Cartoon by Dave Walker. Find more cartoons you can freely re-use on your blog at We Blog Cartoons.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
The Joys of Paperwork
My Venezuelan identification, called a cedula had expired. Multiple trips to town to try to remedy the problem had been without positive results. The entire country had been without the ability to make the identification cards for longer than one could dream possible. But now, they were ready to make identification cards. Stations were set up throughout the city to process the masses --- and masses there were. Arriving at one such location, I prepared for a long wait in a long line. I was not disappointed.
After hours under the hot tropical sun, I finally entered the building. I sat at the foldout table across from the woman filling out the forms, answering all the pertinent questions. Next was the wait in line to have my picture was taken, followed by another wait to have my fingerprints taken. The final step before printing the card was to verify the information. The end was in sight...or so I thought.
As I read the information that was to go on the card, my heart sank. They had me down as an American that was born in Canada. I didn't want to deal with it, but I knew if they printed it as such it would come back to haunt me. I admitted the error in the paperwork and was sent back to the woman at the table, the one with all the forms. I could understand why the woman had become confused.
"I was born in Wales, Great Britain --- not Canada," I explained to the woman.
"But when you became a Resident of Venezuela you were a Canadian?"
"Correct," I answered, pleased we were getting this sorted out.
"But now you're an American as well?"
"Yes, that's correct." Whew! This was going better than I'd expected.
"But that can't be," she then insisted, dashing my hopes of a quick resolution.
"But it is true," I patiently insisted.
We went back and forth for a while, but she didn't get it --- and I couldn't get why she couldn't get it. She would agree with every statement --- then say it couldn't be.
We gave up. She sent me several levels up the chain to the women in charge.
"So let me see if I understand this correctly," she told me. "You were born in Great Britain but moved to Canada and became a Canadian. You then entered Venezuela as a Canadian, but now you're an American as well."
"Yes." She'd got it!
"That can't be," she said next, echoing the other woman's sentiments and blowing my bubble of hope. "You can't be a citizen of both countries."
We went round and round going nowhere.
God, I need a way to explain this that also allows her not to lose face, I prayed. God gave me the answer.
"Let me explain it this way," I began. "My three youngest sons were born in Venezuela. Being that their father is an American, he had the right to petition for 'Birth Abroad' status for them, making them Americans through him. When we were at the American embassy doing that, the Venezuelan woman working there urged us to be sure to also get their Venezuelan paperwork in line also, getting their Venezuelan passports as well. We smiled and let her know we had already done that. See, Venezuela doesn't say you lose your Venezuelan citizenship just because you become a citizen of another country. Likewise, Great Britain and Canada do not say you lose your citizenship there just because you become a citizen of the United States. Therefore, I do have three citizenships."
Before I explain what happened next, please understand that being a foreigner, and American at that, in a country that wasn't very friendly to Americans at the time, my general goal was to try to be as invisible as my glaring white skin would allow me to be. But invisibility was not an option... .
The light went on. I could see it in her eyes. She got it and admitted it, not just to me, not just to the women across the room that had been working on my paperwork, but to all in-between.
"She was born in Great Britain," she yelled across the room as all eyes turned on me.
"She then moved to Canada and became a Canadian," she yelled in the same loud voice as more eyes turned to study the pale foreigner.
"And then she married an American and became an American citizen," she concluded, saying what I had been saying for a long while now, but that suddenly made sense. And as long as it made sense to her, the other woman was willing to accept it.
I felt anything but invisible at that moment as I walked back across the crowded room to finish up the paperwork. All eyes were on the strange foreigner who seemed to have the exceptionally strange hobby of collecting citizenships. But I didn't care. I was going to walk out of there with a valid identification card! Mission accomplished!
After hours under the hot tropical sun, I finally entered the building. I sat at the foldout table across from the woman filling out the forms, answering all the pertinent questions. Next was the wait in line to have my picture was taken, followed by another wait to have my fingerprints taken. The final step before printing the card was to verify the information. The end was in sight...or so I thought.
As I read the information that was to go on the card, my heart sank. They had me down as an American that was born in Canada. I didn't want to deal with it, but I knew if they printed it as such it would come back to haunt me. I admitted the error in the paperwork and was sent back to the woman at the table, the one with all the forms. I could understand why the woman had become confused.
"I was born in Wales, Great Britain --- not Canada," I explained to the woman.
"But when you became a Resident of Venezuela you were a Canadian?"
"Correct," I answered, pleased we were getting this sorted out.
"But now you're an American as well?"
"Yes, that's correct." Whew! This was going better than I'd expected.
"But that can't be," she then insisted, dashing my hopes of a quick resolution.
"But it is true," I patiently insisted.
We went back and forth for a while, but she didn't get it --- and I couldn't get why she couldn't get it. She would agree with every statement --- then say it couldn't be.
We gave up. She sent me several levels up the chain to the women in charge.
"So let me see if I understand this correctly," she told me. "You were born in Great Britain but moved to Canada and became a Canadian. You then entered Venezuela as a Canadian, but now you're an American as well."
"Yes." She'd got it!
"That can't be," she said next, echoing the other woman's sentiments and blowing my bubble of hope. "You can't be a citizen of both countries."
We went round and round going nowhere.
God, I need a way to explain this that also allows her not to lose face, I prayed. God gave me the answer.
"Let me explain it this way," I began. "My three youngest sons were born in Venezuela. Being that their father is an American, he had the right to petition for 'Birth Abroad' status for them, making them Americans through him. When we were at the American embassy doing that, the Venezuelan woman working there urged us to be sure to also get their Venezuelan paperwork in line also, getting their Venezuelan passports as well. We smiled and let her know we had already done that. See, Venezuela doesn't say you lose your Venezuelan citizenship just because you become a citizen of another country. Likewise, Great Britain and Canada do not say you lose your citizenship there just because you become a citizen of the United States. Therefore, I do have three citizenships."
Before I explain what happened next, please understand that being a foreigner, and American at that, in a country that wasn't very friendly to Americans at the time, my general goal was to try to be as invisible as my glaring white skin would allow me to be. But invisibility was not an option... .
The light went on. I could see it in her eyes. She got it and admitted it, not just to me, not just to the women across the room that had been working on my paperwork, but to all in-between.
"She was born in Great Britain," she yelled across the room as all eyes turned on me.
"She then moved to Canada and became a Canadian," she yelled in the same loud voice as more eyes turned to study the pale foreigner.
"And then she married an American and became an American citizen," she concluded, saying what I had been saying for a long while now, but that suddenly made sense. And as long as it made sense to her, the other woman was willing to accept it.
I felt anything but invisible at that moment as I walked back across the crowded room to finish up the paperwork. All eyes were on the strange foreigner who seemed to have the exceptionally strange hobby of collecting citizenships. But I didn't care. I was going to walk out of there with a valid identification card! Mission accomplished!
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
How Do You Eat an Ant?
There's not always a good escape route. I might have had one to avoid eating slimy worms, but on another occasion my plan was not quite so foolproof.
The conference was nearing an end. By being quite adept at finding the more "civilized" Maquiritares to sit with during meals, I had avoided all unsavory morsels. My escape routes had worked. Or so I thought....
On this day I was earlier to the dining hall than normal. I seated myself by a group of women (men and women ate separately). I was feeling quite pleased with myself. What I failed to consider was the fact that the seats to my left were empty. A group of very backwoodsy women arrived, chattering happily, so pleased to find the seats next to me vacant. Seating themselves, they began to offer me some of their delicacies. There was no escape. There was no where to run, no where to hide --- at least not without being offensive, and that, I did not want to be.
Large ants floated on the surface of the water in the plastic dish that was set before me. And then they weren't floating --- they were swimming! They were trying to escape! I was ready to help them, but restrained myself.
Upon my admission that I'd never ate ants before, they were eager to guide me in how to do so without getting my tongue bit in the process. It was getting more interesting by the minute!
You bite the head off first, killing the ant and preventing the possibility of being bit. Then you pop the remaining body of the ant in ... and down it goes!
Think cod liver oil capsule. That's about the right size. The juice oozing out of the body and down my throat definitely had an oily feel to it. Juice. I had to name it something besides "ant guts" to manage to let it glide down my throat without any embarrassing regurgitation!
I survived, the women were thrilled, and the realization came that it's not always best to have an escape route. Some things in life just have to be experienced.
The conference was nearing an end. By being quite adept at finding the more "civilized" Maquiritares to sit with during meals, I had avoided all unsavory morsels. My escape routes had worked. Or so I thought....
On this day I was earlier to the dining hall than normal. I seated myself by a group of women (men and women ate separately). I was feeling quite pleased with myself. What I failed to consider was the fact that the seats to my left were empty. A group of very backwoodsy women arrived, chattering happily, so pleased to find the seats next to me vacant. Seating themselves, they began to offer me some of their delicacies. There was no escape. There was no where to run, no where to hide --- at least not without being offensive, and that, I did not want to be.
Large ants floated on the surface of the water in the plastic dish that was set before me. And then they weren't floating --- they were swimming! They were trying to escape! I was ready to help them, but restrained myself.
Upon my admission that I'd never ate ants before, they were eager to guide me in how to do so without getting my tongue bit in the process. It was getting more interesting by the minute!
You bite the head off first, killing the ant and preventing the possibility of being bit. Then you pop the remaining body of the ant in ... and down it goes!
Think cod liver oil capsule. That's about the right size. The juice oozing out of the body and down my throat definitely had an oily feel to it. Juice. I had to name it something besides "ant guts" to manage to let it glide down my throat without any embarrassing regurgitation!
I survived, the women were thrilled, and the realization came that it's not always best to have an escape route. Some things in life just have to be experienced.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Check Out the Sequel to "Betrayed!"
Can one hide forever under witness protection? What if there's a leak? What happens then? These thoughts have tormented Alyssa. She's about to find out what happens when her nightmares become reality. She's about to find out if her God is real enough to carry her through.
To Purchase a Copy of "Identity Revealed":
Monday, June 15, 2009
The Mystery of Old Houses
Old houses are like mysteries. You're always wondering what you'll find when you pull back another layer. We pulled back some layers in the entryway recently as the preliminary step to laying tile. Beneath the drab brown carpet was ugly green linoleum.
Peeking beneath the edges where the carpet led to the family room revealed an old oak floor beneath. That led to the scraping away of the ugly green linoleum to discover if an oak floor lay beneath there as well. You can imagine my amazement mixed with total confusion at why someone would glue linoleum on top of a once beautiful oak floor!
But the mystery did not stop there. A place in the middle of the entryway turned out not to be part of the oak floor, but plywood nailed over where a trap door used to be. Knowing the older part of the house was held up by hewn logs, the bark still on in places, it made me wonder how the house used to be laid out. Had the trap door always been by the front door. What if it were open as someone came dashing through the front door? Not a pretty picture.
We've given up on the idea of tiling the entryway. The oak floor throughout the lower level is a much more appealing idea. For now new plywood has replaced the old battered plywood covering the trapdoor. Eventually we hope to replace it with oak, blending it to the rest of the entryway floor. In the meantime I'll be shopping for an entry rug to disguise the unfinished area. Now we're ready for the final sanding of the entryway followed by a coat of varnish. And then? It's off to discover what other mysteries are waiting to be uncovered in our old house.
Peeking beneath the edges where the carpet led to the family room revealed an old oak floor beneath. That led to the scraping away of the ugly green linoleum to discover if an oak floor lay beneath there as well. You can imagine my amazement mixed with total confusion at why someone would glue linoleum on top of a once beautiful oak floor!
But the mystery did not stop there. A place in the middle of the entryway turned out not to be part of the oak floor, but plywood nailed over where a trap door used to be. Knowing the older part of the house was held up by hewn logs, the bark still on in places, it made me wonder how the house used to be laid out. Had the trap door always been by the front door. What if it were open as someone came dashing through the front door? Not a pretty picture.
We've given up on the idea of tiling the entryway. The oak floor throughout the lower level is a much more appealing idea. For now new plywood has replaced the old battered plywood covering the trapdoor. Eventually we hope to replace it with oak, blending it to the rest of the entryway floor. In the meantime I'll be shopping for an entry rug to disguise the unfinished area. Now we're ready for the final sanding of the entryway followed by a coat of varnish. And then? It's off to discover what other mysteries are waiting to be uncovered in our old house.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Are You a Reader? Check out "Betrayed!"
While on an assignment to uncover the details of an assassination plot, Jeremi Grant sustains a gunshot wound that grazes his skull, leaving him with no memory, with no explanation for why he is at the scene of a murder. An undercover FBI agent is dead. His fellow agents want the man who did it. All evidence points to Jeremi. He resisted arrest at the scene of the crime, his fingerprints were on the murder weapon, and the bullet that grazed his skull came from the dead agent's gun!
Under arrest for murder, Jeremi has no explanation for the FBI. Worse yet, he has no explanation for himself. He struggles to reconcile between the evidence laid before him and the man he feels he is inside. Meanwhile, an assassination is going to take place and the details needed to prevent it are locked in Jeremi's mind. Escaping from the FBI, Jeremi is determined to find out who he really is. The joy of remembering that he is a Christian is dampened by questions over his many dubious talents. Who and what was he?
The pieces slowly begin to fall into place, but will Jeremi remember enough in time to prevent the assassination?
To Purchase a Copy of "Betrayed":
Saturday, June 13, 2009
What Happens to Undelivered E-mails?
I would tend to agree with how the cartoonist views it in the cartoon below!
Cartoon by Dave Walker. Find more cartoons you can freely re-use on your blog at We Blog Cartoons.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
The Best Laid Plans of Men and Mice...and Pregnant Women.
The night before should have forewarned me. Cars were scarce amongst us new missionaries there in Venezuela and an insistent offer came to drive to me the Bible study that evening. I'd been riding on the back of our motorbike since day one of the pregnancy. I had no problem climbing aboard again that evening. Yet appreciating their concern -- and with rainclouds looming on the horizon -- I obliged.
Labor began in the wee hours of the morning, light and inconsistent compared to the birth of our first son. When the doctor said he would meet us at the hospital at 7 a.m. it sounded like a reasonable plan -- that is until my water burst. The pain that followed was caused by a child suddenly plummeting down the birth canal. Matt walked in as I sat panting to keep from pushing.
"We're not going to make it to the hospital. The baby is coming," I told him between pants.
"Should I go get Cubie?" Matt asked, referring to our friend who was a nurse.
My mind said, "No! Why would I ever want you to leave me when I'm ready to deliver your child?" I think it was the image flashing through my mind of my husband passed out on the floor while attempting to assist that made very different words come out. "Yes, that would a good idea," I heard myself say.
Matt was out the door in record time. I could hear him one story below our window rattling at the lock on the cage where our motorbike was stored. The head was crowning. To tell or not to tell?
Part of me wanted to call out to Matt, telling him of the progress; the other part realized the indecision that would create. If complications arose we would need a nurse. It was best if he continued on for help. I could always pant. There was no 911 number to call.
I heard Matt revving up the motorbike, the sound of its engine disappearing in the distance. Childbirth continued. Our child was born without any complications, slipping into my waiting hands in a surprisingly natural and amazing moment.
Matt arrived less than ten minutes later with Cubie. If only I'd had a camera to capture the look on their faces when they entered the room. I don't know what they expected to find, but they definitely weren't expecting to find me with a baby in my arms.
"It's...it's...a baby!" The words came out in a stutter from a man who never stutters.
Cubie's shock was combined with sheer disappointment that she was too late to deliver the child herself. "I know you're in shock...," she began.
I could only smile back. "No, I'm not in shock. I think it's you two that are in shock right now!"
And no one disagreed.
Labor began in the wee hours of the morning, light and inconsistent compared to the birth of our first son. When the doctor said he would meet us at the hospital at 7 a.m. it sounded like a reasonable plan -- that is until my water burst. The pain that followed was caused by a child suddenly plummeting down the birth canal. Matt walked in as I sat panting to keep from pushing.
"We're not going to make it to the hospital. The baby is coming," I told him between pants.
"Should I go get Cubie?" Matt asked, referring to our friend who was a nurse.
My mind said, "No! Why would I ever want you to leave me when I'm ready to deliver your child?" I think it was the image flashing through my mind of my husband passed out on the floor while attempting to assist that made very different words come out. "Yes, that would a good idea," I heard myself say.
Matt was out the door in record time. I could hear him one story below our window rattling at the lock on the cage where our motorbike was stored. The head was crowning. To tell or not to tell?
Part of me wanted to call out to Matt, telling him of the progress; the other part realized the indecision that would create. If complications arose we would need a nurse. It was best if he continued on for help. I could always pant. There was no 911 number to call.
I heard Matt revving up the motorbike, the sound of its engine disappearing in the distance. Childbirth continued. Our child was born without any complications, slipping into my waiting hands in a surprisingly natural and amazing moment.
Matt arrived less than ten minutes later with Cubie. If only I'd had a camera to capture the look on their faces when they entered the room. I don't know what they expected to find, but they definitely weren't expecting to find me with a baby in my arms.
"It's...it's...a baby!" The words came out in a stutter from a man who never stutters.
Cubie's shock was combined with sheer disappointment that she was too late to deliver the child herself. "I know you're in shock...," she began.
I could only smile back. "No, I'm not in shock. I think it's you two that are in shock right now!"
And no one disagreed.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Tagged By Another Blogger...
I was tagged by Jungle Mom from The Jungle Hut to list 8 random facts about me---so here goes!
- I hold citizenship in three countries, four including my Heavenly home where one day I will go! Can you guess which ones---and why?
- "Jungle Mom" said she must wear mascara and eyebrow powder EVERYDAY! No matter where she may be, or what else she must do without, these two items were not optional!!! For me it is mascara and eyebrow liner. Without these people will ask in hushed tones if I put makeup on one eye and not the other! There's this blond streak through that side of my head!
- I married young and have no regrets! I look forward to growing old with my hubby---meaning I don't think I'm old yet even if I kids would dare to differ!
- I graduated from High School early and was a freshman at NTBI at the age of 17. (A whole year older than Jungle Mom!)
- I'm a mother of twins. That makes me a survivor!
- I delivered our second child all by myself---while my husband was off trying to get a nurse to the house a.s.a.p.!
- I don't have a middle name.
- I've never had a speeding ticket (or any ticket for that matter!). Hmm... . Do I dare admit it?!
So, consider yourself tagged! If you do this on your blog make sure to let me know!
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Spider Stories
I can't say I have a phobia of spiders. I barely notice the ones Stateside. They are so little! Tarantulas on the other hand are not so tiny. In our early days in the village of Parupa we lived in a palm-roofed hut with dirt floors. Spiders running on the ceiling, the walls or floor was not an oddity. I remember lying in bed convincing myself that I was safe on the bed.
One night I looked up to see a large tarantula lowering itself from the ceiling towards me. See, they can get on the bed! my mind practically screamed at me.
I awoke with a start, only able to convince myself it had been a dream because of the logical fact that a moment before I could clearly see the spider ... but now I was staring into pitch blackness.
It had been a dream. There was no tarantula lowering itself to my face. But the truth of the matter stood firm. Spiders can lower themselves by spider webs. Spiders could get on my bed. My rational mind had to accept the fact---but how to deal with it?
I lay in bed staring into the pitch blackness knowing a spider could be there. God would protect me, I reassured myself. That sounded good. It sounded solid. It sounded spiritual. God wouldn't want me to be bit by a spider so He would prevent it.
Hmm... I was convinced He could prevent it. I was not so convinced there was any scriptural basis for God having to prevent it. God could also give me a million dollars, but that didn't mean He was going to.
What did ring true was the scriptural truth about fear---about fear not being of God. This wasn't really about whether or not a spider would get on my bed. It was about accepting God's will, not my will, for my life. If that meant I would fall asleep to be awakened by a tarantula reaching out to touch my face with its hairy legs, could I accept that? Could I accept whatever circumstances God was to allow in my life for whatever reason He permitted it?
I took a deep breath. I knew God loved me more than I could ever comprehend. I knew I could trust HIS best will for my life---even if that meant a possible tarantula in my bed. I closed my eyes and slept like a baby.
One night I looked up to see a large tarantula lowering itself from the ceiling towards me. See, they can get on the bed! my mind practically screamed at me.
I awoke with a start, only able to convince myself it had been a dream because of the logical fact that a moment before I could clearly see the spider ... but now I was staring into pitch blackness.
It had been a dream. There was no tarantula lowering itself to my face. But the truth of the matter stood firm. Spiders can lower themselves by spider webs. Spiders could get on my bed. My rational mind had to accept the fact---but how to deal with it?
I lay in bed staring into the pitch blackness knowing a spider could be there. God would protect me, I reassured myself. That sounded good. It sounded solid. It sounded spiritual. God wouldn't want me to be bit by a spider so He would prevent it.
Hmm... I was convinced He could prevent it. I was not so convinced there was any scriptural basis for God having to prevent it. God could also give me a million dollars, but that didn't mean He was going to.
What did ring true was the scriptural truth about fear---about fear not being of God. This wasn't really about whether or not a spider would get on my bed. It was about accepting God's will, not my will, for my life. If that meant I would fall asleep to be awakened by a tarantula reaching out to touch my face with its hairy legs, could I accept that? Could I accept whatever circumstances God was to allow in my life for whatever reason He permitted it?
I took a deep breath. I knew God loved me more than I could ever comprehend. I knew I could trust HIS best will for my life---even if that meant a possible tarantula in my bed. I closed my eyes and slept like a baby.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Jungle Walks
My co-worker and I used to take long walks along sometimes barely visible jungle trails, machetes in hand. I remember her asking about the various scurrying noises we heard along the way. The airstrip may have been a safer environment, but the jungle was definitely cooler. The jungle also had the mysterious element of "where would this trail lead us?"
One such day the trail we explored led to the river's edge. Looking down at the cool river water my co-worker asked, "Should we take a swim?" She wasn't ready for my negative response.
Laughing, I had to explain that the text I'd been transcribing for language study that week had been two true stories from the lives of the villagers. The first was about a mountain lion that had terrorized the village, keeping people locked behind the doors of their houses for safety. That having been a true story, I was impressed that I was out in the jungle that day at all.
But the second story, it was about an anaconda wrapping itself around one of the Maquiritare men. Being a strong man of sturdy build, he had managed to chop the anaconda with sufficient strength with his machete to deter the attack. I didn't figure I would have such luck. I lacked the sturdy build and the strength! I also had to admit that being squeezed to death and then swallowed by an anaconda hit near the top of my most non-desirable methods of dying!
We didn't swim that day, but we did continue our walk in the jungle.
One such day the trail we explored led to the river's edge. Looking down at the cool river water my co-worker asked, "Should we take a swim?" She wasn't ready for my negative response.
Laughing, I had to explain that the text I'd been transcribing for language study that week had been two true stories from the lives of the villagers. The first was about a mountain lion that had terrorized the village, keeping people locked behind the doors of their houses for safety. That having been a true story, I was impressed that I was out in the jungle that day at all.
But the second story, it was about an anaconda wrapping itself around one of the Maquiritare men. Being a strong man of sturdy build, he had managed to chop the anaconda with sufficient strength with his machete to deter the attack. I didn't figure I would have such luck. I lacked the sturdy build and the strength! I also had to admit that being squeezed to death and then swallowed by an anaconda hit near the top of my most non-desirable methods of dying!
We didn't swim that day, but we did continue our walk in the jungle.
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