Home

I spent third grade in a public school in southern California (how much is two dimes and a nickel?) in '72-73. We stayed at my Mom's parents', a half mile or so down the track from the ranch house. My parents were on "home leave" visiting a lot of churches to build the relationships that kept them in mission in Nepal. My sister was in her first year of college, and my brother was in high school in town in 11th grade. Even as a child, I sensed my mom worrying about him getting drafted. But the war in Vietnam ended before he came of age.
When I got off the school bus, I went and hung out with Grandma. She always had cool snacks for me (ice cream sandwiches), and we watched shows together: Jeannie, The Brady Bunch, and if we were daring, Love Boat. She also taught me to knit and sew (mostly doll clothes), and told me to go check out the polly-wogs in the pond. I even got to feed an orphaned calf.
I guess my maternal grandparents were pretty involved in our lives before we went to the mission field, but I couldn't remember that, so this year gave me a memory, a "home" in the States. From what I can discern as an adult, my grandparents were peeved that my dad would up and take their daughter and grandchildren across the world, so this was a workable attempt to lessen that pain. Later, I would call 246 W. 14th St. in Chico, CA "home", but Tar Springs Ranch outside Arroyo Grande was my first.
Of course, for me, the house on poo corner in Lamachaur, Pokhara, Nepal was really home. That's a story for another day!

Time Travel

You can travel far on a single scent.
The fresh smell of rain can take me in a moment to monsoon in the Himalayas, no matter where I'm standing. I can feel the heat change to cool on my skin. I can hear the cicadas stop their chorus for the shower. I can see the clouds drifting in the open window. I can smell moss growing on the trees. I can taste pure clean on my tongue.
And when it's not monsoon, or I'm in a place that doesn't get monsoon, I just breathe in and breathe out and remember...

Clouds in the Mountains

Living layers of cumulonimbus clouds pile up against the Allegheny Mountains of Western Maryland, as in the Himalayas during monsoon, shades of white and gray and black, light and fluffy, interacting with each other. This afternoon they may bring rain, or tomorrow.

Moving: Pastor's Spouse

Six months ago. My husband and I are engaged in conversations with a church call committee. Daniel had already spoken with his synod support team and they recommended we travel to the area to see if we liked it. We go, love it, and over the next couple of months meet with the call committee several times. We meet with the church council. Then we meet with the congregation. Somehow I ended up at all of those meetings; what other job does the spouse attend the interview?
Four months ago. My husband is called to a new church, in a new state. This is the first time we will be moving within the same synod, and also the first time our move will not be across an ocean. We start packing, list the house for sale, schedule the last appointments and last book discussions. Our son starts looking for a new place to live.
Three months ago. Today's my last day on the job I've held for eight years. That's the longest I've ever been at the same job (other than parenting).
Two months ago. I am in Ecuador with my family, enjoying some rest and relaxation before the next call. As soon as we get back, the moving committee from the church we're moving to shows up with a big truck and hauls our stuff away. How did we accumulate so much stuff? Isn't there anything more we can get rid of / not move?
About a week ago. I notice that I am becoming familiar with our new home: I turn the right way on Winchester Road for the first time. One day soon, I will find the right work to do in a new place. Meanwhile, Daniel's been at his new job for a month and a half.
It's a good move. The Spirit of God has guided it from the beginning, from the first time Daniel began to feel the Word of God in his voice has been spoken and heard at the congregation where we have been for eight years. The congregation we're leaving needs to hear a new voice. It is clear that the congregation we're moving to needs to hear Daniel's voice for a while.
Were we in the wrong place before? No. We needed each other. Are we in the right place now? For now. Leaving is not easy. Starting over is not simple. I know there are books to help pastors gracefully leave a congregation. They have workshops about what pastor's need to do to prepare, and to prepare congregations for transition. Are there books for pastors' spouses? I'm looking.

A "Western" Disease
Turns out there's a natural medicine center in my neighborhood. Insurance doesn't pay for it, but the fee for a consult is less than my co-pay for the specialist. Of course, I'm not allowed to stop seeing a specialist, so the natural medicine acts as a "supplement", but that works for me.

Turns out Dr. Tillitson (PhD in medical anthropology) studied Ayurvedic Medicine in Kathmandu in the 70's under Dr. Mana Bajracharya... So he's going to work on getting the inflammation down, having me lose weight to lessen the pressure on my joints, attacking any stealth infection in my gut that could be activating my immune system.

In the spring, just before the growing season started, my knees hurt so much I could hardly walk. I got home from work and slept for an hour before I could think about doing anything else. After a couple months of dealing, finally going to my primary care provider, who sent me for a round of lab tests (result: "you have something autoimmune going on"), and then sent me to a specialist who took more lab tests, "they" decided I have lupus. ...Only to be told, after the diagnosis, that if I had any more questions I should look it up on the internet. And take these meds.

I spent several weeks too busy and fatigued to look at anything. After a short course of steroids, I started looking up lupus on the reputable medical websites, who called lupus "a Western disease" with pages and pages of symptoms and long term degeneration and possible treatments for the symptoms, cautioning me not to exercise and not to go in the sun. Then I tried looking up blogs and videos from people dealing with lupus, which worked to get me in a deep, hopeless depression. Most gave strategies, recipes, highs and lows: overcoming. Not depressing in themselves, but the hardest part for me was feeling guilty for getting a "Western" disease.

What do people do with pain and fatigue in other places? I know they get these symptoms. When I was a kid growing up in Nepal, my mom--a librarian, with antiseptic ointment, bandages and aspirin in a locked cabinet--was the first aid provider for our whole village. When our neighbor got gored in her ribs by the plowing bull, my mother was the first person they called. My dad ended up  running to get the mission Land Rover and driving our neighbor and her husband to the hospital for stitches. It would have been an hour's walk. Up the street one of the aunties didn't get her hand out from the rice huller in time and the heavy dhan kuttne beam crushed her hand, and ground her glass bangles into her wrist. That was also a hospital run after my mom stopped the flow of blood. She dealt with a lot of cuts, boils, other pains, but being so young I didn't realize she was probably doing counseling as well. 

So how do I get expensive, ongoing treatment for pain, when people in other places are still dying from septic sores? My counselor tells me that it's only the people who have bad problems who post on the internet. The ones who are managing don't talk about it online. My faith sister, a nurse, tells me, "You've got lupus; lupus doesn't have you." My walking partner texts, "Shall we try a gentle walk this week?" My ayurvedic doctor monitors my progress. I haven't found a new specialist yet, and my primary care retired last month. I handle my fatigue by dreaming of getting a smaller house, and letting my son cook dinner most nights and my husband wash dishes. Growing season is right around the corner, but this year I can walk. Now I can stand to teach my class, and I can kneel at the communion rail. I don't know how long that will last, or what other manifestations I will experience, but I'm on the way, and I've got people walking with me.

Back on the Crowded Train

The train was crowded, so crowded that I thought it was just a mass of people with no vehicle. It was overwhelming. But I had to go, I had to make the trip. I perched on the edge of the bench, ducking under the middle berth, where the reserved traveler was still sleeping. Soon the others travelers would wake, go to the common rest room to wash their faces, brush their teeth, and use the toilet, share a cup of tea, or change into their traditional dress to get off at their destinations. It is here that I learn to tie my hair up in a knot so it doesn't fall down. I was here for the duration, my destination was the end of the line, at the foot of the Himalaya where the bus will take me up the hill.
In my mind I traveled back in time to another train, another trip, other company. It was the end of a national rail strike and the trains were crammed with people and animals making up for lost time. In those days, the animals could still travel in the compartment with their people. I can still feel Ko Man Singh's strong hands lifting me onto the train among the crowds.
I looked down the aisle to the end of the compartment. No goats, no chickens. People wear business suits, carry computers and brief cases. A young man jammed in under another sleeping berth catches my eye. What story is he carrying, I wonder?
I never rode the commuter train in Mumbai, but I guess people who do develop a strategy that works.
I have only ridden the crowded train in NYC a few times, and I've ridden the commuter in Beijing, two of the largest cities in the world. I've also ridden Amtrak's Empire Builder from the Midwest, through Northern Montana and the Columbia River Valley to the West Coast, and the Coast Starlight down the outer edge of California. My experiences on Indian trains made me want to do that trip, and I'm glad I did. It's different in many ways, but you get the same rhythmic rocking of your miles. Looking forward to the next trip, someday.

Trekking

Kaan jaane ho? is the polite greeting when you meet someone on the trail in the Himalayas in Nepal. On the Pacific Crest Trail in the Russian Wilderness in California going south (Google it, if you don't know where that is) you say, "'you going through?" Then you might get a smile, and a quick answer before they streak off northward. "Don't forget to enjoy the view!"
Kaan jaane ho? Where are you going? It's an invitation to tell where you're going, where you came from, what in the world a white person like you is doing here in the mountains. It's a chance to find out what village they're from, and why they're going to another one, or why they're going to the city. When I was growing up we were often not on the trekking thoroughfares. We didn't carry big packs. We didn't have coolies and mules. Often we were going to visit Aunty Mary in Paime, or Dr Hale in Amp Pipal, or Ganesh Bahadur in Lamjung.
There is always a view. The PCT had some amazing ones. What I missed on the PCT was not having a tea shop and a chautara to rest under, and not being able to look forward to an evening meal shared with the local... cowherd and his family, mayor, midwife, merchant, school teacher, and other travelers sharing the same stop.
It was a great trek, though.

Russian Wilderness July 2016

The mountains in Ecuador are impressive in another way. Maybe that's why Ecuador feels natural to me. Last month we drove through: no trekking. This is my favorite.

Antisana