I would tell you

I fought hard to get out of bed this morning. It was so tempting to stay under my mosquito net where (supposedly) no bugs can reach me and the three fans (yes three fans! one ceiling and two standing) are pointing directly on me. I knew that if I got up early I could enjoy my hot coffee in the somewhat cool air of the morning, before the sun heats everything up. Thankfully the battle between coffee and bed didn’t last long, and I am now sitting at my kitchen table.

As I sit here at the computer I must admit to feeling a bit overwhelmed. About what? you may ask. About everything. I wish you were sitting across the table from me now, sipping coffee with me. I would tell you all about it.

I would tell you about this fascinating and beautiful place we live. And how, though fascinating, we don’t always love everything about it. I would tell you how this overwhelmedness I feel is weighted on both sides of the scale: positive and negative.

I would tell you about how I have fallen in love with our friends here. How badly I want to help them and how sad I get when I see the complexity of the poverty that they face.

I would tell you about the little deaf girl I met in the village this week, whose sweet face looked at me with earnest curiosity. And about how neither she nor her parents — or anyone else in her village — have any exposure to deaf education and sign language.

I would tell you how it felt this week to be hosted and welcomed so generously in a village: served the best food, given the best gifts, and treated like honored guests.

I would tell you about the heat here. How it drains me and makes me tired. How I miss wearing my hair down because it’s just too hot.

I would tell you about cooking. How I miss the convenience of cold cereal for breakfast (or lunch… or dinner!). And how much I miss a dish-washer.

I would tell you about the bumpy roads. How tense my muscles are after a trip back from the village. How nervous I get when crazy bus drivers fly past us, and by pedestrians, without slowing down. And I would tell you about all the people we pass on the roads whose muscles are also tired — not from riding in a car but from carrying heavy loads for miles on foot or by bike down the dusty road.

I would tell you about the mosquitoes. How they make me crazy with their threat of malaria and itchiness. How every night, before dinner, we spray our legs with bugspray so we don’t get bitten in our own house.

I would tell you about the chickens that make me laugh — just because they are so funny looking. And about the sweet baby goats, whose cry sounds very similar to a little child calling for its mom.

I would tell you about language learning. About how one day I’ll feel good about my language progress, and the next I will be so discouraged and frustrated.

I would tell you about the smell of the air before it rains. A smell that makes me nostalgic and happy and homesick all at once.

I would tell you how thankful I am for the internet — how it connects my world to yours. And I would tell you how frustrating it is when the connection is so slow that you can’t get anything done anyway.

I would tell you about our list of house projects: some for fun — to make our house feel more homey. And some just for maintenance: like fixing all the electrical sockets that have one by one corroded in the salty, humid air; or like fixing our front door that has become so swollen in the heat that it won’t open any more.

I would tell you about the family of birds that live in the corner of our yard. About the vibrance of their colors and the melody of their song.

I would tell you how much we miss our families. About how we think of them every day and sometimes wonder why we chose to live so far away.

I would tell you about the ocean. How it comforts me by its closeness, and how it takes my breath away so often with its ever-changing yet consistent beauty.

I would tell you how it makes me feel to be stared at all the time just because I am a foreigner.

I would tell you about my trips to the market. How I love the interactions I have with my market-vender friends, and how I enjoy filling my basket with fresh produce.

I would tell you about the dreams we have for this place: for the people here to find peace and joy. And I would admit to our daydreams of home, where we know the culture and where everything is familiar.

I would tell you how much it means to me to hear that you are thinking about us and praying for us.

I would ask if you need a refill on your coffee, or perhaps a cup of ice to turn it into iced-coffee since the sun has already turned up full throttle.

And I would say, thanks for listening.