Ebeye Mini Documentary

Sunshine.

Finally, after a week of rain, the sun is shining down. I sit in the 2nd bedroom, surrounded by bikes and golf clubs and everything else we do not have a garage for, and enjoy the sunshine streaming in through the window as I type away. The light makes my computer screen reflect the image of my fingers as they dance, bringing words to a blank page. I have been given new energy.

(Photo from weheartit.com)

Epic Battle.

For the past hour and a half, I have been pumping out word after word. It has not been slow and steady, thought out and carefully written. No, I sat down, I opened my document, and I began to pound those keys.

I have just finished a chapter (number 18, by the way) that I cannot call "a chapter" but "THE CHAPTER". For all of the plots lines that are present in this story -- and being a memoir there are several subtle ones there -- this is the conflict of all conflicts of the struggle: what does is mean to be a missionary?

It is so incredibly different writing this part. Instead of just sharing what happened, what was going on, experiences I had -- which all are very important parts of the story -- I am at the meat of the matter. I am writing the message that this book has the purpose of sharing. Because, truth be told, funny stories and cute anecdotes do not make a plot. They are part of it, but the conflict, the struggle, the growth, and eventually the climax and resolution, that is what makes a story a story.

Sad to say, I was not the winner of this battle. Kind of like Superman here. Instead, this chapter did not end with a humorous tidbit or a thought provoking idea I wanted to share. No, this chapter ended with me feeling deflated, completely and utterly deflated.

But we know how it works out for Superman in the end. He is triumphant. And I know how this will work out for me in the end. I will have the answers I am looking for. But I also know that Superman has to go through a lot to get there, just as Tiffany will need to go through a lot to finish strong.

As they say, "We may have lost the battle, but we can still win the war."

Chic.

Being on Spring Break gives me options. I can wake up whenever I want, do whatever I want, go wherever I want. However, I know myself, and thus I realize that a day of nothing will lead to boredom, which will lead to lethargy, which enevitably will lead to me being a bum, sitting on the couch in sweats with a bowl of Cheetos on my lap, watching show after show of H&G TV, thinking, "Ah, yes, this is project I want to do!" while life slowly ticks by and this project goes by the wayside along with my happiness.

No. That is not what I want.

So instead, I wake up with my alarm at 7:30, roll out of bed convincing myself it is better this way, and get on with my day. Shower, eat, check email, FB, and the news. Go and get dressed. Nice jeans, cute top, a little mascara and some lipgloss, and of course, some earrings.

Like I said, I have nowhere to go, nothing to do.

So, why then, when I could be a bum in my jammies or even a pair of jeans with a t-shirt, would I go throught the "hassle" of getting dressed up? I mean, nobody is even going to see me, right?

Yes, and no. Nobody else is going to see me, but I am going to see me. Periodically throughout the day I will catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I will see either a bum or a beauty staring back.

It's like my high school dean, Ruth (my pseudo-older sister), taught me ten years ago as we were out shopping together one day. Since she was a single lady, and one whom I was assuming was not having secret rendevous with some hot man at night, I was surprised when she bought lacy bra after lacy bra, and sexy underwear to boot. Puzzled, I asked her why she would spend this extra money for something that nobody else would see or know. I mean, really, what is wrong with Fruit of the Loom? Her answer, although it has taken some time for it to sink in, has become a motto for me. "But I will know. When I have a rough day, I will tell myself, 'Ruth, it's ok, you are hot underneath this all.'" Although I didn't change my ways right away (as most of you know, I was the queen of jeans and t-shirts for most of my life), life has given me time to see that, yes, I too want to be beautiful, if for no one else except me, because whether it is a cute top that no one else will see or sweet shoes I am rocking, I will see and I will know. That is what matters. I call it the Brazilian-Mantra. While I used to understand it as vanity, I now understand it to be an idea of, "When we have no control over all the terrible things surrounding us in the world, let's take control of the things we do have the power to change. When there is so little to feel positive about in the news, let's give ourselves something to feel good about."

So now, I figure it like this --> Instead of that ratty t-shirt, pull out the sweater. Pass the flip flops and go for flats instead. Or grab that t-shirt and clip my hair back in a cute ponytail and throw on some earrings with it. The extra five minutes I spend getting ready will be more than made up for with my productivity during the day. After all, I didn't get all dolled up to sit around and be a bum. Time to get out there and do something -- or in my case, time get my write on!

Just do it.

Today I have done a lot of things -- more laundry, scrubbed the bathroom from top to bottom, cleaned out underneath the bathroom sink, washed all the dishes, vacuumed, and the list goes on. I have not done any writing. There always seems to be something "more important" or at least more entertaining. Like needing to clear brush under the equatorial sun...

(Photo courtesy of pasci.it)

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Update: 2:06p

Just finished chapter 17 (Yes, the American Idol chapter).
Word count so far: 33,672
Estimated number of book pages: 134

Crazy. But crazy cool.

Who Cares?

I just sat for an hour and wrote 925 words on nothing. Nothing. Well, not NOTHING, but about watching American Idol, so pretty much nothing.

Ok, ok. About watching American Idol, AKA a show that brought me a sense of "home".

About running back in forth, house to house, trying to cheat and beat the system of half the island having power at a time and the very inconvenient times they switch it (like in the middle of a show!).

About the bond of friendship in another world.

I gave away the fact that, yes, I watch TV. And, shhh, don't tell anyone, I used the words "freaking" as in "because I freaking didn't want to!!!" and "darn", when I know full well that the majority of my audience is conservative Christians.

And then I ask, "Who cares? Who really cares about me watching American Idol?" Surely not that many people.

But I care. And my story cares. All of these books out there, these amazing missionary stories of people battling the elements and the underworld, maybe they aren't going to waste time telling about American Idol, because honestly, those missionaries probably didn't waste their time watching it to begin with. But my story is not that. I was no less of an amazing missionary because I did these things. I may not have translated the Bible into a previously unknown tongue or baptized dozens, but to at least someone, I did something big. Maybe it was listening as a child poured out their heart or finding shoes for another who needed them, or simply putting on a band-aid. But I did these things, they came from my heart, and I was the hands of Jesus at that time. And then I went home and watched American Idol.

As for the usage of those words. I catch myself thinking, "I can't put these in here! What self respecting Christian publishing house would tolerate those pseudo-bad words in a book?!" But then I quickly say, "Who cares?" I am not writing this book for them. I am writing it for me and for you. Although these words may not be in the vernacular of the super missionaries, Heaven knows they are in yours and mine.

Linger.

I went to the doctor yesterday because, well, I had something wrong with my feet. It started as small bumps on the bottom of my feet while I was in Ebeye. These small bumps remained there until recently when they started getting bigger. I thought, "Yuck. I have warts on my feet." But these bumps didn't hurt, so I did nothing. Eventually though, as they kept staying there I decided it was high time to do something.

It wasn't what I thought it was. The doctor barely glanced at it and said, ever-so-nonchalantly, "You have a bacterial infection that has been left untreated. You can get these from either wearing dirty socks (Um? ICK!) or being in a very humid place (Ok, Doc, that sounds more likely). Here you go." And she whipped a prescription off of her pad, handed it to me, and walked out the door.

Apparently Ebeye not only lingers in my heart and mind, but on my feet as well.