Sometimes We Cry
The adjustment from one culture to another is called culture shock. I had no idea what that was like, having never even been out of the country before the move to Mozambique, except on an anniversary cruise to the Bahamas. Trust me. Moving to Mozambique is no trip to the Bahamas.
The thoughts and feelings below are from my journal in August of 1996, just after moving to Mozambique, Africa:
I was excited to move into our house yesterday, but it has a few problems. The toilet leaks sewage across the floor and into the shower stall. I’m exhausted, and between a stressful team meeting last night and the toilet issues, I found myself in tears again last night.
(from 8/29/96, 3 days later)
What a week! I tried to use the electric skillet, but it blew out the transformer. All of our appliances from the states have to be plugged into a transformer to work on the 220 electricity. Sometimes the transformers overheat, and it ruins both the transformer and the appliance.
We are supposed to have 220 electricity, but it fluctuates. It’s really strange. The lights suddenly become dim and flash on and off like a scene from a horror film. This is also hard on appliances. Our new refrigerator shut down after one of these episodes, so we called the electrician. He pronounced our 5 day old refrigerator dead. Desperate, we prayed, and tried one last time to get it going, and miraculously, it started running!
I needed that miracle. Earlier today I was crying, again. At that point we were nearly out of food, out of currency, no refrigerator, no vehicle, no way to manage. What were we thinking, moving here sight-unseen with three kids and no overseas experience, at least none for me? The tears flowed.
Somehow, by grace, by the end of the day we had a little money, and one of the local women agreed to walk to the market for me. (She wouldn’t get swindled at the market like I would have.) She came back with lots of fresh fruits and vegetables, and we had a meatless spaghetti meal for supper. We invited a veteran missionary couple to eat with us and were comforted by their company and their sage advice.
Now in 2019, back in Kentucky, I still cry, but not about electricity or money or food. I would not trade our time in Mozambique for anything, but neither do I want to relive it. A quote from Dicken’s A Tale of Two Cities describes it better than any words I can invent. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” but God got us through.
Last week, I cried over the fact that my little grandson was diagnosed with diabetes. I hate it because, barring a miracle or the discovery of a cure, he will face that disease for the rest of his life. But I know that God is faithful and gives us the strength to handle whatever comes along, even though, sometimes we cry.