Gutter Ball Rejoicing

On Saturday, our family went with our PIBC staff/student fellowship group to Andersen Air Force Base for some bowling. We're fortunate because one of the men in our group is retired military so he can get us onto the base. We were disappointed that only three students in our group decided to join in the fun; regardless, we had a blast. Bowling definitely brought out some cultural differences.

Lane One: Comprised of our family: Mother, Father, Christian (17), Katie (12), and Noelle (9). Whenever a ball went into the gutter or only knocked over a few pins, Mother or Father would immediately offer advice and instruction on the proper techniques of bowling and how one might improve the next frame. When most pins were knocked over, you would have heard much praise and encouragement from Mom and Dad. When there was a spare or a strike you would have heard great rejoicing in a manner that would have been approved by Miss Manners. And finally, there was careful attention paid to keeping accurate scores and a definite desire among all participants to know one's score. At the end of the first game, the Sorensons all wanted to play another game to improve on the score in the first game and to compete for the highest score in the second round!

Lane Two: Comprised of three Micronesian students who had only been bowling a couple of times in their lives. (There are no bowling alleys on their islands.) Immediately you would have noticed a most unique way one student had of releasing the ball--sort of a two handed throw (perhaps this was due to her insistence on using a 14 pound ball!) Then you would observe the incredible hoots of laughter and glee when the bowl rolled into the gutter. These hoots, which shook the building, would have definitely been frowned upon by Miss Manners. The level of excitement coming from these students soon resulted in several observers meandering over to observe the goings-on. I think there was more excitement and joy resulting from a gutter ball than a strike. Don't get me wrong, there was plenty of excitement when, to the students' great amazement, a strike was achieved; however, I really don't think the happiness resulting from a strike was any greater than the happiness resulting from a gutter ball. At one point, Karyn wandered over because she noticed that one student had been bowling multiple times in a row. When she asked about this, the response was, "Oh! Sometimes we bowl for each other" (this coming from the student with the lowest score). Often, each student would bowl three times in a row, then the next would do the same, and so-on. Clearly, there was no interest in competing as individuals since there was no real way of keeping score. As is typical in Micronesia, the group was more important than the individual. Without a doubt, the students truly enjoyed their experience of bowling; however, when asked if they wanted to play a second game, they opted for eating in the cafe instead. As unique as bowling is, food is the greatest form of pleasure for a Micronesian, any day!

Rain or Shine--There Will Be Umbrellas

So, we just returned from nine-year-old Noelle's soccer game where, again, I have come face-to-face with the differences between soccer games on Guam and soccer games in California. Here are a few:

In California, umbrellas come out when it's raining. In Guam, you see more umbrellas when it's blistering hot than when it's pouring rain. Today was one of those hot umbrella days. The sun was beating down and the humidity was high, so out came the row of umbrellas, which is to a Guam car what lipstick is to a woman's purse.

Of course, the umbrella does serve its designated purpose as well, because rain or shine, the game goes on. I suppose this is because Guam is a rain forest, so not much playing would be done if games were canceled due to rain. During one of Noelle's games, it was raining so hard that her shoes filled with water. We literally had to "empty" her shoes so she could continue playing. I was in hysterics on the sidelines, thinking of all the games in California that had been canceled because it was sprinkling. If those soccer moms could see me now!! :-)

The Chamorro (Guam natives) spectators are, by and large, very quiet compared to mainlanders. Last year, we had a scheduling conflict so we had Christian (age 17) deliver Noelle to her game and we arrived about thirty minutes later. As we approached the field, I was immediately surprised by all the "noise" coming from the sidelines. I could hear parents shouting, clapping, and cheering. I remember thinking, "Wow! That's kind of obnoxious!" About 15 minutes later I noticed a large number of haoles (caucasians) playing on the opposing team. It was then that I put two-and-two together and realized Noelle was playing one of the military base teams. How quickly I had grown accustomed to the more quiet and reserved spectating style of the Chamorros. (By the way, I'm sure Noelle's team parents have raised their eye brows more than once at the excited shouts coming from my direction!)

On Guam, all teams whose players are 14 and under play co-ed. The reason they are co-ed is that Guam is too small to have enough kids to make up enough segregated teams. This I really dislike, especially as Noelle gets older. In some games, Noelle is not only nearly three years younger than other players, but the boys are nearly twice her size. This is certainly true in weight. Picture a quarterback trying to tackle a lineman or vice versa. This isn't only a problem with the opposing team, it also creates problems with one's own team because, obviously, there is a greater advantage to pass to the big "linebackers" (which are never girls). However, Noelle has had to learn to be assertive and to compete with very difficult odds which will strengthen her character.

What's in a Name? A University!

At first, it seems rather odd that a little institution like ours should be called a university. After all, even older, bigger institutions in the States are not universities. For instance, our son studies at Westmont College, which is (intentionally) not a university. Why then would the PIBC board vote to rename our school Pacific Islands University? Actually, the answer to the question lies in the story of what's happening way out here in this part of the world.

A university implies that there are several colleges within its overall program. No matter how big or small, when a school creates different colleges, the overall school becomes a university. Our board's decision to do so reflects growth in vision. Initially, PIBC was founded to train Micronesians for pastoral ministry, thus we have always offered one degree: the B.A. in Bible. Later, when PIBC was accredited, students with other career intentions flocked to the school and now outnumber pastoral-minded students probably 10 to 1. Most of our students want to go back to their islands and teach or work in government, for which a degree in Bible is not the most fitting. Recognizing this, a team from the college has been carefully putting together a new program for a degree in liberal arts (with a minor in Bible), which will become a yet-to-be-named college for liberal arts. Those desiring church-oriented ministry will continue to study toward their B.A. in Bible through Pacific Islands Bible College. However, I am pleased to announce that the first "college" officially underneath the banner is "Pacific Islands Evangelical Seminary," headed by a rather odd fellow hailing from California. This graduate school is the fusion of an increased awareness of the need for seminary-level training in Micronesia and the original vision to train Micronesians for pastoral ministry.

So don't be surprised when, starting this summer, the change goes into effect and we start referring to our little island college as a university, and our fledgling graduate program as an official seminary. So, what's in a name? In this case, three colleges are in a name.




















Here is our president, Dave Owen, holding the letter he received from our accrediting agency informing PIBC that an institutional name change has been approved. Pacific Islands Bible College will become Pacific Islands University effective July 1st.

The Guam Hyena

On the first day we drove to the house we are renting, a dog that looked like a hyena who had lost a battle with a lion, came meandering up with hopeful eyes. Conveying in writing how grotesque this poor boonie (wild) dog is would be impossible. She has patches of missing hair and is constantly scratching herself. Undeniably, she stinks to high-heaven! Obviously, she's had more than one batch of puppies and shows the wear and tear for her troubles. At first, her repulsive appearance made me want to have nothing to do with her and I wished she would go away. In time, neighbors informed us that the former renters had abandoned "Monje" when they moved. It amazed me how long this mongrel held out hope that her owner's would return. Every time we would drive up to the house, Monje would wander over with high expectations that her "long-lost family" would step out of the car. Our neighbors across the street don't want Monje because they already own two dogs; but, being soft-hearted they have taken-up feeding her so she won't starve to death. Nevertheless, she still favors our house--her original home. We give Monje scraps of meat and other assorted leftovers and so, in a way, she is used to us. In spite of this, she is terrified of humans and will allow NO ONE to pet or touch her. Cowering in terror, Monje whines if you reach your hand in her direction. It's actually quite heart-breaking as clearly she has a history of severe abuse. Sessions with a pet psychiatrist would probably be beneficial for Monje as she is so conflicted over her desire to protect herself and her desire to allow herself to bond with us. She's to the point where she will take food from my hand, but if I slowly reach toward her to pet her, she will immediately cower and cry pitifully. If I call her with my hand extended, she will get close enough to smell my hand, but then become too frightened to take the risk of allowing me to actually make contact. In mental anguish she slinks away, softly crying, and dragging her back feet on the ground! The battle within her as to which she yearns for most, self-protection or connection, couldn't be more apparent.

It hit me one day as I watched Monje agonizing between self-protection and connection, that I have met many people who are like Monje. Some are students at PIBC, some are friends, and others are found on every corner of every continent. Tragically, because they have been wounded and betrayed by those who should have been trustworthy, they cannot comprehend a God who is wholly good, and incapable of evil. One of the reasons we LOVE our work at PIBC, is that we are passionate about helping others discover the true nature of God. PIBC gives us endless opportunities to convey the absolute goodness of God; whether it's communicated through intellectual lectures in a theology class, through practical application in a counseling class, or simply by hanging out with students on the volleyball court, basketball court, or in a dorm room, opportunities abound. And, you cannot imagine the joy we feel as we watch students moving closer and closer to the out-stretched hand of our loving Savior.

For I know the plans I have for you,
declares the Lord,
plans for wholeness and not for evil,
to give you a future and a hope.
Jeremiah 29: 11

Hanging out with students in the dorms. Lucy braids Noelle's hair--she's amazing with hair!

Sensory Overload

Sensory overload. That's perhaps the first thing that comes to my mind when I think of Bangkok. As a battering ram is to a fortress, so are the sights, sounds and smells of Bangkok to the senses. No subtlety exists. Only extremes on the sensory spectrum.

The pungent odors of street vendors lining every available space.
The gut-wrenching sight of barely-clad beggars with missing limbs and facial features distorted from leprosy, accidents and birth defects.
The acrid smell of pollution-filled skies and resulting sting to the throat and eyes.
The shrines of other gods and the devotion of the masses to their icons.
The shrill whistle of traffic directors and incessant honking of impatient drivers in every conceivable form of transportation.
The saffron gowns of monks among the throngs.
Stifling heat emanating off asphalt roads and wall-to-wall sky-scrapers blocking any possible breeze.
Touching bodies pushing and weaving in an attempt to navigate congested streets.
Terror at the thought of losing a child in the swarm.
The indescribable but inescapable smell of poorly managed sewage.
The ever-present signs of the magnitude and tragedy of the sex-trade industry.
The obvious fact that Jesus is not the God of Thailand.
Sadness that I cannot speak their language to share His love. Admiration for those who work throughout Asia with unimaginable challenges and little "to show" for their labor of love.
The gravity of the thoughts of what my life could have been like had I been born in Thailand.
The awe I feel that amongst the millions of people on this planet, Jesus called me.
My passionate desire that everyone could know the peace and love found in Jesus' arms.

Thailand

After 48 hours with no sleep, our family arrived in Bangkok, Thailand where we spent one night in a local hotel. Before bedding down for the night, Karyn and I walked 45 minutes to a mega-mall. We noticed that we drew very little attention, indicating the very international atmosphere present in Bangkok. We knew we needed to capture this quintessential American fast food restaurant (McDonald's) and the Thai flair they added.


The following morning, we headed 3-1/2 hours southeast to the coast. There we joined over seventy Covenant workers from all over Asia. The Covenant arranged to have a team of helpers from a Covenant church in Alaska come and work with all the children. The kids are having a blast and the parents are able to relax and fully plug into the conference. Karyn has been helping to lead singing and has really enjoyed working with many extremely talented musicians. (Notice in picture Brad Boydston one of our collleagues at PIBC playing the ukulele). We are so grateful to Covenant World Missions for providing the funds for us to participate in this inspiring and encouraging conference!















P.S. We are especially relishing the delicious fresh fruits and vegetables.

Why Karyn Kissed a German Missionary

When you work in a fusion of cultures, sometimes things can get quite confusing. The indigenous people of Guam are known as Chamorros. Of all the ethnic groups attending Pacific Islands Bible College, Chamorros are vastly under-represented. The reasons for this are 1) 96%+ of Chamorros are Catholic, 2) PIBC was originally started on the island of Chuuk; therefore, Chamorros were not the people group originally targeted. Nevertheless, the Chamorros are the people with whom we daily rub shoulders. They are our neighbors, Noelle’s soccer buddies, and my (Karyn) volleyball teammates. They are the people who make up our church and the people with whom we fellowship.

Although having many similarities to Micronesians, the Chamorros definitely have their own unique culture. They are extremely friendly and hospitable. They always greet one another with a kiss on the cheek, which is actually more like a cheek-touch accompanied by a kissing sound. This has taken some getting used to for our family. Like most haoles (white folk), we come from a hand-shaking culture (or, if someone is especially close, sometimes a hug is offered). So, the kissing of strangers certainly was a cultural stretch for us. Nevertheless, in good missionary-spirit, we overcame our cultural inhibitions and can now be rightly counted in the ranks of cheek-kissers. There was one slight difficulty with this. To a newbie trying to acclimate to different cultures, one culture blends in with another. At first, the nuances between who is Chamorro and who is Palauan, Yapese, or Chuukese were lost on us. And this was definitely a problem because only the Chamorros “cheek-kiss.” The other Micronesian cultures are non-touching cultures. To attempt to publicly kiss someone from Micronesia would result in unspeakable shame. Fortunately, aside from endlessly forgetting to offer the kiss upon greeting a Chamorro friend, we were eventually able to discern from which island an individual hailed and therefore which greeting would be appropriate.

Notably, there is one other group of people with whom we regularly interact, and that is the PIU staff. This group is made up of Germans, Americans, Chuukese, Palauans, Yapese, Filipinos, and even an Ecuadorian. Because we are very close to our fellow comrades, the Americans and Filipinos primarily hug each other in greeting, and warm smiles are offered to the Germans and Micronesians. Well, one of our German missionaries, Harold, and his wife had been on furlough in their hometown in Germany for many months. As I walked into the bi-weekly staff prayer meeting, I was surprised to see Harold. His unexpected presence completely discombobulated me. As I approached him, I desperately shuffled through my mental index cards on culturally appropriate greetings. “Hmmmm…” I frantically thought, “He’s not American so I don’t think it’s a handshake or a hug, he’s not Micronesian, so I know there should be some form of touching. . .” Before I could find the appropriate index card, I was upon him. Apparently, the next card in the greeting file was the Chamorro kiss. After the smacker was planted, the awkwardness was palpable. Poor Harold turned twenty shades of red wondering why he’d been kissed. But his red paled in comparison to my bright scarlet as I recognized my major faux pas which sent me fumbling for an appropriate explanation, to no avail. Sheesh!! This missionary stuff is hard work!