We Are MAF Miyalk Miyalk: the local word for ‘woman’ and ‘wife’. We are doctors, nurses, teachers, lawyers, mothers, linguists, social workers and all manner of other things. Some of us are pilots and engineers with MAF ourselves. Others of us married into the MAF family and let our husbands fly and fix the planes. All of us live in this unusual place called Arnhem Land in the Top End of Australia.
For a MAF miyalk, the experience of living in Arnhem Land isn’t just about planes, although single-engine aircraft do feature loudly in the environment. It isn’t just about the harsh climate or Yolngu culture or the extraordinarily red dirt or being sweaty all the time. It’s a complicated mixture of all these things, and more. Most of us struggle to begin with. A new climate and culture can be really hard and overwhelming, especially for the first twelve months. But eventually, we begin to grow fond of Arnhem Land. It takes time, but we make friends with the people and make peace with the climate. We may even grow to feel like the caw of crows, the smell of burning rubbish, the howling camp dogs and the sound of clapsticks all remind us of ‘home.’ We come to appreciate that alongside the hard things come stillness and solitude, starry skies like you have never seen before, and beautifully scenic places that only a few hundred people have ever laid eyes on in the history of the world. We enjoy the way that time slows down and makes our busy and stressful lives seem completely other-worldly. We throw away our watches and clocks, and enjoy the feel of sand between the toes, a greater depth of relationship with others, and a closer relationship with God. We learn a great deal about ourselves, our families and about this people-group called the Yolngu who are in a heart-breaking bind between traditional and modern cultures. We fly planes, and wash MAF uniforms, and pack lunches for our husbands and kids and pray that we will all do a good job of being salt and light each day. We laugh together, and cry together, we are the Church and we serve and we strive and we pray and we find rest. We are completely normal people, living in an extraordinary place, with an amazing, omnipotent God. We are MAF miyalk, and these are just some of our stories. Naomi Beath
A Day in the Life of a MAF Miyalk I wake to the sound of the old, thumping aircon that brings the temperature in our room down to 25 degrees in our tiny little house called the donga. It’s made of two shipping containers joined together with a canopy roof over the top. When the kids have finished their breakfast and homework, they jump on their bikes with no shoes, no bags, no lunch boxes and no books, and ride to the other side of the community where they attend the local school. They are the only white kids, and all three of them now speak the local language, spoken only by a few thousand people in the whole world. The Yolngu have adopted us into their family which, although this is wonderful and beautiful to see, comes with a huge set of challenges. At home, I prepare myself mentally and spiritually for the day. By the time I have walked two-hundred metres to the Women’s Centre, I am already dripping with sweat. Some ladies are waiting for me and straight away ask me for $50 to feed their grandchildren, as the family’s money has been wasted playing cards the night before. My heart breaks. We talk over the situation and decide together how we can work it out. Sometimes I lend them money that the women’s centre has made from selling the Gapuwiyak Bush Products, and we have a food bank for which we fundraised. We do timesheets which can take up to an hour as literacy is not a strong point, most have several names - a balanda (white) name, a Yolngu name, and a malk; a relationship term that is most commonly used, and most have no idea how old they are. We do a five minute Bible study that they love and this can often bring up interesting conversations and prayer needs. Then we talk about what we are going to do for the day. We normally choose between sewing, learning to cook,
working in the community garden, weaving and painting or going out bush to find bark, roots, leaves or clay to make into soaps and creams to sell at the market that we run every fortnight. My favourite is going bush, I love the way it changes me from being the teacher to being the student, and the Yolngu ladies being the teachers. As we head out of the community, I feel so privileged to be able to go and be shown places where not many white people have ever been. The heat is so overwhelming you can feel sweat dripping down your back. The Yolngu ladies take off their tops and are naked. As we work, digging in the hard earth to find roots and chopping down trees for bark, they tell me stories about the land and their ancestors. I listen intently, knowing I am privileged to hear these stories and knowledge from the past. If we have time, on the way back to Gapuwiyak, we stop off at the river for a swim, taking our chances that we won’t be eaten by a crocodile. We often sit in silence and listen to the trees talking to us. Sometimes we speak of the struggles that Yolngu have and with tears in my eyes I think of what they have been through and how blessed I am to have grown up where I did. I head back over to the Women’s Centre to unpack and prepare for the next day and my mind wanders to how Des is going. I put the dinner on and walk up to the airstrip so we can walk home together. I love this opportunity to debrief about our day and encourage one another. We get back home and share a meal together with the kids. As we say grace and thank God for the day, we are truly thankful for the food on our plates and this amazing place we live. Emily Vautier
Three Years in Gapuwiyak Aeroplane run-ups, sticky morning sweat, Grinning toothless children, with kangaroos for pets, Driving dodging cane-toads, potholes and dogs Battling mosquitos, flies and toilet-frogs. Knives in the garden, non-stop cawing crows, Evening walks in April, outsider lonely lows, Gymnastics at the airport, long humid afternoons, Shop’s closed, hurry home, big rain coming soon. Cycads after burn-off, Art Centre cups of tea, Bush-trip breakdowns; muddy, lost and free, Twenty minutes drive to see horizon and stay sane, Fluffy baby bantams, Daddy’s landing plane. Inside aircons rattle, turn TV up real loud, Homemade icecream; do fifties housewife proud, Date nights, bloody hands dissecting buffalo, Fellowship, dog-fights, a far off stereo. Bubbles at the clinic, picnics in the yard, Rocks through car windows, a stolen credit card, Lethargy, energy, boils, burns and snakes, Careflight, stitches, and fancy birthday cakes. Stellar beach sunsets, gently lapping waves, Damper at First Creek, rainy monsoon days, Night-time shrieking, yelling, clanking cars, Marshmallows at the firepit, sky with blazing stars.
Naomi Beath
Home Sweet Home Once, when Dean and I were dating, he spent one of his summer holidays working in Alice Springs. I had never been to Alice, and my visions were of red dirt and tin huts. Of course, Alice Springs had many ‘normal’ houses and lots of shops. After we were married, and getting ready to move to Oenpelli with MAF, I asked Dean what it was going to be like and he said, “Remember the visions you had of Alice Springs? That’s what Oenpelli is like.” I tried to prepare myself by thinking that I would be living in a caravan or tin house. After flying to Darwin and spending the night we had to catch a coach early in the morning to the town of Jabiru. There we were met by two lovely MAF ladies and a troop-carrier to drive us to Oenpelli. Dean sat in the front and I was in the back on a very hard sideways bench seat. It was hot and bumpy, a one-hour drive over pitted dirt roads and through a river-crossing known for its enormous crocodiles. By the time we arrived in Oenpelli, I was exhausted from our early start, bruised and battered by the drive and generally feeling hot and grubby. We were first taken to the main MAF house, a large, three-bedroom home on stilts with many louvred windows and underneath a lovely modern little flat. It was a welcome sight after what I had imagined of Oenpelli and the rough morning I’d had. Then we were taken to the clinic flat which was to be our home. I cried. The clinic flat was one room with a concertina-divider to give some privacy to the bedroom and a small toilet and shower room. It was not a hot tin hut, or a caravan, so I should have been pleased, but I made the mistake of comparing our flat to the MAF houses I had seen first, and so ended up in a pool of tears.After feeling sorry for myself for a while, I got over it and into cleaning, unpacking and turning our concrete box into a home. One of the things I remembered from growing up on the mission-field was my mum’s ability to turn wherever we lived into a home, whether it was a large house or a garage. Curtains, fabric thrown over ugly chairs, table cloths and candles helped to brighten our tiny space a lot. That was fifteen years ago. I have since had other, bigger (some only slightly), homes to live in, although I have learned a lot of tricks to hide their faults. Our first house in Oenpelli prepared me for dealing with small, disappointing spaces. Other houses taught me about covering rust, disguising holes in floors and how a fresh coat of paint can cover a multitude of renovation sins. I have learnt that the recipe for a home is not only nice furniture or a clean floor but beauty, simplicity and a welcoming attitude. And trying not to compare! Christie Giles
Jesus and the Women Someone told me, “The Yolngu people have the literacy skills of 7 year olds and the wisdom of 70 year olds.” We began meeting for a weekly bible study – the women wanted me to teach them. I was delighted. Having lead bible study groups for many years I was eager to slot back into a familiar role. I decided we would look at Luke’s Gospel particularly taking note of the women we meet there. I called the studies simply, ‘Jesus and the women.’ My first mistake was to suggest bilingual memory verses (English and Yolngu Matha). Upon hearing the length of the verse in Yolngu Matha, I laughed out loud at myself as it was three times longer than in English and I knew I had bitten off way more than my own literacy skills could chew! So instead we read in English which is their third or fourth language. After reading the passage, I begin with some straight forward comprehension questions and they flounder a bit, these women. They find my questions hard to understand, each woman nervous about getting it wrong, unwilling to put themselves forward with an answer. My second mistake was presuming that this meant the women had not understood the bible reading. Unpredictably, the group begins to revive as we discuss the meaning of the narrative as a whole. “Miku, I’ll tell you a story,” one woman says. And in the telling of it, I see that the group not only understands the passage, they have been living it out. In the privacy of their homes, in public in their community, in the middle of the night, in crisis and grief. As I listen, I find I had misconceptions about these women. They love Jesus deeply. They long for the salvation of those still in darkness. They understand true forgiveness. I shake my head as I consider teaching them because beside them I am a spiritual dwarf. Who is floundering now?! Stories pour forth of children buried too early, of murder committed and forgiveness offered between clans and individuals, of the tension between tradition, culture and the Australia of the future. And these women, these strong, humble women who wear no shoes are in the centre of it all. While the illustrations I share to give meaty examples of people who have loved and followed the Lord are stories of the lives of others - Corrie Ten Boom, Gladys Aylward, Joni Eareckson - the stories these Yolngu women share are their own. Here in Yirrkala, these women are the voices of Christ in this place. They are the recipients and messengers of faith, hope and love. And I realise who is right here sitting on the floor, drinking tea in my lounge room, it’s – Jesus and the women! And so we meet each week... and they teach me. I am delighted.
Red Fulton
Cycle of Seasons As someone who grew up in temperate Australia, seasons were a part of my life only minimally. In Melbourne, they say if you don’t like the weather wait five minutes and it will be different. It has taken me almost four years to realise I am still expecting Arnhem Land weather and seasons to operate in the same spontaneous way, but they don’t. Let me walk you through my life in the yearly cycle of Arnhem Land seasons. As I write, we are in the Wet Season. An average day may include scorching sun, torrential rain, amazing thunderstorms and sometimes even a cool sea breeze. Wet Season brings green to our gardens. We can enjoy being outside, covered in bug spray though, as mosquitoes are about in plague proportions. Walking around town, sitting in church or visiting the beach can be pleasant if I choose my times well. I feel my spirits rising a little as I enjoy the blooming frangipani flowers and multiple shades of green everywhere I look. I usually love these days, except when I know my husband is out dodging storms and he may not make it home that evening. Or when I have a washing line full of washing that I don’t rescue before a downpour. Or when I have to get in a plane and fly somewhere with dark skies looming on the horizon. And after a few months of ‘Wet’, the Dry Season begins, and all of Arnhem Land exhales with a great sigh of relief. The winds change directions, bring cooler days and often very cool nights. Energy returns and I feel like doing my ‘spring cleaning’. This is the time of year where I can vacuum or clean windows or scrub mould without the need of an air conditioner, a water bottle and a three-hour You-Can-Do-It pep talk. It is pleasant to be outside for most of the day. Fishing trips become more common, although the wind makes the water rough. Evenings spent on the beach cooking sausages and marshmallows feature weekly. The Yolgnu people change their attire for the season and long sleeve tops and trousers are frequently seen as well as the occasional beanie or scarf! Balanda, too, may need to hunt out socks, slippers, blankets and long sleeve tops for the cooler nights and mornings. In the Dry, I could almost make it through the day without a rest, if I wasn’t so busy doing things around my home! My cooking changes at this time of the year; soups and stews begin to appear on my table since it is almost cool enough to eat them without raising a sweat. The burn-off begins and bush trips through black-scarred bush promise views of luminous green cycads. Pilots begin flying around smoke-screens thousands of feet high rather than the regular dodging of tropical storms. (continued)
And as we live our lives, doing what we do as weeks and months roll by, we begin to notice the sweat returning. The sun seems hotter and we retreat inside to the air conditioning just a little earlier than we did the week before. The Build Up is beginning. The atmosphere is building for the Wet Season, by increasing the heat and humidity in the air. Each year I find I need to relearn how to live in this place during this season. The rediscovery for me each year includes remembering that I will have the air conditioner on for most of the day and often most of the night as well. I rediscover that simple, non-aerobic tasks such as doing the laundry or washing the dishes will result in sweat droplets racing down my back and forehead. I watch more movies and read more books. I find myself dreaming of holidays in climates cool and snowy. I start to plan ahead to the coming year. I do lots of online shopping for Christmas and birthdays. My house becomes oppressive and things that I never noticed before become irritations, such the wall colour, or the noisiness of the air conditioner and the extreme heat of the kitchen. But there is beauty in this time of the year. Certain flowers only bloom in this season, which restores a little hope as the green fades away into brown. I revel in the ripe mangos around town to be picked and eaten. I use my ice-cream maker often experimenting with ice-cream flavours, sorbets and gelato. Eagerly, I watch the skies, as storms build and clouds frequent the sky. But the rain does not come. I hope and pray for the break in the weather. The humidity and storms tease and torment me with thunder, lightning and ominous looking skies. The rain doesn’t fall, instead the humidity increases, the air gets thicker and more unpleasant. Finally, just when I think my sanity is hanging by a thread and that I can endure no more, the rain begins to fall, whispering that the Wet Season is on its way once more. We carry on enduring the heat and the humidity with new found hope for cooler weather, wind and an end to the monotonous heat. The change of seasons continues to cycle around; the timing of the variations in temperature and rainfall may change from year to year but the pattern is the same. So we mould our lives and our duties around the weather, seeking solace and relief when we can and reminding ourselves many times each day, “This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it.� Kim Job
Build Up It’s night time and it’s still. The only things moving are cane toads and mozzies; I can’t say I’m fond of either. For too many nights in a row it has been sticky, silent and suffocating. The pilots up here are drenched with sweat before they even begin loading up the single engine aircraft; even the lifelong locals are hot. Quite regular storms circle the island but none come into land so to speak. Dry thunder and lightning; disturbing our sleep, tantalizing, threatening relief but bringing none. The days drone by in a haze of sweat. It’s our second dose of Build Up, after three months of crazy humidity and 35 degrees, the Wet was supposed to arrive at Christmas. The anticipation was consuming but the festive season delivered a wild gift – a cyclone. Warnings, preparations, evacuations. A week of yindi rain and then back to Build Up. That was four weeks ago now. Not a drop of precipitation since. So we wait and yearn and beg and check our computer weather radars - 40% chance of rain, 80%...100%...and still no rain. I always thought weather was just weather. I mean, I never knew it could suck the joy out of you, make you bloody-minded and drive you to tears. Tonight, I listen to the bad-taste taunts of yet another dry storm. I force myself to remember that Build Up doesn’t last forever and then something changes. Was it a sound or a smell? I don’t know; but I do know I can sense it travelling forcefully over the open sea. I actually hear it rush off the water and onto the sand, not the rain yet, but what I call water wind. Strong, steady, powerful and fresh – finally something fresh! It pushes swiftly up the tiny main road. Trees, grass, foul rubbish all stand to attention as it approaches and bow as it passes – universal gratitude all the way up the street. It blows through our louvers as a most welcome guest and breathes life. As I lay in bed, my face breaks into an unstoppable smile, because now I can smell the water wind. No need of the predictions of a radar now. It’s coming and at 4a.m. nothing is further from my mind than sleep. I hear the drumming of this eagerly awaited downpour following precisely in the footsteps of the wind. Off the water, up my street and it falls like a heavy velvet curtain – thick, rich and beautiful. Then comes a crack of the heavens right above us, loud enough to wake even a dead man from his slumber. I set about putting the five buckets under the holes in our roof and I feel complete relief, peace, joy and relief again. I stay up just to witness the event and show my admiration and appreciation. It’s here. It’s arrived. The Build Up has broken. It’s raining.
Red Fulton
Women’s Business In 2011 I was working from Elcho Island. It was the Wet Season which can often mean long delays because of weather. I had a health charter to fly which means picking up people from various communities to go to hospital in Gove. We took a passenger from Elcho Island then headed west to Milingimbi to pick up a lady who had just delivered a baby that needed to go to hospital. During the flight to Milingimbi, the weather was terrible, and then we had to wait quite a long time for this lady with a brand new baby to arrive at the airport. While we were waiting, the lady from Elcho came up to me, and she said, “Yapa, can we go? Why are we waiting? I’m having a miscarriage.” This is not something she could have told a male pilot because of cultural taboos around talking about medical issues. She told me that she’d had two or three miscarriages before and was certain she knew exactly what was going on. She was terrified of losing this baby. I told her that we couldn’t leave because we had to wait for this other patient and her newborn but I sat and talked with her about the love of God and Jesus and how He is able to sustain our life. I asked if I could pray with her. She said yes. So I prayed for God to intervene in this situation and save this child’s life. A short time later we departed Milingimbi for Gove but because the weather was so bad we had to take a longer route which meant an extra twenty minutes in the air. So for this poor lady, a forty-five minute flight had become a fourhour episode. I didn’t fly her back from hospital that afternoon, so I didn’t see anything more of her and soon afterwards I moved to Yirrkala, and wasn’t flying regularly to Elcho Island. But a couple of years later, at the supermarket in Nhulunbuy and a lady came up to me and said, “Hello, do you remember me?” I looked at her and I thought, ‘Actually, I do remember you!’ I hadn’t even noticed but there was a small child in her arms and she said to me, “You prayed for me, and this is the baby that you prayed for.” The child was now about two years old. She thanked me profusely and I was overwhelmed by how simply doing my job, being obedient and sharing His goodness and faithfulness, God had brought life to this lady and this child, instead of death and darkness. Lisa Curran
Community Life and the Spiritual Journey Living in an Arnhem Land community was a big spiritual learning process for me. First of all, in my own relationship with God, and secondly learning about the spiritual side of Yolngu culture. Living in a community strips you of a lot of things that you would normally do when you’re not feeling happy. For me personally, I would want to do things and go places if I didn’t want to deal with feeling sad. In Milingimbi, there are literally only two places to go; the shop and the beach, and neither of these are private. I wasn’t brave enough to go bush-walking by myself because of the packs of camp-dogs and I couldn’t just go to other white people to keep myself busy as there were only two other white mums with kids, one of whom worked full-time. I felt lonely and bored a lot. My two little kids kept me busy during the day, but it took a while before I could find a way to do things for myself. I found that personal issues that you don’t deal with just get bigger and bigger so the only way to deal with them is to go to God and seek help. I learned to turn to God in the boredom, taking the opportunity of having nothing to do and turning that into personal bible study and prayer times. There wasn’t a church where the scriptures were explained in a language I understood so we found our own ways of bring fed. It took a deliberate step to set apart time for God as it was so easy to watch a movie instead. Having fellowship with Yolngu Christians also changed my relationship with God a lot. I learned a lot more about the Holy Spirit, for example. God has given the Yolngu a unique way of connecting with Him. Once I could see through all the unfamiliar cultural things like sitting outside on the sand for church, and the loose structure of church-time, and never knowing where and when the next meeting would be, I was brought closer to God though Yolngu ways of worship. At the same time, learning more about the Yolngu culture means being confronted by the spiritual side of their traditions. The veneration of ancestors and animism is very strong, and fear is still a big part in their lives. Black magic is very real and it is still being practiced. Talk about who is to blame for a death fires up around funerals. All MAF staff approach this differently but what I found best was to listen and answer if they ask you something. I have seen many times that Yolngu Christians themselves are very capable of recognising the dark corners in their traditions. Living in a community can be a difficult, lonely, boring time, but a very rewarding one, in which one learns a lot about oneself and the Yolngu. Despite the difficulties, you are guaranteed to meet some lovely and special people and grow in your walk with God. Janneke Don
Ol’ Ramo Town For much of our time with MAF in Arnhem Land, we lived in a little town of 800 people; a small cleared patch in the bush between Katherine, Darwin, and Nhulunbuy. We jokingly called it the Ol’ West. My life was filled with tasks similar to most wives and mothers; my husband went to work, and I stayed at home and looked after our children. In Ramingining, however, there was no day care, no baby sitter, no café, no shopping centres, no home help and no take-out. There were lots of nappies, sick days, and slow walks around town on roads made of red dirt. Passing rusting old machinery being reclaimed by the grass and scrubby bush, we got rained on in ‘Summer’ (Wet Season) and smelt smoke all ‘Winter’ (Dry Season) as locals burnt off household rubbish and cooked meals outside. We went to church under a mango tree in a small homeland called Ring. My husband went to work each day but I never knew if bad weather would keep him out overnight. Ramingining is a complicated place. Initially, it seemed like everyone was getting along, but then there would be people shouting and boomerangs and machetes everywhere. Also, the white fellas also didn’t seem to get along. The school staff and the clinic staff and the council staff did not mix. And MAF was stuck like a little island in the middle. However, I came to see that God had prepared me for my time there, and He grew me into being very comfortable with my own company. Also, when you are with your kids all the time, you really get to know who they are. It has built our marriage and our family into a tight little unit, where we value each other so much more because we are all we have had for so long. We all enjoyed fishing, going for long drives (you had to drive a long way to get anywhere), or just driving to the first creek out of town and throwing rocks in the water. Now that we have returned to mainstream society, I have been surprised by how busy everyone is with serving and life in general, and I am trying to avoid being swept up in the current. We kid ourselves into thinking that God is only interested in ‘busy serving’, and not slow, patient, quiet, seemingly-invisible service. Another blessing was to be able to provide hospitality for travellers coming through our stretch of Arnhem Land. That, for me, was a highlight; being able to provide a place of rest and refreshment, often to people who came to spread God’s Kingdom in a very dark place. Sometimes other MAF families would visit for a day, another highlight of fellowship and encouragement. When you live in a place with so few distractions, you have plenty of time and space to doubt yourself as a parent, to doubt what you believe, to doubt God is still at work, and to doubt your own sanity. Arnhem Land is such a place. There is so much heartache that we see, and more that we don’t. But God is faithful. His work is not finished in Arnhem Land. Mags Jaeger
Homeschooling Heroines ‘Homeschool’: A word that has always instilled in me a mixture of mild interest and utter terror. Certainly I was never ever going to be a homeschooling mum. My kids were going to school and the point at which this happened was forever etched in my addled baby-brain as the day my freedom would return. However, it was not to be. As our baby bearing days came to a close, my husband, Scott, and I decided to look for work serving people cross-culturally. After a very long process we ended up with MAF in Ramingining, Arnhem Land, where there was no other reasonable option but to homeschool my kids. The first year was hard with a capital H. A seven-year-old in Year Two, a five-year-old in preschool and a twoyear-old ruling the roost; there were many tears, most of which were from me! There were highpoints, like the thrill of a child understanding a new concept, or our book week reading under the stars next to a fire in our back yard, or the time we nearly exploded a plastic bottle when trying to suck an egg into it! But on the whole the first year was ruled by the new parent/teacher/student dynamic in the house. My eldest son, who when at school was a model pupil, turned into a two-headed crying monster, and I, a screaming banshee. The collision of wills was immense and came on top of a steep adjustment year in a new and harsh environment, a new culture and a new way of living. But slowly and surely, ground rules were set, boundaries established, routines worn in and homeschool got better. This year is our second year of homeschool and while to use the word ‘enjoy’ may be overstatement, I feel we have well and truly hit our homeschool stride. We even managed to homeschool through two cyclones and one evacuation! My three children - we now have a Year 3, a Transition (Prep) student and a Preschooler - are now all a part of Katherine School of the Air which supports us through curriculum, online daily classes, as well as in-school events which have been both exhausting and a breath of fresh air all at once. Homeschooling is unique; it has put me at the centre of my own children’s learning which is both incredibly empowering and debilitatingly difficult. I now know how each of my children learns best, their strengths and weaknesses, and I can tailor their learning to suit them. In contrast, I have three kids all at different stages needing different help, there are no breaks, ever, and every other aspect of life goes on around you; the washing, cooking and working all still need to get done. I still don’t consider myself a homeschooling Mum and take my hat off to those who choose this path. But while I look forward to the day I will once again release my kids into a school, there is a small part of me that pangs for the loss of influence on their learning that will happen. So, for now, I guess I will relish the busy and the fun, alongside the hard and the tiring. Anna Walmsley
Mothers and Missionaries Being a mum and a missionary in a remote location is humbling and beautiful. I believe that my mission is first and foremost to my children; to raise them to know and serve Jesus with the gifts and skills God has given them. But I also believe God has placed us here in the remote indigenous community of Galiwin’ku on Elcho Island for a reason. One particularly bad morning after a year of living here, I was feeling stressed and upset. What was the point of it all if it took all my energy to keep my household running with three little boys under the age of five? I finally decided to let it go and sat down to play trains with my boys. Seeing the joy it brought them, I had a sudden sense of contentment and real happiness. I sat and prayed, “God, I give in, I will just enjoy being a mum, and if there’s anything else you want me to do, please bring it to me.” Only a few minutes later, there was a small group of Yolngu at our door asking to buy Bibles. I was amazed and overwhelmed that God had answered my prayer so tangibly and quickly. At times, it is really hard to live remotely with small children. Some days stretch forever and I need every ounce of strength and creativity just to get through. Sometimes I would give anything to take the boys to a playground, to a museum, for a nice long drive, take them swimming at a beach with no crocodiles or drop them at their grandparents’ for the afternoon. But I am slowly understanding that God has called us into missions at this season of our lives, while our children are still little, so He knows our needs and we can trust Him. I go through moments of worrying about what our boys are missing out on by living so remotely, away from family and in a different culture. On the flip side, things other children might take for granted, ours appreciate as the greatest treats in the world. I am also thankful for the surrogate family God brings into our lives; MAF becomes a family that can speak into the boys’ lives as aunt, uncle and grandparent figures. Lately I am being reminded of all the things they gain from being here; things that are unique and to be treasured. Here we have all the time in the world for craft, reading stories, exploring and inventing games. I love that they think travelling in small planes or having bonfires in the backyard or on the beach are something everyone does. My boys have a home-made ship in the backyard that my husband made from an old bed frame and a clothes line destroyed by a recent cyclone. They yell ‘Sha!’ at camp-dogs and run around outside all morning with hoses and sticks. They know that when the store is stocked with fruit and their favourite flavoured milk, it is because the barge has come in. Sunday mornings mean pancakes followed by a trip up the hill to see if church is happening. Their world view is expanded and enriched by being here, going to playgroup with children from a different culture, hearing different languages, observing cultural differences,
and asking tricky questions about what they see. Hopefully they also see us attempting to live out our faith by being here and serving the Yolngu people. I want my boys to see my interactions and attempts to reach out to the Yolngu to be a natural part of who I am and to see that as Christians we are all missionaries. Since my prayer of surrender, I’ve had the joy of supporting a Yolngu lady with her Bible college homework, hosting Bible studies where we sing hymns in Gupapuynu with Yolngu believers and being part of equipping the Yolngu with Bibles and other materials for them to be encouraged and to share their faith. These are God’s people, and He has been working here far longer than I have. I am in awe that He is using me in the way He wants, in the way that He sees will fit best for our family, because I am being open to Him. He knows the desires of my heart. This is humbling and beautiful; the life of a mum and missionary.
Adele Purdey
The Promise Arnhem Land is a place of vast, untouched beauty. It is a place of campfires under a starlit night. It is a place of seemingly endless beaches. But, like everywhere else in this world, there is also lots of heartbreaking evidence of living in a fallen world. People die of cancer. Alcoholism and petrol-sniffing rip families apart. Teenage suicide is common, as are racism, domestic violence, illiteracy, unemployment, a crippling fear of evil spirits and black magic. Sometimes I ask myself what I have to offer in a place like this. I see women in desperate need of protection; sometimes we have given them shelter in our home, but this is a short-term solution. I see kids without enough food; maybe I give them a snack, but the need is constant. I try to fit visiting a grieving mother who has recently lost her daughter into a busy schedule, but she is nowhere to be found. I give someone a Bible, only to find out they can’t read. As a nurse, I try to make a difference in the field of health, but people lack basic understanding and there are too many other people waiting outside to give them the health education needed for a change. My best efforts fall short and seem like a drop in a vast sea. I don’t have enough time and definitely not enough patience and love. So what am I doing here? What can I offer when my best is not enough? Some weeks ago, I visited Numbulwar community where my family lived for four years. I spent the evening with a handful of ladies whom I had gotten to know during our time there. These women don’t have an easy life. I know I can’t ease their burdens much by my visit, and afterwards I will step right back into that plane again and fly far away from them and from their problems. But we read the Bible together and I taught them an action song called, ‘The Promise’ by The Martins. In a few lines it sums up what it is all about: Someone has promised one day to dry every tear, Someone who will not just come for a short visit and then leave again, but who is an ever present help in times of trouble. A Wonderful Counsellor. The Prince of Peace. God with us. No, I am not the answer to the suffering and injustice in Arnhem Land. But I know Someone who is, and I want my life and what I say and do to somehow point to Him. That might be through an action song, by feeding the hungry, by learning a few words in a new language, or by dressing a physical wound. The God for whom I want to be an ambassador has not necessarily promised his followers that this earthly life would be easy or comfortable. But He has promised what no one else has been able to offer the people of Arnhem Land, and what we all need the most when we are desperate: hope. Maria Zuglian
Photography Naomi Beath Mags Jaeger Kim Job Balz Kubli Brett Nel Adele Purdey Rich Thompson
Stories
Naomi Beath Lisa Curran Janneke Don Red Fulton Christie Giles Mags Jaeger Kim Job Adele Purdey Emily Vautier Anna Walmsley Maria Zuglian
Design
Naomi Beath Rebekah Somandin Rich Thompson