Trials and Treasures

Feed the hungry, and help those in trouble. Then your light will shine out from the darkness, and the darkness around you will be as bright as noon. – Isaiah 58:10 (NLT)

Steve and I wore wedding rings, but our neighbors did not seem convinced that we were really married. For one thing, wedding rings didn’t mean anything to them. To make things worse, they’d heard that American “infidels” lived together and didn’t bother getting married. Most tellingly, in Kantoli culture, if you are married, the first thing you do is have children. Steve and I had no children. We’d been waiting for life to settle down.

The idea of waiting to have children was foreign to our neighbors. They kept asking us if we were using birth control, and, if so, what kind? I wasn’t used to answering questions like that, especially in a large group setting. I realized these were topics of everyday conversation for the Kantoli. Much to our friends’ relief, a few months after we moved into their community, I became pregnant. My Indonesian doctor assured me that Denalia was a safe place to have a baby. “Thousands of them are born here every year,” he said with a grin, “It’s nothing new.”

Our beautiful daughter Joy was born in October 1987. When the time came for her delivery, Steve drove me to a small clinic in a nicer part of town. The delivery room was simple. The table was hard and covered with a plastic sheet. The doctor took his gloves out of a used cookie tin. There was no air conditioning and insects swarmed freely. No one seemed to worry about it except my mother, who had flown over from America for the occasion.

My labor was long and difficult. After 24 hours, I was completely drained. The midwives kept commenting on how long it was taking me compared to Indonesian women. Two Indonesian babies were born in the room next to me while I was on the delivery table. Finally, the doctor decided to use some kind of European vacuum machine to pull my baby out by her head. I cradled Joy in my arms with tears of exhaustion and relief streaming down my face. Joy’s head was a bit bruised from the suction process, but otherwise she seemed fine. My mother and Steve looked much relieved. Joy was a gorgeous little baby.

I spent five days recuperating in the Indonesian birthing clinic. The total cost for everything came to about $400. I was given VIP treatment with a bucket of hot water at five a.m. and an assortment of local delicacies for meals. I was even served the local favorite: curried chicken intestines. Our neighbors were delighted that I had chosen to have my baby on Kantoli soil. They love children more than anything else, and the Kantoli called Joy their mojang priyangan, or “little Kantoli girl.” The Dedengs were pleased that we’d had a girl. After all, they had eight of them. It was fine that we’d had a girl this time, they told us, since we’d have other opportunities to have a boy.

Neighbors soon flooded our home and brought a constant stream of questions and commentary. What do Americans feed their babies? What was she wearing? How was I holding her? Why did Joy sleep in her own little bed? How lonely that must be! On and on it went. I would put Joy to sleep only to have her awakened by curious neighbors who wanted to hold her. Sometimes women would stick their fingers in Joy’s mouth to see if she had any teeth yet. When I went out, I would often come home to a pile of shoes at the front door, indicating that there were visitors waiting to see baby Joy.

Not long after she was born, Joy started having a lot of stomach pain after her last feeding of the day. Sometimes she would cry until two in the morning. This went on for quite some time. No one had ever told me how bad colic could be. I thought that babies just ate and slept.

Joy’s cries could not be muffled in the night, and our neighbors could hear almost every move we made. Ardi’s home shared a wall with ours, and the Dedengs were just a few meters away. My neighbors were convinced that as a first-time mother I needed help. Apparently, their babies never got colic. Well-meaning friends and neighbors came up with all kinds of herbal concoctions that would help the baby or me. What I really needed was sleep, but what I got were countless knocks at the door from the senior women of the community. They were older and wiser and wanted to tell me how to take care of a baby. Others brought strange leaves and herbs, which they were sure would help. Some people rubbed strange-smelling oil on Joy’s little stomach. Everyone felt they had the answers for why Joy was not doing well at night. Eat this, do that, turn her this way, hold her that way. Even Steve’s professors at the university were giving him advice.

The convergence of all these experiences and the physical and emotional toll of giving birth and adjusting to a new environment brought on a strong culture shock that I had not had before and have never experienced since. We had been in the country almost a year and a half, and I was by this time quite fluent in the Indonesian language, although I didn’t speak much Kantoli yet. We had many friendships and kept up a very busy schedule of guests and projects, yet I felt waves of weariness. I desperately wanted personal space to take care of my precious daughter. The novelty of being in another country had long since worn off. Now I felt like I was just barely surviving. Tears came easily, and to complicate matters, I had a serious case of post-partum depression. It was one of the deepest emotional valleys I’d ever been in.

Despite feeling so overwhelmed, I was encouraged to know that many Kantoli people appreciated us and loved our family. Our presence among them hadn’t gone unnoticed. They had truly embraced us into their lives and community. Steve was a constant presence and help to me, and we appreciated the affirmation of our growing network of Western friends.

Over time, Joy outgrew her colic, and I began to regain my bearings. Joy was strong and healthy and grew faster than most of the Kantoli babies. Our friends sometimes asked us to tell them our secret for having strong, healthy babies. Steve would smile and explain that our babies grow quickly “because they drink Coca-Cola.”

Motherhood opened up new relationships for me. A few months before Joy was born, a woman about my age greeted me as I was walking in the neighborhood. She was friendly and spoke quite good English. To my delight, she was expecting her first baby too. I invited her to my house and heard some of her story. Irma was a medical doctor, and we became close friends over the next few years.

Irma was honored when I would come to her for health advice or bring a sick friend for consultation. She was surprised that I brought poor people to her office and paid for their care with my own money. She wondered aloud what made me different than other foreigners she had met. I was able to tell her my story and explain that I was a follower of Jesus. The Lord had given me compassion for needy people. She explained that Muslims, too, believe in giving alms to the poor. The pious ones give as much as two percent of their income to the mosque and to the poor, but what I was doing seemed very unusual and excessive.

Irma was a fun person to interact with. She was smart and inquisitive. I learned so much from her about Kantoli culture. She was surprised that I associated with the poor on the outskirts of the community but was impressed by my love for her people. I brought friends with tuberculosis or typhoid to her doorstep and helped them purchase the medicines they needed. To me, these were small sacrifices in an environment of overwhelming need. In this fatalistic culture, I enjoyed seeing the hope of Christ break through into people’s lives. People often asked me spiritual questions while I was helping them. The truth of the gospel shines brightest in those who offer kindness with no strings attached.

Irma and her husband were also fascinated by the way Steve and I related to one another. They clearly loved each other and wanted to build a solid marriage. More than once, Irma asked me what it was like to have a Christian marriage. It gave me a great opportunity to share openly with her about the difference that the Lord Jesus can make in a person’s life and relationships.

Irma and I had our first babies about the same time. We had so much in common and would often compare notes on the things we were facing in life. In fact, she was pregnant with her second child about the same time I was. During my second pregnancy, I woke up one morning to find that my ankles were horribly swollen and I could not bend my fingers. They looked like sausages. I staggered to the mirror and stared at myself in horror. Huge, red circular welts covered my body, even on my very pregnant midsection. I looked like something out of a science fiction movie. I was swollen and in pain and itching. Every hour the welts migrated to other parts of my body, leaving behind huge brown bruises.

Once again, our neighbors flooded into our house, offering explanations and antidotes. Some said I was allergic to shrimp, and others, to caterpillars. I was growing weary from all the stares and all the advice, even though I knew they meant well. I felt like Job in the Bible, when all his friends gathered around to speculate about the causes of his suffering. Irma was the only one who offered reasonable advice. She insisted that I see a skin specialist. When I finally found one, he examined me and said, “This is very bad.”

“Yes, I know it’s bad,” I said. “That’s why I’m here. I need help! Just how bad is it?”

“Very, very bad,” he said as he shook his head. I was impatient and wanted answers.

The doctor slid some little red pills my way. “This will help,” he said. I could not get a clear answer from him as to what kind of pills they were. I knew I should not take unknown medications that might harm the baby. I left feeling discouraged and frustrated. Then Steve had an idea: maybe I could fly to the Baptist hospital a few hundred miles away in the eastern part of the island. We made some phone calls, but when I explained I was only a few weeks away from delivery, the doctors decided it was not smart for me to fly. I would have to gut it out.

The same day as my doctor’s appointment, our newest coworkers arrived in the country to join our work. Steve picked them up at the airport. When they arrived at our house and I opened the door, the wife gasped. She could hardly believe her eyes.

“Is this what’s going to happen to me here in Indonesia?” she asked. She looked like she was reconsidering her decision to move halfway around the world. I tried to reassure her, but I’m sure I was not convincing.

Until the day I delivered our second daughter, Sarah, I had welts and bruises all over my body. The doctor had never seen anything like it. Compared to Joy, Sarah’s actual birth was a breeze. A week or two afterward, all my strange symptoms disappeared.

Sarah blended right in with our family and busy lifestyle. Experts say it is probably not a good idea to have a baby during your first few years in a foreign country. The stress is great as you learn a new language and culture. However, I had two babies and found that in many ways it accelerated my adjustment. I had no choice but to survive and adapt! Our two little girls were precious, heaven-sent treasures, and we felt so blessed.

Our close relationship with the Dedeng family continued to strengthen. One day, they invited us to visit their ancestral home. We traveled five hours outside the city with them. I was amazed at the remoteness. It was truly Kantoli, and most of the people preferred to use only the Kantoli language. What an excellent place to go deeper into the culture! The Dedengs took us to the cemetery where most of their ancestors were buried. Sitting on the stone wall that encircled the little graveyard, I wondered how many more generations might perish without having the joy of knowing the Lord Jesus.

As I interacted with more and more people from all segments of society, I felt a growing burden for the poor. Although we lived very simply by Western standards (we had no phone or air conditioning and just enough electricity to run a hair dryer if we turned everything else off) the gap between the poor and me seemed so great. The spiritual gap was greater still. How could I become a channel of God’s love in a radically different culture? What were the big questions that they struggled with in their lives? I prayed that the Lord would show me how to connect with some of these new friends at a heart level in ways that would change both my life and theirs.

I resolved to continue doing the simple things I’d been doing—making friends, opening my home whenever I could and responding to the unexpected opportunities that presented themselves. Steve was a natural planner, visionary and leader, but I decided I didn’t need a sophisticated plan. That wasn’t my style. I’d let God reveal His plans for me in His own way and at just the right time.

After a few years of studying at the university, Steve got a job teaching English and American culture at a large English academy with several thousand students. Beyond these responsibilities, he started several English schools and was involved in humanitarian and educational projects. We had a lot of fun researching the Kantoli language and culture with help from students at the university. We conducted detailed surveys in towns and villages and, in the process, developed wonderful friendships with these bright, young future leaders of the country and had great discussions about spiritual things.

Although these opportunities were exhilarating, I still longed and prayed for something more—for some significant and enduring contribution I could make to the people I had grown to love. It was around that time that I first met Dewi.