like magic-

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As we drove away there at the end, two big crowned cranes were flaunting their feathers and trying to intimidate a goose off of her nest so they could eat the eggs.  We weren’t sure what sort of bird it was at first so- Stop the car! We got out for a closer look.  When the noise of the driving engine is stilled and you hear only the quiet crunch of grass and feel the intense equatorial UV rays all of a sudden, you get out of the car and feel the earth below and the sky above and you feel the freedom of the wild all around.  It's like magic.

Then we saw something else.  The unexpected tall heads pop up out of the trees.  Look!  Another one! Wow, over there! The Maasai Giraffes suddenly grazing on treetops just on the other side of the road.  One, two, three, four, o look at the baby!….Twenty!  With giraffes a big group like this is not called a herd or a pack.  They are called journey.

Man-Cub and I walk towards them.  I know they can kill a lion with a mere flick of the foot, but we don’t stand a chance of getting THAT close to them.  They, from on high sense our presence and turn in unison to look our way.  They are silent and gentle giants and we sense their presence too.  Each one stares at the other in expectation. 

My friend Beth gently helped me to learn about expectations.  My expectations often handicapped my experience of life in community.  When I wanted someone to be like me or think like me, I missed the true beauty of that person and our relationship was hindered.  Once my expectations opened up for people to be free as other and not just what I wanted them to be, then the wonder and the joy of relationship to God’s creation opened up. Beth is good at that.

So we watch the giraffes from waaaaaay down below and we step towards them in wonder-filled awe.  They stand their ground.  We step again and they turn the other way. We step up our pace to a trot and they begin to amble with two left legs and two right legs.  It looks like magic.  We begin to run and they, like a dream, move in silence and slow motion.  But they gain so much ground with each step that they are gone in no time.

They are a journey.  We too, are moving step by step in the journey.

"Your life is a journey, you must travel with a deep consciousness of God" I Peter 1:17 The Message

Then Again, Do Ask Me

Then again do.

Do ask me how it’s been.

I may give a blank stare and try to gauge your level of interest. But I do long to tell you.  I long for you to know. But these are things I might not tell you in person.

Ask me how was it, and I might say I was so made for this awkward cross-cultural thing.  We are really blessed so much by this experience that we might walk with Jacob’s limp for the rest of our lives.

If you ask are we going back, I will gaze with uncertainty and wish I could answer you in Kiswahili: Mungu atasema. (God will say).  The language and the culture here have a high tolerance for uncertainty. Most North Americans will find that (and me now) highly frustrating.

Ask Man-Cub how it was and he will answer “good”.  That is probably sufficient for most askers.

Yes there are stories of lions, elephants, giraffe chasing, and pure exhilaration.

But if you really want to know, catch me at the right time, send sonar signals telling me you really want to know, and I might tell you something like:  *proceed with caution as you may not want to read aloud the following:

Subsistence farmers with overdrafted bank accounts from buying maize seed that would not grow in a place with no buffers, no insurance for that sort of thing, symbolic mangled up guard rails along the precipice of the highway.

Rheumatic heart disease killing women because they had simple strep throat untreated so many times in life that her own immune system turns on her and infects the heart.  The heart that is to beat twice its normal capacity during pregnancy and just. Cant. Sustain. Anymore. Pressure.

She dies of a broken heart for another baby girl born in Kenya with no mama to love.

A few days ago, my friend Amy rescued 2 newborn baby girls who were victims of attempted infanticide.  One was left to exposure in the rain by the river overnight.  She is malnourished, but found in time to live.  The other. The other girl is probably a month old and has a broken arm.  It broke when she was. When she was thrown into a pit latrine.

Psalm 11

In the Lord I take refuge.        Selah.

How then can you say to me ‘ flee like a bird to your mountain’?  For look, the wicked bend their bows; they shoot from the shadows at the upright in heart.  When the foundations are being destroyed what can the righteous do?

The Lord is in his holy temple. 

The Lord is on his heavenly throne.

(Don’t you know that you yourselves are God’s temple? I Cor 3:16)

God is living in people like Amy.  She rescued these precious daughters of God because Amy is a little piece of the Kingdom of God.  She rescues children and people like me.  She is a friend who will help me in my loneliness; she packs my junk and gives a friendly Kenyan “push” when it’s time to go.  She will continue doing her work because of what God has done in her life.  

Some missionaries will try to tell you “you ought to be doing” (Most religions of the world are based on that idea).  But the Good news tells us “He has done it”.  He has done all the rescuing of all the cosmos and he has encountered all of this suffering in his own heart. 

What he has done is the long list of beautiful tiny bricks being laid in the Kingdom of God.  It may be a Kingdom that looks like mud huts, and milk cows for widows, and school fees for teenage girls.  He has done it.  He has built into his Kingdom medical training for young Kenyan healthcare workers.  He has built into his Kingdom more equipped Sunday School teachers.  He has built into his Kingdom a local translation of the Bible study that gives a storying pattern for the whole Bible from Genesis to Revelation seven times over.  He has built into his Kingdom the encouragement of medical staff and treatment of patients with love and respect.  And, He has healed.  His Kingdom does bring healing.  The mortality rates are high, but then again we are all of us, mortal.  But about 80% of the medical patients are discharged in better health.

Though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the ruler yet.  This is my Father’s World.

Sometimes it does feels like the gates of Hell are not far from the front door.  But then again, we know that they will not stand up against us.  The Kingdom is being built here after all.  So we opened the door.  Thank you for supporting us through it all for these past 2 years.  The Kingdom of God is at work in you too.

Tonight we take off to London with the full moon and the stars of the southern hemisphere and fly straight on till morning.  O Lord, Let your Kingdom come on earth as it is in Heaven.

Strong Father, strong daughter*

 

In Kenya, people like to know who you come from as much as where you come from.  To recite one's own family lineage is an important introduction skill. While not all fathers are good and I can surely sober you up pretty quickly with some stories of being a daughter in sub-Saharan Africa, I would like to reflect on my father in this piece as the one who gave me the freedom to be me.

He flew the F-4 Phantom- the strongest fighter jet ever known in the 1960’s on a mission to protect others and to put his life into a cockpit for the United States Air Force and the greatest nation on earth.  He himself never has boasted or told stories about it, just that he learned to shun alcohol and always defend the Red White and Blue from any threats foreign or domestic.  We don’t have to know any details but I learned to put my hand over my heart and stand to honor him and his friends that died in that mission to give our nation security and the freedom to speak our mind about it.

Some years later he would use that same loyalty of character to give security to his wife and daughters by providing for us a place to call home on this earth.

He took me to my first concert when I was 6-  Amy Grant‘s Unguarded tour in 1985.  I fell asleep.  But I know she sang a song called “My Father’s Eyes” and I was proud that my eyes are hazel like his; maybe not the point of the song to anyone else but me.

He carried me a long ways.  When we visited New York City in 1986 I was sick and no doubt whiny, but he carried me all the way up the steps inside Lady Liberty.  Patriotism was instilled: A love for my father’s and forefather’s land and liberties that cannot be taken lightly.

And my dad taught us to love God.

Then he took on a new mission in the early 90’s. 

He took us to AFRICA!

So when people ask how my family dealt with me moving to Kenya, I can say “My dad took me there first.”  I was secure in his blessing.  He taught me to love the whole world too.

Fathers provide security and strength and a picture of how we could know God.  Some dads only leave their sons and daughters with a longing for a better Father-God.  If that is you, my heart longs for you to also know the Father’s great strong love as it truly is.

But my joy is so great today in knowing I will be returning to his house soon. A place where he gives me the joy of inviting people into his home and knowing that everyone who enters will be blessed with a bowl of ice cream. The sign outside the door of my father’s house says in all truth “Shalom Y’all”.

They say a little girl will grow up to marry a man like her daddy.  And I say man! I am blessed beyond all imagination that that has been true in my life.  May it be so for our little girl too.

* borrowed without permission from the title of Meg Meeker's awesome book Strong Fathers, Strong Daughters

Passover

8a.m.Good Friday.

They were out of school because it is Good Friday.  Man-Cub would say “It’s Good Friday because we are outta school”.  So they played to their hearts content in the glorious freedom of MK’s in Africa. 

5p.m.Passover. 

Tonight we got to participate in our first Passover dinner.  The kids watched Prince of Egypt and we are reading in a story bible about the Exodus.  It’s a different emphasis on the meaning of this day, but one I am glad to be connecting in the synapses of their heart and heads.  Freedom.  Deliverance.

7:30p.m.Two little kids falling asleep all over me at the church service tonight.  How am I going to get them home? Daktari was here with us a minute ago, but he was paged up to help a lady with pulmonary embolism who isn’t going to make it through the night.  Now the lights of the meeting room are dimming and the candles being extinguished and it’s raining- the blessed rain that makes such sweet melodies on these tin roofs.  How am I going to get these children home?

“I’m carrying you home baby”, I say as she feels the cold water from the sky hit her sweet little legs.  Two Kenyan defense forces security guards are patrolling the night with great big guns hanging around their necks.  They ask me “habari mtoto?”- How’s the child?  I tell them she’s just sleeping and thank them for their work here.  We appreciate them. 

I think about the Roman soldiers patrolling the night in Jerusalem, Mary and Jesus, the Pieta. We sang O Sacred Head Now Wounded up there in the meeting room on the hill, just inside the staff gate of the hospital. 

I think about Garissa, Kenya.  147 mothers wanting more than anything to carry their sons or daughters home from there. 147 fathers waiting more than watchmen wait for the morning to hear from a son or daughter that they will still be coming home.  These were the valedictorians, the top students in high school.  They have to work so, so hard to get to a university in Kenya.  Their families have worked unbelievably hard at raising funds to get a student through university in Kenya.  Now the families will be carrying them home for burial.

I cannot process this event.  I cannot fathom the shock and grief and outrage.  Writing helps.  But really I can only carry my babies home and be so thankful for their sleepies that keep them needing me.  Their little requests for water at night, for one more story and the contented sigh of well-entered rest inside the mosquito net keep my heart so thankful for them.  They have no idea.

10a.m.Tomorrow- we will get up and scramble around like crazy candy addicts searching for bright plastic eggs and try to connect it all somehow to Jesus. 

6a.m. Sunday- We will watch the sunrise over a big wooden cross and stand in its shadow to decorate it with flowers.  147 mothers and 147 fathers will stand in the shadow of the cross somewhere all over Kenya with their shock and grief and outrage, and they will be able to look up at the Father who saw His Son die for them.  And He will say “I’m carrying your baby home too”.  Lord, please.  Let them see that you are there.

Seasons

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Cattle being herded through the capital city streets, mountains of mangos for sale on tables piled high with big black avocados. A thin layer of dirt is veiling everything and a sun radiating brilliantly into the pollution of a city bursting at the seams.  Nairobi.  They are zooming past the industrial age and into technology and Chinese investments shaped like enormous concrete monoliths of Babel as they scrape skywards out of poverty. 

We go to the city once in a while to be away from the weight and nearness of tragedy in the hospital.  We go to buy chicken and cheese and coffee (mostly to buy coffee really).  Nairobi is exhausting in a different way so it relocates the normal stress and that is good enough to call it a “break”.  It is a changing place and gives us a change of pace.

Daktari is hard at work this Saturday morning where 50% of his patients live with HIV or die with AIDS, and the other 50% have heartbreaking illnesses too but are just more complicated to understand and impossible to deal with.   Sometimes all a person can do is to be there as the face of Love to the dying.  He doesn’t pretend anymore to be the face of hope.  But the Love of God is constant.

  In the cool dark of this morning, tropical birds call me to rise and get to the day’s work before the day gets to me, and a beautiful African song echoes up the hill from a nearby school.  This may be what it was like for Eve or Lucy or whoever at the dawn of time in Africa. Pure and perfect for a moment.

But today I’d rather listen to Alan Jackson.  He reminds me of where I come from.  Country music is a still life in a swirling world of changes.  It’s good to remember where you come from when you come from somewhere like my home.   The constant of home is in moms and dads and sisters and cousins who love us and in the churches who sent us out with love and generous prayers for our journey.  It is the strength of deep roots allowing us to branch out so far into this unexplainable, unpredictable and ruggedly beautiful place.

The strength of constant love at home is allowing our children to exhilarate in their free-range lifestyle here.  They climb to breathtaking heights in trees.  They soar in the green meadows.  Like Kenya, they too are zooming through developmental years, growing taller and more angular with each new morning.   Their dirty feet signify a good day’s work and the thorns remind them of their vulnerability.  They are learning what it means to be at the mercy of the rains and the Maker of the Rains.  We take them to the river to watch the water levels fall and rise.  And to pray.

Like Kenya and our kids, our seasons are changing.  Rains have come like an Amazing Grace on a tin roof.  We are in the 4^th quarter of our 2 year term. Hope is perched mid-summer on the calendar for that mythical land called home.  But changes come to us all and home will be changed, as we will be changed.  Yet Love remains the constant.  And since it’s Saturday, I’ll just sit still and listen to Alan Jackson for a while.

out of orbit

Do you remember motorcycle carnival rides where all the motorcycles ride around and around making lots of noise and lots of little children feel so happy and tough at the same time?

Bomet, our town, looks about like that except the ride spun out of orbit and all the colorful pleather and chrome scattered everywhere.

Motorbike taxis are a main source of income for young men these days.  They are also the main source of orthopedic patients at the hospital.  Driving a car on the highway amongst them can feel like a bird flying in a swarm of bees.

Sometimes the wind here is so strong that I feel like the whole planet is being flung out of orbit on one of those carnival rides.  Or maybe it’s just on the far reaches of a seasonal eclipse around the sun.

You know, we are just right below the equator so when seasons change we are the reverse of you “northerners”  (Did you ever think you’d be called that? Don’t worry I would never call Georgians and Tennesseans and Alabamians by that northerner term usually affixed to a prefix).

Yes, things are often the reverse of “normal” here.  And we are in the southern half of the world now where People are people through people.  That is, Africa is to relationships as North America is to individualism.  Mother T. used to say “loneliness is the leprosy of the West”.  Poverty of relationships is indeed true poverty. 

So I am indeed blessed and thankful in this upside down place.  While nothing good comes in the news out of Africa these days let me tell you, people here are people because of relationships with people.  I can stay holed up in isolation of the different house we’ve just moved into and try to locate where the heck is the scotch tape in this place- or I can walk 50 yards (45 meters), to the shops and shake hands with 10 people who all ask how I’m doing, how is my home, how are my kids, and where am I going. 

I am thankful for the wildness of an African rain that commands such respect all humanity stops together in our tracks until she passes by.  I am thankful for the beauty of obtrusively orange honeysuckle vines climbing over an otherwise gray stone building. It’s like Tennessee orange wisteria, ya’ll.  And I’m thankful for the stark rainbow of colors that African women wear like a kaleidoscope of beautiful black, brown, and boldness.  I like to see their reactions when I try to wear some of that funkytown.  We could say it’s good for building relationships perhaps.

So wild and out of control, that’s kinda what you hear about Africa isn’t it?  The idol of control is not worshipped here anyways.  Maybe that’s why I like it so much.  Maybe I find comfort in the ambiguity of plans as long as everyone is happy.

Can I ask you a favor?  Will you speak kindly and sincerely to someone in the store or on your street today?  Can you alleviate the loneliness of your neighbor by just showing up in your humanness too?  It might be off your normal orbit, but that could be truly a beautiful and wild ride.

On Triumphalism and Daddys

 

Palm trees wave their hands in the hot humid air.  Hosanna.  Lord save us.  Set us free.  See how your king comes to set his people free…

In the church I grew up in, we took communion every week.  It was the Lord’s Supper done in remembrance of his death, burial, and Resurrection.  If you missed Sunday morning for whatever mysterious reason, you could take it at the Sunday evening service.  For 14 years I felt terribly awkward around the Lord’s Supper because that was how old I was when I was baptized, as in issued a ticket.

Last Sunday we were at the Kenyan coast for an organizational retreat.  For the first time in seven months I got to take the Lord’s Supper.  Seven months.  After a practice that is central to my church experience once (or twice!) a week every Sunday for nearly 35 years, that’s a long dry spell.  It came following a message which I was eagerly devouring as well, but won’t re-hash completely, about the “Triumphal Procession” that is mentioned in 2 Corinthians 2:14 and Colossians 2:15. 

The image of the Greek word θριαμβεύω “triambuo” is actually the victory parade of a Roman army returning with the spoils of war, and there at the back of the line after the ticker tape and hurrahs, there comes the POW’s chained and destined for the arena to be killed by lions.   So St. Paul describes our station in life as that part of the triumphal procession.  The end.  The POW’s. Being lead out of the kingdom of darkness, into the Kingdom of the Son He Loves. 

And I was so happy to be marching slowly up the aisle at the end of that triumphant procession.  But I missed my church back in Tennessee too.  Then, I thought of them doing this exact same thing.  We process forward to receive into our bodies little bits of the Body of Jesus and little bits of the Life of Jesus.  And then my homesickness melted into something sweet and unifying.  There they are too- following the careful procedures of which aisle to take, which element and which manner to take it.  Looking around, who’s here today?  What are they going through today? How’s his chemo I wonder? When’s her baby coming? Look how they take the children with them! O- I love this song, if only I could remember the 2^nd verse… Jesus, this looks like a wedding and look at those wedding partiers processing up the aisle to meet you!  I loved being the bride!  And now, I receive you, Lord.  Not just your supper.  But You.  Your death and your Beautiful Life that chases it down.

And I remember.  I am part of you still.  Nothing will separate me from your love.

There were 6 missionary kids last week that gave a testimony- their story of faith.  (Ask somebody what that word means in Greek sometime!)  And then they were baptized in the crystal Indian Ocean.  And it was less dying as POWS at the end of line than it was Daddys loving their daughters.  They came, willing to be buried in the water and made Alive in Christ.  And their Daddys were there, like mine was for me when I was 14, saying to them: My daughter, I have always loved you.  Even before this day.  I love you and you make me so happy just being you.  I will do anything to rescue you from your darkness.  Anything.  

The out takes: 

little American Gothic

this guy was interested in baptism.  Mostly he was interested in how long they holdya under.  Good question for 6 yr olds.  And seminarians.

more than words

simple present tense

The kids are watching the preview for Toy Story 3 (Andy goes to college) and I'm tearing up. Somebody please.  Stop personifying kids toys and making my heart ache over these fleeting moments of little pleasures.  It’s a present tense nostalgia.  It's the fear of missing it. My friend Mary said she was so happy at her son’s high school graduation while all the other moms cried, she was really celebrating his accomplishments without regrets.  She just delights in the simple present tense.  I have so much to delight in our simple present tense too.  Like 20 people eating homemade missionary pizza in our house on Friday night, watching Toy Story.

I usually think of our man-cub as more like Buzz Light-Year than Andy, the boy that grows up.   But he is changing.  People do that, you know?  He went and turned six this week. 

I wasn’t planning this to be any big deal.  In fact, I wasn’t planning much celebration because I got lost under the stress of waiting for a work permit to come through for Daktari, which it did.  Hallelujah and happy birthday to us from the Government of Kenya! Thankfully we live in a mission community that is somewhat like living in a yellow submarine and a friend offered to plan a party for us to have together with their son turning 2 years old.  It was quoted as being “An awesome birthday party” too.

Missionary kid birthday parties are so great and so simple.  No Pintrest pressure to perform, no need to collect clout with cute cupcake presentation, no pressure on kids even to give presents really.  Mostly we dig in our little closets for something that would be a nice up-cycled gift, or maybe find something local like a stone carved animal or goat skin drum.  The little things really mean a lot to us at six. 

We don't mind at all if you wear tie dye and plaid on the same day. In Africa you are judged not by the color of clothes you wear, but by the content of your character. 

Man-cub, you are my big Kindergartener who can bound out the kitchen door at lightning speed yelling to the world “I love you mom!” as you take yourself to school every morning.  Or to infinity and beyond, whichever.

There are little joys we share here like a dad coming home for lunch every day to take an intermission from the dramatic realities of intensive care medicine in rural sub-Saharan Africa.  You are starting to get it a little at a time.  And when we see you show compassion in your own way to your kittens or the neighbor kids, my heart wells up to overflow.  It's in the here and now for you too.

You beg for tickle time and you love it even though you let me in on your secret the other day about losing your ticklishness. But we both pretend it never happened cause I can’t handle that kind of change so suddenly.  Let’s just enjoy you today.

Just a simple little five years of present tense moments have gone by building for us the two best accomplishments of my life.  You and your little sis. You make me proud.

And now you are six.  

Power Surges

On Power Surges

The hospital’s hydro-electric dam is not steadily running the local power source until a 3^rd turbine is built.  How one inserts a new turbine into an already built hydro-electric dam I could not tell you.  I can’t help but imagining a little Dutch boy is down there sticking his finger in it though.  Bet he’s tired too.

Hence we have power outages frequently and irregularly.

Our little Miss cannot cope when the power goes out at bedtime and the little princess night light in her room goes black.  So we light candles and flashlights and wonder if all the overhead lights are switched off in case we are asleep when the power surges back on in the night.

Today the power was out when Michael went to play racquetball.  Yes, there is a racquetball court at Tenwek. And yes, he did try to play racquetball in the dark. 

Brown outs: warn us of the pending darkness and surge of electricity when it ends.  They are actually worse than black outs (unless one is playing racquetball) because the power will fluctuate up and down and destroy electronics.  And I ain’t talking about my hairdryer.

Hospital CT scanner: burnt out.  The $100,000 light bulb couldn’t withstand the surge of electrical ups and downs from power surges.  For Daktari, it means he has to guess what is going on inside the patient’s heads (which he’s pretty good at, at least for me).  But these patients come in with embolisms and blood clots and abscesses left and right.  Not knowing for certain from an image is risky business too. 

Burnt out: what happens when people get too tired from 6 months in living cross culturally with no break nearby.

Even my indiglo watch light is burnt out. Not like I need to actually know what time it is after dark anyway.  It’s time to be asleep is all I know.

So here is the little story of some ups and downs that came in our life recently leaving us feeling dizzy, shocked, and thankful.

Last September, we entered Kenya on a visitor visa and had applied for a work permit.  We were told that having applied for the work permit was good enough to begin work.  Due to many factors, Kenyan immigration has slowed some things down lately on issuing work permits and apparently our name was not at the top of the stack for any of the meetings leaving us in a 3month + backlog. On March the 3^rd our visitor visa would expire and we would need to leave the East African community to the nearest, cheapest, safest place in order to exit, re-enter, and get a new visitor visa.  We were prepared to head north to the Land of the Giles: Ethiopia.  We even have good friends there in the capital city- Travis, Emily, and baby Clare Weeks.  However, the US Embassy in Nairobi notified us that to be working under any circumstance in Kenya (even unpaid) on a tourist visa was ill advised, illegal, and potentially hazardous to your health.  Hmm hmm.

Wow.  We are undocumented workers.  What were we to do?  We found out about a special work pass that could take a month or more to process but would cover us until the long-term work permit was cleared.  Well, for a month or more what were we to do?  Brown out.

That was Friday last week.  Saturday I helped lead a seminar for about 30 Sunday School leaders and teachers out in a village where a pastor and his wife have a children’s home with about 50 orphaned kids living.  It is a lovely place with glossy concrete walls of manilla and sky blue trim.  Standard issue rust colored concrete floors.  I find myself oddly attracted to these typical paint schemes and I think “ah that is mid-century chic” (my enculturation rate may be febrile).  There were panorama vistas in the chapel overlooking the green hills that are quilted with tea farms, fallow fields of failed maize crop, trees, and nice wooden stitching of fences.  The window looking up the hill lures with a flowerbed of cosmos.  Oh yeah, I was teaching too, sure.  T

rying to encourage a room full of Sunday School teachers who are young teens and old men, and they each have about 50 kids each week sitting under a tree, struggling to convey the message of the gospel without props when some of them don’t even have a Bible of their own to start with! (Something we will be working on soon.)  But there I was, lost in the cosmos.  Gloriously delighted to be lost in green pastures, beside still waters, at the place of songs.  At this moment, I think, this is what I’m here for!  Power surge.

But I do miss home.  We miss our family.  We miss our times at the Mexican restaurant by Kroger, we miss stability, we miss anonymity, and so much more.  So maybe this will be time for us to go back to the States for a few weeks.  Or more.  So we sent out an urgent prayer request on Sunday morning, seeking wisdom, grace, favor, etc.  And we concluded that indeed for far too many years have far too many white people put themselves above the Kenyan law and created a cycle of symbiotic disdain.  But we are here to be whole Gospel people, not indispensible medical saviors or missionary super saints who would go to jail for our right to treat people and not submit to authorities.  Because this story is bigger than what we can see- this story that goes back to a long, long time ago, when a man looked up in the pitch dark of an ancient near eastern night sky and seeing the stars burn from billions of miles away with the beacon of light that still reaches my eyes today.  They echo to me: live by faith.  And we put our dream on the altar.  We would submit to the authorities and leave those 50+ patients to be unseen by Mr. Daktari Monday morning.  We will live by faith, even though fear knocks at the door.  The fear started to tell me “you may be gone for a long time before your work permission is granted”.  And I cried to think of our kids missing this dreamy life they have.

Sunday morning I was watching a banana leave wave in the wind and its chartreuse reflection on the polished wood floors.  I listened to Andrew Peterson sing “Hosanna.  See the long awaited King come to set His people free.  We cry Oh Hosanna.  Come and tear the temple down, raise it up on holy ground.  Hosanna”.  The Gospel is lifting up the lowly and bringing down the haughty. 

Monday morning there was a pre-scheduled executive board meeting at the hospital.  Michael was getting dressed to go to work because he is a creature of habit and loves going to work.   But he didn’t go.  Back and forth.  Up and down.  Emotions were on the same power grid as our house.  Then we got word.

The medical superintendant told the board we had this problem and would not come to work until it was legal to do so.

 Within minutes someone was on the phone with someone else and deciding that there would be a special pass for work issued tomorrow!  The immigrations office would also renew our visa to be here tomorrow!  It was a battle of our hearts over right and wrong and hubris v. humility. Someone else was able to fight it for us, thanks to the many prayers from you all.

So now we are still here at Tenwek, keeping calm and carrying on after all the surges of emotions.  And left dizzy by the goodness of our God.

And we have a one-month extension on our visas now, in hopes that the long term permit comes through by March 26.

And the CT scanner has a new bulb being installed too.  So when Daktari gets back to work tomorrow, (legally) he can really see what’s going on inside people’s heads. Light in the darkness.  Dazzling light.