like this throw the entire nutrition labeling enterprise into suspicion.  Though, what if it’s true?  What if eating a bag of chips every week isn’t so terribly bad after all?

Our Friendly Fern

We’d only been in the country three months and I’d yet to find a plant store.  We were enjoying lunch at a nearby diner.  I’d just finished regaling Andy with my plant sagas, and voila!  God really does provide.  Along came a man with a large fern on his head carrying a tray of smaller plants.  I relieved him of his head fern and a “tu y yo” cactus to begin my plant family. 

Apparently here in the D.R., you can just pop a seed in the ground and it grows—like magic.  Unfortunately, I have not experienced this phenomenon to be true.  Simple ferns seem to thrive pretty much everywhere here—except my apartment. 

My fern grew well for a while, then its leaves slowly began turning brown and yellow.  “It’s pot constrained,” declared the experts.  I bought a bigger pot with new soil.  “Ferns love the sun, you must move it outside.”  The sun simply turned the leaves yellow and brown faster.  I began pruning the ugly stems and leaves.  Maybe it’s just going through a weird adolescent stage. 

Nothing worked any miracles.  My fern has managed to muddle through almost a year under my care.  I’ve recently started adding nutrients to the soil.  Maybe chemicals will do the trick.  Regardless, Hannah greatly enjoys giving our fern regular haircuts.  She has permission to cut off the brown portion of the leaves—a rule she adheres to very loosely since scissors are so fun. 

Cursive Curiousity

I had to buy a textbook for Hannah’s class this year.  To my surprise, they are teaching the 3-year-olds to read and write in cursive!  Isn't that strange?  Although maybe it's a new teaching rage in the U.S. too.  

According to my cursory research, many Dominicans think (1) it’s easier for young children to write in cursive than script, and (2) having nice cursive handwriting is really, really important.  Honestly, I don't even remember how to form 50% of the letters in cursive.

After slightly more than 3 months, Hannah can now write an “a” in cursive.  It looks kindof like a "q" to me.  Hmmm.  She can write Hs, As, and Ns in script.  Not to brag or anything.  Especially because as hard as I try, I cannot get my daughter to put these letters in the correct order to spell her name.  She writes them in a long string “HHAAAAAANNNNNNNHH” in the order of her choosing, which in her mind spells her name just fine. 

Actually, the cursive thing might work well because she associates Spanish sounds with the cursive letters and English sounds with the script letters.  I pointed to her cursive “a” and called it an “ā” (as in “āte”).  “NO, mom, it’s not an ā, it’s an aaaaaahhh," (pronounced like ŏ as in “pŏt”)!

Maria

It was really hard not to cry today while talking with Maria, who now cleans for us once a week.  She's had a very hard life but still sings praise songs to God while she cleans.  After talking for some time she looked at me with tears in her eyes and genuinely asked why so many bad people prosper and why God gave her this life – she's never done anything that bad, she's never stolen or physically hurt anyone.  Obviously I know the "correct" theological answer of we're all sinners and none of us "deserve" good things from God, but the cards do fall very unevenly.  

I've dared to attempt an answer to this question with inquiring students and friends accusing God of (usually theoretical for them) injustice, but this was totally different.  I told her that I don't know.  All I do know is that another reality awaits her in the future. Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. Blessed are you who hunger now, for you will be satisfied. Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.  Jesus  is coming to make everything new and to right all of the wrongs.  This morning my heart genuinely longed for Jesus' return for the first time in a long time.  It felt good and hard at the same time.  

Maria found her first "son" in the garbage was she was 14 years old.  Wet and naked with a note stating his birthday—all in a shabby cardboard box.  Her mother said there wasn't enough food or money so if she took in this boy, she'd have to find another place to stay.  So she walked the streets until she found someone to provide her shelter in exchange for work.  

She eventually married and had a second, natural-born son.  Her husband said there wasn't enough food or money for everyone so she couldn't feed her first son (now 10 years old).  She refused.  He left.  She ended up homeless on the street with 2 boys.  She found a kind woman who gave her a small room (servant's quarters) in her house.  A friend from church found her walking the streets looking for work with her son.  He got her son into our church's school (where Hannah attends).  

She and her sons eat one meal a day, usually rice and an egg.  Her 2-year-old never eats breakfast, never has milk.  I met her through Hannah's school.  She has an incredibly sweet and happy spirit.  I employed her one day a week and buy (powdered) milk for her son (which she could never afford even with the extra employment). I feel really blessed to have met her and her son, but the inequity between our lives is palpable.  Material poverty surrounds me (this is just one example) and I wrestle with how to respond most wisely and most obediently to my King.  Please pray for me in this journey.  

Please pray for Maria and her sons.  Though through all of this I'm really really grateful to have a community of brothers and sisters here wrestling with the same things.  Community always renews my hope and strength.