march 2006
Dear friends,
I woke up some weeks ago to a bowl of corn flakes and a spot on the couch next to Amelia. We turned on CNN and were greeted with a report of a blizzard in New York City - twenty something inches of snow - an amazing spectacle. Amelia followed the report with glee, and we chatted about how “Oma and Pop-Pop” were equally buried in the stuff over there in New Jersey. The pictures made me smile as I looked out the east windows to a bright morning sun rising up over Nairobi - promising another day in the upper 80’s. I completely forgot that it was winter back home. The seasons here are all so similar that we frequently lose track of what month it is. It was one of those moments when I could imagine the globe, and our place on it some fixed distance from North Jersey, seeming so big and so small all at once. We gave my mom a call on the phone, and I could almost hear how cold it was. After talking with the grandkids for awhile she said goodbye with a mix of joy and tears. Despite our technology, I guess the world is still too big some days.
Recently, while heading home from a 4-day trip in Sudan, I found myself cruising around thirteen thousand feet over the barren northern frontier of Kenya. The relentless dry weather provided unusually clear skies, and I could see for perhaps a hundred miles in all directions. I marveled at the vastness of the region, and reflected on the hundreds of thousands of miles we cover with the airplanes. To my left was a civil war, to my right a slow genocide, behind me was a country left in ruins after 20 years of fighting, and below me, the worst drought in decades. Ahead of me, only three hundred more miles, was home. For a moment I sat physically suspended between them all - between a chaotic world of profound need to which we are called, and a world of peace and love in the company of my family. And I realized how thankful I was for every direction the Lord takes me from day to day. My little airplane makes this big world smaller for the work of missions - making supplies and support only a few hours away instead of a few weeks. Sometimes I lose sight of how important aviation is out here, but I never tire of the thankful faces of the people I get to serve, no matter how far away. I wish I could tell you more of the stories. Stories about ordinary people living and serving in extraordinary lands - at the “tip of the spear” in the work of God’s redeeming love. You would be encouraged and amazed, as I often am. Some day I’ll find a way to bring these stories home beyond our simple newsletters.
Later this year our family will be heading back to America for a scheduled furlough. It will have been more than two years since we were there and we hope to spend four months (August through November) trying to visit as many of you as possible. Please begin to consider this and let us know if and when we can spend some time with you. Renee and I are really looking forward to this furlough, coming home maybe a little more tired than in times past. Please pray for us to finish this term well, and for me to hand off my administrative and flying responsibilities smoothly. Right now, this is a big challenge.
And thank you for the prayers over the past few months. Renee and I have been well, more at peace than before. The kids are also carrying on fine. Amelia is conquering her school work, growing smarter, but also sweeter. Renee and I both enjoy conversations with her on topics beyond her seven years. She’s a curious mixture of Barbie-lover and philosopher. Go figure. Zach is a supercharged bundle of joy who just loves everybody and continues to share a special bond with the dog. The kids are a tremendous gift from God to us. And so are you. Thanks for keeping us in your minds and hearts.
Mike and Renee
Remember The Fall
I walked quickly to catch up with the group and, coming alongside Joshua, I matched my pace to his. The low, late afternoon sun brought a reprieve from the awful heat of the day, and we made our way down a sandy road toward a village. Joshua busily pointed out some of the work he had done to protect the road from erosion by the unpredictable rains. Here he planted some tenacious shrub, and there placed markers for an unsuspecting driver who might otherwise veer off an embankment. We passed a field on our left and he waved a hand in passing as he said, "there used to be a garden here." It was hardly even a field – a patch of barren ground with neat rows of withered stalks. The words worked into my consciousness as we walked and I pulled my cap low over my brow to cut out the setting sun and signal my introspection. Looking down, admiring my boots and kicking up dust, I imagined myself on a tour of the newly fallen world; As if Adam himself were showing us the creation he had just yesterday ruined. "There used to be a garden here, but now." Dry, hard, dead earth; toil, shame, and pain. It was all here in eastern Kenya, in unmistakable detail.
I stopped at a small tree, nearly leafless, but bursting with rigid two-inch thorns. Cupping a hand around a bunch, I squeezed gently until one pricked my finger. Startled by how much it hurt, I pulled away sharply and stood there sucking my wound while looking around with squinted eyes. Most of the trees in sight appeared as hostile as this one. Carrying on we came to a place where the river should have been. The deep sandy cut was filled with cattle, camels, goats, and men. Here they were arduously digging ten feet down to reach water and raise it up to their animals. Up the eroded banks of the riverbed and less than a kilometer away was the village; Houses made of grass and tree branches; Children in bare feet running around with runny noses. We greeted several “Mamas” along the way who were tending to their little plots, and offering us a simple, kind smile as we passed. But their faces reveled a deeper complexity – of the cosmic imbalance between life’s few pleasures and its overarching hardships. Any one of them could have been Eve, with faces bearing the remnants of some indistinct regret and resignation, proponents and descendants of “the Fall,” that famous rupture between God and mankind. Standing there with them I remembered how deep have been its consequences; From the curse on the land, to the toil of men... and the thorns, a fitting symbol of our rebellion – the pinprick in my own hand reminding me that I was no mere tourist here. Somehow it was easier to understand in that un-gardenlike place, away from my manufactured environment of comfort, and the illusions of control stripped away. I sat on a bucket outside of a thatch hut and lamented the loss. Perhaps for the first time ever.
Rose was inside visiting an old man who was dying. I had flown with Rose several times over the years but not recently. She was retired now. Seventy-something, a cancer survivor, back to visit one of the communities she had served over the years as a nurse. She was a minister to many parts of Kenya, but this one was especially difficult. A strongly Muslim community steeped in fear and mixed with tradition, they were (and still are) stoutly resistant to the Gospel. Rose told me, “Some sow and some reap, but some don’t even get to sow. They do the troublesome work of turning the soil.” She described her ministry here as one of “love and compassion.” And when she first arrived in 1981, the people were unyielding, “We don’t want your religion, we want your medicine.” Some twenty years later, after so many acts of kindness and thousands of vaccinations, the soil here showed some signs of being turned. “We know you love us,” the Chief told her, “you saved our children.” Those children are adults now, and many ran up to greet her as we walked along. They recalled the prick of her needle as a terrified little kid, victims of the stubborn love of a proper German nurse, unyielding in her own way, but marked with tenderness. I stood from my bucket and noticed that her heart had not changed in two decades. She emerged from the thatch hut wiping away a tear. The dying man had been clinging to her arm for more than twenty minutes, welcoming her prayers and making his petition, “I want to go home with you.”
Home for Rose today is an apartment complex in Germany where she feigns retirement. She has been there for several years turning a different kind of soil with the same persistent love and compassion – working to reach her elderly neighbors with the Hope she knows so well. The desolation of the Fall looks dissimilar there in modern Europe (and modern America.) One might even fail to notice it. Toil is manageable, suffering is dignified, and thorns are not as prominent in these blessed lands. But the lost Garden is just as far from reach. The rift between God and man is equally evident in peoples’ faces, if we dare look close enough. We are all, at times, pictures of regret and resignation – sons of Adam, and daughters of Eve. We are meant to remember that that this whole earth is caught up in a curse, and that we ourselves are dust. But out of that state we are bid to be like Rose, an anomaly in a fallen world, actively knowing and sharing a hope that is not of this world – drawn to engage the chaos but spared from the error of thinking the answer lies within us. For me a sore finger on the flight home was all the reminder I needed. In the thorns and thistles of East Africa I find perspective – about what I am, and what I am not. And they help me to understand a God who, in Africa, grows more and more mysterious to me, but also more real. Because there used to be a garden here, and now there are a million reminders of a different history; one both terrible and wonderful. And in a single thorn the whole story can be told:
He took a symbol of our rebellion, wove it into a crown, and made it a symbol of our redemption.
I woke up some weeks ago to a bowl of corn flakes and a spot on the couch next to Amelia. We turned on CNN and were greeted with a report of a blizzard in New York City - twenty something inches of snow - an amazing spectacle. Amelia followed the report with glee, and we chatted about how “Oma and Pop-Pop” were equally buried in the stuff over there in New Jersey. The pictures made me smile as I looked out the east windows to a bright morning sun rising up over Nairobi - promising another day in the upper 80’s. I completely forgot that it was winter back home. The seasons here are all so similar that we frequently lose track of what month it is. It was one of those moments when I could imagine the globe, and our place on it some fixed distance from North Jersey, seeming so big and so small all at once. We gave my mom a call on the phone, and I could almost hear how cold it was. After talking with the grandkids for awhile she said goodbye with a mix of joy and tears. Despite our technology, I guess the world is still too big some days.
Recently, while heading home from a 4-day trip in Sudan, I found myself cruising around thirteen thousand feet over the barren northern frontier of Kenya. The relentless dry weather provided unusually clear skies, and I could see for perhaps a hundred miles in all directions. I marveled at the vastness of the region, and reflected on the hundreds of thousands of miles we cover with the airplanes. To my left was a civil war, to my right a slow genocide, behind me was a country left in ruins after 20 years of fighting, and below me, the worst drought in decades. Ahead of me, only three hundred more miles, was home. For a moment I sat physically suspended between them all - between a chaotic world of profound need to which we are called, and a world of peace and love in the company of my family. And I realized how thankful I was for every direction the Lord takes me from day to day. My little airplane makes this big world smaller for the work of missions - making supplies and support only a few hours away instead of a few weeks. Sometimes I lose sight of how important aviation is out here, but I never tire of the thankful faces of the people I get to serve, no matter how far away. I wish I could tell you more of the stories. Stories about ordinary people living and serving in extraordinary lands - at the “tip of the spear” in the work of God’s redeeming love. You would be encouraged and amazed, as I often am. Some day I’ll find a way to bring these stories home beyond our simple newsletters.
Later this year our family will be heading back to America for a scheduled furlough. It will have been more than two years since we were there and we hope to spend four months (August through November) trying to visit as many of you as possible. Please begin to consider this and let us know if and when we can spend some time with you. Renee and I are really looking forward to this furlough, coming home maybe a little more tired than in times past. Please pray for us to finish this term well, and for me to hand off my administrative and flying responsibilities smoothly. Right now, this is a big challenge.
And thank you for the prayers over the past few months. Renee and I have been well, more at peace than before. The kids are also carrying on fine. Amelia is conquering her school work, growing smarter, but also sweeter. Renee and I both enjoy conversations with her on topics beyond her seven years. She’s a curious mixture of Barbie-lover and philosopher. Go figure. Zach is a supercharged bundle of joy who just loves everybody and continues to share a special bond with the dog. The kids are a tremendous gift from God to us. And so are you. Thanks for keeping us in your minds and hearts.
Mike and Renee
Remember The Fall
I walked quickly to catch up with the group and, coming alongside Joshua, I matched my pace to his. The low, late afternoon sun brought a reprieve from the awful heat of the day, and we made our way down a sandy road toward a village. Joshua busily pointed out some of the work he had done to protect the road from erosion by the unpredictable rains. Here he planted some tenacious shrub, and there placed markers for an unsuspecting driver who might otherwise veer off an embankment. We passed a field on our left and he waved a hand in passing as he said, "there used to be a garden here." It was hardly even a field – a patch of barren ground with neat rows of withered stalks. The words worked into my consciousness as we walked and I pulled my cap low over my brow to cut out the setting sun and signal my introspection. Looking down, admiring my boots and kicking up dust, I imagined myself on a tour of the newly fallen world; As if Adam himself were showing us the creation he had just yesterday ruined. "There used to be a garden here, but now." Dry, hard, dead earth; toil, shame, and pain. It was all here in eastern Kenya, in unmistakable detail.
I stopped at a small tree, nearly leafless, but bursting with rigid two-inch thorns. Cupping a hand around a bunch, I squeezed gently until one pricked my finger. Startled by how much it hurt, I pulled away sharply and stood there sucking my wound while looking around with squinted eyes. Most of the trees in sight appeared as hostile as this one. Carrying on we came to a place where the river should have been. The deep sandy cut was filled with cattle, camels, goats, and men. Here they were arduously digging ten feet down to reach water and raise it up to their animals. Up the eroded banks of the riverbed and less than a kilometer away was the village; Houses made of grass and tree branches; Children in bare feet running around with runny noses. We greeted several “Mamas” along the way who were tending to their little plots, and offering us a simple, kind smile as we passed. But their faces reveled a deeper complexity – of the cosmic imbalance between life’s few pleasures and its overarching hardships. Any one of them could have been Eve, with faces bearing the remnants of some indistinct regret and resignation, proponents and descendants of “the Fall,” that famous rupture between God and mankind. Standing there with them I remembered how deep have been its consequences; From the curse on the land, to the toil of men... and the thorns, a fitting symbol of our rebellion – the pinprick in my own hand reminding me that I was no mere tourist here. Somehow it was easier to understand in that un-gardenlike place, away from my manufactured environment of comfort, and the illusions of control stripped away. I sat on a bucket outside of a thatch hut and lamented the loss. Perhaps for the first time ever.
Rose was inside visiting an old man who was dying. I had flown with Rose several times over the years but not recently. She was retired now. Seventy-something, a cancer survivor, back to visit one of the communities she had served over the years as a nurse. She was a minister to many parts of Kenya, but this one was especially difficult. A strongly Muslim community steeped in fear and mixed with tradition, they were (and still are) stoutly resistant to the Gospel. Rose told me, “Some sow and some reap, but some don’t even get to sow. They do the troublesome work of turning the soil.” She described her ministry here as one of “love and compassion.” And when she first arrived in 1981, the people were unyielding, “We don’t want your religion, we want your medicine.” Some twenty years later, after so many acts of kindness and thousands of vaccinations, the soil here showed some signs of being turned. “We know you love us,” the Chief told her, “you saved our children.” Those children are adults now, and many ran up to greet her as we walked along. They recalled the prick of her needle as a terrified little kid, victims of the stubborn love of a proper German nurse, unyielding in her own way, but marked with tenderness. I stood from my bucket and noticed that her heart had not changed in two decades. She emerged from the thatch hut wiping away a tear. The dying man had been clinging to her arm for more than twenty minutes, welcoming her prayers and making his petition, “I want to go home with you.”
Home for Rose today is an apartment complex in Germany where she feigns retirement. She has been there for several years turning a different kind of soil with the same persistent love and compassion – working to reach her elderly neighbors with the Hope she knows so well. The desolation of the Fall looks dissimilar there in modern Europe (and modern America.) One might even fail to notice it. Toil is manageable, suffering is dignified, and thorns are not as prominent in these blessed lands. But the lost Garden is just as far from reach. The rift between God and man is equally evident in peoples’ faces, if we dare look close enough. We are all, at times, pictures of regret and resignation – sons of Adam, and daughters of Eve. We are meant to remember that that this whole earth is caught up in a curse, and that we ourselves are dust. But out of that state we are bid to be like Rose, an anomaly in a fallen world, actively knowing and sharing a hope that is not of this world – drawn to engage the chaos but spared from the error of thinking the answer lies within us. For me a sore finger on the flight home was all the reminder I needed. In the thorns and thistles of East Africa I find perspective – about what I am, and what I am not. And they help me to understand a God who, in Africa, grows more and more mysterious to me, but also more real. Because there used to be a garden here, and now there are a million reminders of a different history; one both terrible and wonderful. And in a single thorn the whole story can be told:
He took a symbol of our rebellion, wove it into a crown, and made it a symbol of our redemption.