a welcome burden
June 29 2008
(On Friday morning I drove into New York to spend the day
with my father. It was a surprise for him. One that he
seemed to cherish. For me, it was a mercy from God.)
~~~
I crossed First Avenue with a downtrodden face. An eight-dollar sandwich in my hand, and the weight of glory in my back pocket.
There is a small city park just a block behind dad’s hospital, and I thought it a good spot to eat and think. The days are warm now in New York, and the park was full of people who probably come there as a matter of habit. I had never been there before and so made some effort to fit in. Kicking at the pigeons, I observed, was the mark of a regular. Gawking over them like a tourist was not. Besides, it was a well-posted ordinance to “not feed” them. I doubt they would have gone for my chicken pesto anyway. But, being New York pigeons, you never know.
So I made threatening gestures with my shoes as they encroached on my corner bench – one New Yorker to another – and pulled out the little paperback from my back pocket and began to read.
CS Lewis is like an old friend. Renee and I uncovered a stash of his old books in our trunks from my mother’s garage when we got home. This particular one I have had since college days. It’s a faded little book in which the pages are browning and musty. The essays inside are marred by ghostly streaks of yellow highlighter, and as I flip through it I remember making those marks – where I was when I read certain bits, or when I first understood them – a moment of understanding revealed by an overzealous highlight that bled through the page. Not only is Lewis like an old friend, this very book is. I grabbed it from the apartment on my way out to visit with dad, and was comforted by it now, on this unsettling day.
The Weight Of Glory. It is a collection of essays written some time during the war in Europe, during a period when things were quite serious in war-torn England. Lewis writes about pacifism and forgiveness and things of that nature. But the opening essay is the one which gives the book its name, and it is the one I sat and read while munching on a sandwich in a park just a short walk from where my father lay helpless and fading away.
I remember first reading this essay. I was in the basement library at Moody Bible Institute, in Chicago, and I did not quite understand what I was reading. The second time I was in a mission guesthouse on the edge of the Amazon jungle in Ecuador. Even there, I wondered what it meant. The weight. And how glory could be a burden, which is Lewis’ point. All of this came back to me now in the park. As if revisiting and building upon those moments in the school library, or alone in that humid, dim little guesthouse again. In the essay, Lewis writes of a dimension of human nature that we cannot adequately explain. A longing. A desire.
“I am trying to rip open the inconsolable secret in each one of you… which pierces with such sweetness that when, in very intimate conversation, the mention of it becomes imminent, we grow awkward and affect to laugh at ourselves; the secret we cannot hide and cannot tell, though we desire to do both. We cannot tell it because it is a desire for something that has never actually appeared in our experience. We cannot hide it because our experience is constantly suggesting it, and we betray ourselves like lovers at the mention of a name. Our commonest expedient is to call it beauty and believe as if that had settled the matter.”
But here on earth we feel, as Lewis explains, a “sense of exile.”
“We remain conscious of a desire which no natural happiness will satisfy.”
He is, of course, talking about heaven. But more than just the concept of heaven, he is talking about how we are made for it. Meant for it. That there we shall be with Christ and like Christ and, interestingly, imparted with some sort of “glory.” It is this glory that takes the rest of the essay to explore.
Lewis shows the glory to mean fame, not in the eyes of other men, but in the eyes of God. Fame with God? Approval perhaps. Appreciation.
“Well done thou good and faithful servant.”
“I suddenly remembered,” writes Lewis, “that no one can enter heaven except as a child; and nothing is so obvious in a child – not in a conceited child, but in a good child – as its great and undisguised pleasure in being praised.”
There is the world’s version of glory, polluted by ambition and self-admiration, and there is a purer kind. What he calls the most “creaturely of pleasures.” – “A child before its father, a pupil before his teacher, a creature before its Creator.”
“It is written that we shall stand before him, shall appear, shall be inspected. The promise of glory is the promise, almost incredible and only possible by the work of Christ, that some of us, that any of us that really chooses, shall actually survive that examination, shall find approval, shall please God. To please God… to be a real ingredient in the divine happiness… to be loved by God, not merely pitied, but delighted in as an artist delights in his work or a father in a son – it seems impossible, a weight or burden of glory which our thoughts can hardly sustain. But so it is.”
The fury of the city raced onward behind the sturdy bench from which I had been traversing the universe. I found my sandwich gone, remembering not the act of eating it. I took a moment to look about the park and observe a hundred strangers in other worlds of other books and telephone calls. The gravity of earthly burdens such as the quickly passing day and a desire to return to dad’s bedside gripped me. I bundled up my trash and took one last, friendly swipe at the pigeons as I began my walk toward to the hospital. The book crammed back into my pocket. The words, again, indelible in my mind.
Donning gown and mask and gloves, I returned to my spot next to dad. His eyes were shut, as they mostly are these days. He is overcome by exhaustion. Every movement is a chore for him and so he moves very little. He had not done much talking today, but he would look up from his serenity every once in a while to see if I was still there. “I’m just hanging out with you today dad,” I said each time. And he smiled each time. He closed his eyes again as I rubbed his legs and talked about things that begged no response of him. I noticed his face and how it had changed over these months. He was thinner. His hair was completely gone now, and he glowed. With an otherworldly glory.
For the first time since his illness, I began to fathom that our prayers for his healthy return might not be answered. Of course, that was not all we prayed for. We prayed for God’s will. And there were probably things we had not the imagination to pray for, that were silently underway. I prayed again today with dad’s swollen hand pressed between my gloved ones, “Thy will be done.” And I was for the first time in this ordeal content to accept it.
I was reading again, quietly – suspended with dad for a moment in this timeless place, and sharing a secret.
“The sense that in the universe we are treated as strangers, the longing to be acknowledged, to meet with some response, to bridge some chasm that yawns between us and reality, is part of our inconsolable secret.”
“And surely, from this point of view, the promise of glory, in the sense described, becomes highly relevant to our deep desire. For glory means good report with God, response, acknowledgment, and welcome into the heart of things. The door on which we have been knocking all our lives will open at last.”
The words, “good report with God” struck me as I looked upon dad’s humble countenance. I wondered if God did such things as brag about us, and if so, to whom.
“Have you considered my servant Job?”
Dad struck me as one like that. Not because of his suffering, but because of what God has made of him. And of how dad's life has, in the words of John Piper, "made much of God." And at once I had the sense of being beside someone famous. As I listened with ear and heart I could hear more than just the dutiful hum of the climate control, or the IV pumps standing sentry above his head. I could hear a faint cheer. A whisper in the room bled over from some other world where voices stood up in a roar, shaking the ground, applauding a hero. And hidden there behind that distant celebration was the face of a Father curled up in a knowing smile, proud of his son. Delighting in him. "Have you considered my servant?" he whispered.
I saw my father as never before. In his helplessness, I saw him strong. In his humiliation I saw him the most amazing person I have ever laid eyes on. In this, his most human of days, I saw him as almost more than human.
"There are no ordinary people..."
These words which round out Lewis' essay came back to me as I considered a man about whom God would say "I know him."
"It may be possible for each to think too much of his own potential glory hereafter; it is hardly possible for him to think too often or too deeply about that of his neighbor. The load, or weight, or burden of my neighbor's glory should be laid on my back, a load so heavy that only humility can carry it."
For dad today, the weight of it, for once, I understood. And the burden was a comfort to me.
"There are no ordinary people. You have never spoken with a mere mortal."
~~~
I crossed First Avenue with a downtrodden face. An eight-dollar sandwich in my hand, and the weight of glory in my back pocket.
There is a small city park just a block behind dad’s hospital, and I thought it a good spot to eat and think. The days are warm now in New York, and the park was full of people who probably come there as a matter of habit. I had never been there before and so made some effort to fit in. Kicking at the pigeons, I observed, was the mark of a regular. Gawking over them like a tourist was not. Besides, it was a well-posted ordinance to “not feed” them. I doubt they would have gone for my chicken pesto anyway. But, being New York pigeons, you never know.
So I made threatening gestures with my shoes as they encroached on my corner bench – one New Yorker to another – and pulled out the little paperback from my back pocket and began to read.
CS Lewis is like an old friend. Renee and I uncovered a stash of his old books in our trunks from my mother’s garage when we got home. This particular one I have had since college days. It’s a faded little book in which the pages are browning and musty. The essays inside are marred by ghostly streaks of yellow highlighter, and as I flip through it I remember making those marks – where I was when I read certain bits, or when I first understood them – a moment of understanding revealed by an overzealous highlight that bled through the page. Not only is Lewis like an old friend, this very book is. I grabbed it from the apartment on my way out to visit with dad, and was comforted by it now, on this unsettling day.
The Weight Of Glory. It is a collection of essays written some time during the war in Europe, during a period when things were quite serious in war-torn England. Lewis writes about pacifism and forgiveness and things of that nature. But the opening essay is the one which gives the book its name, and it is the one I sat and read while munching on a sandwich in a park just a short walk from where my father lay helpless and fading away.
I remember first reading this essay. I was in the basement library at Moody Bible Institute, in Chicago, and I did not quite understand what I was reading. The second time I was in a mission guesthouse on the edge of the Amazon jungle in Ecuador. Even there, I wondered what it meant. The weight. And how glory could be a burden, which is Lewis’ point. All of this came back to me now in the park. As if revisiting and building upon those moments in the school library, or alone in that humid, dim little guesthouse again. In the essay, Lewis writes of a dimension of human nature that we cannot adequately explain. A longing. A desire.
“I am trying to rip open the inconsolable secret in each one of you… which pierces with such sweetness that when, in very intimate conversation, the mention of it becomes imminent, we grow awkward and affect to laugh at ourselves; the secret we cannot hide and cannot tell, though we desire to do both. We cannot tell it because it is a desire for something that has never actually appeared in our experience. We cannot hide it because our experience is constantly suggesting it, and we betray ourselves like lovers at the mention of a name. Our commonest expedient is to call it beauty and believe as if that had settled the matter.”
But here on earth we feel, as Lewis explains, a “sense of exile.”
“We remain conscious of a desire which no natural happiness will satisfy.”
He is, of course, talking about heaven. But more than just the concept of heaven, he is talking about how we are made for it. Meant for it. That there we shall be with Christ and like Christ and, interestingly, imparted with some sort of “glory.” It is this glory that takes the rest of the essay to explore.
Lewis shows the glory to mean fame, not in the eyes of other men, but in the eyes of God. Fame with God? Approval perhaps. Appreciation.
“Well done thou good and faithful servant.”
“I suddenly remembered,” writes Lewis, “that no one can enter heaven except as a child; and nothing is so obvious in a child – not in a conceited child, but in a good child – as its great and undisguised pleasure in being praised.”
There is the world’s version of glory, polluted by ambition and self-admiration, and there is a purer kind. What he calls the most “creaturely of pleasures.” – “A child before its father, a pupil before his teacher, a creature before its Creator.”
“It is written that we shall stand before him, shall appear, shall be inspected. The promise of glory is the promise, almost incredible and only possible by the work of Christ, that some of us, that any of us that really chooses, shall actually survive that examination, shall find approval, shall please God. To please God… to be a real ingredient in the divine happiness… to be loved by God, not merely pitied, but delighted in as an artist delights in his work or a father in a son – it seems impossible, a weight or burden of glory which our thoughts can hardly sustain. But so it is.”
The fury of the city raced onward behind the sturdy bench from which I had been traversing the universe. I found my sandwich gone, remembering not the act of eating it. I took a moment to look about the park and observe a hundred strangers in other worlds of other books and telephone calls. The gravity of earthly burdens such as the quickly passing day and a desire to return to dad’s bedside gripped me. I bundled up my trash and took one last, friendly swipe at the pigeons as I began my walk toward to the hospital. The book crammed back into my pocket. The words, again, indelible in my mind.
Donning gown and mask and gloves, I returned to my spot next to dad. His eyes were shut, as they mostly are these days. He is overcome by exhaustion. Every movement is a chore for him and so he moves very little. He had not done much talking today, but he would look up from his serenity every once in a while to see if I was still there. “I’m just hanging out with you today dad,” I said each time. And he smiled each time. He closed his eyes again as I rubbed his legs and talked about things that begged no response of him. I noticed his face and how it had changed over these months. He was thinner. His hair was completely gone now, and he glowed. With an otherworldly glory.
For the first time since his illness, I began to fathom that our prayers for his healthy return might not be answered. Of course, that was not all we prayed for. We prayed for God’s will. And there were probably things we had not the imagination to pray for, that were silently underway. I prayed again today with dad’s swollen hand pressed between my gloved ones, “Thy will be done.” And I was for the first time in this ordeal content to accept it.
I was reading again, quietly – suspended with dad for a moment in this timeless place, and sharing a secret.
“The sense that in the universe we are treated as strangers, the longing to be acknowledged, to meet with some response, to bridge some chasm that yawns between us and reality, is part of our inconsolable secret.”
“And surely, from this point of view, the promise of glory, in the sense described, becomes highly relevant to our deep desire. For glory means good report with God, response, acknowledgment, and welcome into the heart of things. The door on which we have been knocking all our lives will open at last.”
The words, “good report with God” struck me as I looked upon dad’s humble countenance. I wondered if God did such things as brag about us, and if so, to whom.
“Have you considered my servant Job?”
Dad struck me as one like that. Not because of his suffering, but because of what God has made of him. And of how dad's life has, in the words of John Piper, "made much of God." And at once I had the sense of being beside someone famous. As I listened with ear and heart I could hear more than just the dutiful hum of the climate control, or the IV pumps standing sentry above his head. I could hear a faint cheer. A whisper in the room bled over from some other world where voices stood up in a roar, shaking the ground, applauding a hero. And hidden there behind that distant celebration was the face of a Father curled up in a knowing smile, proud of his son. Delighting in him. "Have you considered my servant?" he whispered.
I saw my father as never before. In his helplessness, I saw him strong. In his humiliation I saw him the most amazing person I have ever laid eyes on. In this, his most human of days, I saw him as almost more than human.
"There are no ordinary people..."
These words which round out Lewis' essay came back to me as I considered a man about whom God would say "I know him."
"It may be possible for each to think too much of his own potential glory hereafter; it is hardly possible for him to think too often or too deeply about that of his neighbor. The load, or weight, or burden of my neighbor's glory should be laid on my back, a load so heavy that only humility can carry it."
For dad today, the weight of it, for once, I understood. And the burden was a comfort to me.
"There are no ordinary people. You have never spoken with a mere mortal."
the other blog
June 29 2008
Renee has just updated her blog, and I thought I would
post a little advertisement here. It's on the other page of this site
called "renee's journal". I've also enabled the RSS
for that blog. So if you know what an RSS is, and
would like to, you can now subscribe. No promises on
how much writing she will do, but I will try to spur
her on.
smalltown girl in the big city
June 16 2008
Renee is one in a million. The kind of girl who never really wants anything for her birthday, except a surprise. And it doesn't matter much what secret gift is bestowed, only that it is planned in advance. Because all she really wants is to be remembered, and made to be special. Over the fifteen birthdays I've had the chance to give her a card and a kiss, Renee hasn't changed much. She still displays the same innocent giddiness in being cherished in some small way. Lucky for her, I'm such a Romantic. (Ahem.)
Well, Saturday was Renee's birthday again. (On Flag Day, that forgotten little holiday in June.) And she wasn't expecting much – hoping perhaps, but not expecting. And just days before, I get a secret call from friends in Pennsylvania (whom we know from Kenya mostly) who offer to come on out to New York and watch our kids for the day. Part of the outrageous deal are tickets to a Broadway show. It's all kept a secret, of course. Amelia is going nuts because she thinks she's Nancy Drew and she knows I'm hiding something. Tell me! I'm going to explode! she implores. But I don't give in.
And so everything unfolds according to plan and Renee is surprised by our visitors from far away. And I hand her an envelope which warns the holder "do not open til noon." Renee gets smiley, which is great fun. Knowing something adventurous is soon upon us, and to stave off yesterdays fleeting migraine headache, she – caution to the wind – takes two Excedrin. For Renee that's like four espresso. I'm thinking... well, she'll be awake til midnight. (And she was.)
In the car she popped open the envelope which was stuffed with driving directions to the theater on 8th Avenue. Pumped up on caffeine, Renee navigated right to the parking garage first try and we hiked the rest of the way. What a great show. Loads of fun and a good dose of "New Jersey." (We saw the musical, Jersey Boys.) I joked with Renee afterward that next time we would have to see "Oklahoma", but she didn't think that was funny. (Renee is from OK.)
It was raining pretty hard as we exited the theater. A thunderstorm parked over Manhattan was dumping blankets of warm water on the city, and so we dogged out and into an enclave of a nearby garage door to stay dry. We waited and watched drenched New-Yorkers run to-and-fro in a panic. The thunder reverberated off the glass and steel and stone of the city like something unnatural. We waited some more. Come on, lets go! she exclaimed at one point when the rain was so thick you couldn't even see half a city block. Her eyes were all alight with caffeine and mischief. Her hair was coiling up in a frizz from the humidity. And all together she looked very cute. You want to walk five blocks in this!? I said in disbelief Yeah, it'll be FUN! I don't think so, I said. Practical, that's me.
The storm passed in fifteen minutes and off we went. We rounded out our New York date with a New York Strip steak split two-ways at Chillis. Back home the kids had baked her favorite cake with our guests and set two large wax numbers monumentally on top of it – 37. Meaningless really, since today she was 22. We stayed up way too late, somewhat irresponsibly, enjoying our friend's company before Renee's surprise birthday came to a close.
And she loved it. Because it was fun. But mostly because it made her feel special. Which she is anyway. (Thanks Paul and Tammy)
*****
PS-Sorry about dumping the entire archive of this blog into your feed readers and email a few days ago. Some convoluted and conflicting code in the website was behind that. It shouldn't happen again since I've eliminated the archiving function.
reporting from the mothership
June 11 2008
We’re officially New Yorkers now, and I’m not sure how I
feel about that. We were in the state a mere ten minutes
when I first got a speeding ticket. I was rocketing along
at 32 MPH as the officer explained it to me. I think the
Jersey tags on our borrowed car had something to do with
his apparent lack of grace that day. And to tell the
truth I wasn’t feeling so gracious toward our new found
state of residence after that. But even still, I am
hoping to find that “I love NY” feeling so giddily
displayed by the channel four Eyewitness News team at ten
o’clock. Maybe I just have to be patient. I don’t know
how they do it. The news team that is. First it’s
zippity-do-dah, and then, Oh my gosh, your children’s
toys are poison and the plummeting economy is going to
starve us all to death. One thing’s for sure though. I
absolutely must watch the news
every night if we are going to survive. Somehow they know
what I need to know. And they have that acu-weather
forecast thing – the one with the really big Doppler
radar dish. (Bigger than the one at channel two at
least.) And need I mention the helicopters?
Where we’ve landed in New York is a little wooded plot in Pearl River. Home base for Africa Inland Mission. It’s from this very place that we were sent out as missionaries over ten years ago. There are good memories here, familiar faces, and a weighty sense of purpose within the nondescript brick buildings. Renee and I have moved into the one remaining empty apartment in the staff housing unit. Two bedrooms on the second floor. Adding to that New Yorker feel is the ability to say, “that’s my building over there” when someone drops you off. My building. The front door is glass and locks automatically when it closes. It has a buzzer panel at left where you can talk to the residents over a squealing, old intercom as they buzz you in. I press it for fun and the kids run to the corresponding panel in the apartment to push a button. Except that we’ve put a painting over the thing cause it’s ugly. So you just talk to a picture of a barn that my grandmother painted. Besides that I feel like Seinfeld.
So we work here now, and my commute up the hill takes all of two minutes. My first Monday morning was a little disorienting. The many AIM AIR calendars on display around the offices would grab me as I walked by – as if I had just jumped out of one into the whisper quiet halls, and could instantaneously jump back in. But despite my above-average grasp of quantum physics, I couldn’t. And I resolved to pray for the guys at each reminder instead. But day one was fun too. I unpacked a new computer which, thanks to the obsessive designers at Apple Computer, was a pure delight. There were donuts too. Real donuts with sugar in them. And on them. I had two since they were brought in as a welcome gesture for the new guy. I thought this was pretty special until I discovered that our office crew actively looked for reasons to buy donuts. All I can say about this little indiscretion is, “I’m in!"
I’m working with Andy and Ted. Which is interesting because in Kenya I was working with Andy and Ted. I’m kind of like the token “Mike” in the AIM media circles. Sadly though, the guys in Kenya are Mike-less at present. So if you are into media and missions, and your name is Mike... we have a spot for you. I’m acting (yes, acting, don’t tell the boss) as an assistant in the PR and Development department here at the home office. It’s a good fit for me. Almost as good as the well-worn sheepskin of the pilot's seat in the Caravan – which mostly felt like home despite the backaches. Here, I am privileged to put my experience in Africa and my bent toward creative communications to use, and for that I am thankful. The guys are a fun bunch too, just like the guys back in Kenya.
"The Office," that quirky TV show about the dysfunction of a typical American office environment seems to be very popular. I've seen but a handful of episodes and I must admit it is disturbingly funny. But I couldn't help but wonder if it were true. Not surprisingly, I’ve had a few flashes of that quirkiness during my first week here in our “office” of sorts – standing there with a Styrofoam cup of coffee in my hand, cracking jokes while confounded by the ten-line telephone at my desk. But this place is no mere office.
We’ve sent out about a dozen missionaries in the last ten days. They come here for their last logistical push and a ride to the airport. A pile of Action Packers sits in the lobby bound in duct tape. The new missionaries give testimonies which sound so much like mine did ten years ago. And they are full of a familiar enthusiasm. The entire office staff of AIM gather before departure time and sing a farewell in one big circle around the dining room. “May the Lord bless you and keep you...” (I know all the words now, I think.) And as we do this I remember being at the receiving end of the blessing. I ponder how many have gone out from here over the years. And I marvel at the work of God in them, and in the few, like Warren and Donna (who passed through with us in 1997) who will never return. As I've said, there's a weighty sense of purpose within these walls.
If this is a "sending office," the operative part is in the word “send.” Which in the context of the Great Commission is the indispensable other-half of “go.” So I think as far as offices go, I’m in the right place. I love what they do here.
And no matter how I take to New York living, I think I’ll like this place. As for confirmation: Wednesday was National Donut Day.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Family Update
My dad is now more than twenty days into a bone marrow transplant. He had the procedure around mid-May, and has steadily (sometimes dramatically) declined in health ever since. He remains in an isolation ward in the hospital in New York City. These are difficult days for our whole family – especially my mom as she watches her sweetheart endure the double blow of leukemia and its heartless cure. The doctors and nurses are giving him expert care, and they are adamant when they tell him that he will get well. We are waiting, and praying for healing to come soon. In the next couple of weeks we hope to see a new immune system spring up inside of him. This miracle, if the the Lord wills, will be the beginning of his healing. So this is a critical time, and we greatly appreciate all the prayers in my dad's behalf. I am placing weekly updates on a website for dad that was started back in January when he was first diagnosed. In a matter of months, the site has seen 11,000 visitors. I've never known a man so loved by so many.
Where we’ve landed in New York is a little wooded plot in Pearl River. Home base for Africa Inland Mission. It’s from this very place that we were sent out as missionaries over ten years ago. There are good memories here, familiar faces, and a weighty sense of purpose within the nondescript brick buildings. Renee and I have moved into the one remaining empty apartment in the staff housing unit. Two bedrooms on the second floor. Adding to that New Yorker feel is the ability to say, “that’s my building over there” when someone drops you off. My building. The front door is glass and locks automatically when it closes. It has a buzzer panel at left where you can talk to the residents over a squealing, old intercom as they buzz you in. I press it for fun and the kids run to the corresponding panel in the apartment to push a button. Except that we’ve put a painting over the thing cause it’s ugly. So you just talk to a picture of a barn that my grandmother painted. Besides that I feel like Seinfeld.
So we work here now, and my commute up the hill takes all of two minutes. My first Monday morning was a little disorienting. The many AIM AIR calendars on display around the offices would grab me as I walked by – as if I had just jumped out of one into the whisper quiet halls, and could instantaneously jump back in. But despite my above-average grasp of quantum physics, I couldn’t. And I resolved to pray for the guys at each reminder instead. But day one was fun too. I unpacked a new computer which, thanks to the obsessive designers at Apple Computer, was a pure delight. There were donuts too. Real donuts with sugar in them. And on them. I had two since they were brought in as a welcome gesture for the new guy. I thought this was pretty special until I discovered that our office crew actively looked for reasons to buy donuts. All I can say about this little indiscretion is, “I’m in!"
I’m working with Andy and Ted. Which is interesting because in Kenya I was working with Andy and Ted. I’m kind of like the token “Mike” in the AIM media circles. Sadly though, the guys in Kenya are Mike-less at present. So if you are into media and missions, and your name is Mike... we have a spot for you. I’m acting (yes, acting, don’t tell the boss) as an assistant in the PR and Development department here at the home office. It’s a good fit for me. Almost as good as the well-worn sheepskin of the pilot's seat in the Caravan – which mostly felt like home despite the backaches. Here, I am privileged to put my experience in Africa and my bent toward creative communications to use, and for that I am thankful. The guys are a fun bunch too, just like the guys back in Kenya.
"The Office," that quirky TV show about the dysfunction of a typical American office environment seems to be very popular. I've seen but a handful of episodes and I must admit it is disturbingly funny. But I couldn't help but wonder if it were true. Not surprisingly, I’ve had a few flashes of that quirkiness during my first week here in our “office” of sorts – standing there with a Styrofoam cup of coffee in my hand, cracking jokes while confounded by the ten-line telephone at my desk. But this place is no mere office.
We’ve sent out about a dozen missionaries in the last ten days. They come here for their last logistical push and a ride to the airport. A pile of Action Packers sits in the lobby bound in duct tape. The new missionaries give testimonies which sound so much like mine did ten years ago. And they are full of a familiar enthusiasm. The entire office staff of AIM gather before departure time and sing a farewell in one big circle around the dining room. “May the Lord bless you and keep you...” (I know all the words now, I think.) And as we do this I remember being at the receiving end of the blessing. I ponder how many have gone out from here over the years. And I marvel at the work of God in them, and in the few, like Warren and Donna (who passed through with us in 1997) who will never return. As I've said, there's a weighty sense of purpose within these walls.
If this is a "sending office," the operative part is in the word “send.” Which in the context of the Great Commission is the indispensable other-half of “go.” So I think as far as offices go, I’m in the right place. I love what they do here.
And no matter how I take to New York living, I think I’ll like this place. As for confirmation: Wednesday was National Donut Day.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Family Update
My dad is now more than twenty days into a bone marrow transplant. He had the procedure around mid-May, and has steadily (sometimes dramatically) declined in health ever since. He remains in an isolation ward in the hospital in New York City. These are difficult days for our whole family – especially my mom as she watches her sweetheart endure the double blow of leukemia and its heartless cure. The doctors and nurses are giving him expert care, and they are adamant when they tell him that he will get well. We are waiting, and praying for healing to come soon. In the next couple of weeks we hope to see a new immune system spring up inside of him. This miracle, if the the Lord wills, will be the beginning of his healing. So this is a critical time, and we greatly appreciate all the prayers in my dad's behalf. I am placing weekly updates on a website for dad that was started back in January when he was first diagnosed. In a matter of months, the site has seen 11,000 visitors. I've never known a man so loved by so many.
Remembering
May 24 2008
I cannot remember the last time we were stateside for Memorial Day. I never forget the day, even as it passes completely unnoticed in Kenya. I married my pretty wife over this weekend thirteen years ago. She told me I should never forget our anniversary since it was "memorable" and thus celebrated sometime around Memorial Day. So far, I haven't missed it.
The day, of course, is about something more important than our anniversary. I wonder how many Americans pause in solemn wonder at what it really means, or how many just go on blissfully to the getaways and sales. For me, at least, it brings on some lumpy-throated moments. Maybe because we live under a different flag there in Africa and miss the red, white and blue of home. Hundreds of little flags are sprouting up along main street here in town. Big ones are draped honorably from the fire station. I love that.
I expect Memorial Day this year will be especially potent because of the recent four thousand plus men and women lost in Iraq and Afghanistan. I don't personally know a single one, and am none the richer for my isolation. In fact, I've never known a soldier who was lost in combat. Most of my peers pretty much slipped by safely between wars, and many of us just know war by what we've seen in the movies.
What do I know of war? Not much. Not much of that kind of war anyway. We have our own kind out there in Africa. But on any given "grueling day" in my resume, I am a pampered civilian compared to the troops who have fought and are now fighting our nation's wars. The simple act of coming home - at the end of the day, or the end of the week - separates me from them.
What do I know of war? Not much. Memorial Day, however, never fails to resurrect a singular memory from my childhood - no matter where I am; on a flagged-draped main street or standing under the heat-soaked sky of Sudan. It is a memory at the Vietnam Wall in Washington DC. I was there with my Boy Scout troop sometime when I was eleven or twelve. Our scoutmaster, a humble patriot named Dave, brought us there to teach something about sacrifice and citizenship. About responsibility and remembrance. And I remember as he spoke to us softly, he broke down and cried at the wall - there in front of the place where his friend's name was etched into the dark, glossy stone. And for the first time I understood how one name could mean so much. How war could cost so much.
Dave may not remember that day. I'm sure he's cried at the Wall on more than one occasion. And perhaps he wondered if he ever got through to a silly bunch of kids. But I've never forgotten the lesson. Nor the one he passed on as we stood together in the green grass at Gettysburg. "In this field" he said in the same soft way, "as many Americans died in one battle, as in the entire Vietnam war." I remembered the Wall, the scope of the sacrifice represented there, and shivered at the thought.
Sometime around Memorial Day, I usually get to thinking about the parade of tyrants who have risen to power over the centuries. And since I don't know any of the soldiers who have fallen in the fight against them, I think of Dave. Just one man who knows the pain of the loss of just one man. And who never, ever, ever forgets the treasure of our freedom.
I also think of my wife. Born on Flag Day. The girl who has brought me a smile nearly every day for at least thirteen years. Happy Anniversary Sweetie.
::::
News
My dad has successfully undergone a blood stem-cell transplant this week (from 2 units of genetically matched umbilical cord blood). He's currently a resident (again) at Sloan Kettering Memorial Hospital in New York City. He's in relative isolation, with the fledgling immune system of an infant child trying to take root in his body. I've been spending a lot of time with both my folks up to the time dad was admitted for this procedure, and Renee and I are sticking around nearby during the long and precarious recovery period ahead. I visited dad today and he looked pretty good considering everything he's been through. We've been encouraged to see his faith staying strong throughout. It's hard though to see my mom suffer because of his suffering. Our presence here has been a big boost for both of them.
Renee and I and the kids will move up to Pearl River next week to start working with AIM here in the US. This is our new, interim assignment, and I'll post some details about it once I know more of what I'll be doing. My "job" will be something along the lines of an assistant in PR and Development - not much different from my part time ministry in Kenya with the Media guys. We're happy to see the Lord open this door for us. He's opened many actually, blessing us more than we expected - and certainly more than we deserve.
ever wonder why
May 02 2008
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.
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.
april newsletter
April 27 2008
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
~~~~~~~
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
wheels
April 10 2008
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
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
crossing the GW
March 20 2008
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.
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.
february's flying–photos
March 12 2008
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
a "grait" day
March 11 2008
I woke up on the wrong side of the ocean today. I could
tell, in part, by the chill in the morning air of this
old house in New Jersey. In part, because there's a
glorious box of Captain Crunch on the kitchen table. Our
plane landed on Saturday, after a long push over the
Atlantic into 100-knot headwinds and two missed
approaches at Newark International. It was a blustery
day, I gathered, from the comments of folks who were
loitering around doing other things on Saturday. "Oh, you
landed in THAT." In the midst of it, a certain poor lady
in seat 33D gripped her chair and asked me, after each
delay, what was happening now. If she knew that even I,
her new pilot friend in 33E, was starting to worry, then
perhaps she would have gripped a little tighter.
Later, a burly young man named "Cruz" dressed in a smart, starched US Customs uniform stamped us in. "How long have you been in Kenya?" he inquired as we shuffled up to the desk like refugees. Fifteen months was my answer. With that, I got the obligatory raised eyebrow and second look. What he said was, "What, do you live there or something?" What he meant was, "What, are you nuts?" I gave the patent missionary answer, one I do rather unconvincingly after 30 hours without sleep and a scruff of beard on my face. If not for our two darling children in tow, what with my dubious passport and a slight but wholly unintentional "You got a problem with that?" look on my face, I would likely fit some profile for a terrorist. Welcome to the Untied States. I paused to take in the bright colors of an American flag draped neatly down a wall behind the immigration queue. It is a tradition for me. That first flag there in Newark Airport never fails to cause me a smile. I don't know why, it's just a flag.
Fifteen months may have seemed like a long time to Cruz, but my correlating thought was about how short it was. Our arrival home still feels unplanned, even though we are certain that God has intended it. Mom and dad came by the missionary apartment just hours after we arrived–I don't think anything could have held them back really. Dad came up the stairs with a stack of pizzas in his hands (a generous welcome-home gift from our friend Mr. Puzo–God bless him) and met Zach's longing eyes first. Zach blurted out an excited "Pop-Pop" and grabbed dad around the neck. I feared the pizzas would be lost in the collision, and steadied them as I reached out for my first hug. One long overdue.
Dad looked better than expected. He looked older and thinner too, a little like I remember my grandfather. And he looked supremely happy. With the jet-lag creeping in, we didn't have much coherent time to visit on Saturday night, but dad just wanted us to know one thing–How blessed he felt to see us again. It was stolen moment, one he never thought would come. "I didn't think I would ever leave that hospital," dad confessed. The two-thousand odd people praying for him knew differently.
The very next day, Sunday, was a "great day" in dad's words. We all got together at the home of my brother–mom and dad, their sons, and the four grandchildren. It was an afternoon of rambunctious new friendships between the cousins, old laughs between my brother and I, and, of course, participating in the culinary exploits of New Jersey. Dad kept saying over and over what a great day it was. It reminded me of a day I took off recently during our packing and preparing to come back, when Renee and I just played with the kids. I can't even remember what we did that day, but for Zach it somehow made an impression. He drew me a big picture of a lizard (or something like that) and scrawled across the page... "I love you dad. This was a grait day!" I recognized it right away as something worth holding on to. Not so much for the artwork, but for the reminder. Great days. They are the ones we will wish we made more of, one day, when we are running out of days altogether. I have a feeling dad's going to teach me more about that these next few months.
~~~~~~~
We have a bunch of thank-you notes yet to write. But if you were any part of the conspiracy to help us get back, perhaps we can thank you here on these pages as well. Folks who paid our airfare. Friends back in Kenya who pitched in and filled our gaps. The airport pick-up. The apartment stocked with Oreo cookies. The generous prayers. We are really thankful. Really.
Later, a burly young man named "Cruz" dressed in a smart, starched US Customs uniform stamped us in. "How long have you been in Kenya?" he inquired as we shuffled up to the desk like refugees. Fifteen months was my answer. With that, I got the obligatory raised eyebrow and second look. What he said was, "What, do you live there or something?" What he meant was, "What, are you nuts?" I gave the patent missionary answer, one I do rather unconvincingly after 30 hours without sleep and a scruff of beard on my face. If not for our two darling children in tow, what with my dubious passport and a slight but wholly unintentional "You got a problem with that?" look on my face, I would likely fit some profile for a terrorist. Welcome to the Untied States. I paused to take in the bright colors of an American flag draped neatly down a wall behind the immigration queue. It is a tradition for me. That first flag there in Newark Airport never fails to cause me a smile. I don't know why, it's just a flag.
Fifteen months may have seemed like a long time to Cruz, but my correlating thought was about how short it was. Our arrival home still feels unplanned, even though we are certain that God has intended it. Mom and dad came by the missionary apartment just hours after we arrived–I don't think anything could have held them back really. Dad came up the stairs with a stack of pizzas in his hands (a generous welcome-home gift from our friend Mr. Puzo–God bless him) and met Zach's longing eyes first. Zach blurted out an excited "Pop-Pop" and grabbed dad around the neck. I feared the pizzas would be lost in the collision, and steadied them as I reached out for my first hug. One long overdue.
Dad looked better than expected. He looked older and thinner too, a little like I remember my grandfather. And he looked supremely happy. With the jet-lag creeping in, we didn't have much coherent time to visit on Saturday night, but dad just wanted us to know one thing–How blessed he felt to see us again. It was stolen moment, one he never thought would come. "I didn't think I would ever leave that hospital," dad confessed. The two-thousand odd people praying for him knew differently.
The very next day, Sunday, was a "great day" in dad's words. We all got together at the home of my brother–mom and dad, their sons, and the four grandchildren. It was an afternoon of rambunctious new friendships between the cousins, old laughs between my brother and I, and, of course, participating in the culinary exploits of New Jersey. Dad kept saying over and over what a great day it was. It reminded me of a day I took off recently during our packing and preparing to come back, when Renee and I just played with the kids. I can't even remember what we did that day, but for Zach it somehow made an impression. He drew me a big picture of a lizard (or something like that) and scrawled across the page... "I love you dad. This was a grait day!" I recognized it right away as something worth holding on to. Not so much for the artwork, but for the reminder. Great days. They are the ones we will wish we made more of, one day, when we are running out of days altogether. I have a feeling dad's going to teach me more about that these next few months.
~~~~~~~
We have a bunch of thank-you notes yet to write. But if you were any part of the conspiracy to help us get back, perhaps we can thank you here on these pages as well. Folks who paid our airfare. Friends back in Kenya who pitched in and filled our gaps. The airport pick-up. The apartment stocked with Oreo cookies. The generous prayers. We are really thankful. Really.
last leg out
February 22 2008
The sandy airstrip is a 900 meter line drawn down the
Kurungu valley, like a hyphen in the middle of a long
sentence. From the air it looks inviting––an open expanse
of yellow in a sea of green acacia trees. Once on the
ground, however, the illusion disappears. The Kurungu
airstrip comes to a crown in the middle––either end
invisible from the other. And at both ends, the trees
tower in a beautiful and menacing way. Kurungu is a
weight-limited airstrip for our operations. And today I
have the Cessna 210 parked at its northern extremity.
It's now time to depart for Nairobi, for perhaps my last
leg out of the bush before we head home to America for a
time, and the takeoff promises to be tight.
After we're loaded up with our measured baggage, and my usual preflight check is finished, I eye a spot toward the centerline of the strip, just fifty feet or so away from the airplane, and move toward it. The bustle of people around the plane fades as my boots crunch along. Head low and eyes squinting shut, I watch my footsteps and think about how many times I've done this. Like a dog that paces in a circle before setting down to sleep, my little ritual is partly for my own comfort, and partly something to laugh at if you're not the dog. I find my spot and stand still. And then I close my eyes and listen to the wind.
The wind speaks to a pilot––sometimes in a friendly voice, and other times not. Facing the gentle gale, eyes shut and chin up (smiling slightly,) I turn my body until the airflow breaks over my right ear creating a sound like the rumble of a microphone caught in a breeze without its fuzzy cover. At that very spot, I kick my boot fore and aft in the dirt, drawing a line. Turning to the left I repeat the motions at the cue of my other ear, and opening my eyes I look down to see an arrow drawn on the earth. The little scar is as fleeting as the wind itself, but it will serve its purpose. It tells me which direction the gusty breeze is averaging to. That, with the motion of the trees, tells me what to expect on takeoff––if I should be especially cautious, or if the sky is giving me a little gift today: A stiff headwind and more altitude over the trees at the end of the runway.
Of all the challenges I've encountered flying in Africa, some of the scariest things I've done have been tailwind takeoffs. (Sometimes there's just no other option.) Because an airplane, once its wheels leave the kiss of the earth, becomes one with the wind, and moves accordingly. The trees, on the other hand, stay right where they are.
Wind on the tail means a shallow climb. On the nose, a steep climb. A crosswind combines one of those with the added excitement of drifting toward the foliage just a wingspan from centerline. Today I will have a quartering headwind if I throttle up to the south. I'll take any headwind I can get here at Kurungu, so south it is.
I am amazed at how our "normal" flying in Africa still quickens my pulse. I've not lost that healthy fear of flying so essential to a bush pilot. A fear of overloaded airplanes. Of mud and mountains. Of the wind which, well, can change like the wind. Ten years of experience, and I still double check my numbers. Still stroll down the runway and kick an arrow in the sand.
At the northern side now, nose pointed south, half the runway out of sight as it drops down below the crown, I am disheartened at how short the whole airstrip looks. I've been here before. Disheartened at this very picture. The calculations say it will be fine. My heart says, "whoa!" You can only account for so much with a cardboard slide-rule from the bottom of your flight bag. The variables are complex. How soft is soft? How shifty are the whims of the wind? And so I pick a point at which to abort––some bush or noticeable discoloration in the dirt. If the airplane can't accelerate to expectations by the mark, I'll yank the throttle and shutter to a stop, and figure out later what to do next.
Now the airplane and I sit idle––the engine sipping fuel and sounding like a Harley. The throttle ready in my right hand. The abort point fixed in my sights. It's mid-morning here at Kurungu, but it feels like 'high noon' as I stare steely-eyed at the trees nine hundred meters opposite. A goat ambles across the airstrip, like a wisp of tumbleweed, oblivious to the tension around it. I glance at the abort point again, and mash the throttle forward swiftly. We roar, shutter, roll, and eventually fly––clearing the trees just as my cardboard calculator said we would.
The rest of the day would be easy and adrenaline-free. A high altitude cruise back home, above the bumps and the clouds. Cool air and a friend in the seat next to me. Ted and I came out to Kurungu to shoot video for a ministry project. It was the sort of flight we dreamed about years ago when together we brainstormed the idea of a media team for AIM based on the field. So with cameras in tow, and a bunch of our kids in the back seat, we headed up to this green valley in Northern Kenya for a few days "on assignment." It was a great mix of flying and filming. But it was really all about serving. It's always about that, which is one of the best things about our jobs.
I remember some years ago when the Army came up with a clever ad campaign (later adopted by the Peace Corps) "The toughest job you'll ever love." They dropped it some time later for a less clever campaign, but the old slogan pops into my head pretty often out here... At those moments when I'm the most tired. The most scared. Or the most blessed––to serve alongside a good friend, and to be a servant to some really good people. Three days in Kurungu helped me to see it again. I think missionaries could give the Army PR department a run for its money. This is the toughest job you'll ever love. Hoo-ah.
(PS- The picture used for the graphic header of this web-page is of the Cessna Caravan sitting on Kurungu airstrip, positioned for takeoff... northbound.)
After we're loaded up with our measured baggage, and my usual preflight check is finished, I eye a spot toward the centerline of the strip, just fifty feet or so away from the airplane, and move toward it. The bustle of people around the plane fades as my boots crunch along. Head low and eyes squinting shut, I watch my footsteps and think about how many times I've done this. Like a dog that paces in a circle before setting down to sleep, my little ritual is partly for my own comfort, and partly something to laugh at if you're not the dog. I find my spot and stand still. And then I close my eyes and listen to the wind.
The wind speaks to a pilot––sometimes in a friendly voice, and other times not. Facing the gentle gale, eyes shut and chin up (smiling slightly,) I turn my body until the airflow breaks over my right ear creating a sound like the rumble of a microphone caught in a breeze without its fuzzy cover. At that very spot, I kick my boot fore and aft in the dirt, drawing a line. Turning to the left I repeat the motions at the cue of my other ear, and opening my eyes I look down to see an arrow drawn on the earth. The little scar is as fleeting as the wind itself, but it will serve its purpose. It tells me which direction the gusty breeze is averaging to. That, with the motion of the trees, tells me what to expect on takeoff––if I should be especially cautious, or if the sky is giving me a little gift today: A stiff headwind and more altitude over the trees at the end of the runway.
Of all the challenges I've encountered flying in Africa, some of the scariest things I've done have been tailwind takeoffs. (Sometimes there's just no other option.) Because an airplane, once its wheels leave the kiss of the earth, becomes one with the wind, and moves accordingly. The trees, on the other hand, stay right where they are.
Wind on the tail means a shallow climb. On the nose, a steep climb. A crosswind combines one of those with the added excitement of drifting toward the foliage just a wingspan from centerline. Today I will have a quartering headwind if I throttle up to the south. I'll take any headwind I can get here at Kurungu, so south it is.
I am amazed at how our "normal" flying in Africa still quickens my pulse. I've not lost that healthy fear of flying so essential to a bush pilot. A fear of overloaded airplanes. Of mud and mountains. Of the wind which, well, can change like the wind. Ten years of experience, and I still double check my numbers. Still stroll down the runway and kick an arrow in the sand.
At the northern side now, nose pointed south, half the runway out of sight as it drops down below the crown, I am disheartened at how short the whole airstrip looks. I've been here before. Disheartened at this very picture. The calculations say it will be fine. My heart says, "whoa!" You can only account for so much with a cardboard slide-rule from the bottom of your flight bag. The variables are complex. How soft is soft? How shifty are the whims of the wind? And so I pick a point at which to abort––some bush or noticeable discoloration in the dirt. If the airplane can't accelerate to expectations by the mark, I'll yank the throttle and shutter to a stop, and figure out later what to do next.
Now the airplane and I sit idle––the engine sipping fuel and sounding like a Harley. The throttle ready in my right hand. The abort point fixed in my sights. It's mid-morning here at Kurungu, but it feels like 'high noon' as I stare steely-eyed at the trees nine hundred meters opposite. A goat ambles across the airstrip, like a wisp of tumbleweed, oblivious to the tension around it. I glance at the abort point again, and mash the throttle forward swiftly. We roar, shutter, roll, and eventually fly––clearing the trees just as my cardboard calculator said we would.
The rest of the day would be easy and adrenaline-free. A high altitude cruise back home, above the bumps and the clouds. Cool air and a friend in the seat next to me. Ted and I came out to Kurungu to shoot video for a ministry project. It was the sort of flight we dreamed about years ago when together we brainstormed the idea of a media team for AIM based on the field. So with cameras in tow, and a bunch of our kids in the back seat, we headed up to this green valley in Northern Kenya for a few days "on assignment." It was a great mix of flying and filming. But it was really all about serving. It's always about that, which is one of the best things about our jobs.
I remember some years ago when the Army came up with a clever ad campaign (later adopted by the Peace Corps) "The toughest job you'll ever love." They dropped it some time later for a less clever campaign, but the old slogan pops into my head pretty often out here... At those moments when I'm the most tired. The most scared. Or the most blessed––to serve alongside a good friend, and to be a servant to some really good people. Three days in Kurungu helped me to see it again. I think missionaries could give the Army PR department a run for its money. This is the toughest job you'll ever love. Hoo-ah.
(PS- The picture used for the graphic header of this web-page is of the Cessna Caravan sitting on Kurungu airstrip, positioned for takeoff... northbound.)
happiness is a bag well packed
February 15 2008
(NTY)
Update on Kenya: "A Kenya Redrawn" - NYT article
We will soon have the luxury of packing our suitcases. Renee and I are preparing to head home for an early furlough. I've booked tickets for March 7th, and we'll arrive in New Jersey the next day. And so, we are packing up a bit, which I realized today, is something to be thankful for. In Kenya the number of displaced or uprooted has reached 600,000. Most of them have fled with nothing. Some watched their homes and livelihoods go up in flames, and some simply ran with no time to pack a single bag for the journey. The country sits in a suspended state. Violence has mostly quelled as Kenyans wait and watch to see what international peace talks can do to bring Kenya back to where it was only two months ago. Life is semi-normal, except for the mass redistribution of ethnic communities throughout. The economy is suffering greatly, and more tragically, many of the poorest Kenyans along with it.
It seems wrong to leave at such a time as this. I am so used to running (or flying rather) into the trouble spots, instead of away from them. Our departure has nothing to do with Kenya's situation, however. We are landing in New Jersey because my dad is there. He's been recently released from the hospital and continues his cancer treatments as a very fragile out-patient. I think there are literally thousands of people praying for he and my mother right now. All of us hoping for dad to stay on top of the leukemia. And dad, not surprisingly, just wants to get back to the ministry... his heart far stronger than his body.
Over the past two months we have followed dad's struggle from afar. With a flurry of emails and scratchy Skype calls home, we've been able to stay informed. But his illness is still so far removed, and I do not think the reality of it will hit us until we see him again. In some way, dad will be unrecognizable. But not entirely. I wonder if Kenya will be the same way to us when we eventually return.
Right now, we can see only a few months down the road. This is true for Kenya as well as our lives. As a pilot, I'm accustomed to always having a plan and a reasonable alternate in mind. So, this is new and unsettling territory. But for Renee, a professional suitcase-packer if I've ever seen one, the thought of going here or there on a moment's notice is some kind of grand adventure. I am far too "responsible" for such abandon. Renee just smiles that smile––the one she used to use on me when we were dating––and somehow draws me into her fabulous plan. "Let's just trust God."
(I'm so lucky to have her.)
displaced
February 01 2008
IDP. Another acronym you learn in Africa.
Internally Displaced Peoples are, by
definition, refugees in their homeland. Presumably a
little more fortunate than a flat-out refugee. A little
less fortunate than a homeless kid on the streets of
Nairobi.
An IDP camp is a safe haven. An in-between. It's food and shelter. A caring person to come alongside. A place where people sit around and shake their heads, or bury them in their hands. Homeless, bankrupt, possibly lost a husband or a child in the chaos. Questioning why. Questioning God. And sometimes, planning revenge.
I've been to a few of these camps over the years. In Congo, hidden in the lush green of the Ituri forrest. The smell of smoke and palm oil and humanity numbering tens of thousands. In Sudan; humid, naked, dark. In Mozambique; wet. All of them hungry. Some of them filled with the warmth of people who hold fast to a sovereign God. Some of them inconsolable.
Yesterday, our little media team visited two camps in the Kenya highlands. I think figures have topped 300,000 as to the total number of Kenyans currently displaced in this country. These that we visited were not large camps. Merely hundreds. Showing up late at night in a dump truck. The pastor getting a knock on the door. Can he open up the church compound for "refugees?" He does, and after two days there are 1,200 men, women, and so many, many children. And before long there are tents from the Rotary Club. And a huge shelter constructed in the parking lot thanks to a local businessman. Food from the mission. Vehicles summoned to get more people. Logistics to find new homes for the swelling numbers in the camp. It is a situation repeated all over the country. Almost overnight the demographics of Kenya have changed as people flee heterogeneous areas and cluster according to tribe. And the question looms; will anyone ever go back?
We talked with a number of Kenyans from both sides of the strife. To pastors in the middle. To missionaries trying to stay on the sidelines and not pick sides. As a media department in AIM, we are looking for the stories of reconciliation in the midst of the awful stories streaming out of Kenya. But perhaps we are too early. The wounds are still so new, and fresh ones are inflicted every day. The people in these camps have lost everything––many to the very neighbors they have lived beside for decades. We ask if they will forgive. Typically the answer is "I don't know." And then we ask what forgiveness means. And most are at a loss for answers.
I think the answers will come. I sat with the pastor of the church there and encouraged him to press on. He said he was tired. I told him that I thought God was in all this, nodding my head in the direction of the camp taken root in his church parking lot. He agreed. God is doing something. Perhaps something good.
(Pictures from my visit to the camps)
...and a really good link on all that's going on here:
BBC Special report on Kenya
~~~~~~~
It is a beautiful Saturday afternoon here in Nairobi. Sunny with a warm breeze. Happy even. But it is not hard to imagine the degrees of sadness all around us. And even so, my heart is turned toward home most of all––like the IDPs sitting and waiting and thinking of their homes. Renee and I glance at a picture of my mom and dad twenty times a day and are sometimes filled with warmth, like people who hold fast to a sovereign God, and sometimes we are just inconsolable.
We have now booked tickets home to New Jersey. Leaving in one month. Bringing my dad the two grandchildren he wished he could gaze upon. Bringing my mom that shoulder she specifically requested to cry on.
Dad should be out of the hospital in a week, or two. There's no promise as to how long he will stay out, and we hope to arrive while he's still home. I don't really know how much we can do to help my parents right now. Maybe a lot, or not so much. But I do know what a treasured gift it will be to all four of us just to be around my father for a time. Renee and I have been discussing the value of a heritage lately––in the context of the gifts we can give to our children. And there's something really special about my dad that we hope Amelia and Zach will take to heart and carry with them all of their days.
"Thank you" to those of you who have helped pay for the tickets home. This trip for us falls under what our mission calls "compassionate leave." But it will turn into an early furlough, and perhaps we will be able to visit with some of you. Thanks, as always, for your prayers... even now as we prepare to become displaced.
~~~~~~~
Here's the story I wrote from my day in the Kibera slum. Man with a Message
An IDP camp is a safe haven. An in-between. It's food and shelter. A caring person to come alongside. A place where people sit around and shake their heads, or bury them in their hands. Homeless, bankrupt, possibly lost a husband or a child in the chaos. Questioning why. Questioning God. And sometimes, planning revenge.
I've been to a few of these camps over the years. In Congo, hidden in the lush green of the Ituri forrest. The smell of smoke and palm oil and humanity numbering tens of thousands. In Sudan; humid, naked, dark. In Mozambique; wet. All of them hungry. Some of them filled with the warmth of people who hold fast to a sovereign God. Some of them inconsolable.
Yesterday, our little media team visited two camps in the Kenya highlands. I think figures have topped 300,000 as to the total number of Kenyans currently displaced in this country. These that we visited were not large camps. Merely hundreds. Showing up late at night in a dump truck. The pastor getting a knock on the door. Can he open up the church compound for "refugees?" He does, and after two days there are 1,200 men, women, and so many, many children. And before long there are tents from the Rotary Club. And a huge shelter constructed in the parking lot thanks to a local businessman. Food from the mission. Vehicles summoned to get more people. Logistics to find new homes for the swelling numbers in the camp. It is a situation repeated all over the country. Almost overnight the demographics of Kenya have changed as people flee heterogeneous areas and cluster according to tribe. And the question looms; will anyone ever go back?
We talked with a number of Kenyans from both sides of the strife. To pastors in the middle. To missionaries trying to stay on the sidelines and not pick sides. As a media department in AIM, we are looking for the stories of reconciliation in the midst of the awful stories streaming out of Kenya. But perhaps we are too early. The wounds are still so new, and fresh ones are inflicted every day. The people in these camps have lost everything––many to the very neighbors they have lived beside for decades. We ask if they will forgive. Typically the answer is "I don't know." And then we ask what forgiveness means. And most are at a loss for answers.
I think the answers will come. I sat with the pastor of the church there and encouraged him to press on. He said he was tired. I told him that I thought God was in all this, nodding my head in the direction of the camp taken root in his church parking lot. He agreed. God is doing something. Perhaps something good.
(Pictures from my visit to the camps)
...and a really good link on all that's going on here:
BBC Special report on Kenya
~~~~~~~
It is a beautiful Saturday afternoon here in Nairobi. Sunny with a warm breeze. Happy even. But it is not hard to imagine the degrees of sadness all around us. And even so, my heart is turned toward home most of all––like the IDPs sitting and waiting and thinking of their homes. Renee and I glance at a picture of my mom and dad twenty times a day and are sometimes filled with warmth, like people who hold fast to a sovereign God, and sometimes we are just inconsolable.
We have now booked tickets home to New Jersey. Leaving in one month. Bringing my dad the two grandchildren he wished he could gaze upon. Bringing my mom that shoulder she specifically requested to cry on.
Dad should be out of the hospital in a week, or two. There's no promise as to how long he will stay out, and we hope to arrive while he's still home. I don't really know how much we can do to help my parents right now. Maybe a lot, or not so much. But I do know what a treasured gift it will be to all four of us just to be around my father for a time. Renee and I have been discussing the value of a heritage lately––in the context of the gifts we can give to our children. And there's something really special about my dad that we hope Amelia and Zach will take to heart and carry with them all of their days.
"Thank you" to those of you who have helped pay for the tickets home. This trip for us falls under what our mission calls "compassionate leave." But it will turn into an early furlough, and perhaps we will be able to visit with some of you. Thanks, as always, for your prayers... even now as we prepare to become displaced.
~~~~~~~
Here's the story I wrote from my day in the Kibera slum. Man with a Message
one tribe
January 28 2008
IMAGE REUTERS
"One month after a deeply flawed election, Kenya is tearing itself apart along ethnic lines..."
NYT Article here
Today I walked the streets of Kibera. It is the largest slum in Kenya. (I've heard it called the largest in the world.) People estimate that a million souls reside there, but no one can be sure. It's practically in our backyard. Always has been for the many years we've lived in Kenya. It's the place our Kenyan friends and co-workers come from and go to each day. From the air, on my standard departure out of Wilson Airport, it's a compact, rusty scar on the landscape. It's also a place we've mainly avoided while living in Nairobi.
What took me into Kibera today was the opportunity to interview a pastor there. I'm on a media assignment with AIM this week. To write a few stories about what God is doing amidst the chaos that has crept into this country. To see what difference the Church is making. And hoping that we don't have to look too hard.
Pastor Timothy walked me around his mission field for four hours. The Kibera slum is hard to capture with words. There is no counterpart in the western world. It bustles with life. And it provides an ever present reminder that life is cheap. We trodded the footpaths and walked the railroad tracks for a while. From Timothy's Bible school that he started, to the church he pastors. Around every corner, it seemed, someone would recognize him and call out his name. We'd stop, greet, and be introduced. Here was a student at the school. Here an old woman who's become a pillar in the church. Here a drunken youth. Here another, saved from a similar fate. "I love this man," the youth tells me. And I believe him.
There are signs of war in Kibera. Crumbled buildings. Charred remains of little shops. Spray-painted pleas for peace on whatever is left standing. Kenya is smoldering with ethnic tension right now. Today's news is perhaps the most troubling we've heard so far. (link)
But beating the beaten paths of Kibera with Timothy gave me a glimpse of redemption in the middle of it. At one point he walked with another pastor, a co-worker in ministry, and gave me a little lesson on tribal identity in Kenya. One of them a Luya. One of them a Kikuyu. In today's climate... bitter enemies. But in Christ they are one. There are 42 tribes in this land. "But we are one tribe in Jesus," Timothy declared, stepping closer to his fellow servant to make the point.
These guys are a blatant, courageous example of the difference the Church is making. With a gathering storm on the horizon, it is an example we hope is repeated throughout this weary land.
thank God for Sundays
January 20 2008
Finally a Sunday. A number have gone by in recent weeks,
but at last this one feels like a Sabbath. Nairobi is
calm today. No doubt what millions of Kenyans are praying
for all over the country. Peace.
I spent a good part of last week up in Sudan, doing some of the regular flying I am used to. AIM AIR ceased flying refugees over a week ago. Once military escorts became available, and large convoys of cars and busses began to evacuate those fleeing, we have not been flying so many people related to the election unrest. It has been reported that a quarter million Kenyans are internally displaced right now. It's also the first time in Kenya's history that anyone can remember Kenyans living as refugees in neighboring countries.
For the first few weeks of the unrest here, AIM AIR flew about 500 people out of western Kenya with our small airplanes. The last flight I did in this sortie brought in a bunch of well respected church bishops – peacemakers on what was probably an impossible mission. I prayed they could make a difference.
Peace is not coming easily however. The crazy days since we were locked down on our compound have now ebbed into a strange kind of normalcy here. We go about our lives and work, passing Kenyan police in riot gear at main intersections, and driving over and around debris on the roads. The odd gunshot here and there doesn't raise our alarm anymore. Honestly, the current state of our host country is hard to gather. There's still small, and often violent, demonstrations which erupt without warning. And there's flamboyant headlines in the newspapers. The photographs are grim. We don't hear about many of the actual stories however. Except from our house-worker. She came to work this week with a front tooth knocked out... visibly upset. In the process of telling us about running from rock-wielding youths, and about the dark things that happen in the slums at night, Renee became visibly upset.
We are learning more about the "why" behind the trouble in Kenya in recent weeks. I am beginning to realize that it is not just about a flawed election and a step backward for democracy. It's also about power and corruption (and the power to cover up your corruption.) It's about wealth – the "haves" and "have-nots" (Most Kenyans are of the latter designation.) It's about fairness and justice. And underlying it all, it is about race. Tribe.
Just this week I discovered that our house worker is of the Kikuyu tribe. I never knew that before. It didn't matter. I am learning now that it matters very much. And how I wish it didn't.
Across the ocean we are following the struggles of my dad as he in in the opening salvos of battling cancer. We know now that he has leukemia. We know that it will take his life eventually. As the news of dad's sudden illness became worse and worse, Renee and I began to think about going home. We are struggling now with the implications of this. When and how we will go is something we really need wisdom about.
Before I left for Sudan this week Renee had a low day, with the plight of our house worker (a good friend) and my dad weighing heavy on her heart. She was washing dishes in the kitchen pretending that all was OK, but it wasn't. I reached out to hug her and she broke down. "You know, he's my dad too," she said.
I took those words with me as I flew in Sudan. (And I asked Renee to work out her thoughts in her journal, which she did.) The long hours between destinations in the airplane provide a lot of time for reflection, and I did a fair bit of it this week. Mostly about Renee's words. I would ask you to pray for me, to have wisdom and courage as I lead our family and ministry, but that seems rather selfish right now. I'd rather you pray for my dad, who is in the fight of his life. And for Kenya... probably in a similar fight.
~~~~~
A friend in New Jersey is keeping a website for my dad, with frequent updates. If you would like to peer into the life of a remarkable man for a moment, you can visit the site here:
www.caringbridge.org/visit/mattd
And lastly, for the many of you who have sent us a quick note of encouragement recently, we are thankful. Even for the prayers. Especially for the prayers. Thank You!
I spent a good part of last week up in Sudan, doing some of the regular flying I am used to. AIM AIR ceased flying refugees over a week ago. Once military escorts became available, and large convoys of cars and busses began to evacuate those fleeing, we have not been flying so many people related to the election unrest. It has been reported that a quarter million Kenyans are internally displaced right now. It's also the first time in Kenya's history that anyone can remember Kenyans living as refugees in neighboring countries.
For the first few weeks of the unrest here, AIM AIR flew about 500 people out of western Kenya with our small airplanes. The last flight I did in this sortie brought in a bunch of well respected church bishops – peacemakers on what was probably an impossible mission. I prayed they could make a difference.
Peace is not coming easily however. The crazy days since we were locked down on our compound have now ebbed into a strange kind of normalcy here. We go about our lives and work, passing Kenyan police in riot gear at main intersections, and driving over and around debris on the roads. The odd gunshot here and there doesn't raise our alarm anymore. Honestly, the current state of our host country is hard to gather. There's still small, and often violent, demonstrations which erupt without warning. And there's flamboyant headlines in the newspapers. The photographs are grim. We don't hear about many of the actual stories however. Except from our house-worker. She came to work this week with a front tooth knocked out... visibly upset. In the process of telling us about running from rock-wielding youths, and about the dark things that happen in the slums at night, Renee became visibly upset.
We are learning more about the "why" behind the trouble in Kenya in recent weeks. I am beginning to realize that it is not just about a flawed election and a step backward for democracy. It's also about power and corruption (and the power to cover up your corruption.) It's about wealth – the "haves" and "have-nots" (Most Kenyans are of the latter designation.) It's about fairness and justice. And underlying it all, it is about race. Tribe.
Just this week I discovered that our house worker is of the Kikuyu tribe. I never knew that before. It didn't matter. I am learning now that it matters very much. And how I wish it didn't.
Across the ocean we are following the struggles of my dad as he in in the opening salvos of battling cancer. We know now that he has leukemia. We know that it will take his life eventually. As the news of dad's sudden illness became worse and worse, Renee and I began to think about going home. We are struggling now with the implications of this. When and how we will go is something we really need wisdom about.
Before I left for Sudan this week Renee had a low day, with the plight of our house worker (a good friend) and my dad weighing heavy on her heart. She was washing dishes in the kitchen pretending that all was OK, but it wasn't. I reached out to hug her and she broke down. "You know, he's my dad too," she said.
I took those words with me as I flew in Sudan. (And I asked Renee to work out her thoughts in her journal, which she did.) The long hours between destinations in the airplane provide a lot of time for reflection, and I did a fair bit of it this week. Mostly about Renee's words. I would ask you to pray for me, to have wisdom and courage as I lead our family and ministry, but that seems rather selfish right now. I'd rather you pray for my dad, who is in the fight of his life. And for Kenya... probably in a similar fight.
~~~~~
A friend in New Jersey is keeping a website for my dad, with frequent updates. If you would like to peer into the life of a remarkable man for a moment, you can visit the site here:
www.caringbridge.org/visit/mattd
And lastly, for the many of you who have sent us a quick note of encouragement recently, we are thankful. Even for the prayers. Especially for the prayers. Thank You!
helpless vs. hopeless
January 07 2008
It's 5 am in Nairobi and I can't sleep again. Amelia woke
up with her obligatory "bad dreams" and is camping out at
my side, asleep again under the protective watch of her
father. I spent an hour with tears slowly soaking my
pillow. Reached for my daughter and rubbed her back.
Reached for my wife and held her hand. I can barely
remember this past week, or what I did on any given day
of it. I'm not even certain what day it is. There are
instances, however, that have been set in my memory for
good.
I remember the black smoke billowing above our housetops, just outside our compound here in the city, and the uneasy feeling which came over me that bad things would follow.
I remember the phone call with my brother in New Jersey telling me that our dad was just diagnosed with an incurable cancer.
I remember being called in to fly late one afternoon – meeting the plane at customs as it rolled in from a medi-vac flight from Mombassa, and all of us in a hurry to get it turned around for my urgent flight to western Kenya.
I recall the phone call I got, cramming the cellphone under my ear as I helped unload two teenagers on respirators from the airplane, their mother now dead from the car crash that left them unconscious. Peter, a Kenyan friend who works for Tear Fund was on the line. He had details for my flight. I didn't know what was going on. "You're going to save my family, Mike", he told me – a distant voice braking through the wind and chaos and jet fumes around me.
I remember blasting off that afternoon, one of my most flustered takeoffs ever.
The week is all mixed together in my head. There were days and portions of days that I helped fly some of the evacuations AIM AIR did from western Kenya. Days I helped with the logistics. Days we spent locked down on our compound. There were sounds of tear-gas canisters bursting open onto swelling crowds just a block away. Sounds of automatic weapons. Sounds of my mom crying and laughing with me over a phone conversation that spanned two worlds, and two wounds. Sounds of silence where life should have been.
I encountered some scary words this week – words that don't usually get much attention in our lives. Evacuation. Genocide. Chemotherapy. Helplessness.
One night at midnight, a Kenyan friend of ours called our neighbor in a panic. He and his young family were being attacked. He was fleeing his slum home for the forrest. The phone went dead. Myself and two other missionary men racked our brains on how we could help him. There was nothing we could do that would not have been an exercise in futility. So we prayed for Steven, and his wife, and their baby. I went to bed with a deep sense of helplessness that night. It was the theme of my week.
I have met many people this week who shared this point of view. Perhaps the refugees all over Kenya knew more of this feeling than I could ever understand. Most certainly my dad does.
I found it interesting that as I was helpless to be there for my mom and dad this week, there were people who took great joy in being there for them. And as Peter was helpless to save his family from danger here in Kenya's turmoil, I was able to stand in the gap – to swoop down and rescue his brother and sister and nieces and nephews.
I remember that dark night, as we pushed the plane back into AIM AIR's hangar, and Peter's family spilled out to greet him. He came to me and hugged me, and thanked me a dozen times. And it gave me great joy.
Being helpless is not entirely a bad thing I realized. It opens the door for others to step in and save the day. It allows us to be the community God intended us to be. Help can come in many forms. An Airplane. A gifted doctor. A neighbor or friend. A church family. A stranger even. We would do well not to be so independent sometimes.
In all our trouble this week, in the course of helping others and being helped, I never remember feeling hopeless. And for that, I can only thank God. Hope does not come in the same form as help does. We cannot really give it to other people. We merely point them to the hope that we have. Sometimes that's easiest when we are in the greatest need for help. Perhaps that's why we are here in all of this. Perhaps that's why dad is in that cancer ward.
~~~~~~~~~
Update on Kenya : Our country has calmed down some. We are no longer "locked down" but this crisis in Kenya is not over. If they can finally get the government sorted out, some say this past week will take months, if not years to recover from. I flew through Kisumu yesterday, the town hardest hit by the post-election violence. Many of the people I spoke with there were truly feeling hopeless. AIM AIR evacuated five hundred people from various locations in western Kenya this week. Peter from Tear Fund organized many of those flights. Our friend Steven turned out to be OK. His neighbors were murdered that night.
I have read many reports and articles trying to understand what happened here and why. One of the best comes from NRO online in this article – Democracy Endangered
Thanks for praying for us this past week. Please keep it up.
I remember the black smoke billowing above our housetops, just outside our compound here in the city, and the uneasy feeling which came over me that bad things would follow.
I remember the phone call with my brother in New Jersey telling me that our dad was just diagnosed with an incurable cancer.
I remember being called in to fly late one afternoon – meeting the plane at customs as it rolled in from a medi-vac flight from Mombassa, and all of us in a hurry to get it turned around for my urgent flight to western Kenya.
I recall the phone call I got, cramming the cellphone under my ear as I helped unload two teenagers on respirators from the airplane, their mother now dead from the car crash that left them unconscious. Peter, a Kenyan friend who works for Tear Fund was on the line. He had details for my flight. I didn't know what was going on. "You're going to save my family, Mike", he told me – a distant voice braking through the wind and chaos and jet fumes around me.
I remember blasting off that afternoon, one of my most flustered takeoffs ever.
The week is all mixed together in my head. There were days and portions of days that I helped fly some of the evacuations AIM AIR did from western Kenya. Days I helped with the logistics. Days we spent locked down on our compound. There were sounds of tear-gas canisters bursting open onto swelling crowds just a block away. Sounds of automatic weapons. Sounds of my mom crying and laughing with me over a phone conversation that spanned two worlds, and two wounds. Sounds of silence where life should have been.
I encountered some scary words this week – words that don't usually get much attention in our lives. Evacuation. Genocide. Chemotherapy. Helplessness.
One night at midnight, a Kenyan friend of ours called our neighbor in a panic. He and his young family were being attacked. He was fleeing his slum home for the forrest. The phone went dead. Myself and two other missionary men racked our brains on how we could help him. There was nothing we could do that would not have been an exercise in futility. So we prayed for Steven, and his wife, and their baby. I went to bed with a deep sense of helplessness that night. It was the theme of my week.
I have met many people this week who shared this point of view. Perhaps the refugees all over Kenya knew more of this feeling than I could ever understand. Most certainly my dad does.
I found it interesting that as I was helpless to be there for my mom and dad this week, there were people who took great joy in being there for them. And as Peter was helpless to save his family from danger here in Kenya's turmoil, I was able to stand in the gap – to swoop down and rescue his brother and sister and nieces and nephews.
I remember that dark night, as we pushed the plane back into AIM AIR's hangar, and Peter's family spilled out to greet him. He came to me and hugged me, and thanked me a dozen times. And it gave me great joy.
Being helpless is not entirely a bad thing I realized. It opens the door for others to step in and save the day. It allows us to be the community God intended us to be. Help can come in many forms. An Airplane. A gifted doctor. A neighbor or friend. A church family. A stranger even. We would do well not to be so independent sometimes.
In all our trouble this week, in the course of helping others and being helped, I never remember feeling hopeless. And for that, I can only thank God. Hope does not come in the same form as help does. We cannot really give it to other people. We merely point them to the hope that we have. Sometimes that's easiest when we are in the greatest need for help. Perhaps that's why we are here in all of this. Perhaps that's why dad is in that cancer ward.
~~~~~~~~~
Update on Kenya : Our country has calmed down some. We are no longer "locked down" but this crisis in Kenya is not over. If they can finally get the government sorted out, some say this past week will take months, if not years to recover from. I flew through Kisumu yesterday, the town hardest hit by the post-election violence. Many of the people I spoke with there were truly feeling hopeless. AIM AIR evacuated five hundred people from various locations in western Kenya this week. Peter from Tear Fund organized many of those flights. Our friend Steven turned out to be OK. His neighbors were murdered that night.
I have read many reports and articles trying to understand what happened here and why. One of the best comes from NRO online in this article – Democracy Endangered
Thanks for praying for us this past week. Please keep it up.
waiting, listening, praying
January 03 2008
"Within the span of a
week, one of the most developed, promising countries in
Africa has turned into a starter kit for disaster. "
(NYT) (Article - Kenya Topples Into Post-Election
Chaos)
(Photo BBC)
Our bags are packed, sitting near the door downstairs. We are poised for leaving the country, by road, or by air. All is quiet in Nairobi this morning (Thursday). Today is expected to be a watershed day, as the political opposition is planning a million-strong rally and protest downtown, one that has been declared illegal by those who have all the guns. I flew AIM AIR's little Cessna 210 yesterday, making several stops in western Kenya. The roads all over the country are apparently too dangerous to travel on. People come to the airstrips with armed police escorts. Many of them have been sleeping in the police stations overnight.
AIM AIR is flying a full day again today, much the same as yesterday - evacuating people whose lives are in danger. I'll go in to the airport around mid-day in order to have enough duty time to fly well into the night. I'll be separated from Renee and the kids when going to the hangar (about 5 miles away) but they are part of a small group of missionaries who are hunkered down on the compound here, and very safe in their care if I should not be able to drive home tonight.
For now, we are NOT expecting to leave Kenya. As bad as things are, I am hopeful that the Kenya I know, one full of peaceful and good people, will rise above this. Keep praying with us for that.
(I can hear mobs of people on the streets now. Gunshots. Not quiet anymore.)
(Photo BBC)
Our bags are packed, sitting near the door downstairs. We are poised for leaving the country, by road, or by air. All is quiet in Nairobi this morning (Thursday). Today is expected to be a watershed day, as the political opposition is planning a million-strong rally and protest downtown, one that has been declared illegal by those who have all the guns. I flew AIM AIR's little Cessna 210 yesterday, making several stops in western Kenya. The roads all over the country are apparently too dangerous to travel on. People come to the airstrips with armed police escorts. Many of them have been sleeping in the police stations overnight.
AIM AIR is flying a full day again today, much the same as yesterday - evacuating people whose lives are in danger. I'll go in to the airport around mid-day in order to have enough duty time to fly well into the night. I'll be separated from Renee and the kids when going to the hangar (about 5 miles away) but they are part of a small group of missionaries who are hunkered down on the compound here, and very safe in their care if I should not be able to drive home tonight.
For now, we are NOT expecting to leave Kenya. As bad as things are, I am hopeful that the Kenya I know, one full of peaceful and good people, will rise above this. Keep praying with us for that.
(I can hear mobs of people on the streets now. Gunshots. Not quiet anymore.)
bad to worse
January 01 2008
Fighting Intensifies After Election in
Kenya
Above is a link to the latest report about events in Kenya from the New York Times. Such sights are common for me. But not here. Not in my hometown. This happens in other places like the Congo, and Sudan. I never thought I would see this in Kenya.
I'm sitting here at our dining room table at 11 pm, still in my flight shirt.
Above is a link to the latest report about events in Kenya from the New York Times. Such sights are common for me. But not here. Not in my hometown. This happens in other places like the Congo, and Sudan. I never thought I would see this in Kenya.
I'm sitting here at our dining room table at 11 pm, still in my flight shirt.