Mom and I sat together in the waiting room, leaning toward each-other in whispers, both of us a little sad. We did a lot of waiting on Thursday at Sloan Kettering. Dad had a full day at the cancer center in New York - his home away from home. There’s been some significant developments in the course of his illness in recent days. The doctors continue to see low numbers of leukemia cells in his blood - they say he’s in a “first remission” - which is good news. But the terminology betrays the inescapable reality of dad’s disease. It will return, and in fuller force than the first time. And if he’s fortunate enough to have a second remission, there will be a third relapse some time after. And so on. It is a losing battle, which was blissfully forgotten by us all for a little while this past month as dad returned to his office at the church, and to a somewhat normal family life. It has been too short though. He is getting steadily weaker from the harsh blow of chemotherapy to his body. And even as each blood test comes back in remission, we are not pretending that all is well.

Just a week ago, however, we learned from his doctors that they had identified a blood match. There was no match to be found in the national bone marrow donor database (seven million strong) but several were found in a similar bank of cord blood. It turns out that the blood cells in otherwise discarded umbilical cords are full of potential. They can be collected at birth and frozen for stem cell transplants years later. In recent years, researchers have discovered ways to make cord blood work to treat leukemia in adult patients. Dad’s doctors were excited to give him the news. Statistically, he’s already beaten tremendous odds just to be eligible. And the doctors want to do the procedure soon to keep him ahead of the odds.

The news was received with mixed emotions last week. There was some relief that a match was found - we could have easily been told that there was no possibility of a transplant, after which we could only think of our time with dad in the context of months instead of years. But the procedure is a risk, and no one is more aware of this than dad. Listening to his doctor, dad's countenance turned introspective and somber, like a soldier in those last awkward moments before being deployed to war.

A bone marrow transplant (or a blood stem-cell transplant, which is what dad will be getting) is, in itself, not a really big deal. It’s simply a couple vials of blood infused through an IV line. But the preparative regimen which leads up to the transplant is an assault. And the months that follow, a battle. Winning means gaining the potential for lots and lots of years added onto one’s life.

Since getting sick in January, dad has continually told my mom that he will do whatever the Lord puts in his path to fight the cancer. If God opens up a door, he’ll step through it. And if He doesn’t, he’s OK with that because he’s in God’s hands. This is not just religious talk from a guy who works at a church. I’ve seen dad living his faith this past month - evident in one of those great paradoxes of God’s design: As dad gets weaker, it seems he is getting stronger.

Mom is perhaps getting stronger too, but she wears her fears a little more outwardly. She cried some between sentences as we spent the long day together at the hospital, talking about everything and anything. “Do you ever wonder,” she asked quietly,“why me?” We were in the waiting room at the pulmonary function testing center. Dad was with doctors engaged in one of many, many tests required before his transplant. It was the first test of the first day of ten days of preparations before six weeks of medical isolation for dad. After that would be six months of recovery at home and an uncertain future. Mom was starting to feel the weight of what was ahead. And I was there trying to figure out how I could help her carry it.

Today, I could only do that by being with her and laughing together. Then, keeping watch and giving mom some time to get away and arrange flowers at the recreation center, sitting together again, sharing a hot chocolate, and trying to encourage her.

Dad fell asleep during a two-hour IV drip and I got a call from Kenya. I walked out of the treatment suite he was in, and over to a hallway with a window. As I looked out over the upper east side of Manhattan, my heart was taken back to Africa. Jim called to tell me the details of an aircraft accident we had in Sudan this past Saturday. At a place I’ve been to many times, in an airplane I know like a friend, one of my colleagues and four missionaries had crashed on takeoff. The plane, destroyed. But the hand of God, evident from the moment the plane came to rest upside down in a ditch. No-one seriously hurt. Grace pouring out like the hundreds of gallons of jet fuel. The missionaries, now resolved more than ever to press on working at that difficult and oppressive place. The airplane, already in the process of being replaced. The team, pulling together because they have to.

It was hard news to hear just days ago when I got the first phone call. An aircraft accident is a really big deal, even if the injuries are only minor, and I know everyone at AIM AIR will be affected by it. Our team was already stretched with flying this season, and my departure in March didn’t help any. While listening to the few, sketchy details last Saturday, my stomach was in knots. And my first thoughts were of the “why” variety that mom had just expressed to me. Why now? Why are we not there to help? I’m sure the guys back in Kenya have been asking the same kinds of questions. Especially the pilot. I’ve been there. At a muddy little strip in Sudan, not entirely sure how the airplane will perform. It could have happened to me.

But after talking to Jim, as I stood there with my emotions stretched between two different worlds, I began to get a picture of God working through the wreck. I wouldn’t claim to know “why” this happened. Or why it happen now as opposed to last year. Or why it happened to someone else and not me. But I could say for sure that I see God has a plan. This would be a lot harder to say if there had been fatalities.

Mom and dad are facing a "crash" in slow motion. It’s inevitable. What remains to be seen is where the pieces fall and how both of them will come out of it. When mom asked me if I ever wondered “why me?” it was because she was wondering that very thing. I didn’t have an answer for her, but she found one in the course of the conversation without my help. She told me that she believed God was doing something through this. And that His plan probably isn’t only for her and dad, but for someone else too. I thought mom answered her own question wisely.

Actually, what she said answers a lot of questions.


Mike's parents: Matt and Carina


~~~~~~~
News:
The aircraft pictured in the header graphic on this web page (5Y-SPK) is the one that was destroyed.
You can read a news report about the accident on the SIM website, and possibly an update at aimair.org.
Dad's admission date for the stem-cell transplant is probably May 14th. He will be in isolation for six weeks.
Until dad is stable again, Renee and I have postponed any furlough traveling.
We will begin working with AIM in New York in June.

Below is text from a newsletter we just mailed out. Folks who rely on the USPS for news from us are somewhat less informed than those of you who read the blog, but there's still some "new" news in this quarter's letter that you may be interested in.
~~~~~~~

dear friends,

Hoping this letter finds you well. We are, somewhat unexpectedly, in the United States right now. In case you didn't already know that, this letter should fill you in on some of the "why and where, and what next?" Our family arrived in New Jersey on March 8th... but our trip home started on December 26th.

It was then that I called my parents from Kenya to wish them a Merry Christmas. It was not a very good holiday for my folks. I found out that dad had just gone into the hospital with some unexplained pains after a short time of not feeling quite right. Over the next couple of weeks, in the midst of our government falling to pieces there in Kenya, we learned that dad had an aggressive form of leukemia.

Renee and I struggled for a short while on what to do. It was clear that I couldn't leave her and the kids alone with all the political instability around us, but we also couldn't "dart" home to NJ and then back again without counting the cost of such a trip. So, we kept in close contact with my parents for about a month as we put together a plan. Friends from all over the U.S. donated the extra money we needed for plane tickets, and friends close to our hearts in Kenya helped us on our way emotionally. We had not planned on being home again until December of this year, and so our arrival was premature. We are currently home on what AIM calls "Compassionate Leave."

We came back at just the right time. Dad is in between battles right now. The first, as he fought for his life, took over a month at a renown cancer center in New York City. The next, will likely occur about a month from now as he goes back for a bone marrow transplant. In between, dad is on outpatient chemotherapy while he lives a life with as much normalcy as he can muster. He's adding to these weeks a good dose of the grandchildren, and meaningful time with Renee and I.

It has been wonderful to re-enter mom and dad's lives during this trial. They have been well supported by thoughtful friends and the church family over the past several months. But having their children and grandchildren back is something really special... for them, and for us.

Our family is currently staying at a missionary apartment near our home church in New Jersey. In April we remained local, visiting and sharing around here. In May, we are planning to do some of our traditional furlough traveling, down south to Tennessee and Virginia, up to Indiana, and a few places in between. However, the length of our trip will depend on how dad is doing.

I know there are many of you who would love to see us, and as we fashion some kind of plan for the month of May, we probably will not be spending as much time on the road as we have in years prior. However, we will post our plans on the website, and perhaps look you up if we are in your area. All of our contact information is below, and we would love to hear from you even if it's just a phone call or an email.

kenya's uncertain days

Many of you followed the news, or our blog, during the opening weeks of 2008. It was a rough start for our "home" country. After a fumbled presidential election in the last days of December, Kenya exploded into violence and froze to a halt in almost every other way. Considered to be one of the most stable countries in the region, it was a surprise to everyone, even Kenyans, that such a thing could happen. The numbers now stand at 1500 killed, 600,000 displaced, and billions of dollars in damage to the country and the economy.

It took a while for Renee and I to understand what was really behind the chaos. We learned that the grievances which led up to it were complex, as political and social ills often are: An election presumably stolen from the rightful winner, opposing candidates representing opposing ethnic groups with long, muted histories of distrust for one another, and the fault lines of poverty and privilege, land and power, "us and them"–all giving way under the pressure of a botched election that was supposed to right the wrongs.

Through it, our family was safely locked behind the walls of our compound in Nairobi while I took part in mass air-evacuations from different regions of Kenya–flying Kenyans of one ethnic tribe or another to safety. Kenya was unrecognizable to us for a couple of very tense weeks in January. Now, months later, it looks normal again, but there's much to be done to heal the country. There is peace again. The government has awkwardly "patched" the political impasse, and it might stick. But the people are hurt. And after ten years living among them, we are hurt too.

During some of the tense times, shortly before we headed home to the USA, I was working with our mission's media team looking for stories of God at work in the chaos. It was a difficult assignment–some of the traveling we hoped to do never happened because the roads were just too dangerous–but we did find some stories of hope among the many heartbreaking ones. And we pray there will be more of them.

a detour for our family

The uncertainties in Kenya, as you can imagine, were paralleled in our lives. Not only because we were caught up in the emotion of everything happening in Kenya, but also–maybe more so–because we were swept away with the emotion of what was happening back home with my dad. He is, if you don't know him, a remarkable man. A masterpiece of God's grace–once a heart out of control, now a heart completely sold out for the Lord–he has a burden for youth who have been battered by the worst of life's situations. In some way, both dad and I are in the business of "rescuing." Me with an airplane. And dad, with an arm around the shoulder of a young drug addict on the streets, or at the side of a kid abandoned and lost in the system.

The cancer has left a few kids standing on their own right now, and this breaks dad's heart. His prognosis is unknown. Only a bone marrow transplant will give him any chance of returning to his ministry. We knew when we came home that it would be hard, if not impossible, to leave mom and dad again just a few months later. So before arriving in March, we prayed for God to make a way, and make it known to us. Our mission headquarters in New York, only a half hour's drive from my mom and dad, contacted us about meeting together, and that has since developed into a viable "open door" for our family.

AIM would like me to take a temporary assignment here locally utilizing our experience on the field, and my skills in communication, to help with the PR and Development of AIM. I would be doing design, writing, and working with websites and video production–very similar to the work I was doing with the On-Field Media ministry we started in Kenya last year. To me, the assignment is an exciting detour, as I have seen the impact of communication as a ministry over the years. AIM is thrilled at the prospect of Renee and I joining them here in New York. We are still working out the details but we do know that we will need to remain on support. And AIM knows that we are only looking at a commitment of one year. God knows what good things He will do in us and through us in that year. I expect that we will be blessed to be a part of it.

But perhaps the biggest blessing will be the simple gift of being near mom and dad during his illness. Our family has been apart for most of these past ten years. And Zach and Amelia know very little of the remarkable man they call "pop-pop." Our hope is that he rubs off on them. Renee says we are building a legacy for the family. At the very least, we hope to honor our mother and father.

Thank You for the many prayers. There's probably not a day that goes by when we are not covered in prayer, which is an incredible thought. There have been days out there in Africa that the simple thought has helped carry us through. And now, we need those same prayers here in America. Pray for us as we shift gears for a while–that God will truly use us, and teach us. Pray for the ministries left waiting in Kenya–AIM AIR will be short-handed this year, as will be the media team I was working with. And pray for my dad–for his health and God to be glorified no matter what.

–Mike & Renee

So here's a sleek car, cornering a patch of asphalt in some place more beautiful than where you live. It glistens as your perspective pans and tilts with fluid motions, virtually caressing the vehicle through its circuit. The driver grips the leather bound steering wheel, and cracks a half-smile. He shouldn't be having this much fun (and he probably shouldn't be going this fast). He should be in a board meeting, under the thumb of a boss who probably drives an ugly, slow car. But for a $399 lease, and a little more in the small print, he's been set free. Hence the smile.

Some of the best television commercials are the ones bankrolled by automobile manufacturers. They are simply amazing, artistic. And you really do feel the horsepower, and everything else that they are selling. I've been watching a little TV again. It's a customary part of our cultural reorientation when we come back from Africa every few years. TV commercials are a window into the soul of a culture... for good or bad. One thing I've learned is that automobiles in modern America are much more than just machines.

My dad has always had an eye for a nice car. His 77 Mustang I mostly remember for the red vinyl interior. Twenty years on, he's kept his affinity for red, but now it's on the outside of his bright cherry Lexus coupe. When we were kids, there were a few occasions when dad would take us to an auto show, of which the largest was in New York City. Dad never really knew that much about cars: engines, valves, torque and the other many specifications important to only a few. He simply admired the beauty of them, and still does. And perhaps there's something else he sees in the crisp lines and commanding performance of his little car. Maybe each of us is driving more than a car.

The makers of cars, I suspect, are selling more than machines. They are selling an image of some kind. Adventure, youth, freedom, power...

Especially power.

Dad really wanted to go the the auto show with me and my brother this year. Dad had been getting along pretty well as an outpatient over the weeks prior, and we thought it would be a great day out together – old memories and new. And it was. But my wheels were spinning the whole day. Thinking about our "culture of the car" with the curious innocence of a man who was last seen driving a 34-year-old Land Rover in a city whose streets would rattle my brother's Jeep Commander to pieces. I brought a camera and prepared myself to be dazzled.

Dad's been fatigued from his cancer, but otherwise has felt pretty good. So we picked up a wheelchair at the convention center and offered him a restful tour of thousands upon thousands of square feet of pure, glistening zoom-zoom. The New York auto show is really incredible. Huge, bright, loud, jam-packed, insanely rich – dripping with that burst of adrenaline you get in the TV advertisements: Control. Power.

It was interesting to see how cars have evolved in my absence these many years. We are, quite paradoxically, building automobiles toward two opposite ends these days. Greener, and bigger. Kind of like the engineering equivalent of the triple bacon cheeseburger accompanied by a small, guilt-free diet soda. Personally, I think the "green" thing is a sham. But no one really goes to the New York auto show to see the electric cars anyway. Among the dozens of manufacturers who showcased their latest models and breath-taking concept cars, I deduced a theme. A single adjective which could surely be read off the pages of every brochure in the building: Bold.

The cars were bold. The styling, the seats, the stereos. And as I slipped into the cradle of more than one leather crafted bucket-seat, ran my trembling palms over the black, smooth steering wheel, and pressed the clutch firmly while shifting through all six speeds... Bold was how I felt. Dad and I meandered from island to island. Whole worlds encompassed by a family of automobiles created by one builder or another. Worlds selling a particular image. All of them professing to be bold. I would sit in a few and imagine myself in that car. Owning that car. Possessing it and thus being transformed into the promise of the advertisements. It was intoxicating, and I think it was meant to be. This is how cars are sold. In the Jeep I was free, and ruggedly handsome. In the BMW, I was independently wealthy. In the Mazda min-van, I was a responsible adult who could appreciate both modest fuel economy and, of course, bold styling. (I think I fit best in the Jeep).

Dad didn't join me much in the daydreaming. He would roll up next to each model and look at the craftsmanship while making thoughtful comments, nodding in approval, or not. At one point when I was lost in another leathery cocoon, my mind on an imagined stretch of curvaceous roadway – pursing my lips, feeling the power – I took a glance out the side window. There was dad looking in from a static universe. Unmoving from his wheelchair. Most certainly not feeling the power. Seeing him there snapped me out of the dream. And for the rest of the day I spent less time in the cars, and more time looking in as dad was.

I hadn't noticed it before, but dad was catching quite a few looks as we wheeled around the enormous convention center. Most everyone was politely making space for the wheelchair to pass. But the glances were telling. It was as if we crashing a party. Weak things in the house of power.

We continued on to find a few models that dad was really curious to see. And as I made a path pushing his chair through the swelling crowds, around gorgeous cars, I saw a contrast. The allure of the show was to put you in those wheels. If you could imagine yourself in that car, it would somehow complete you. Fill some sort of hole in your life. I momentarily felt it myself. And made observant by a dose of reality from dad, I saw it on the faces of strangers as they slipped into the drivers seats of so many bold promises.

Of all the sets of wheels we can see ourselves in, we never see ourselves in the kind dad was sporting that day. His are perhaps too bold – Because the weakness inherent in a wheelchair speaks an unwelcome truth about us. The hole is too big for even the largest of SUVs to fill. But Jesus fits nicely.


some dazzling pictures here in our latest album

~~~~~~~
Update on the family:
Dad is currently in the hospital with a touch of pneumonia. We had some great weeks together, but perhaps over-did it. He should be out next week, and sometime in the next month, doctors want to bring him back in for a bone marrow transplant. Renee and I are close to "home" in a missionary apartment at our home church. We are currently on a light furlough, trying to visit and share about our mission work while staying nearby for mom and dad. The future is uncertain for them, and thereby for us too. Our family is unsettled, a little lost even. But at the same time, blessed. We will keep this site updated with any travel plans as they fall into place. Pray with us for God's gentle guiding hand these next couple of months. Thanks.

For more info on my dad's battle with leukemia, you can visit this link. I'm writing the journal entries now that we are home: http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/mattd

This is what they call reverse-culture shock. Take a bush pilot from the barren expanse of southern Sudan and drive him into New York City.

I pressed my face against a cold window in my uncle's mini-van. Stretching my eyes upward, I watched the massive girders and cables of the George Washington Bridge stream by above us. A steely, grayish-blue, with giant rivets and a taught, cold symmetry, the bridge was a monster and a monument for another world. A world I didn't know very well anymore. I imagined a giant wrench somewhere, the size of a bus, and a giant man to turn it. How else could they tighten those hundred-foot turnbuckles? Something powerful created this, I thought. And then the city opened up before me and I sunk even lower in my seat.

We were on our way to Sloan-Kettering memorial hospital. It's somewhere in New York. I don't know where, just somewhere. I couldn't remember the turns if my life depended on it. The many lane-changes, and the one-way streets, deeper and deeper into the shadows through blazing fast traffic. More steel, and stone, and people in a hurry. I had a flash of Sudan run through my head. Of a village made of nothing but straw and dirt. And then I was awakened by the rumble of a truck four inches from my window, traveling in parallel, passing us on a curve in the narrows.

We arrived at a nondescript building but I saw nothing. I just followed the back of dad's shoes. He knew his way in this hospital which spanned a couple of city blocks. Just the simple mistake of choosing the wrong elevator, dad told me, would get you lost. I wondered how that could be, for on an elevator you can only ever be lost in one dimension. But I didn't ask. I just watched the shoes and we finally ended up in what felt like the middle. There were no windows in sight–the ceiling a little too low for an office and a waiting room without windows.

Dad, I could tell, was a "regular" here. Not the sort of place you want to be a regular, but he seemed to enjoy it as he greeted familiar faces. In fact, the man seemed far too happy to be there. But part of it was because we were all there with him. Two brothers and a son, he proudly introduced us. A son from Africa no less. "All the way from Africa to be with his pop," was what he said exactly. And he was right. I'd come all the way from the moon if I had to. My uncles and I were there for more than just the moral support on this, dad's scheduled chemo day. We were more than just family. We were unique genetic possibilities–some of the most likely in the world (my uncles more so than I) to match my dad's bone marrow, and among the best chances to be the donor for his upcoming transplant.

At one of what seemed like an inordinate number of blood-drawing stations around the hospital, I sat and placed an arm on the table, vein up, and face turned away. Next to me a friendly man assembled with speed and precision the tube and vial and little individually-wrapped IV needle before he told me to take a deep breath. I thought that this place, perhaps, might hold a record for IVs inserted in a day. It's so fundamental to what they do. I thanked him when it was done, but mostly because the needle wasn't in my arm anymore. As I stood to leave, he stopped me. I was supposed to verify that the vials of blood get properly labeled before he sends them to the lab. I played along like it was really important to me too. I guess this is what they do here. Maybe people are stealing "genetic identities" these days along with your credit cards.

There's a lot of waiting that goes on in a hospital such as this. Dad had his blood drawn and we waited for the results. Then he had a meeting with a doctor about the results. And then, they special-ordered his chemo for the day. All the while I waited. I flipped through nearly all the magazines in the waiting room. Glossy, New York kinds of magazines. Full of advertisements and pouty-faced models who seemed to say "I look fabulous and you're in a cancer ward." They left me feeling a little homesick for Africa. Dad emerged from the doctor's office with a smile and some good news. They would be reducing his chemo from twice a week to only once. Apparently his blood looked clean. I had a quick and frightening thought that perhaps they mixed up my blood with his, and so it really wasn't clean. But, no, I checked the label I remembered. And, ah, that's why they verify the vials. And I felt a little bad about not taking it seriously before. Dad gathered us up and hurried us down the hallways to the treatment room. We could barely keep up with him.

I sat with dad during his twenty-minute treatment in another un-navigable corner of the third floor. I never knew what chemotherapy was all about. I always imagined "chemo" to be bags of hideously colored liquids surging down clear tubes. I imagined that it hurt. And I imagined that life might not be worth living if chemo was the only option. But dad treated it like taking a Tylenol, nothing to fret over, nothing to fear. The room had a couple of Lazyboy recliners and an array of beige medical equipment you'd expect to see in a hospital. Dad got comfortable and the nurses set him up with a saline IV. This is where we talked about Africa and dad bragged about how clean his blood was that day. The nurses were genuinely happy to hear it. I gathered that their days were regularly filled with bad news. "I won't see you next Tuesday," dad burst out.. "I only need one treatment a week now." And they all smiled about not seeing each-other. Then dad's chemical cocktail arrived.

The tone went a little more serious and a second nurse entered the room. The shift reminded me a little of the "sterile cockpit" concept that pilots adopt. When on the approach phase of a flight, where the margin for error narrows, a captain and copilot cut out the small talk and focus serious attention to the task of landing the plane. In a similarly professional manner, one nurse held a clipboard and a syringe side-by-side and read aloud the label on each one: Name, number, dosage and content. The second nurse repeated and confirmed what the first nurse had read. I thought perhaps next they would each pull out a red key and arm a missile. But then dad spoke up from his recliner on cue: Name and number. Check.

Dad's chemo was not the frightening conglomeration I had imagined. Neither was it as benign as a Tylenol. The nurse handled the small syringe of clear fluid with care, commenting to dad how the chemical could injure his skin (or hers) if it were to spill. She said it in such a way that I thought she didn't mean to say it. Perhaps this is true in any hospital, but in a cancer center the strange mix of normal life and pending mortality must always be present, even if only whispered. As the chemo made its way through dad's body, two young women in the nurses' station outside his door were chatting about their resumes, thinking about their futures. I was thinking about dad's future. And dad was thinking about only one thing–where to go out for dinner. He asked me to get the nurse to un-tether him and I stepped out to inquire. "He says he's ready to go," I said as if asking permission, with a shrug in my shoulders. And the nurse smiled at me as if she and dad shared a secret that I was too new to understand. For him, the chemo was a gift. As was the day. In fact, every hour.

We crossed the river again after sunset but the bridge was just a string of lights. It seemed less ominous in the dark as we joined the flow of traffic to the Jersey side. I watched dad from the back seat as he put on a surgical mask. The chemo would soon be delivering a blow to his immune system and the mask was a simple precaution, like sleeping under a mosquito net in the Congo. I wondered what those chemicals were doing at that moment, there in the dark. For me, too new to dad's illness to comprehend it all, this seemed like a hard day. But it's his routine now. The harrowing trips in and out of the city, the endless IVs and long waits at the hospital, and coming to grips with living a life hanging by a thread–a thread of dangerous molecules in a little syringe injected each week. It could be described as a hard day, but for dad it's a good day because he is going home. Two trips over the George Washington Bridge are better than one.

That was last Thursday. Dad's sitting there again today as I write this. In his regular chair. Left or right hand today Matthew? He's telling the nurses what a gift that little syringe is. He's telling everyone how he's living by Grace today, even the unsuspecting guy in the parking garage. And he'll cross that bridge again tonight and come home to mom, and a special little guest. For Zach's having a sleep-over at Pop-Pop's house. And they have big plans.

The whole of the new year had been turned upside down for us. With Kenya's political crisis, and the medical crisis at home with my dad, we were on a strange schedule up to the time we left for New Jersey. But the flights I did in February were a reprieve... back to my sanctuary in the sky. I carried the camera on a few of them. These are pictures from flights to Sudan and Kenya. Bringing medical supplies in, carrying missionaries out. It was a good sampler month of what this ministry is about. Folks who I served for a decade chatting with me up in the cockpit on a long leg home. A boisterous crowd on a short strip in Sudan. Smiling, curious kids. A muddy landing far too close to a thunderstorm darkened sky in Kenya. Lots of handshakes and thank-yous for the pilot. And that familiar mix of privilege and exhaustion that has marked my work as a missionary pilot. Photos Here