In the years that I have lived overseas (7 years combined), I have at times found myself in unexpected situations, doing things that I doubt I ever would have done had I stayed in the US.

For example, when I was a Mormon missionary in Italy in my early 20s, I taught a couple of lessons to some Egyptian men in an old, condemned building that was illegally occupied by a bunch of Arabs who paid monthly “rent” to drug lords.  Oh, and the building had no electricity or running water, so we taught our lessons by candles and flashlights.  Though it seemed like a completely reasonable thing to do at the time, with a little hindsight, it was probably not the smartest place for two young American women to be.

This is probably the first time my mother is hearing this story.  Sorry Mom.

(Note to my kids:  If you ever find yourself in a position to enter a electricity-less, condemned building in a foreign country that is occupied by Arab men and run by drug lords, don’t.)

In the past few years, I have found myself in a few other unexpected situations.  Though the others haven’t been as stupid as the story above, they have at times been quite heart wrenching.

I once took a woman to prison.  I drove her to the prison and stayed by her side as she turned herself in.  Then tearfully hugged her and told her how strong she was just before she walked alone through the heavy metal doors.

I’ve taken food, clothing and toiletries to women in prison and tried to be encouraging as we talked through glass barriers.

I once talked a woman through a divorce while simultaneously helping to get her husband deported.

Then today, I found myself in another unexpected situation when I had to tell a woman, who was 6 months pregnant, that she has malaria.  I then drove her to the hospital and escorted her to the ICU.  Once I was confident that she was in capable hands, we tearfully hugged as I left.

Sometimes I wonder how a little girl from Utah gets herself into these kinds of situations.  But I’m grateful for the opportunities I’ve had to grow in compassion and to develop better understanding.  Through these experiences, and so many others, I have developed a unique world view.  I have seen God’s love for his children, wherever they live.  And it has changed me.

I know a lot of people who don’t like to spend time alone.  I am not one of those people.  In fact, I find that I need a certain amount of time alone.  And I’m pretty sure that the last time I spent a whole night alone, I was in my 20’s.

Since I became a mother 20 years ago last Tuesday (Happy Birthday Cecily!), I have spent very little precious time alone.  And though I love my husband and children, and I will forever be grateful to be a wife and mother, sometimes I find myself wishing they would all go away … for just one night.

Does this make me a horrible wife and mother?  Maybe.  But, whatever.

When I got out of bed at 6:15 this morning, there were 8 people in this house: my husband, my 4 kids, my mother-in-law, and our helper.  And now, a mere 13 hours later, there is no one here but me.  And I don’t plan to see another human being until tomorrow around noon.

I’m giddy with excitement!

Where are they all you ask?  Well, our helper is home with her family; Jason, my mother-in-law, and my girls are driving to Cape Town; and my boys are in Johannesburg for school functions.  My boys should be home around noon tomorrow and then the three of us are hopping on a plane to Cape Town to meet up with the rest of the bunch.

When I told my friend Amy that I would be spending an entire night alone in the house, she wondered if I would be a little afraid.  NOPE!!!  I live in Fort Knox, for heaven’s sake!   I honestly don’t see how a mere human could get through all the layers of security that surround my house.  I’m feeling pretty safe.

One night of this is all I need.  I’m sure that tomorrow night I’ll be glad to be reunited with the whole gang at our rental home at Camps Bay in Cape Town.  And I’m looking forward to waking up again next to my husband again on Sunday morning.  But for now, I’m in my pjs and fuzzy pink robe, enjoying the sweet, sweet sound of silence.

And it’s heavenly!

Some people were not meant to scuba dive.  We are those people.

We spent the last few days at Sodwana Bay and St. Lucia on the eastern coast of South Africa.  Jason set up scuba lessons for himself, Elizabeth, Ben and me.  Noah was certified last year on a school outing in Jordan.  In the US, it can take weeks, if not months to become scuba certified.  In much of the rest of the world, it can be done in a weekend.

While Noah went off diving, the rest of us spent the first morning of certification in a classroom, watching boring videos and taking written tests.  We all passed with flying colors.  Yea us!!!

Then we spent the afternoon at the dive pool.  First we learned how to assemble and disassemble all of our gear.  Passed!!!  Yea us!!!

Then we had to prove to the instructor that we could float or tread water for 10 minutes without help.  Passed again!!! Yea us!!!

Then we geared up and into the pool we went.  At the deepest end, the pool was 3 meters deep.  When we made our first descent I was immediately overcome with nausea.  I tried so hard to suck it in; and for the most part, I was successful.  But by our 7th or 8th descent, I lost it.  I shot back to the surface, swam as fast as I could to the side; whereupon, I lost my lunch at the side of the pool.  A small fraction of my lunch may or may not have found its way into the pool.

We asked our instructor if he had ever had anyone throw up before.  He had students throw up over the side of the boat on the way out to dive in the ocean, but never at the pool.

I was the first.  It was not a proud moment.

I knew that if I couldn’t make it through the pool portion of the certification without throwing up, there was no way I was going to make it through the ocean portion.  If 3 meters made my stomach churn, imagine what 12 meters would do!  That evening, I continually imagined myself the next morning throwing up my Corn Flakes while simultaneously aspirating star fish.

So I graciously bowed out, making myself the first Hale Scuba Certification Dropout.  Again, I’m not proud.

The next morning, while Noah went off on another fun dive, Jason, Ben and Elizabeth set off for their ocean certification.  Ben made it about 1 meter underwater where he wasn’t able to equalize the pressure in his ears due to a cold he was suffering from, making himself the second Hale Scuba Certification Dropout.

Jason and Elizabeth both made it the 12 meters down to the ocean floor, but only after Elizabeth pleaded with her dad to not make her do it and Jason secretly convinced they were all going to die.  Though they made it the furthest, neither of them passed the ocean portion of the certification, becoming Hale Scuba Certification Dropouts #3 and #4.  I’m sure our instructor now thinks that all Americans are pathetic wimps.

Surprisingly, none of us feel particularly bad about our failures.  And none of us want to go near scuba gear ever again.  We can all readily admit that we were not meant to scuba dive.  Except for Noah–who admitted later that he didn’t remember anything from his certification and was actually winging it.

We’re all lucky to be alive.

While at Sodwana Bay, we stayed in a charming chalet in a local neighborhood.  On a number of occasions during our stay, a local kid would hide in the bushes behind the back fence of our chalet and sing his heart out.  My guess is that he thought that there was a chance that we were American music producers who were traveling around Africa looking for the next great singing sensation.  I’m sure he was pretty disappointed when we pulled away without taking him to meet Ryan Seacrest.

And speaking of our chalet, it was surrounded by naughty monkeys who would run around on the tin roof early in the morning–sounding like someone was rolling logs off the roof.  At one point, one of them climbed in the kitchen window and, while straddling the window sill and countertop, ate most of a loaf of bread.  Here is one of them eating a plum that Elizabeth put out on the back table for them.

This is Noah.  He turned 16 today.

Noah’s entrance into this world was accompanied by the screams of his mother.  He was born 50 minutes after his mother’s first contraction and 15 minutes after she arrived at the hospital.  No time for the epidural.

It was not my greatest moment.

Noah didn’t see any need for painkillers then and he has been just that low maintenance ever since.

His 16th birthday has been as low maintenance as he is.  Though we offered to take him out for steak and ribs, all he wanted was homemade chocolate cake:

A whole cheese pizza to himself and the Apple TV remote:

Clearly, we obliged.

It doesn’t take much to make Noah happy.  A piece of cake, a pizza and a remote.  The girl he eventually marries is going to have it pretty easy.

So Happy Birthday to my Noah; who, besides being low maintenance, is funny, kind, obedient, giving, easy going and keeps a spotlessly clean bedroom.

That last one is a lie.  He’s a absolute slob.  And, as a result, the birthing screams were not the only time he’s heard his mother raise her voice.