Today I flew in an African sky that was sometimes rough and rain-swept, sometimes velvet blue and crisp and smooth. I watched the little white clouds tick by below my wings, and below them, the muted green hue of scrub brush and new grass interspersed with Kenya's Mars-red soil. In my left hand I held the yoke of an old friend, and with a light touch, steered the Caravan on a homeward course.

This, my first flight back, was a two-day trip far north into Ethiopia, and then beyond to an unnamable place. I travelled with two other AIM AIR pilots which made for cheerful company both in the air and on the ground. It felt good to be back in the left seat, belted in snugly like a part of the airplane. My jet-fuel stained flight uniform and squeaky leather boots. My mini pilot-clipboard strapped around a knee, sunglasses and an aviation headset framing my face. The comforting sounds of the radios and friends in my ear. At home at twelve thousand feet – at peace above a restless continent.

We flew up on Wednesday, and back home on Thursday. Our overnight was in an unfamiliar place in a precarious little corner of Africa. We stayed at "Rob's Hotel," which stood out as an overdeveloped cluster of buildings made of tile and arches set in a pebbly, arid, and insecure town. We were delivered by our armed escort from the airstrip into the care of the armed guards at the fortified gates of the hotel. Inside was a comfortable setting and good food. Posted near the door in our rooms was a welcoming message to the hotel's "honorable guests" with best wishes for a pleasant stay. It boasted of amenities such as laundry service and wireless internet, as well as a matter-of-fact reminder that alcohol was forbidden on the premises and, in case it wasn't already a given, "weapons and explosive devices are also strictly forbidden." Yep, back in Africa.

I slept solidly after the long day's flight, and to bed early enough to be wide awake for the 5 am "call to prayer" resonating from a mosque somewhere outside the compound walls. It was a good reminder to pray myself, which when I did came out mostly as thanksgiving. Thanks for the health and strength and opportunity to fly and serve again here in Africa. Thanks for God's guiding hand in our lives. And there in that place I cannot name, thanks for the light of the gospel which lights my way.

We took off fairly early on Thursday from a rocky airstrip in the hills, just a few passengers and we three crew - myself and Jim, trying to build some flying time and re-familiarize ourselves with the airplane, and Andy there to oversee. At times we had more pilots than passengers, which left plenty of available energy to quiz one another on the flight manuals, and laugh at each-other's lame attempts to schmooz out an answer to something we clearly hadn't studied. Andy, in the meanwhile, wove a web of wires connecting our three headsets over a voice activated intercom, and then wired in an iPod and a Grisham "book on tape". We soared around puffy fair-weather cumulous, and occasionally around a small thunderhead and a blast of rain. If the seatbelt didn't hold me through the turbulence, I thought surely the tangle of cords would.

At times, Jim would lose interest and retreat to the back of the plane to chat with the passengers. Each time he moved, I would have to re-trim the pitch controls as the poor airplane's center of gravity shifted with Jim's whimsy of seat selections. It's difficult to characterize "Captain Jim". After something like 27 years of service flying in Africa, he is, for good or ill, a legend. On a long flight, he is pure entertainment. There are the unbelievable stories, the exploits, the international incidents. But there's also the endearing way Jim can pour his limitless energy into something seemingly mundane. Like the way he scored thirty-two free Burger King Whoppers this last furlough. I heard the amazing details of the scheme twice on our leg home. Once when he explained it to me. And the second time as he relayed it, like an insider's stock tip, to the passengers in the back of the plane. Even over the roar of the engine and through the noise-cancelling circuitry of my headsets, I could glean Jim's pearls from the conversation in the aft seating area. I smiled and steered on, making slight corrections in altitude and course.

For some brief moments, while air traffic control had nothing to say, while Andy was engrossed in his audio book, and Jim was swapping stories in the back, I had the airplane and the sky seemingly all to myself. It was noisy, but quiet. All fury and motion yet still. Flying the plane was, unexpectedly, like "riding a bike" – natural and easy and fun. And it was like I had never left.

Renee and the kids and I have settled back in quite well after two weeks. In reconnecting with friends and coworkers, in the familiarity of our home and hometown, in the the warm sun on our faces... we feel like we are once again where we belong. And in the view from the sky these past two days, I can see that we are.

Some months ago the kids begged us for a "special night" together. So we pushed back the couch and laid their sleeping bags on the living room floor. Then we all crammed close to one-another watching a movie and eating snacks. For our kids, any time dedicated to "be a family" is special to them, even more so if we are on the floor. (?) They were both up late that night and we left them on the floor when we went to bed. When I woke up the next morning all was quiet. The kids slept through a brilliant sunrise as it poured in the apartment windows and I quietly took a seat on the couch. I absorbed the sun and the silence and watched the kids as they slept; Zach curled up in a kid-size green adventure sleeping bag, Amelia in a pink one. I reveled at how perfect the moment was. Our two beautiful children. Safe and healthy and loved by their mom and dad. Our apartment was cozy. Our lives, despite the heartache of losing dad not long before, were comfortable. And I wanted it to stay that way.

I prayed over the kids that morning, knowing full well that time would march on, even as the morning sun was tracing a path across the living room floor. And I knew they would inevitably grow older and wiser to a hurting and hurtful world. I briefly wished I could shelter them from it, as they lay sheltered beneath my careful watch that morning. But I prayed instead that God would give me courage beyond the day. I prayed for courage to help guide my children beyond the moment. When the sun would eventually wake them up and present us with another day. And then into another night.

I remember thinking that morning that it was time for us to head back to Africa again. As much as our hearts were back there in ministry, I realized it would be easy to stay right here in NY. Easier to keep our ordered life in order. Easier to be safe.

When we lived in Virginia many years ago, Renee and I had a pastor who would sign his letters with the salutation: "brave journey." I always loved those words. It reminded me that on this road where we follow Jesus, in our Christian life or into some special calling, it will at times require courage. And as I've grown in faith and experienced the front lines of missionary work over the years, I've whispered those words to myself on many an occasion.

So when I got up from the couch that sunny morning months ago, I said those words again. Because I knew we would be here again, where we are today. In the terminal at Newark International Airport. Our ordered life once again reduced to twelve suitcases and sent down the conveyor belt, a 24-hour trans-Atlantic trip ahead of us. Leaving home and friends and family to engage in another journey. Our beautiful kids in tow.

I wonder sometimes how we walked away. From that feeling of security, and the "promise" of a good life. But those thoughts don't last long. Because right now I can't think of a better place to be, glancing over my shoulder to see if we're ready to board the plane, following the Lord and finding courage for the day.

It's easy actually. Easier than basking in the sun and safety of sitting still. And I think that has something to do with the many people who have encouraged us - who have literally "spoke courage" to us. And something to do with the prayers they pray each and every day.

To those of you who pray for us - Thank You.

We land in Nairobi on Thursday.

We're back "home"--rolled into NY a few days later than planned. Most of the family caught the flu toward the end of the trip, and it seemed wise to extend our stay in Virginia to recover and make up for some lost days. They were sunny and warm ones, so we were reluctant to leave anyway. Our trip was a blessing. From Indiana and Illinois, through Pennsylvania, down to Virginia and Tennessee... one big encouraging circuit through eastern America, and the hearts and homes of a bunch of great people. I think the years and years of prayers for our family have helped forge some close bonds. I lost track of how many times we spoke, how many evening visits in peoples homes, or how many meals we were treated to. But one particular dinner out with a dear couple who are the parents of our pastor in Tennessee (and short-term missionaries themselves) seemed representative of all our encounters. James prayed in a kindly southern accent over our meal of fried catfish and barbecue pork, and summed up the sentiment of so many as he ended his prayer for us, "Lord, just bless 'em real good."

And we were, at every turn on our 4000 mile trip. Much to our disappointment, time didn't allow for us to see everyone we had hoped to, but for everyone we did see on the road... thank you. Thank you for your hospitality and kindness. Thanks for the good meals and the encouraging words. For listening to our stories and sharing your lives with us. For your generosity. And most of all, for your prayers.

Back in New York now we have booked our return flight for April 15th, a Wednesday. With a date on the board, we've mentally switched gears to attend to the logistics of a departure in 33 days. A whiteboard in the dining room is counting down the days and below that is a long list of everything we need to (or hope to) accomplish before we leave. Zach and Amelia are excited about going back, even if there's a touch of idealism in their memories of the home they left behind. Renee and I are well aware that the grass is not necessarily greener there in Nairobi, but we are equally excited anyway. Kenya still has some serious problems simmering. There were riots in the city just this past week. But even so, I think we are returning to a slightly less stressing situation than the one we left last year. No matter what we go back to, there's a certain amount of anxiety that always comes with the anticipation of leaving America for Africa. Both Renee and I take a little comfort in the fact that we've done this before, and we're getting used to it. But this transition is more complicated than other furloughs because we've been home so long. So we covet your prayers as we work through our to-do lists these next 4 weeks. And even more as we transition back to life in Kenya.

Here at the mission office today, we were all off-duty. I walked up to the glass door this morning and noticed a note taped there declaring it "closed." Very unofficial in nature, you might have supposed that they were being fumigated on a Friday afternoon. But the real reason: today was our annual "day of prayer." The staff, prohibited from even checking emails, gathered to sing in worship and pray in small groups. We prayed for hours through a long list of issues and concerns from each of AIM's sending offices, and each of AIM's fields of service in Africa. As we prayed, I was transported to some of the places. And I could see some of the faces of missionaries we know and admire. Two things struck me as we did this. One, how much I missed being there, even as we spoke of dangers and discouragements. And two, how much I appreciated being part of an organization that prays.

They only set apart this one special day to actually close the doors and make an event of it, but they pray together nearly every day in some small, structured way here at the home office. I think I'll miss that once we get back to Kenya, where I'll once again find my sanctuary in the solitude at twelve thousand feet.

That place still seems so far in time and space from right here and now. But it's probably closer than I know.

Hard to believe we've been doing this for twelve years... the missionary road trip. Back in 1997 we drove Renee's little red Cavalier over ten thousand miles on our first "deputation" trip—raising up our support before the big move to Africa. I can hardly remember that trip save a few memories. We have this one picture in our photo album of Renee and I out in Nebraska somewhere. The camera's propped up on a rock and I'm laying out in a grassy, wide-open plain. Renee has her pretty little head resting on mine and we both look so young. I love that picture.

Each furlough after, we would carve out a similar circuit cross country, racking up thousands of miles over what might appear to be a haphazard course through a dozen states east of the Mississippi. First one, then two kids in the back seat. But always pretty much the same route. The lines on the map were like a connect-the-dots that, once finished, revealed a picture that only we could truly appreciate.

All those places we go to are not so much about geography. Roads lead to people. And we know some really great people. Folks who support our ministry and pray for our family. Folks who have encouraged us for these twelve years, and even before that.

Part of our job when we're on the road is to tell them about the work—to "bring home" a taste of the ministry God has placed us in. I consider that role a privileged one. But honestly, I think these trips bless us more than the ones we visit with. We'll come with pictures and videos, and (better yet) stories. But we always go with full hearts (and full stomachs). Every furlough we make new friends. It gets harder each time to see even a fraction of them.

So we leave tomorrow morning and hope for good weather and light traffic. We've got the homeschool books packed alongside our streamlined suitcases. The iPod is charged and a favorite playlist of Don Williams songs is standing by. I've aired up the tires, and the land of the free (excepting a few tolls) beckons us "drive."

Hope we can see you along the way.

We'll be on and off the road from now until the first week in March. If we miss seeing you, then you'll miss our stories (sorry to say) and our pictures too. So I've posted our slideshow here. It'll have to do in place of a hug.