Papua. Here. Where I wake and work and shop and snack. Where we sweat and sleep, fly and teach. I worry and pray and fear and have faith. This place. This corner that, after 3 1/2 years ... is becoming familiar ... It's becoming liked. It's becoming ... even loved.
It's not the typical "must see" places on the average person's bucket-list. It's dirty and disorderly, and the predictability of it is ... that it's not very predictable.
"Mom, could you buy this again?"
"If I can find it. If it's available."
It's a challenge to send Chris to the store for me to pick up this and that because this might be there and that might be here. One can go to 4 different stores and still come home with things one could not find.
And I don't mind it.
Sometimes I just cook whatever I have or put something together with whatever I happened to find at the store that day. If I don't have oil, I melt butter. If I don't have sugar, I might use sweetened condensed milk. No eggs? Well maybe the recipe will work anyway. Somehow we eat and are not starving. Mom's recipes and Oma's baking pans get well used in my kitchen. We enjoy faspa most Sundays and, of course, every morning begins with coffee.
This is my cup ... what He has currently put into my hands. Here. Where I am learning and changing. I love the dependency, the rawness, the simpleness, the make-you-remember that this is not real Home, the treasure-hunting, the beauty making. This temporary home. Here.
