We are currently in the midst of hot season, and the hot season in Niger is pretty intense. It is really hot, all the time, from the morning until night, and after a while it starts to make you crazy. It is hard to even get through the day sometimes, because you wake up in the morning and it is already really hot and you want to have coffee, but it feels too hot to have coffee, but you have it anyway and you start sweating by 6:00 AM, and the electricity goes out all the time, and you know that tomorrow will be more of the same. And so will the next day, etc.
But there is a silver lining – yes, the hot season brings with it many difficulties, but it also heralds the arrival of one of my favorite things in life: Mangoes!
They are everywhere this time of year, in all shapes and sizes. They are sold on almost every street, and you can find them piled high in little stalls and rolling along on wheelbarrows and carts.
I’m especially thinking of my dad today because it’s his birthday and he’s the one who taught me to love fruit so much, especially mangoes!
Josh and Leon buying mangoes.
Mango cart
There is a variety of different techniques for mango-eating. In the following series of photos, Leon will demonstrate a number of them. It should be noted that mango-eating is an extremely personal endeavor; it is more of an art than a science, and there is no wrong way to eat a mango – as long as the juices drip down to your elbows and cover the entirety of your torso.
There is a little boy at the hospital right now named Omarou. When he was very young (about 18 months), he crawled into a pot of boiling oil, and his hand was badly burned. Unfortunately, this is something that happens very often here in Niger. When you combine the fact that there are lots of babies (Niger has one of the highest birthrates in the world) with the fact that most people here cook over an open fire, the results can be devastating. Consequently, we see a lot of burn victims at the CURE hospital.
Omarou’s mother makes and sells peanut oil to help support her family, so in their house there is always a pot of boiling oil. When Omarou was burned, they took him to a local clinic, but his hand wasn’t treated properly. They cleaned the burn, but then wrapped it up tight in gauze and sent him home. So the wounds did heal, but the skin on his fingers all healed together, and he was left with a hand that he wasn’t really able to use. Omarou is now 5 years old, so he has lived with this disability for a long time. Thankfully, Omarou’s parents heard about the CURE hospital through some friends, and heard that his hand could be healed. So they saved up enough money for Omarou and his father Boukary to make the 700-kilometer trip from their village to Niamey.
Omarou
Omarou’s hand before the operation.
Usually, our patients are accompanied by their mothers or grandmothers and not by their fathers, so it really stood out when Omarou showed up with Boukary. Of course there are exceptions to this, but generally mothers have much more to do with their children than fathers here in Niger. In fact, there have been many cases at our hospital where mothers have had to convince their husbands to allow their children to come for treatment. Sometimes they bring them to the hospital without telling their husbands because they know that they would be against it. Often it is an issue of money (the husbands are unable or unwilling to come up with money for their children to be treated), but sometimes there are other issues involved as well. Either the children are seen as disposable, not worth investing in, or their disability is seen as the result of God’s will. After all, who can go against God’s will?
And even when father do accompany their children to the hospital, it is pretty rare to see them interact much with them. An example: at one point we had quite a few fathers at the hospital at once, so we tried to organize a game of football with the fathers and their kids. We got everything ready, but in the end there wasn’t a single father that was willing to come out and play with the children. We tried to convince them, but they just laughed at the idea. Culturally, it was unthinkable for these men to play with their own children.
But Boukary is different.
Not only did he come with Omarou to the hospital, but he is also very nurturing towards him, and really lavishes him with attention. Omarou is at his side constantly, and often hides in the folds of his robes (Omarou is kind of shy). It is really sweet to see how much love and attention Boukary gives to Omarou, and it was something that definitely stood out. But I still wasn’t prepared for the shock I received when they came to an art therapy session.
I tried many times to get Omarou to come and do an art therapy session, but he was always too scared. A few times he took some paper and crayons from me and went off to color at the patient guesthouse, but he would never stay with me. Then one day last week, he came for a session and Boukary came with him! I cannot even begin to explain how excited I was – this was certainly a first. We did a few things together, but after a few minutes, Boukary started painting Omarou’s cast, and I basically withdrew to the sidelines to watch. It was such a precious sight, and I feel so privileged that I was able to witness such a special moment between this father and son.
It may seem like a small thing, but in this culture, and this context, Boukary painting Omarou’s cast was huge. When the session was done they returned to the patient guesthouse, and both of them were beaming with pride, anxious to show their work to the other patients (and other parents). Everyone cheered for them!
I was so excited because this is a great example of the kind of healing that art therapy can do. It certainly wasn’t anything I did, all I did was watch. But the art therapy room was able to provide a space for this interaction to take place, something that wouldn’t really be able to take place outside of it. Father and some were able to come together to make something beautiful, but the most beautiful thing of all was their coming together.
Mourja is a very tender hearted girl. It’s rare to catch her without a smile on her face. The first few times Mourja came for art therapy sessions, she made very little eye contact with me and was very timid. When I would ask her what materials she’d like to use, she wanted me to choose for her.
Mourja was born with severe clubfoot on both of her feet. All her life, she has gotten around by crawling on her knees. Her knees are calloused the way someone’s would be if they walked their whole lives without shoes. After her first operation, when she had two brand new casts on, we pulled out the paint and she started painting on one leg while I painted on the other. This was the moment when the ice broke between us. She was sitting on a chair at the table and I got down on the floor so that I would be able to paint the bottom of her cast as well. I don’t think she was expecting that. Here I was, practically nose to toe, hunched over so that I could cover her cast in color.
She was surprised that I would sit by her feet, the very thing that she has been shamed for her whole life, but it was through this experience that we bonded. She began to sense a security and she started to develop a trust in our relationship that caused her whole persona to change in the sessions that were to follow. Mourja knew that she could come to sessions and let her guard down. She began laughing and joking around and she was no longer stiff, closed, and unable to look at me.
This is the beauty that art therapy can bring. It breaks down barriers in powerful ways. Mourja has endured ridicule and shame for 9 years for having crooked feet. And if she wasn’t receiving outright ridicule, it was the unspoken behavior, body language and looks that said it all. But I had the privilege to be at her feet and to paint her casts. It wasn’t a rushed thing either; we worked on her casts for no less than an hour, all the while, I’m on the floor at her feet. I say I had the privilege, because it truly is a privilege to have had the opportunity to let her know that she is loved, valued, and beautiful, inside and out.
What these sessions have done for Mourja have been to give her a safe haven where she can laugh out loud and feel free and secure to be herself.
Larwan and Omarou have been coming together for joint art therapy sessions. There is a good dynamic between these two boys. They enjoy each other’s company and, not that this was the deciding factor in having them come together, but it’s very easy for me to plop the two of them together on the wheelchair and get them over to my art therapy room. They’re both small, so it works nicely.
Also, both of them cannot walk. But don’t get me wrong, they can get wherever they need to go; they have their ways. Larwan was born with severe clubfoot, but he can fly around on his hands and knees. Omarou has severe burns on his legs and torso. When his skin was burned (he stood too close to a fire and his clothes caught on fire) some of the skin on his legs and torso melted together. He can get around by crouching over and taking very small steps. One of Larwan’s feet is bandaged up because he just had his first operation (out of a series of operations) to correct his clubfoot. One of Omarou’s legs is a lot bigger than the other. That is because the doctor injected air into his leg that still has good skin, to stretch it out so that they will be able to take a skin graft from it to sew onto the areas that no longer have skin.
Now, when I look at the pictures of them, the first thing I notice about them is their amazing smiles. Take a look below and see if you agree. They are some of the happiest, most bubbly kids you could ever meet. They have conditions that are so serious that they can’t even walk properly, and yet you would never know it when looking at their smiling faces. You would never know the limitations and challenges they face. These boys love to laugh and they get each other going too. I just love hearing them ramble off in Hausa. I would love to know all the things they’re saying. Regardless, one thing is for sure: they have fun together. They are not focused on their very serious disabilities.
I have so much to learn from them. I can have a bad day over burning dinner on the stove or dealing with different beaurocratic offices. But those are tangible things that are easy to point out. I can also have a bad day because I am feeling insecure. I wish I was better at this or more efficient at that. Why is it sometimes so hard for me to be content? Expecially when I think of the fact that, unlike Larwan and Omarou, I have my health, and so much more, like an oven, for example! Omarou was burned so badly because his mother has to cook over an open fire. I have more than I know what to do with, and yet I look for what I don’t have.
I’m constantly struck by the resilience that people have here. Their attitudes towards life. If I could glean a little more from them, I would be better off. It is amazing to be able to see these children go through the (long and painful) process of healing, and to celebrate with them once they are able to walk. It is such a good reminder of what is really important in life, and I am blessed to be a part of it.
You can see Omarou’s leg filled with air, waiting for his skin graft.
Hannatou, the hospital social worker, does an amazing job with the patients and especially their families during their stay at the hospital. Many of the mothers who accompany their children get to participate in all kinds of activities like cooking, sewing, jewelery making, and knitting. One of the projects Hannatou does with them is knitting winter outfits for kids. Yes, they bundle up like they’re just about ready for a snow storm!
When the outfits are done, they are sold, and the profit is used to buy more yarn and knitting material. It is a great way for the mothers and the patients who are old enough to learn a valuable skill, a skill that they might be able to use once they leave the hospital to make a bit of money on the side. The mothers and patients who are really dedicated to the project are given knitting needles and yarn when they go home.
We bought an outfit for Leon, and it is special because it was made by Hannatou and Solange, one of our former patients. It is a bit big on him (except for the hat), but he will grow into it. We thought we’d have him model it so you all could see what Nigerien kids wear in the cold weather. Check out the photo shoot below and Leon’s thoughts on the matter.
Once again, The Millions has put up their A Year in Reading 2012, and once again, I am copying them (just like I did last year).
In 2012 I did a lot of catching up. I read a lot of books that have been sitting on my shelf for months (ok fine, years), silently judging me. That is another reason real books are so much better than e-readers – they represent a physical manifestation of failed ambition. And they pile up. How else can you amass a shelf full of scorn and self-loathing. But this year I decided enough was enough. Having Martin Buber’s Life and Worksitting on your shelf can only do you so much good. Sure it looks awesome, and occasionally people will see it and say, “Wow, you have a big book on Martin Buber there,” and they will assume you have read it and think you are really smart. But in order to really benefit from a book, you have to open it up and actually read it.
So this year I went after books that were already on my shelves. Of course, this didn’t stop me from buying books like crazy when I got the chance. We went to the US for a month and I came back with 37 books and I don’t regret it at all. But I put them on the shelf, they will have to wait their turn. Nobody cuts in front of Martin!
Here are some highlights:
I started off 2012 by reading A Timbered Choir by Wendell Berry. I don’t usually read straight through poetry collections, but I did with this book, and I was well rewarded for my efforts. These poems are so full of beauty and wisdom, but the kind of beauty and wisdom that sneaks up on you. I often found myself going through this 5 step process:
1. Read a line.
2. Realize by the end of the line how awesome of a line it is.
3. Realize that I am reading too fast and almost missed an awesome line because of it.
4. Curse myself.
5. Reread the line, much slower this time.
Actually, that is probably how poetry should be read. I found so much in these poems that seemed to describe my life in the past year, but nothing more than this: “We live the given life, and not the planned.”
Amen.
I also read Surprised by Joy for the first time this year, and it honestly surprised me. I don’t know why, but for some reason I always thought that this would be a lame book even though I had never read it. This was probably an opinion I formed in high school, and probably had something to do with the fact that the title has the word joy in it. “Who wants to read about joy?” I can imagine my 17 year-old self thinking. “Boring.” To my mind, a book about joy could only mean one thing – silly or frivolous writing, and I judged the book by its cover. Needless to say, I was wrong (kind of how I was wrong when I thought The Grateful Dead must be a heavy metal band based on their name), and thankfully I have outgrown my high school philistinism.
I loved this book, and identified with it in a lot of ways. Also, the analogy of the incarnation given is probably the best I have ever heard. If Shakespeare were to ever have a relationship with Hamlet, Lewis says, it would have to be initiated by Shakespeare. One way for this to happen would be if Shakespeare wrote himself into the play as a character who interacted with Hamlet. In this way, it would kind of be like God coming to earth as creator and created.
Actually, it is probably for the best that I didn’t read it in high school. They say youth is wasted on the young. Sometimes good books are as well.
I really enjoyed reading Eshkol Nevo’s Homesick, which I wrote about here.
I was unable to buy NW while we were in the US (I think it came out like a week after we left), so instead I read The Autograph Man which I (typically) bought two or three years ago and have not yet read. I figured “Why should I buy another Zadie Smith novel when I have one sitting on my shelf that I haven’t even read yet?” The obvious answer to that is, “You should buy every Zadie Smith novel as soon as you can, regardless of what you have sitting on your shelf.” While this is clearly true, circumstances prevented it, and I was forced to continue reading books I already own. But I am glad, since I probably wouldn’t have been able to resist the temptation to read NW if I had it, and The Autograph Man would have been skipped over again, and that would have been a shame. I liked it a lot.
This year I also read a book that I should have read a long time ago – The Brothers Karamazov. I know, I am a terrible person. Believe me, this (fat) book has been mocking me for the past decade. I have tried to make excuses (“Who has the time?”), tried even to blame the book itself (“Look at how thick it is!”), but always the book sat and stared at me unblinking and accusatory, like Jesus quietly hearing out the Grand Inquisitor.
I finally read The Cost of Discipleship this year (I know, I know), but before you judge me too harshly, please see what Bonhoeffer has to say:
“If when we judged others, our real motive was to destroy evil, we should look for evil where it is certain to be found, and that is in our own hearts. But if we are on the look-out for evil in others, our real motive is obviously to justify ourselves, for we are seeking to escape punishment for our own sins by passing judgment on others”.[1]
I read Cloud Atlas this year, and I really liked it for a number of reasons, but what struck me the most was the different voices. It has lots of different narrators, and they all speak with a unique voice. I usually don’t like books like this, and almost didn’t read it for this very reason. I picked it up a few times over the past couple of years and casually flipped through it (*Note – this is basically the same thing as judging a book by its cover. I know this, and yet I still do it all the time.), but all I saw was a string of first-person narrators, speaking in peculiar dialects about things that did not make sense. I get how portraying different dialects in the prose heightens the authenticity, but when a writer continually writes things like ”G’day” instead of “Good day,” I get a headache after a few pages. It wears me out. It is hard work learning how to read a character that speaks in a strange way; the going is slow. And a book with a bunch of characters like this seemed to be more work than it was worth. But with Cloud Atlas, once I started reading from the beginning, I quickly overcame my hesitation (prejudice?), and was sucked into the story. The writing is so good, and the different dialects actually help to craft the different voices. It is really a small miracle. Not only has Mitchell given each character its own voice (no small feat in and of itself), but, in many cases, they are given their own vocabulary! It is like reading the results of a writing exercise on voice, if the student was an amazing, visionary writer, and all the scraps of writing fit together in the end. Reading this book isn’t work. It is fun.
Also, I wanted to read it before the movie version came out and Tom Hanks ruined it forever. I guess I didn’t really need to worry about that, since I have still not seen the movie, and won’t in the foreseeable future. Not because I don’t want to, but because of the severe shortage of movie theaters here in Niger. In any case, I really wanted to read the book before seeing the movie, cause I wanted to be able to look down my nose at the film version, and point out how different it is from the book. This is a lot of fun, but you have to be careful and not overdo it. It is easy to go from being the cool guy that read the book before it was made into a movie, to one of the LOTR-era, “How could they leave out Tom Bombadil” pouty types. Of course there is room for this type of conversation, but you have to go into it knowing that if you start saying things like, “I like it, I am just disappointed in their choice of…” people will stop talking to you.
Lastly, I readWaiting for God by Simone Weil. This was not a book I sought out. It was a book I found while going through my grandfather’s library. My grandfather passed away this year, and when we went back to the United States, I was able to go through his books. In a way it was like being with him again, and I was able to trace the movement of his intellectual interests and pursuits over the years by looking at the books. The books on farming and communal living belong to the 70′s, when he was starting a farm and building a community/retreat center. The books on marriage and family counseling came later, when he began his studies to become a counselor. Those are fairly obvious, but I was really intrigued by the outliers, like Weil. When did he read this book, and what influence did it have on him? I couldn’t help but ask myself these questions while I read it. But I found that the more I read, the more peripheral these questions became, since I was continually blown away by what I read.
I didn’t agree with everything, but there was so much that was meaningful to me, I couldn’t put it down. Waiting for God is another book that I probably wouldn’t have read at all at an earlier stage in life, but sometimes the right book finds you at the right time. When that happens, it is magic. But the key is waiting. Why? because, as Weil writes, “We do not obtain the most precious gifts by going in search of them but by waiting for them.”[2]
[1] Dietrich Bonhoeffer, The Cost of Discipleship (New York: Touchstone, 1995), 185.
[2] Simone Weil, Waiting for God (New York: Harper Colophon, 1951), 112.
Singing Christmas Carols in Niamey. Photo by Shannon Maxwell.
Everyone has a story to tell, and every story is a song. This is true individually, but it is also true of cultures. Each society has its own song, and the tendency is to project (impose) this song on others. This is the strategy of songs – it is zero-sum. You cannot sing two songs at once, and you cannot listen to two songs at once. One song must dominate, otherwise cacophony is the result.
When the angel Gabriel came to Mary and told her that she would have a son, Mary was living in a world of competing songs. The Roman Empire had a song that was relatively polyphonic. Most other religions were accepted and incorporated into the Empire, as long as they could coexist with worship of the Empire and of Caesar. The song of the Jewish people, however, was very different. It was a song of one God, and it was very inflexible on this point. Consequently, they quarreled often.
In the midst of this discord (sonically, spiritually and politically), Gabriel delivered a message to Mary that would cause her to sing a new song. He told her that her son would reign on the throne of David, and that his kingdom would never end (Luke 1:31-33). Mary then went to see her cousin Elizabeth, and sang a song that has become very well known, The Magnificat (Luke 1:46-55).
This song was extremely political, and managed to recall the great deeds of God in the past, while also invoking them in the present. In the past, God had “brought down rulers from their thrones,” and had “lifted up the humble.” The hungry have been filled with “good things,” whereas the rich he “sent away empty” (Luke 1:52-53 NIV). Obviously, this was about to happen again with the return of the one true king who would reign in justice and in truth. Therefore it is a song of celebration, announcing the freedom of God’s people. It is a song of liberation, sung in the face of oppression and Empire. It would have been impossible for Mary to come up with such a song had God not given her this vision, this alternate view of reality, this new song.
New Song – Transform reality
The idea of singing a new song is one that is found often in the Psalms. Ps. 96:1, for example, says “Sing to the LORD a new song; sing to the LORD all the earth” (NIV). We are called to sing a new song, a song that has never been heard before, and a song that, perhaps, has never even been imagined before. The Christmas story is a song. It is told each year from pulpits and in pageants, through film and through fellowship, and especially through carols. Indeed, in the words of Marilynne Robinson, part of being a follower of Jesus is accepting “stewardship of this remarkable narrative.”[1] A fundamental part of that stewardship is to tell the story, to sing the song. Although the song of Christmas is sung each year, it remains a new song, because like every good story, it has new meaning with each telling. It is also a powerful story, that has an impact on our reality, both physically and spiritually.
This is true of all songs and stories and of all messages and news, both good and bad. Something may happen, but it does not become real for us until we hear about it or see evidence of it. In our day and age of the 24-hour news cycle, we have drastically cut down on the amount of time between an event occurring and the world hearing about it (and seeing video footage of it). Even if something happens on the other side of the world, if it is “news worthy” you will hear about it very quickly.[2] But even now there is a gap between the occurrence of an event, and its impact on our lives. Unless we personally witness it, we are affected by the news of the event, not the event itself. This is true when we hear about the death of someone we know, or the birth of a new child.
I think of my grandparents who were both inmates at different Nazi work and death camps during the Second World War. My grandfather was liberated from Buchenwald in April, 1945 by the American army, but actually the Germans fled before the Americans arrived. He told me that they woke up and all of the guards were gone. At that moment they were free, but they did not know it yet. They were so accustomed to being prisoners that they could not even imagine their freedom, and they were so weak from starvation and disease that they could not even get up to find out the truth. It was only when they saw the American soldiers arrive that they understood that they were free. This news changed everything for them, and gave them strength to get up and embrace their liberation and their liberators.
What good is our freedom if we do not know we are free? We have been liberated, but if we still believe in the power of our chains, we will continue to wear them, and they will continue to bind us. But when we sing the song of freedom, the story of Christmas, our reality is changed.
Ps. 96:10 says, “The LORD reigns” (NIV). The psalm shows that God has defeated the other gods, and now the message has arrived – God is victorious and he reigns. But, in Hebrew v. 10 says, “יְהוָה מָלָךְ”, “malak Adonai,” which could be translated in different ways. It could mean that God is the king, and has always been the king, or it could mean that God has just now become the king.[3] I would like to suggest that both statements are true. Yes, God has always reigned as king, but we are also making it true each time we announce it. When we say “God reigns,” we are not just reporting a truth (although we are doing that as well), we are also making it true. We are singing an old song that is made new each time it is sung. That is why we tell our story, because the news has just arrived from the battlefield. God has defeated the gods (Ps. 96:4-5), now he alone reigns. After the chaos of injustice and inequality, now “The world is firmly established, it cannot be moved; he will judge the peoples with equity” (v. 10). Now a new song can be sung, and all of creation is free to sing and dance, to express their true nature which was hidden in slavery. Heaven and earth, the sea, the fields and the trees are all “jubilant” and “sing for joy” (vv. 11-12). They will all, “sing before the LORD, for he comes, he comes to judge the earth. He will judge the world in righteousness and the peoples in his truth” (v. 13).
The new song has the power to change the world and to change us. But we can only be changed by the story if we hear the story. We can only live our freedom if we know we are free. That is why we tell the story of Christmas. That is why we sing the new song.
New Song – Imagine the impossible
The return of the one true king means the establishing of a kingdom of justice that will last forever. It is not very difficult to see, however, that we are not yet living in this kingdom or under this king. Our world is full of injustice and evil. Everywhere we look we see darkness, and we hear stories and songs that are not of God. The song of Empire and the song of slavery are all around us. They play loudly, and try to drown out all other songs. They are difficult to avoid, we hear them everywhere, and if we hear them enough eventually we start to dance to their music, even if we do so unconsciously. We may try to hold onto our song of freedom and liberty, but these oppressive songs colonize our minds. They chase away every vestige of dissent, and eliminate any hint of a song that is not theirs. Sooner or later, we forget that other songs even exist, and it becomes impossible to imagine any but the songs we hear blaring all around us.
But that is the power of the new song. The power of the Christmas story. It allows us to imagine the impossible, for just like Gabriel said to Mary in Luke 1:37 – “nothing is impossible with God.”
This, of course, is very dangerous for those who are in power, those who rule by controlling what is and is not possible. We have already seen that a slave will continue to live in chains if they do not know that they have been set free. The flip side to this is that a slave in chains who can imagine the impossible, imagine his freedom, is already half-free. This is true because the slave, even though still bound by chains physically, has heard the new song of freedom, and the new song has already broken the power of the old song. For the first time, the Emperor has no clothes, and the slave is full of hope. When people have hope, tyranny is in trouble, because hope means the chains are coming off! That is the message of Christmas, and it was dramatically made evident during the Christmas season of 1985, when the apartheid government of South Africa banned Christmas carols among the black population.[4] They knew the revolutionary potential contained in the message of hope.
“Come oh come Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel.” These are strong words.
Of course, some songs are more subversive than others:
But really, all songs, stories and poems are potentially subversive because they allow us to imagine the impossible. Milan Kundera wrote that Kafka and other great novelists have a gaze that sees, “past the frontier of the implausible.”[5] That is similar to the “burden” of the prophets. Prophecy was not so much predicting the future, but the ability to imagine a new song in the face of the song of Empire and slavery. Look, for example, at Isaiah 52.
First, in verses 1-2, God addresses Jerusalem, saying, “Rise up, put on strength, shake off your dust and take off your chains.” This audacious speech was spoken to a Jerusalem that was destroyed, a Jerusalem in ruins, whose people were in the slavery of exile. A bit further on God continues in v. 7:
“How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news, who proclaim peace, who bring good tidings, who proclaim salvation, who say to Zion, ‘Your God reigns!’” (NIV)
Yes, everyone knows this verse. It is famous, and justly so, for it is beautiful. We all know that the feet of those who bring good news are beautiful. But do we remember what the good news is? It is freedom! It is salvation! It is peace! The beautiful feet belong to the messenger who comes running to us from the battlefield, and proclaims, just as we saw in Ps. 96, that we are free. The battle has been won. Our God is king. It is a message that is fresh and breathless and impossible and true. It is a new song.
This new song is sung in the face of the impossible. Even though they were still in chains, still in slavery and in exile, and still facing a massive, powerful Empire, the people of Israel had hope. Jerusalem would rise again. In Isa. 52:9, the ruins of Jerusalem are told to join in this new song of joy, for “the LORD has comforted his people, he has redeemed Jerusalem” (NIV).
Not only would Jerusalem rise again, it would be rebuilt in a spectacular manner. Isa. 54:11-12 describes it:
“Oh afflicted city, lashed by storms and not comforted, I will build you with stones of turquoise, your foundations with sapphires. I will make your battlements of rubies, your gates of sparkling jewels, and all your walls of precious stones.”
If you are able to look at a city destroyed and make this claim, you are either a madman or a prophet. It was an impossible vision, but it had real power, and it provided real hope. Once the people of Israel were able to sing their own song, this new song, the power of the song of Empire began to wane. The new song offered them an alternate vision, one of peace, justice and love. Even though they were not able to see it yet, they were able to see a glimpse of the coming kingdom of God. That is why we tell the story of Christmas. That is why we sing the new song.
For one day all of creation will join in the same song. They will sing in different tongues and tones, but they will sing the same song. Instead of cacophony, there will be harmony. Harmony among humankind, harmony with nature and harmony with God.
“And man, at war with man, hears not
The love-song which they bring;
O hush the noise, ye men of strife,
And hear the angels sing.”[6]
[1] Marilynne Robinson, When I Was a Child I Read Books (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2012), 127.
[2] Actually you don’t even need to follow the news. It will show up on your facebook newsfeed.
[3] Walter Brueggemann, Israel’s Praise, Doxology against Idolatry and Ideology (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1988), 34. This whole post was largely inspired by this awesome book. Read it.
It has been quite awhile since we have written a blog post. One of the biggest reasons for our recent silence has been the addition of a baby boy to our family. Leon is an orphan. His mother died at his birth, and no-one in his family knows who his father is, so he was taken by his relatives to an orphanage here in Niamey. We met him there when he was only a couple months old, and began the process of adopting him.
We are still in the process of adopting him (and will be for the foreseeable future), but in the meantime, the orphanage has given us permission to bring him home as foster parents. This was quite unexpected, but it has been great getting to know him better, learning how to be parents, and giving him as many kisses as possible.
Leon has only been with us for about a month, but we love him so much already. Of course, it isn’t hard to love a face like this:
What a cutie.
We also decided to give him a new name. Names are important, and we wanted to give him a new name that would represent his new identity as our son. His full name is Leon Jonathan Korn.
Leon is named after Leon Trotsky, Leon Blum, and most importantly, his great-great-grandfather, Leon Hirsch Karp, who died in Auschwitz in 1945. It is a name that carries a lot of our family history. A history of pain and suffering, but also of hope and of overcoming.
His Hebrew name is Lev, which means “heart,” and that is apt. This kid has a lot of heart. In his short life, he has already been through so much. He has suffered loss and been witness to death. He has been separated from everything familiar to him, and placed and the mercy of strangers. But through it all, he has overcome. He has fought for his life, and he has had a positive attitude. Even though he is so young (5 months old), his personality shines through, especially in his smile, which he is quick to flash to anyone who looks his way. He has already learned that life is struggle, but he has also learned a great secret – it is a struggle that is won through determination and heart, through tears yes, but also through laughter.
Jonathan was the middle name Leon was given at the orphanage, and we decided to keep it. First of all, it is a name we both like, and we wanted to keep at least one of the names he had been given in his first home. But also, we like the meaning of Jonathan, which is “God given.” This is certainly true. Leon is a gift from God, a true blessing. An unexpected, transformative blessing that has changed our lives forever. We can only hope that we will be as much of a blessing for him as he has been for us.
Finally, his last name is Korn. We are sorry about that one Leon, but you are stuck with it. You can’t win them all I guess. But at least you are not alone. From now on you never will be.
I am beyond ecstatic to have my parents here again. They came at exactly this time last year. And last year, before they took their trip out here, my dad said, “Liz, you have to take your accordion with you to play for the kids at the hospital.” My mom kind of laughed it off. He tried his best to convince her, but she had some valid reasons why she thought it was a bad idea. For example, it’s massive, weighs a ton, and it would have used up her alloted luggage space! So this year my dad was still set on the idea and devised a fabulous plan. He contacted everyone he knew, as well as the broader community grapevine email system with a very specific request. He asked if anyone had a smaller (80 bass) accordion they’d be willing to sell or trade for another instrument. Sure enough, someone responded that same day! My parents met the couple and ended up exchanging my dad’s trombone for their perfect, hand luggage size accordion.
Shortly after, they were on their way to Niger with the new little accordion for my mom to play at the hospital for the patients, their families, and the staff. They absolutely loved it! The kids even got to press on the keys and buttons as my mom did the bellow action. Not only did the kids enjoy it, but the hospital staff got in on the fun as well. Some of them had never seen the instrument before and someone asked if it was battery opperated.
Every single child, no matter how shy or reserved was so excited about getting to participate in some fun musical activity. The music filled the air and echoed through the clay walls and there was not a face left unsmiling.
Music is a powerful tool, that is for sure. But my mom has a way with people like no one else I know. It was a beautiful thing to see the combination work it’s healing.
It was a busy day at the hospital. I usually see one kid at a time for art therapy sessions. This day, though, got so busy and time was running out. I have a regular schedule with the kids, but things are unpredictable and there are so many variables that come into play. The kids go back and forth to the operating bloc, for dressing changes and for physical therapy, so I have to be flexible. But in this case, the day was almost over and there were three little boys that I hadn’t seen.
I wheel a little wheelchair everywhere I go on the hospital grounds. The art therapy room is clear across the hospital from the patient guesthouse where all the kids stay. I knew I would only have time to see one child so I thought I would make sure to see the other two boys first thing the next morning. But when I wheeled the chair up to their little hang out spot, outside on mats, the 3 of them were asking who was going to be next. I explained that time was running out and it wouldn’t be possible to see them all. The looks on their faces crushed me. They were so disappointed. So I quickly wracked my brain for a plan. I knew I only had one hour and I only had one little wheelchair. I don’t usually see three kids at once, but I realized that this time had to be an exception.
“Ok,” I said, “you’re all coming.” Immediately, I started putting all three boys, along with their collective 5 casts clanking together into the wheelchair. They thought it was hilarious and so did their mothers. We rode to the art therapy room and they had a great time painting and coloring together.
It was fun to see their reactions to each other. They have each been to art therapy sessions separately, but never together. It created a different dynamic, but I think they really enjoyed it. They where chatting away with each other, and seemed to be comparing notes. Questions like, “What is the best way to hold a marker,” and “How much paint should be squirted out” were mulled over (I think), with satisfactory results.
Two heads are better than one, of course, but three heads are better than two.
Their casts are bright white here, but soon to be painted!
