Bows and Arrows

Returning from church one Sunday morning, I heard a lot of yelling. “A rugby match?” I thought. Rugby matches can be pretty fierce here, but this sounded more like ‘fight’ than ‘play,’ and besides, it was not from the direction of the rugby pitch that the shouting was coming from.

As I walked towards a spot where I’d have a view across the ravine, I heard a ‘boom.’ Definitely a rifle. Thankfully there was only one boom; the shooter must not have had much ammunition.

Getting closer, I could hear ‘kilim em,’ which you can probably guess can mean ‘kill him.’ It can also mean ‘hit him,’ and hopefully the latter was the case, but it all sounded pretty intense so I couldn’t be sure. By this time I’d seen a number of men running up a ridge into a small wood on the opposite side of the ravine. They were obviously running towards the fight.

I got home and pulled out the camera. To document a fight or not to document a fight, that is the question. I’d witnessed one before, and they’re not really the types of events you glory in. Anger and a desire for revenge drive these encounters, and unfortunately a fight is rarely the end of the matter. On survey we often hear, “Now that Christianity has come, we don’t fight any more.” I’m sure there is much less fighting than there was before, but the human desire to pay back evil for evil remains strong.

As you see these pictures, be grateful for systems of law and order that prevent this from happening in your neighborhood, but also remember the many countries where conflict between ethnic groups is regular and deadly. And don’t forget to pray that people everywhere would hear and learn this: that sin has been atoned for, that peace can reside in the hearts of those who have been wronged, and that—by God’s grace—we need not seek revenge.

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The Limbo

"Limbo lower now! How low can you go?" The song still echoes through my head though it's been years since I heard it. One Monday a month, my crowd of home school friends had control of the Macomb skating rink for the afternoon (while all the normal kids were busy in school). And one of the standard games was the limbo, where we attempted to get as low to the floor as possible without falling off our skates. I did ok, but didn't seem to have the flexibility to flatten myself like some others did. So after the first few rounds of sliding under the stick, I'd usually end up on the sidelines watching with envy my more limbo-adept friends. Limbo apparently was not my forte.

Now, the word "limbo" carries a much heavier meaning for me. It's not just that game that I can't seem to win no matter how hard I try. It is now a state of being that I have to wrestle with much more often than I would like. And lately, after the first few weeks or months of maneuvering under the "limbo stick", I once again end up on the sidelines, watching with envy as my more flexible husband seems to effortlessly glide through this limbo game. Now, to be fair, John has had much more practice at this limbo game than I ever will in my lifetime. As if being a missionary kid isn't tough enough, going back and forth constantly between two countries, John lived in at least 4 different countries during his MK experience. Even during his college years he hopped between Canada, Montana, North Carolina, and Australia in a series of experiences that I still couldn't accurately plot on a timeline. When I first met him in Canada, he had come to the Canada Institute of Linguistics to test out this Bible translation thing after a possible job opportunity left him in limbo for some time.

Me? When I met John, I was on track as planned since childhood for missionary adventures. I'd joined our missions organization soon after graduating from college and had my sights set on survey. I even received an invitation to do survey in an Asian branch during my time in Canada. But I asked if I could postpone my decision till the end of the summer just in case something interesting developed between me and John. And to my shock and amazement, something did develop! Outwardly I was thrilled! Inwardly, I was a mass of confusion. Should I be one of those girls that runs off to the mission field and makes the guy chase her to the other side of the world? Or should I stick around home, leaving my missions plans in limbo, so that John and I would have a better chance at a relationship? And what if I stayed home and it didn't work out? I hated trying to sort through my mess of thoughts to come to a rational conclusion. But as John and I headed away from Canada on our first of many epic trips, I decided to give this relationship thing a shot and put missions on hold somewhat.

As John and I waited in a seemingly endless line to cross the border into the United States, I was reflecting on this "borderland" experience in my own life. "You know," I said to John thoughtfully, "I think this is the first time in my life that I haven't had my next steps planned out." John looked at me and, without any attempt to hide his sarcasm, said "Congratulations." Being the nice person I was, I sort of shut up and thought about how that must have sounded to an MK with his experiences. Looking back, I think I should have just slugged him! Yes, I do need to learn a lot about quieting my busy, purpose driven soul and trusting God to get me through the times that my plans just don't work. But I think it will be a lifelong lesson, much to my husband's frustration.

I don't like limbo. Growing up in a solid family and with consistent friends, I've come to expect stability. And I think it is much more of a real need in my life than I might care to admit. "No, no!" my proud self yells, "I can do this! I can do anything! I will be a good missionary! I don't need stability!" But it's there, it's ingrained - that nagging desire to know where I'll be and what I'll be doing for the rest of my life. To know that the people I love and the people I've known forever will always be around and always be my friends.

All that said, it may be apparent that John and I don't have our next steps planned out. Well, we do have plane tickets to the US and a tentative road trip from West to East coast planned. But beyond that, we’re not sure of much. And it hasn't been like this just the last few weeks. When we first came to PNG 2 1/2 years ago, we expected to stay for at least 3 years. Before the end of our term we figured we would decide whether to stay in PNG. And in the last 10 months, we've been seriously considering and looking at other assignments. 10 months! One particular option looked interesting to us, and as we talked with the people in charge, the shape of that option morphed several times. And then suddenly, yesterday, that option was very definitively taken out of the running. So basically we're back to square one again - attempting to figure out what we want to do with our lives (or at least what we want to do for the next few years.)

I'm not looking forward to more "limbo". But at least this time, I have something to look back on. I can tell myself, "you know what, self? Don't worry. God has brought you through times of great uncertainty before, and he will do it again." It makes me think of a bit in Lamentations - read it, this is good stuff!

Yet this I call to mind
and therefore I have hope:
Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
I say to myself, “The Lord is my portion;
therefore I will wait for him.”
The Lord is good to those whose hope is in him,
to the one who seeks him;
it is good to wait quietly
for the salvation of the Lord.

Wait? And wait quietly?! Yikes, it looks like I have some work to do. So I'll pray for grace to be faithful, do the next thing, and try not to complain too much as those limbo muscles get stretched once again.

P.S. The picture is Tikvah with some Christmas presents we received in mid-January, caught over Christmas in the limbo which is the PNG postal system :)

You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch... But Not as Mean as Me

Well, I've managed to make it feel a little more like Christmas in this tropical

wonderland. I'm quite proud of myself! I decorated the house, making use of random old kitchen items, pine cones snatched from certain death by car-squishing, and a myriad of candles procured from here and there. Does it seem a little odd that candles are more rare in this rural, tropical area than pine cones? I still think so, even though I've been here for some time now.

The other thing I've done to help my Christmas mood is to listen to Christmas music. I think I have 6 or so CDs worth of Christmas music on my computer, from Bing Crosby to Point Of Grace to New Song (I hate the Christmas Shoes song by the way… but I'll save that rant for another blog post!). One of New Song's, er, songs, is a grand rendition of Mr. Grinch. It's a recording that very obviously brought out the little boy in these grown men. Besides the exaggerated opera voices in parts and all around silliness, there's the line that says "you nauseate me, Mr. Grinch, with the nauseast of super naus!" and no joke, these guys have multiple belches recorded into the song - just in case you needed some help being nauseated, I guess! Still, even with the less-than-harmonious burping section, I really enjoy singing along with the rather heated indictment of the evil Mr. Grinch. And it made me thankful for Christ. Maybe I should explain a few thoughts in between those last two statements, eh?

I was thinking of how I enjoy the Grinch story, and it kind of hit me that even though he is called "mean" and he's supposed to be "evil" to some degree, he's not a real nasty bad guy. You know, you wouldn't put the Grinch in the same category as Hitler, or even Gaston from Beauty and the Beast. The Grinch isn't out to kill anyone - he's just mean. He's the guy who has just had a bad day or something, not the innately evil mind that plots to destroy the human race. The Grinch is, you know, kind of like… me. I'm not evil, I'm just mean sometimes. I just have those days that make me "want to kick baby ducks", to quote a friend who will remain anonymous. But I'm not the person who is evil to the core like the real bad guys.

Interesting, isn't it? We humans are so good at categorizing, and we even categorize our badness. I can agree with God that I'm a sinner in need of his grace… but I don't need it as badly as so-and-so. I'm a nice bad person, not a bad bad person.

Now, you probably know enough about me to know that my theology isn't quite so 'kranki', as they say in Tok Pisin. At least, the theology of truths that I carry in my head and spout with my mouth says that I'm just as bad a sinner as any dark character. But what about the theology of my heart, of my beliefs, which spills out into my actions whether I like it or not? I'm afraid that there, in the deepest corners of my being, I still struggle to believe in my own badness. But sometimes, even from something as innocent as listening to "Mr. Grinch", God reminds me that I am indeed evil and in desperate need of his wondrous salvation. For a moment I see myself as I am - helpless before a righteous God - and I cry out for his mercy. And then the moment is gone, as I look to Christ and know that I have nothing to fear.

Praise God for Christmas; praise God for the cross; and praise God for Mr. Grinch moments.

Totally and Completely Incomprehensible

I don’t know if everyone feels the way I feel when embarking on new stages of life, but it’s interesting to look back at those times of going through major changes. With at least three of the major changes that I’ve experienced so far, I’ve had a difficult time really picturing myself in the new situation. Even if I know more or less what it will be like, there’s the lack of experience factor that makes the future more akin to a sci-fi movie than to my soon-to-be everyday life.

When I was about to get married, I knew my husband-to-be well and had a pretty good idea of what our life would look like for that first year. But still, until I walked down that grassy aisle and was pronounced “Mrs. Carter”, I just couldn’t fathom what it would be like to be married. As a friend of mine very aptly put it, the thought of being married was “totally and completely incomprehensible”! I felt the same way when I was preparing for our first child to be born. For eight months my stomach had been growing and moving of its own accord, but I just couldn’t comprehend somehow that I would really be a mom till the red, squeaking baby was placed in my arms.

The third major life change was, of course, moving overseas and becoming a “real” missionary for the first time. After years of childhood dreams in which I was everything from an Amy Carmichael to a George Müller, I was finally going to get overseas, learn a new language, and help bring the Gospel to the dark corners of the earth. This time there were many unknowns, thus heightening the “incomprehensible” aspect of my future. But I’d been around missionaries and MKs long enough to have picked up a few things, so I wasn’t completely clueless.

I knew that it would be hard to be away from family. I had watched a guy I dated in college, an only child, as his parents left him in the US for their mission work in Africa. It really hit me then that this leaving family thing might be tougher than I thought! I loved my family, but I’d never had much trouble with homesickness before, and had happily gone off to a college that was a fourteen hour drive from home. Yet watching this family’s tears as they parted ways made me realize that this was a big deal.

Now, having been overseas for about two years, I’ve already had tears of my own at being so far from home. It’s not just that you miss people, but you miss their life, and they miss yours. That was the part I hadn’t really thought about. I didn’t realize that my child’s experience of grandparents would be only seeing them on a computer screen for her first few years of life. And I didn’t realize how much I would miss sharing that time of her life with family. I didn’t realize the lack of closure involved when you miss funerals. I’ve now missed 3 of my grandparent’s funerals while overseas. Missing the event isn’t all that tough, but when you go back home and their place is suddenly empty, your brain has a tough time understanding what has happened. And then missing weddings! When I heard that my husband’s parents had missed more than one sibling’s wedding because they were overseas, I was horrified. How could anyone do such a thing?! I’m really thankful that John made it back for his sister’s wedding in May this year. But between us we have six more unmarried siblings, and the chance of them all working their big days around our furlough schedule seems pretty slim.

I knew that I would have to eat different food as a missionary. But I thought I could handle about anything if I had to. Bugs? Slugs? Rotten eggs? Sheep dung soup? Sure, I could eat most things and not die. And there were plenty of foreign dishes that I really liked, so I’d be happy to try whatever came my way! What I didn’t realize is that I might have to give up foods that I liked. Eating new foods is one thing, but giving up pizza, chocolate chip cookies, bacon, peaches, grapes, apple pie – surely not! Fortunately here in Ukarumpa we are able to get lots of “normal” food (well, most of the time…). So I haven’t had to give up pizza and cookies completely, though they are much more expensive to make here than back home. But imagine not eating a single grape or a mouthwatering southern peach for more than a year! You can ask my mother-in-law how many peaches I downed when we came back for Tikvah’s birth – I think I was kind enough to keep it down to 3 or 4 a day.

I have to admit, I’m missing home right now. That first Christmas we spent here in Ukarumpa was pretty rough for me, and I’m not really looking forward to spending another one here. There are plenty of things to look forward to though – high-school Christmas concerts, special programs, lots of random activities, and last time there was even a group of carolers wandering the streets of Ukarumpa. I’ll do my best to make it fun and happy for John and myself, but I know I’ll still miss being home with family and sharing that time with them. Looks like this year it will be the “If only in my dreams” line of “I’ll be home for Christmas” for me.

There are things I love here. Yesterday I was in the office and thoroughly enjoyed helping people out and working on People Profiles for groups that don’t yet have a Bible translation. And as I was chatting with my coworker, swapping our worst puking-while-out-on-survey stories, I thought, “who knew I would be having this kind of conversation as a missionary!” It really is amazing to be here. It’s just that, a few times a year, I wish here wasn’t quite so far away from home.

Climbing Tavurvur Volcano

“And mommy stays home, again.” I sighed and looked at the little hands grabbing my skirt and smearing it with citrus juice. Oh well, I wouldn’t trade this little girl for volcanoes. Still, I sure would have liked to go climb one today with John and my other survey friends.

When John came back, he asked if I would want to go see the volcano the next day. “Really?” I thought. After struggling all day with feeling sorry for myself I almost felt like I didn’t deserve to go, or that it would somehow be irresponsible to leave Tikvah for a few hours. But how could I pass this up?

The next day I handed off a sleeping baby to my friend, giving her instructions about food and diapers while applying sunscreen on myself in preparation for hours in direct tropical sunlight. I felt a bit like a little kid going to a movie that mom and dad had screened first - but at least I was going! It would only be a few hours. Tikvah would be fine, I had to tell myself. We said goodbye and John began negotiating terms with the locals who would canoe us over to the base of the volcano.

Now, riding on open water in a canoe that is barely wide enough for my thighs is not high on my list of fun things to do. But it definitely added to the dramatic effect of the approaching anomaly. In a tropical wonderland teeming with banana trees and coconuts and exotic flowers, a deceptively unimpressive fixture arises, barren and gray against the tall, green mountains behind it. The canoe landed and soon we were crunching our way up the gravely hillside. An overwhelming feeling of nearing Mount Doom assaulted me as we walked. After checking my wedding ring to make sure it wasn’t suddenly sporting a fiery Elvish script, I followed close behind John, picking my way through the gray peaks and valleys.

Once we passed the lava-crusted base, the ascent to the crater was fairly monotonous. I looked back at the view around us every so often, as that was much more interesting than the bleak gray mass in front of me. This particular volcano is the shortest of several peaks on one side of a bay. Other volcanoes were visible, though most had been covered with greenery because of their relative inactivity. One large peak, we were told, had risen out of the sea in three days time, like Atlantis emerging from the depths. When we’d flown in, the volcanic nature of the area had been evident, as our birds-eye view revealed fingers of land stretched out at odd angles from the main part of the peninsula.

Very soon, we reached a dip in the landscape, and I knew that the edge of the crater was just beyond. The day before I had watched the video John took as he approached the crater, and it had been very impressive even on his 13.3 inch laptop screen. I was thankful I didn’t have the video on as I approached the crevasse. As I slowly stepped closer, each inch revealed an incredible, steaming, and altogether ugly bowl of white jagged cliffs with sulfurous lime greens, oranges, and yellows staining the sides. John of course was standing far too close to the edge (in my opinion), encouraging me to come closer. I inched forward and looked shyly down the rocky slope, thinking of how it would suck me down into the abyss if I were to so much as trip or stub my toe too close to the edge. Between my fears and the less than pleasant rotten egg sulfur odor, I decided to walk several feet away from the crater’s edge.

John and I circled around to another side of the volcano and then began the descent to the valley below. Up to this point my tennis shoes had been great for the trip, but running down the loose slope gave opportunity for ample sand and rock to collect in them. It was funny looking up after we reached the bottom and realizing that what took about 15 or 20 minutes to climb took less than 5 minutes to run and slide down.

We crossed an empty river valley, a few more short, barren peaks, and passed a brick building still buried to the roof with ash that fell on it more than 15 years before. We were able to catch a ride on a passing pickup truck which took us to the market to find public transport back to the center we were staying at. As we crossed the ash covered landscape and more half-buried buildings and roads, I marveled to think that the small mountain I had just mastered was responsible for this wasteland. Even 15 years after the initial eruption, Tarvurvur was still showing man how feeble his best efforts are against the world he inhabits.

Back at the SIL center I was happy to see that Tikvah was doing well, and had even napped a little in my absence. I thanked my friends again for watching her so I too could witness the incredible sight. But of course, I had the joy of seeing Tikvah’s face light up when she saw me coming. And I have to admit, that is a pretty incredible sight too.

Back from New Britain!

We returned Thursday evening to a cold and rainy Highlands welcome. Thankfully a friend of the survey team had us over for a warm, tasty meal.


Our time in East New Britain was a success! Our team of six surveyors, one baby, and one friend/babysitter/cook extraordinaire split into two. Katie and I were in the North Team, tasked with living it up at the Kokopo Center and getting some work done on the side ; )

The task, in all seriousness, was difficult to picture ahead of time. Four languages, several of them possibly dying, two of them potentially large… how exactly were we going to go about assessing the vitality of each, if we didn’t even know precisely where they were? Traditional surveys here in PNG involve getting dropped off in some remote location, walking, and staying in villages. Though tough, we usually know more or less which villages will be included. This time around we really weren’t sure.


Our strategy, therefore, was to take advantage of the more-developed nature of East New Britain by using the modern technological wonders known as cell phones and paved roads. We made some initial contacts and played phone treasure-hunt to find leaders of the communities we thought we needed to visit. We hoped they’d be able to guide us to other villages to complete our research.


And it worked! During our first two days in Kokopo we were able to meet with leaders from two language communities and had arranged times to visit them. We celebrated by going to the pool at a local resort hotel… The supper menu had us wide-eyed about the prices, so we simply bought a plate of chips (fries) to share, enjoying the views of the volcanoes over Rabaul.


During Silisili (our survey in February) our adventures consisted of steep terrain and disappearing trails. In New Britain they involved avoiding axle-snapping potholes (we drove) and finding people who could help. Oh, and the volcanoes.


The South team, having surveyed Simbali, came to Kokopo a week into our three there and we all worked together to finish the task. Our four languages were Kairak, Taulil, Minigir, and Lungalunga. We were able to visit several communities from each language area and discovered, to our surprise, that all the languages continue to be learned by children and used by all generations. Meaning that each would benefit from literature in their language. A program is in the planning stages to train these communities to produce their own literature; please ask that this will indeed happen, and that it will be successful.


Thanks for thinking of us while we were out! The team dealt with several illnesses and some of our members are still recovering. Please keep them in mind.

As for climbing an active volcano… well, I’ll let Katie tell you about that.

Days 12 and 13 - Git 'er Done

Our list of places was down to one. Dangal, Sumaris, Bukandu, Bubuparum, Wawas, Madzim/Babuaf, Marauna, Bencheng/Tsile Tsile, Dungutung/Wampan, Onom, Uruf, Singono, and now Mafanazo. It’s always fun to say the names of places we’ve been. Bubuparum was perhaps my favorite from this trip, though the language name of Onom – mpubunum (the p is prenazalized) – was a lot of fun too.

Janell had been suffering from a stomach bug for several days by day 12, and was heroically struggling on. As we waited for a canoe to take us to Mafanazo, she sat on a log, head on arms, just wanting space. Of course right about then the PNG response to suffering kicked in, and another lady went and sat with her. Hurray for working cross-culturally.

A canoe, this one shorter than the last one and powered by a motor, took us down to the Mafanazo market, perched on the river’s edge. The Watut is carving itself a new channel constantly, and we heard the banks collapsing every once in a while into the river with a big splash. On this trip I had the brilliant idea to sit facing backward. This meant I didn’t see the logs sticking up everywhere or wonder whether that little ripple in the river was hiding a sandbank we were going to run aground on. The wind wasn’t in my face, and the water splashed my legs instead of my chest and face. I had a very peaceful experience, watching the skipper in mirrored sunglasses guide us downriver, seeing the mountains give way to flatland, watching the birds, enjoying the breeze.

From the Mafanazo market we walked about ten minutes to the village. On this final working-day of the survey we were eager to get our tools done, but the community was less anxious. We sat around and waited. And sat around and waited. There just didn’t seem many men around who’d qualify as leaders of the community – judging by age, that is – though we noted that the local government village leader was quite young. Finally we just decided to start, big men or no big men, and some of them showed up. They treated our tools rather unusually. Whereas in many of the other villages they’d been extremely organized in laying place names on the ground, here they tossed them carelessly into a pile. We didn’t really figure out what this meant, but we did get the work done, the information recorded, and celebrated with a last wash under a standpipe.

This last night turned out to be one of our most sleepless. Most other nights I’d slept great, doubtless aided by the physical exertion required in the earlier parts of the survey. This night, however, we had a friend. A little furry friend with a tail and scratchy little claws.

During village living (that was way back in Oct/Nov 2010, when we first arrived in PNG and were being trained), Janell had the wonderful experience of waking up to find a rat walking on her. She grabbed and threw it… but being inside a mosquito net, it didn’t go far. I’ve no doubt that would have been hilarious to watch, but not much fun for Janell. None of us wanted that experience, and she didn’t want a repeat, so we kept waking up to its noises and trying to find it without much luck. Between that, the roosters, and the dogs, there seemed to be more waking up than sleeping.

The sun finally rose and we packed up our stuff. A surveyor who’s not an expert packer is doomed to be left behind, especially if it’s the last day and you’re ready to be home. We went back to the riverside market where, miracle of miracles, our skipper from the previous day showed up almost exactly on time, and we started the 1:30 hour ride down the last curvy stretches of the Watut River, into the muddy Markham, and to the ‘dock’ near 40-Mile on the Highlands Highway. We were on schedule to arrive at 40-Mile with time to spare for our pickup. The two men who’d volunteered to fetch us, however, had some adventures of their own.

They’d gone to Lae to do some shopping, but in driving down a side road had been accosted by some raskols (trouble-makers who often resort to highway – or in-town – robbery). Our pickup man is a big believer in the ‘don’t stop for raskols’ policy, so he sped up when he saw them. A gun was waved though not fired, but a rock from a slingshot found the front windshield and made a beautiful spider-web crack near the top. Beautiful, that is, except for those who had to pay for it.

Between this little adventure (not all that terribly unusual here) and the fact that they were already running late, they forgot to top up the tank before leaving town, so by the time they picked us up they were nearly empty. We had to go 40 minutes out of our way to get gas (there aren’t gas stations just anywhere in PNG), which was rather frustrating for the rest of us, but we reached home by suppertime and took long, hot showers after dumping our gear to be dealt with later.

The Silisili survey, with its vertical beginnings and it’s many villages, was the most adventurous of any I’ve been on. We were each grateful to our Father for watching out for us, for those of you who heard of our adventures and thought of us, and for excellent teammates and teamwork that brought us through some challenging situations.

Since our arrival in 2010 we Carters have now participated in three survey trips and are only two days away from beginning a fourth. We’ve surveyed nine languages and helped to write five survey reports. The regional director who requested the Silisili survey said that if we found vital languages he would make it a priority to send someone to translate there. We hope he does, and that the good news will be written clearly for the Watut Valley communities, and speak to their hearts.

Please remember us as we are on survey 24 Apr to 17 May in East New Britain. All three of us are going.