I came to Nigeria about two months ago now with an already established, and well-known, nickname:  J9.  

It began as a catchy way to explain the spelling of my full name:  Jea-nine… Jea-9… And then caught on as it’s own nickname over time… J9.

It has progressed over the years, at the hands of my little cousins, to incorporate Battleship references and odd buzzing noises, but the original nickname seems to have stuck across the board and across the years:  from home and extended family, to church circles, to Hope friends.

And now, to Africa.

One of my first weeks here in Nigeria, this nickname came up in conversation with a now close Nigerian friend. His excitement over this (what I thought to be) rather unimportant piece of my past (as in, life in the States) seemed to be slightly overinflated, at least in my opinion…

And then he explained:

“Jeanine, you’ve just moved to Jos, Nigeria. Don’t you see?!”

Jos, or otherwise known as J-town.

Nigeria, or otherwise known as Naija, or written as 9ja.

J-town, 9ja.  J9.    Jeanine. J9.

It was one of those moments, when in explaining to Joe-Shmoe on the street, that may seem to make for just a lighthearted coincidence.

But for me, it was more. Silly as it may be, it was a moment of overwhelming affirmation. A moment of wonder and amazement and awe that the Lord of the universe would choose to affirm this calling and new work in my life in even this, the most simple and insignificant of ways. How beautiful. And what a blessing.

And so, needless to say, J9 has not only followed me across the pond, but it has stuck quite readily.

Here’s to moments of undeserved grace.

Inside, silence. Outside… Well, outside… uproar.

Or, more accurately, trouble.

I am beginning to learn the lingo of this place, came the realization as I strolled back through our deserted Hillcrest campus. Trouble. Crisis. Wahala. Words all too familiar to the local J-town native.

Just an hour before, I stood guard at the door of the high school English room. Each of the 30 members of my junior class stood inside, awaiting the arrival of their parents or drivers. All after-school activities were cancelled. Trouble had descended upon Jos.

To those familiar with the ways of J-town life, this came as no real surprise. For the following day was an important Muslim holiday, the end of the Ramadan fast. And the Christians, well, they sought revenge. Revenge for transgressions committed on their sacred holiday last Christmas. Violence for violence.

During my fourth hour class earlier that day, we could hear shouting from the streets. Stopping to listen, one of my students remarked sarcastically that it “must be riots.” Later that day, after news from outside the compound had leaked in, as I stood watch at the door of that high school English classroom, she approached me again:  “Ms. DeJong, it seems I was right...”

Yes, she had been. If the subsequent military helicopters flying overhead had not been enough of an indicator, reports of trouble across town proved the veracity of her sarcasm. Later, I sat in my apartment, faced with a picture of the devastation…

Trouble had descended. Violence begetting more violence. There is no peaceful end to such cyclical warfare.

Sorrowful laughter never fails to arise when the slogan of Plateau State is playfully brought to light:  ”The Home of Peace and Tourism.”  Oh that one day it may again be so.

And then, a few days later, normalcy resumed. Well, the J-town version of normalcy, at least… School opened again after a week long ‘vacation,’ and people began to move about more freely.

“Welcome to the joys of Jos-living,” a new friend proclaimed. “Are you scared?”

In honesty, I replied, fear has not once crossed my heart. Not once have I felt threatened or in danger. One, because it’s not as bad as I know it could be. But ultimately, because our God has made it painstakingly clear that this is where I am to be. So why should I fear? Such peace must be attributed to his ever-abounding grace.

And though the troubles of this place may still bring me to my knees, there is a simultaneous beauty I cannot forsake. In the hustle and bustle of the marketplace, in the dancing through the aisles of an entire congregation during worship on Sunday, in the gentle face of the old security guard attempting to teach me his native language… How quickly I am falling in love.

And how eager I am to experience what the Lord has already set in motion for my time here, however long that may be.

In 2 days, I will arrive at my final destination:  Hillcrest School in Jos, Nigeria. To teach, to counsel, to learn, to testify, to live and love.

But ultimately, to glorify His Name.

I have one prayer for these next few years (however many years the Lord may call me to Western Africa):  that the glory would be to Him, and Him alone.

To Him, and Him alone. 

But we were made for community. We were created as a Body of believers. And though I am leaving the physical presence of this community, entering into one still new and unknown, I cannot do this alone. To my friends of faith, I seek your prayers. I seek your support through spiritual intercession. I cannot do this alone.

I will do my best to keep you updated along the way, to allow you a window into the new world the Lord will be showing me through these coming months. And I would love to hear from you along the way as well.

“Look at the nations and watch–and be utterly amazed. For I am going to do something in your days that you would not believe, even if you were told.” 

(Habakkuk 1:5)

Amen. Let it be so.

Not quite sure how we got here so quickly, but we are here all the same.

As some of you know, this new position as a missionary teacher in Nigeria has come about quite suddenly. Just four weeks ago, I sat in the booth of an Indiana Red Lobster, as the course of my life was altered. Since then, it has been a rat race of visa applications, immunizations, orientations, letter writing, packing, list making, question asking, last goodbyes, etc., etc. Insanity. But praise be to Him, for the sense of peace I have received in and through this process has been nothing short of a work of His hands.

Case in point:

I have to raise a hefty sum of money to support this ministry for the next year. And only just this past Thursday was I able to begin fund-raising (long story..). That’s 10 days before my scheduled departure. Pure insanity. So, Friday the support letters were sent out to family and friends. Today, Sunday, I sat in the family room running through the details of my budget, calculating out how much I would need to raise during each month of service for the next year. Just as I was beginning to reach the tailspin of an inward freakout, I heard a gasp from my mother in the kitchen. She was staring at her phone, reading a text from a family friend, tears rolling down her cheeks. For these family friends were sending word that they would be supporting me with 1/5 of the funds I need to raise. Tears welled within these eyes as well…

…because no one, but the Lord, knew that at that very moment I was beginning the rapid descent into an internal tailspin of despair and doubt regarding the financial details of this new venture. And at that very moment, the Lord swept in with sweet affirmation. What could I have ever done to receive such grace.

Sweet affirmation indeed. His hand has been all over this from the start. May I continue to live into full surrender.

And on another note, my brother Andrew is home from Afghanistan, as of just two days ago. Here’s to one week with the DeJong family all on the same continent, under the same roof.

And tomorrow, Andrew and I will jump out of a plane together. Here’s to skydiving with a sorely missed sibling.

Peace, friends.

I have actually spent more years in Canada on Canada Day than I have in the States for the 4^th of July. Go figure. 

But we’re here, visiting family again. And this time, visiting family I have not visited in a decade.

 Here, in the backwoods of Ontario. Where driveways are not driveways, but rather laneways. Beneath nighttime skies of glittered glory and shooting stars. In the peace and solitude of country. Around the table, out on the patio, with a meal and family as the sun fades into its last hours of the day.

 Yesterday, we wandered through a bustling farmer’s market, sat in on a beef auction, and jammed along with street performers.

 Yesterday, we caught an aerial view of the local landscape from the cockpit of a friend’s airplane. An emotional ride for me, my first ever in a two seater plane, after my friend passed away a year and a half ago in a plane crash of that exact kind. But from that view, I could feel what her last moments here on this earth had been, and I praised the Lord for the glory he revealed to her before ushering her into Eternal Glory.

 And then last night, we went dancing. And by dancing, I mean waltzing. And line dancing. And other forms of structured dance with funky 1-2, 1-2-3 steps I have never heard of before. This event is a weekly occurrence here with the local youth group. Country music sets the stage for teenage couples to waltz their way across the concrete floor. And then, after every dance, each boy walks his dance partner arm-in-arm back to her seat. As the females outnumber the males, the males confer to make sure each female is able to dance an equal number of times.

 Josh and I were floored. They had class, real class. We’re talking ages 14-20 here. And they were thrilled to have us join them.

 As soon as we walked into the dancing arena, we were bombarded with friends of our cousins. They wanted to know us. And as soon as they heard we were from Chicago, I received a barreling hug, followed by the exclamation, “I just love Americans!” And when they asked if we danced, we had to explain that our dancing is not quite like theirs. More… freestyling… shall we say. Within five minutes of arrival, I had been whisked away to the dance floor to learn the waltz with a gentleman of fine caliber. I only mildly failed.

 But by the end of the evening, Josh and I had not only mastered the waltz, we had also mastered the spin, dip, spin technique as well. (Though we may have almost rebroken his knee trying to get there…) And, by the end of the evening, we had shared some of our American dance moves as well.

 If you have ever seen Josh or me dance, you’re probably mortified by this thought. But here, we could do no wrong. And they practically begged us to teach them. So we did. Josh pulled out his most famous moves, such as the Carlton, the worm, the shopping cart, the white boy, etc. We also showed them little glimpses into the burning, and of course, we toyed with the idea of teaching them how to dougie, though it didn’t quite work with the country music selection they had going on.

 And finally, we taught them the Cha-Cha Slide. Earlier in the evening, they had done some funky, line-dancing version of the Cha-Cha Slide, and later we learned that they had taught it to themselves based upon just listening to the song. So we showed them our “American” moves. Josh and I got up front and lined everyone up, displaying the appropriate techniques for the Cha-Cha, Charlie Brown, reverse, etc. They were quick learners.

 It was quite the evening. An evening full of class, and a world removed from the typical evening of teenagers back home. I wish more than anything that if my cousins were to come visit us in Chicago that they would be greeted and ushered in with the same level of enthusiasm as we experienced here, but sadly, I know this would not hold true.

 Trips like this back to the motherland are always good for pulling me out of my suburban-want-to-be-urban bubble of an existence back home.

 Today, we move on to see more family. Oh, and Josh just dissected one of my uncle’s pigs out in the backyard. The heart and liver are just chillin’ on the table now.

 Happy Canada Day, from the backwoods of Ontario.

(Jeremiah 31:4)

He is the object of ridicule amongst our family and close friends. Because the dog is worthless.  No really, worthless. Logan eats, sleeps, and sleeps. He has a host of usual sleeping spots scattered throughout our home, rotating from one to another in a circular fashion, as though captured by an eternal ferris wheel of sorts. The big armed sofa chair, beneath the back door, the middle of the kitchen floor, atop the landing at the bottom of the stairs, beneath the draped table of the living room, back to the sofa chair. Day in, day out.

A sweet lifestyle, you say? Well, my friend, this dog is paying the price. He has been packing on the pounds like it’s nobody’s business. To fight this losing battle of obesity in Logan’s life, the family has taken to running him.

No, he does not run himself;  rather, he must be ran. It’s a good day if you can make it a full block before the dog gives up on extraneous exercise all together. The stupid canine is worthless. (And I say that as lovingly as possible. No need to call PETA..)

The other day, I decided to attempt such a running feat with Logan. I’ve always wanted a running buddy, and we both need to get back into shape. Welp, you can probably guess how well that run went… I will spare you the gory details, leaving you only with the embarrassing mental image of a sunny, 85 degree afternoon as my perspiring arms struggle to carry my over-sized, 32 lb furry mutt back to our home after a mere block and a half go of it. Embarrassing.

But before our dismal end to this afternoon’s exercise, Logan, surprisingly enough, taught me a valuable lesson.

As we were nearing the park, this canine of mine spotted the far off presence of a fellow canine. It’s uncanny, really, how they do that. One dog spots another dog, be it hundreds of feet away still, and takes of at a lighting pace to greet said friend. And Logan did just that, bolting towards this friend as though he had not seen a fellow companion in years. His enthusiasm was unwavering, and unabashedly returned by this fellow canine. So much so, that fellow canine’s owner and I were forced to coordinate diverging paths, for fear that we would never be able to separate our pets who were now acting with the enthusiasm as one who had just located an eternal soul mate.

Yet they had never met before.

Whoa.

Could you imagine how radically this temporal existence would transform if we humans acted with such enthusiasm at the presence of our fellow human beings? with such joy and unabashed desire for community? Now, my analytical friend, forgo the logistics of the chaos that would ensue on our almost 7 billion person plant if we each ran unrestrained towards our fellow beings, and rest merely in the simplicity of the picture.

Pure joy at the possibility of community. Genuine enthusiasm at the greeting of another.

And in that moment, as I struggled to hold back my canine from slipping through his collar and bolting off into the distance towards a new friend, in that moment, I wished to be him. To live like him. To embody these values.

Here’s to a day of embracing this world and its people as my dear dog did on that sunny afternoon– unrestrained, bursting with wonder and joy.

A year with quite a few changes. But what would a year be without change?

So this is my awkward transition, from a blog about a semester abroad, to the musings of a post-grad life. For now, this post will have to serve as the bridge over a year-long gap.

Yup.