A Piece of My Heart

From my journal, March 2007

There are some moments in life when you feel the world tilt upright just a tad, when you find at least one corner of your world makes a little bit more sense than it did before.

I felt my world tilt upright just a bit this past week.

I went back through my journals the other night, searching for the pages when I last knew Wyoming had been on my radar. (Thank God I have been a lover of journals because these are the moments when I am so grateful I have spent time documenting the seasons of my life.) I had written in one entry, my last semester of college, "There is something that is drawing me to Wyoming.  I'm not sure how to explain it - and I don't know if I have built up a romanticized ideal of Wyoming or what, but I just really want to go there." 

That longing became a reality this past Tuesday when I found myself driving north out of Jackson, Wyoming.  The Grand Tetons were looming large ahead on my left and the expanse of the valley stretched out to my right.  I was in love and I hadn't even been there but an hour.

A little over eight years ago (March 27, 2007, to be exact) I was offered a job at a ranch in Wyoming - Turpin Meadow Ranch.  I had somehow managed to stumble across a job posting for the place, just a summer job doing housekeeping.  I was feeling restless at the time, having no clue what I was going to do once I graduated (does anyone ever know what to do with a degree in History??).  I wasn't too keen on going back home, and I was feeling a little desperate to find a place to go.  I had also applied for a position with Lifeway at their conference center in Ridgecrest, North Carolina, around the same time I had applied at Turpin Meadow.  

I remember getting a call from the then-owner of the ranch. (It's now owned by a different couple.)  I missed his first call and he left me a voicemail, saying I was exactly the kind of person they were looking for to work at their ranch.  I saved that voicemail for I don't know how long, and then saved his phone number until I deleted it just a year or two ago.  Don't ask me why I held onto that phone number for so long, but I did.  I was also offered a job at Ridgecrest, though, which left me in a panic as to which one to choose, convinced one would somehow be right and the other one was somehow wrong, and if I didn't choose wisely my whole life was going to be a royal and indefinite mess.  I was being irrational I realize, but at the time, the decision felt monumental.

In the long run, I chose North Carolina.  It was a good summer and I wound up meeting a girl (that would be you, Miss Kristen) who is now one of my dearest friends.  I don't regret that summer, but I have spent the last eight years wondering what life would have been like out at Turpin Meadow.

This year was the first in a handful of years that I had no plans or offers to go somewhere overseas.  So many other things kept trumping a trip to Wyoming over the years and I decided I didn't want to put the dream on hold anymore.  I started saving money as if I were a squirrel stashing nuts for the winter, and finally booked the details of the trip over Memorial Day weekend. 

The lodge at Turpin Meadow

I booked 4 days/3 nights at the ranch, booked a flight into Jackson, rented me a pickup truck (don't worry, that truck will get a blog post all of its own), and outlined my itinerary.  I think I had always envisioned going on this trip by myself, which naturally got some strange looks from folks, but the time and the place felt a little sacred so I wasn't too eager to have traveling companions.  And let's be honest - as an introvert, I probably enjoy being alone more so than the average person. 

Finally, September 8 rolled around and I couldn't wait to hop on that plane to Denver and then onto Jackson. I landed amid the Tetons, grabbed the keys to the truck from the rental company, and set off on the first of four days that would tilt the axis of my world just a little bit, for the better.  

I took my time driving north to the ranch, passing through Grand Teton National Park, before settling in for the evening at the ranch.  The next day I hoofed it up to Yellowstone to see Old Faithful and stopped at what seemed nearly every single lookout along the way, taking photograph after photograph.  I was probably a hazard on the road, so busy looking at the scenery around me that I had to consciously remember to pay attention to the road in front of me.  I couldn't seem to get enough of the surrounding views.  The day after that, I stuck around the ranch and spent the morning going horseback riding and just generally enjoying my time there.  

Sunset from the porch of the ranch, Tetons in the distance

And then Friday, my final day there, rolled around.  I think even my body was in mutiny over me leaving, as I slept horribly, woke up nauseated and with a queasy stomach.  I honestly wasn't sure if I was going to be able to keep breakfast down or not.  I dreaded the thought of leaving, and my body was agreeing.  Nevertheless, I packed up my things and hit the road back to Jackson.

I cried off and on most of the way back to Jackson.  That small corner of my world that suddenly made sense was now getting left behind.  I went into town for a few hours, slipping in and out of the numerous art galleries, which also stole my heart just a little bit more, knowing how much stunning talent and art was tucked away in the town.  I finally returned the truck to the airport and reluctantly made my way through airport security to start making the trek back home.  

This trip was everything I dreamed and then some.  Even long before Turpin Meadow specifically showed up on the map, one of the very first things I had ever put on my bucket list, starting back in 2000, was to go to a dude ranch for a week or two.  Granted, this trip was only four days, but I'm still crossing it off the list as accomplished.

So, to you Jackson Hole, Wyoming and Turpin Meadow Ranch - you are etched in my mind forever.  You stole of a piece of my heart and I am beyond grateful for the time spent with you.  Give me enough time and I'm sure you'll be seeing me again (maybe as a resident? Who knows).  Hopefully it doesn't take me another 8 years to make that happen.

Farewell to the Home of a Thousand Memories

"People are always telling you that change is a good thing. But all they're really saying is that something you didn't want to happen at all... has happened. My store is closing this week. I own a store, did I ever tell you that? It's a lovely store, and in a week it will be something really depressing, like a Baby Gap. Soon, it'll just be a memory. In fact, someone, some foolish person, will probably think it's a tribute to this city, the way it keeps changing on you, the way you can never count on it, or something. I know because that's the sort of thing I'm always saying. But the truth is... I'm heartbroken. I feel as if a part of me has died, and my mother has died all over again, and no one can ever make it right." ~ You've Got Mail

Leave it to You've Got Mail to give me the words I need at the moment when I most need them.  It's not the first time this has happened.

The place where I found a second home, a second family, and learned that Jesus was enough is about to change hands.  Wheeler Stables, the place where I cleaned out more stalls than I care to count and took a few tumbles off the backs of a few lesson horses.  The place where I gathered a few dreams and watched a few fall apart.  The place where I fought a few fears and maybe finally found some comfort in my own skin.  The place where I met people who understood my obsession with horses and did weird things like feed their horses mints and scratch their tongues.  The place where I learned what it looked like to bust my tail to accomplish something, to work hard for what I wanted.  The place where I cried a few tears in frustration, but felt the satisfaction and sweetness of having a twelve hundred pound beast respond just the way I wanted them to.

It will all soon belong to someone else.

I feel a lot like Kathleen Kelly in You've Got Mail. The stables is in the process of being sold and in a short time it's going to be something really depressing like a Quarter Horse farm. (My apologies to any QH lovers reading this.  I'm sure they are lovely creatures, but I will forever be partial to the American Saddlebred and that's all I'll be able to picture in the stalls of this barn.)  People say change is a good thing, but what they are really saying is that something you didn't want to happen at all...has happened.  And soon this farm will be just a memory.  And maybe I am a bit heartbroken.

I know, it's just a building.  A place built by human hands.  Wood, brick, aluminum.  Hay, dirt, sawdust.  Cobwebs, horseflies, and maybe one too many gnats.  

But this is where so much of my life happened.

And I'm sad.  I'm sad to see it soon belong to someone else, to not be able to pull in its driveway whenever I want.  The farm was actually officially put on the market over a decade ago.  It rocked my world even then to find out my trainers were selling, it just seemed deeply personal, like I was about to lose a part of my very own identity.  But years passed and no one came along to buy it.  It was just one of those things that I subconsciously thought would always be there, just as I always remembered it, always belonging to Wheelers.

While a small part of me grieves, I will forever be grateful for that little corner of the world, those 84 acres where I learned what it finally meant to like who I was.  It was in your aisleways and stalls that I felt at home, at ease.  It was on your board fences that I figured out what it looked like to let go of some dreams, and come up wanting better dreams, different dreams.  It was on your grassy fields that I learned to hang on for dear life, literally and figuratively.  It was in your tack room that I came to love the smell of leather and Murphy's Oil.  It was in your arena that I learned to dust myself off and get back on again.  And it was through two people, Dave and Eileen Wheeler, that I was forever changed.  Apart from my own family, no two other people have had the greatest impact on those years of my life like you two did.  You encouraged me, spoiled me, taught me, and loved me like no one else did at that time.  Your farm was my outlet and my safe haven from the chaos of my life.  You were my retreat when I was so desperate to hide away.

My story, my past doesn't make sense without this place.  It's incomplete.  Someone once said, "All the art of living is a fine mingling of letting go and holding on."  This is the fine mingling of letting go of a physical place. And holding onto a thousand memories of a place I will forever love.    
     

Classic Childhood Moments

It had been awhile since I had seen my nieces and nephews.  After being gone in Guatemala and just generally having a goofy schedule, I was finally able to spend some time with them last week.  The photos below capture well the silliness that ensued.  And yes, that is a Hello Kitty tattoo on my niece's neck.  She's three and that's just where she felt like putting her tattoo.  I'm not going to argue with the girl.  

Love his "Chicks Heart Heroes" shirt.

And the winner for best moment of the night...

Classic.

It is Good

It's good to see Jonathan's sunflowers spring up again this year.  New seeds, new blooms, new life.  

New mercies every morning.

We Speak to Nations

Our team crossing the second stream before
reaching Monte Hermon

I don't think I have ever sweat so much before in my life.  I was sweating in places I didn't know could sweat.  And I know I wasn't the only one.  Our shirts were practically drenched and our bandannas couldn't seem to mop up enough of the sweat rolling down our faces, into our eyes, down our back.  But our hearts were full and our joy was complete because we had come to proclaim Him.

We had driven about twenty minutes and hiked an equal amount to find this remote village in the mountains of Guatemala, a village called Monte Hermon, or Mount Hermon. (You can find references to it in Psalm 42 or Psalm 89.)  We crossed two streams, hiked past a pineapple patch, breezed past the neatly swept dirt porches of wooden houses and gathered in the center of this small community, a community it seemed the rest of the world had forgotten.

The Mission2Guatemala staff had told us this village had never seen North Americans before.  Hard to imagine.  But one of the village leaders - maybe the pastor? I can't remember - had approached Mission2Guatemala and asked if they could send a team to come visit their village.  It was rather spur of the moment that our team was asked to go.  We were asked Tuesday morning if we wanted to go that afternoon.  Yes, of course, we'll go.  Doesn't matter the hike, doesn't matter the heat, doesn't matter the exhaustion.  I mean, isn't that why we came to Guatemala?  To roll up our sleeves and preach Jesus to the nations?

Filing into the church

The people filed into the tiny village church, one by one, all of the children clamoring to get to the front.  And there we were, more than 60 people squeezed together into what amounted to a space not much bigger than a single-car garage.  We danced and laughed and sang our way through the afternoon.  We spoke of Jesus and his free gift of salvation.  We spoke of his great love for us.  We spoke of his sacrifice.  And we spoke of his desire for the nations - that they would know he is God and that he had come to set them free.

Translating took some extra effort, as many of the people did not speak Spanish but Kekchi, an ancient Mayan language.  So most everything we said to the group got translated from English to Spanish, Spanish to Kekchi.  But we shared Jesus with them despite the language, despite the heat that was threatening to leave us all in puddles on the dirt floor.  (Of course, the Guatemalans have yet to break a sweat and are merely dabbing their foreheads while we are practically wringing out our clothes.)

Explaining the parachute game

We eventually made our way outside, beyond the stifling heat of the church.  We separated the children into small groups, doing our best to explain how to make the craft.  It essentially was a game of charades, pointing at beads, demonstrating knots, smiling, nodding, approving as best we knew how.  I think some of the kids probably wondered who these crazy white women were and what they were saying.

And trying to explain a game to a group of kids who had never seen a parachute before?  Yeah, you should have seen that one in action.  We pulled out a parachute we had, inflated some beach balls and set out to gather the kids around.  They really had no idea what we were trying to get them to do so here we are attempting to demonstrate the concept, looking like awkward fools.

And as we stood there, proclaiming Christ and loving people in simple ways, I just kept thinking, "This surely is what heaven will look like."  This is what it looks like for every knee to bow and every tongue to confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.  Someday when I get to heaven it won't matter the language.  I won't need to translate what I speak into Spanish and from Spanish to Kekchi.  It won't matter the skin color.  It won't matter the background.  It won't matter the family.  It won't matter the hurt.  It won't matter the disease.  It won't matter the nation or geography.  It won't matter the age and it won't matter the ability.  Because we will all bow before a mighty and holy God and confess that he is worthy of all glory, honor and praise.

But until that day - we speak to nations.

We speak to nations - be open.

We speak to nations - fall on your knees.

We speak to nations - the kingdom is coming near to you.

We speak to nations - be free.

In Our Expert Opinions

  

I wouldn't say that I am deathly afraid of spiders, small rodents or other creepy-crawlies.

It turns out I am delusional.

Our team of eight women had been in Guatemala for a few days already by the time last Wednesday rolled around.  We had spent Saturday and Sunday traveling, Monday was a prep day, Tuesday was spent in the school and then a remote village.  So by the time we hit Wednesday we thought we had been initiated into all that comes along with being in remote parts of foreign lands, mainly things like finding spiders in your shoes and killing enough no-see-ums (evil bugs) to last a lifetime.

It also turns out we were delusional.

We were wrapping things up for the night.  We had done our debriefing, had devotions and were heading back to our rooms.  You can see in the picture that the place we were staying was basically a thatched roof and all of the doors opened to the exterior.  (The bedrooms were all enclosed and had drop ceilings, so it's not like our rooms opened up straight into the thatched roof.)  I was the first to walk back down the exterior walkway, looking forward to crawling into bed and crashing for the night.  I got past the first door when I noticed a rather dark blotch on the side of the window frame.  The lights were dim so I wasn't entirely sure what I was looking at.

And then I got closer and realized I was looking at one hairy spider, seeming rather tarantula-like. I made an immediate u-turn and headed back to the group to warn them of our visitor.

The picture does not do it justice.  It was a baby tarantula
in our expert opinions.

So, of course, being women, we all gathered around, trying to get close but not too close.  I know, we do weird things.  We're terrified of the blasted thing but we still want to get close enough to get pictures.

And, of course, being women, we had to figure out how to kill the thing pronto.

And, of course, being women, we found the biggest can of bug spray we could find and unloaded about half of it on this spider.

He slowly slid his way down the wall and by the time he got to the floor, he was still going strong.  So we sprayed some more.  He kept inching along, fighting his way through the flood of bug spray.  We sprayed some more.  I didn't think this sucker was ever going to die.  And if he did, it would probably be our luck that he would come back from the dead.  

The black, round little blob is the dead spider.

Jill, being our resident bug zapper, whipped off her flip flop with the intent to just smash the thing and deliver the final blow.  And in my head I'm thinking, "Jill...I really don't think you want that thing all over the bottom of your shoe.  This is not some itty-bitty mosquito we are talking about crushing here."  Because there won't be just a little blood spatter by the time you get done killing this thing.  You'll need a stick to scrape this thing off.  So I told her to grab a rock.  

Which she did.  And then she dropped it on top of him.  Direct hit.  The rock proceeded to shatter all over the place, but thankfully when we removed a few chunks and unearthed the spider, he was curled up on his back, sufficiently dead. You lose.

But wait!  The story doesn't end there.

So we took a moment to regroup after our minor spider mishap.  We were all back standing up at the top of the stairs.  I decided I was going to brave another attempt to get back to my room and crawl into bed.  I was practically holding my breath, hoping nothing else would come out of the shadows.

I made it back to our door - and for whatever strange reason, I hesitated, just standing there before I opened it, staring at the door.  I then heard this slight rustling noise.  My immediate response was, "Dear Lord, please don't let anything come falling out of the rafters on top of me."

It didn't come out of the rafters but it sure came out of the shadows.  This rather smallish rat/extra extra large mouse came scrambling out of the shadows of my door frame.

I don't think I have ever screamed, jumped or scrambled so loud, so high or so fast in my life.

Which then precipitated a wave of correlating screams from the other seven women.  And I'm not even sure they knew what they were screaming about.  They just heard me screaming and saw me running.

At this point, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.  Cara was nearly beside herself in tears.  I think Karen was ready to pack her bags or at least sleep in a sealed container for the night.  And I'm honestly not sure how the rest of the women responded because I was too busy laughing hysterically out of nervous fear and adrenaline.

It's at this point that we see the lights from the mission house come on.  Out comes poor Karren, one of the Mission2Guatemala staff members, to check on us and make sure we were all still alive.  I'm sure with the amount of screaming we did, it was easy to think one of us had died or had at least been abducted.  We rehashed what happened and I think she was looking at us like we had lost our minds, especially when we showed her pictures of the spiders.  I swear it was bigger in real life than what the pictures indicate.  But being the polite, kind woman that she is, she humored us and checked our room for any creepy crawlies, four-legged creatures, or any other member of God's creation.

When I was telling the gathering of pastors' wives the next day about our little escapade, they, too, laughed and thought we were crazy and maybe slightly overreacting.  I liken it to the moment when a parent has a child who is overreacting and they want to pat the kid on the head and say in a slightly patronizing tone, "There, there.  It will all be okay."  I suppose if we had been in the South, they would have all just smiled sweetly at us and said, "Bless your little hearts."  

And since being home, I have killed two spiders.  They are no baby tarantulas, but at this point, I don't care.  They're dead.                  

To Bend Low in Order to Lift High

Some of the women walked two or three hours on well-worn paths, making their way from remote parts of Guatemala.

Some of the women left at 3 or 4 o'clock in the morning, searching their way through thick brush in the pre-dawn hours.

Some of the women carried babies wrapped in slings strapped to their heads or across their shoulders.

It's unfathomable to me the effort these women made to come see us.  They were all wives of pastors who served various districts of the Nazarene Church in Guatemala.  One of the Guatemalan women said she had been dreaming of this day, the day when all of the pastors' wives could have their own gathering and fellowship together, not just their husbands.

And somehow we got the awesome privilege to be a part of that dream, of that long-ago prayer.

About 21 ladies streamed off the mission's bus, after having been picked up in the nearby city of Chisec.  They came loaded with nursing babies and nothing but flip flops on their feet and the traditional Guatemalan skirt and top.  Whispered "holas" and timid hugs were shared between our team of eight women and these new-found friends.  They found their seats and we quickly found space for their babies in our arms.  They worked on some of the crafts we provided for them and we found out how just terrible our Spanish was.  They leaned back in uncertainty and we pressed in with confidence.  Confidence rooted in the fact that God had not forgotten them - and that we had come to remind them.  

They had come to receive and we had to come to give.  To give blessings, to give encouragement, to give rest.

So often, the women in Guatemala are seen simply as baby-makers and nothing more.  They have little value in the culture and their worth is rarely spoken of.  So when our team was tapped to facilitate a women's time, we jumped at the chance.  We gathered together goodies and supplies we were going to hand out to them - potato peelers, dish towels, bath towels, flip flops, hair brushes, bars of soap, Spanish Bibles, and the list goes on.  We prepped a full lunch of chili, baked potatoes, fresh fruit, fresh bread and chocolate cake. But above all, we wanted to convey to them a message of encouragement and hope, to remind them that they were not forgotten.

And in a world of calloused, scarred feet, thready sandals and dirt-covered toes, we did what anyone would do -

We washed their feet.

Just as Jesus had commanded in John 13, we washed the precious feet of these Guatemala women.  We bent low so they could be lifted high - so Jesus could be lifted high.  I think they were a little stunned we were willing to do such a thing.  We spoke of the story in John, reminding them this was what Jesus had commanded us to do.  And we told them we were not American women coming to them as Guatemalan women.  We were simply coming to them as women ministering to women, living out the gospel as best we knew how.

We divided up into teams of two with four stations.  We gathered small groups of women around our buckets of water and snow white towels.  They gently slipped their well-worn feet out of their well-worn sandals.  We tenderly rinsed with fresh water and we dried with white towels that would soon become muddied with the dirt from distant roads and winding paths.  The Spanish version of Kari Jobe's song "I Know That You Are For Me" played quietly in the background. 

I know that God is for these Guatemalan women.  

He is for me.

I nearly wept over the feet of these women as I dried them, remembering Mary as she wept over the feet of Jesus.  These women who had walked so far to see us, who carried babies on their backs and scars on their feet.  And maybe a few scars on their hearts.  The whole thing was just so overwhelming to me as I sat at their feet, feeling so completely humbled and at a loss.  It almost seemed absurd the grace given in that moment.

And because He is for us, we bent low and washed these precious women's feet.  They would later do introductions, telling us where they lived and how far they had come.  And then they would thank us, thank us for the reminder of Jesus washing the disciples' feet, thank us for the many blessings of goodies we had handed out.  And I wanted to stand up in the middle of it all and protest, to shout at them that we had done nothing to deserve their thanks.

When we had come to give, we found out we had received instead.  Shouldn't we be the ones giving thanks, asking them instead how we could repay them?  We had set out to wash their feet - and we had - but we found out our own souls had been washed as well in the process.

Isn't that how it always goes?  You come to be the blessing only to find out you are the one who has been blessed.

And you find out you can never repay God for his overwhelming grace that gets displayed in situations like this.

There will be many more stories to come from Guatemala.  Our team was there for a total of 8 days - 4 of which were spent getting to Chisec, but the remaining 4 were still packed full of Jesus and more of Jesus.  And it will be like any other trip I've taken - it takes time to decompress and to put into words all that we saw, all that we felt.  But this story - the one of washing the feet of these women - it couldn't wait.  The image of their freshly washed feet will be forever seared onto my brain and the reminder that sometimes you have to bend low in order to lift high others will not be quickly forgotten.                

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All Things Books

I was on the hunt for the perfect book.  One that I could cut up and basically destroy.  All in the name of love and weddings and friends.

I had the privilege of hosting my friend Alexanne's wedding shower yesterday and I decided to ixnay the usual ho-hum wedding theme and go for one that was uniquely Alex. Book-themed, of course!  The girl loves all things books.  That's probably why we are such good friends.  I think we could sit and talk about books all day.  I drafted the invitations to look like the old library card catalog cards from way back when we didn't have anything saved on a computer.

  

I asked each guest to bring with them their favorite book to give to Alex as a gift to add to her own personal library.  I included a bookplate in the invitation so that they could easily write her a note and then include it in the cover of the book.  This way she would have a personal note from each person, but also have something from everybody at the shower that was uniquely them.  I like it when practicality meets meaningful gifts.

I kept the decorations fairly minimal, but I was inspired by some posts on Pinterest that included the pages of old books used as decor.  I liked the idea and thought I could easily find a book that I could cut up and use the pages.  This is when my hunt for the perfect book to destroy began. It turns out it was harder than I imagined.  I made a pit stop at the thrift store and as I was thumbing through the 25 cent options, I found myself starting to have a mild dose of anxiety because I suddenly realized I wasn't sure I could bring myself to cut up a perfectly good book.  I originally was aiming for a book that would be highly symbolic and meaningful to Alex.  I found Knowledge of the Holy by Tozer, but when I pulled it off the shelf, the anxiety escalated and then I knew for sure I couldn't cut up a perfectly good book.  

Which means I needed to find a perfectly bad book that I had no emotional connection to and felt no guilt over destroying.  

I settled for Tales from Margaritaville by Jimmy Buffett.  I'm sorry, Jimmy.  Don't take it personally. It was all in the name of love, weddings and friends.       

I took poor Jimmy's book and cut it up into a series of pennants and then used mini clothespins to hang the pages from a string of twine.  I draped it across the fireplace and then along the cupboards in the kitchen.  I went for all things colorful, so the pennant book pages were coupled with solid-colored pennants and then all of my tableware and utensils were bright colors - kelly green plates, aqua napkins, orange and yellow forks, pink cups yellow cupcake wrappers and lots of bright flowers.  The more color the better in my world.    

I also then pulled off a lot of my own personal books from the shelves and used those as centerpieces.  I stacked them up, stuck some brightly colored flowers in mason jars, scattered some of the extra pennant book pages and voila - a centerpiece that makes for a great conversation starter.  I highlighted a few of the books by sticking popsicle sticks in them with a flag on them that said "Alex's favorites."  This way people got a chance to peruse a few books that Alex enjoys, learn a little bit more about her and chat about whether anybody else had read some of the books stacked up.

I am not a big fan of bridal shower games, so I decided to spare everybody and opt for a slight alternative.  Since everybody was bringing a copy of their favorite book, I put them in a big stack and told Alex that in order for her to open any gifts, she had to guess who had brought the book.  And then the person who brought it had to explain why it was their favorite.  Turns out Alex knows her friends and family quite well as she got a vast majority of them right on the first try.  The collection ranged from Bossypants by Tina Fey to The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis to To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee - and a whole lot of other titles in between.  It was fun to see what each person brought and why the book had been significant to them.

And because it's a book-themed bridal shower, of course the favor has to be a book!  I found copies of Gary Thomas' book Sacred Marriage super cheap so I bought a copy for each guest and wrapped those up in tissue paper and tagged each one with a bookmark I had embossed with each guest's name. 

All in all, I was delighted with how things turned out.  Sometimes I surprise even myself.  Here's to you, Alex, and your book newly acquired book collection.  May they keep you company for years to come.  Just not so much company that you forget Jed exists.  ;)    

Week's Recap in Photos

This is Johnson doing his goofy dance. It's really much better live.
Still photos just don't cut it.  I told him to come up with some new dance moves, so
his latest version is basically what amounts to an imitation of Celine Dion.
He'll throw one hand up in the air and then act like he's holding a microphone and singing
his little heart out.  The kid makes me laugh every time.

I got so many cards this past week that the Village Director asked me if I had a birthday she didn't know about  Nope, just lots of mail from people I love!  And as much as I love sending mail (my all-time favorite is when I sent my friend Erica a donkey pinata.  Yes, you can put postage on a pinata and the post office will deliver it as is.), but I love receiving mail even more! 

Movie night! This is all 98 children in the village.  Movies and popcorn are a
special treat for them so everyone was quite excited for it to begin. We watched
Free Willy 3 (I think?) and the children loved it.  It's a bit difficult to hear a movie
when you have 98 children crunching on popcorn and crinkling their bags - but
thank goodness for subtitles!

This is the main gate.  I went for a walk one evening and happened to
catch the sun setting just as it slipped below the wall of the village.
I really should get this picture framed.  Just need to photoshop
those electrical wires out of it.  They don't work in real life
most of the time so cropping them out would probably be an accurate reflection.

Millicent, making a ridiculous face while eating her chipati.
I think that is one of my favorite things to make now in the kitchen.
Stephen says I'm quite good at it.  :)  It takes some practice, though.
I'll be an expert by the time I come home.  I should get the recipe from Thio
so I can make chipati for everybody back home.  I'll spare you the ugali.

The Bridge That Spans

I'm honestly at a loss for words and struggling to figure out how best to frame this entry.  My apologies if it seems a bit jumbled or haphazard.  It seems I live in this chasm, suspended between two worlds that I can't quite figure out how to bridge - life at home in Columbus and life here in Kenya.  And in the middle of all that confusion, I'm reminded of God's sweetness and tenderness in a very simple way. 

If you have followed this blog at all in the last few months, then you know about Jonathan.  If you need to catch up, go here and here.  And if the pictures below are to make any sense, then you ultimately need to go back to this post.  A few weeks ago, the man who planted those sunflowers here in Kenya sent me a picture of Jonathan's garden.  And today my mom sent me a picture of Jonathan's garden at home in Ohio. 

The bridge that spans the gap. God's tenderness in the form of blossoming sunflowers.  Reminders that His mercies are new every morning.  Reminders that life goes on.  Reminders of home.  And reminders that my friend's legacy lives on.         

Jonathan's garden in Eldoret, Kenya

Jonathan's garden near Columbus, Ohio

As the rain and the snow
come down from heaven,
and do not return to it
without watering the earth
and making it bud and flourish,
so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater,
so is my word that goes out from my mouth:
It will not return to me empty,
but will accomplish what I desire
and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.
You will go out in joy
and be led forth in peace;
the mountains and hills
will burst into song before you,
and all the trees of the field
will clap their hands.
Instead of the thornbush will grow the juniper,
and instead of briers the myrtle will grow.
This will be for the Lord’s renown,
for an everlasting sign,
that will endure forever.
Isaiah 55:10-13

Always an Adventure

I could hear Karen Blixen's voice via Meryl Streep, "I had a farm in Africa at the foot of the Ngong hills..." as we drove through Nairobi National Park, with the Ngong hills in the distance. 

And I could hear Osa Johnson's camera shutter as she tried to capture wildlife on film, as I was praying a lion would come creeping out of the brush somewhere in the park. 

And I could hear Beryl Markham's plane engines sputter to life, as I sat at the Aero Club of East Africa and watched planes take off. 

And I might have heard Fraulein Maria singing via Julie Andrews, "The hills are alive..." as I sat on the hillside of Uhuru Park and ate lunch with the children. 

This past weekend was an adventure-filled weekend of being out and about in Nairobi with the children, with all of these voices and scenes rolling around in my head in the midst.  Friday was spent going with the third graders to Nairobi National Museum and Snake Park.  I hadn't been to either place yet so I was looking forward to the chance to go with them.  When we arrived, I began to have to doubts.  I had never seen so many children or buses.  I was a little concerned about keeping track of the sixteen students we had when all I could see was a mass of children wearing similar uniforms.  The Kenyan schools are on their winter break so the museum was overflowing with kids.  And I think Cherie, the other short-term volunteer, and I were the only two white people in the entire place.   I don't know Kiswahili very well, but the one word I DO know is "mzungu," which means "white person."  I heard it whispered a lot amongst children from other schools on Friday.  I sometimes wonder if the word "crazy" inadvertently gets linked to the definition of mzungu.

We made our way through the museum and eventually snake park, the children gawking at everything they laid eyes on.  We scampered over to Uhuru Park to enjoy our packed lunches of PB&J, at which point I heard Julie Andrews in my head.  The children had scattered their blankets across the hillside overlooking the park, busy chattering about their day and what they were finding in their lunches.  It's always neat to see Nairobi through the children's eyes, as everything seems so new and fresh to them.  Sometimes when you see it so often the novelty wears off, so it was sweet to encounter the city with them.      

On Saturday we took a small group of 8 students out to the Aero Club of East Africa, where I heard Beryl Markham's planes take off.  I think the Aero Club is now on my list of favorite places to visit.  I loved it.  It was kind of like Kiambethu Tea Farm in that it's from another era.  It's got strong British roots to it and walking into the Club was like stepping back in time.  The Aero Club is located at Wilson Airport, an active airport just outside Nairobi.  We had a table not far from the runway, so the kids had a front row seat to watch planes take off.  This particular group of kids was recently named "Residents of the Month," which is an award given to those residential students who exhibit an obedient and willing heart, ready to serve those in their cottage.  Going to the Aero Club was their treat for this achievement.

And can I just say, the cheeseburgers they served were out-of-this-world good.  I'm not exaggerating when I say that I had polished off my burger AND fries before some of the kids had even finished putting condiments on their burgers.  I know, hard to believe for those who know me and know I don't gulp down anything or eat large portions of much.  I have no idea how I did it, but clearly I was more excited about a cheeseburger and fries than I realized.  My brothers and my dad would be proud and my mother would be asking, "Did you stop long enough to even smell it?"  Nope, clearly not, Mom.  And then I topped it off with an equally amazing piece of apple pie.  Mmm mmm good.

From the Aero Club, we made an impromptu stop at the Nairobi National Park for a game drive and a look at their animal orphanage.  We didn't encounter much game initially and I just kept praying, "God, delight your children. Give us a really lavish display of your creation."

He delivered.  In the form of an ostrich mating ritual. 

Not exactly what I had in mind, Jesus.  I was really hoping for some lions, or maybe even an elephant.  Not an ostrich mating dance.  But you know what, I guess I'll take it and give thanks anyway.

Both trips made for some long days, but I delighted in the chances to spend time with the kids beyond the context of the village and the school.

Oh, and to my family, I leave you with one picture from the museum and two words:

Honey badger

 

The Faces of Redemption

They had names like "Stepping Stones," "Annex," and "Nursery," the names of places where they were abandoned by their mothers, left with the hope that someone else would care for them.  Police found them wandering the streets or living with grandparents already burdened by too many mouths to feed.

They had mothers who had died of tuberculosis, were raped by strangers, were murdered by fathers, were displaced by political unrest and turmoil, with other family members unable to pick up the pieces of what seemed some very broken little lives. 

They had been forgotten by a world that seemingly didn't want or need them, a world that didn't care.

Had.  Past tense.

Those same children now have names like Esther, Abel, Blessed, Grace, Elijah, Lilian, Enoch, Michael, Rose.

Those same children now have "mothers" who give so sacrificially, relying on a strength that is not their own, with nearly 100 children they now call sons and daughters and raise as their own blood. 

Those same children have not been forgotten by the world.  They are wanted.  They are needed.

Have.  Present tense.

The children I encounter every day are living proof - living proof that there is a God who redeems, a God who restores, a God who takes the brokenness of this world and sets it aright.  These children are not victims.  They may have a heritage of darkness.  They may wake up in the middle of the night screaming from the nightmares, reliving some of the atrocities they have witnessed with their own eyes.  The sadness may overwhelm them some days.  But that past will not define them.

Because redemption never leaves us where we were.

These children have been redeemed from situations many of us cannot fathom.  But God in his infinite mercy and grace has given them beauty for ashes, a garment of praise for their heaviness. 

Lilian is one of those faces of redemption.  She is the little girl I sponsor here in Kenya.  She was born a twin, but they were separated at birth.  Her mother abandoned her to an aunt, but her aunt would die herself just a few short months later.  Lilian was found alone in the home, severely malnourished.  She survived under the care of a few people in the local village, but she eventually found her way home to the Rafiki Village Kenya.  When I was here two years ago, she had just arrived a few weeks before.  I think she barely said two words to me, or anyone, for that matter.  She toddled around, the new village plaything.

And now - present tense - she doesn't stop singing.  Even if no one is listening or paying attention, it seems I always find her singing.  Just tonight I went for a walk and I caught up with her and some of the other girls from her cottage.  I think she asked a question for every stride she took.  She is healthy, smart, and clever.

And redeemed.

"Don't be afraid, I've redeemed you. I've called your name. You're mine. When you're in over your head, I'll be there with you. When you're in rough waters, you will not go down. When you're between a rock and a hard place, it won't be a dead end— Because I am God, your personal God, The Holy of Israel, your Savior. I paid a huge price for you: all of Egypt, with rich Cush and Seba thrown in! That's how much you mean to me! That's how much I love you! I'd sell off the whole world to get you back, trade the creation just for you." Isaiah 43:1-4 (MSG)

From Another Era

It seemed Kimani came from another era, another time period in Kenya when everything was still a colony and growing coffee and tea was just one big experiment.  He was like a character straight out of Isak Dinesen or Osa Johnson's books.  Well-worn hands. Slightly hunched shoulders. Lanky.  Sage.  He walked through the forest without making a sound.  He knew every rock and tree and plant, even their scientific names. He could tell you what medicinal purpose they served and how tall they grew.  He could tell you how some trees were destroyed and how some grew back.  He could tell you of the colobus monkey who lived on the farm roof and his mischievous ways. He could tell you of how to cut the tea leaves off properly.

He spoke slowly, with his Kikuyu-like accent. And he promised he knew his way out of the forest we were about to enter.  I had no problems trusting him.

Kiambethu Tea Farm is one of those places where you stop and you tell yourself, "I could live here forever."  It was a little slice of heaven on earth.  Tranquil.  Serene.  Quaint.  We met Fiona, the farm's owner and after being in her presence for just a few moments, I found myself wanting to use words like "bloody" and "corker" an awful lot.  (I refrained.)  She's this petite, soft-spoken woman with a lovely British accent and an even lovelier farm to boot.  She grew up in Kenya - or Keen-ya - as they say, having come from a heritage of tea farmers.  She spent some time explaining the process of growing tea, harvesting it, selling it and so on.  Then we wandered through the forest with Kimani, along with the farms' dogs, who seemed well-acquainted with every stop along the way, as they would stop and sit quietly while Kimani gave his speech, knowing when it was time to move on.

After the forest walk, we wandered back to the main house and had lunch (mashed potatoes and roast beef - my stomach wasn't sure what to do!) with 3 Austrians who had just climbed Mt. Kenya, one man who had worked with NGOs all over the world, claiming Afghanistan surprisingly enough as his favorite place, a woman from Zimbabwe who was a classically trained singer, an elderly neighbor of Fiona's and Fiona herself.  So many stories, so many lives intersecting on this small plot of land in the hills of Kenya. 

I loved my time at the tea farm and would love to go back soon.  Oddly enough, though, I had a cup of coffee.  I know, shame on me for drinking coffee at a Kenyan tea farm.             

Unforced Rhythms of Grace

Back and forth, back and forth. 

"See, you do it like dis, like you are swimming, on top of d'water."

I watch her hands as she rolls the rolling pin back and forth across the dough, first one way, then another.  I watch her hands, hands that have seen so much life, raised so many babies, seen so many years.  And I marvel at the strength of these Kenyan women, who upon first impressions seem so timid, so shy.  And then you enter their domain, you enter the kitchen, and you see them shine.  You see their smiles, you hear their laughter, you listen to their stories, their language and words flowing like a liquid wave, washing over your soul. And you find out that this is what grace is about.

I spent the morning in tears and the afternoon in laughter with these women.  The tears mainly from the onions, the laughter mainly from a riotous game of musical chairs and other events.  Today was the Employee Olympics, where all 50+ employees share a meal and then participate in a series of games.  It's an opportunity for the Kenyan staff to step back from work and fellowship with one another.  But with these games comes a lot of preparation, so off I went this morning to the kitchen to assist.

It turns out I'm not very domesticated.  Actually, I should say it turns out I have no idea how to slice cabbage or peel carrots correctly and I can't slice an onion without looking like I've just come from a funeral.  I also am not very good at rolling dough into a perfect circle, most of the time.  For hours, I labored alongside these beautiful Kenyan women, who have deep laughs and unhurried ways.  Thio, the woman in charge of the kitchen, happens to have a splendid sense of humor.  As she's demonstrating how to make chapati (think fried pita bread), she's holding up some rolled out dough, "The shape does not matter.  We do not eat the shape, we eat what we bake.  So do not worry about the shape."  I don't think she realized who she was dealing with.  I gave it a valiant effort - and several hours later, we had all of the chapati dough rolled out.  There might have been more flour on our aprons than there was on the chapati, but the task was done nonetheless.

They laughed at me as tears streamed down my cheeks from cutting up the onions.  No one else seemed to be bothered by them, so I just looked like the only fool crying her way through the ordeal.  Thio comes over again, "Surely you are crying as you consider the wonder of the cross and how our Savior had to die on it," she said with a sarcastic smile.  Oh, yes, Thio, that surely is it.  I adored her all the more for her sense of humor in that moment because I couldn't wipe the tears fast enough.  Everybody else is still laughing at me.  I quickly finished the onions so I could dry my eyes and move on to the next task.

For the afternoon, I laughed along with the children and other Kenyan employees as they made their way through musical chairs, tug-of-war and a host of other field games.  To see the staff in something other than their uniforms, to see them let their guards down, to see them revel in these precious moments of life - it was a gift.  The children roared with laughter as adults fell over themselves in order to get to the coveted seat in musical chairs.  They laughed as the adults tried to eat a carrot tied to suspended string, with their hands behind their backs.  They laughed as they carried a boiled egg on a spoon, using their mouth. All of this, too, qualified as unforced rhythms of grace, even amidst hilarity and laughter.

These are the days when you fall into a heap at night, exhausted, but satisfied. 

Back and forth, back and forth. These are the unforced rhythms of grace.   

"Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you'll recover your life. I'll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you'll learn to live freely and lightly." Matthew 11:28-30 (MSG)

Where I'm Safe

Every morning and every evening I gaze at these fields, always wondering how much longer I will get to see them like this.  How many more harvests will I get to be witness to?  And the weird thing is, I don't wonder if it's me who will be the one to change, but rather if it will be the fields that will change.   Are they going to get eaten up in a development some day, a distant memory?  Is there going to come a day when there's no trace of them left?  Maybe it's the nostalgic side of me that comes out when I'm standing there in the mornings, but there's some sense of safety, some sense of "rightness."  I look out over the fields and a small part of my heart whispers, "This is right, this is good, and this is where you belong." Because this is home and it's what I know.  But maybe safety is an illusion...     

(And yes, this is a picture taken with Instagram, because ladies and gentleman, I have finally entered the 21st century and bought a smartphone.  Don't get me started.)

Farewell to Buster

Our little friend found a new home at my cousin's house.  I offer this ode to Buster.  :)

You weren't very big when you first arrived home.

And then you somehow gained 80 pounds and we realized that you were a small tank. 

A rather wide and stout tank, that is. 

We loved you anyway.

You seemed to drool everywhere and we often thought you needed a gutter attached to your mouth to catch the perpetual river that somehow came out.

We loved you anyway.

You usually had selective hearing and it usually served you well when you were half a mile up the road and you decided to forget we existed.  We cursed you and your obliviousness.

We loved you anyway. 

You found much satisfaction in shredding

your blanket to bits, among other things. 

You didn't mind breaking a few chains, a few collars,

a few leashes, nor did you mind chewing on a few bowls,

a few lawn ornaments, and a few bones.

We loved you anyway. 

You always seemed to be fond of the game "chicken,"

And you didn't think twice about knocking me over,

unaware of your own strength. 

I also cursed you then. 

We loved you anyway.

You had brakes that often failed, as wet paws

and smooth cement do not make for smooth sailing.

A few crashes into the tool chest, a few crashes into the side

of the car, a few crashes into the sawhorses.  You were none

worse for the wear.  Maybe a little more inclined to pump the

brakes before sliding your way across the floor. 

We loved you anyway.

Try not to gnaw the legs off the furniture and try not to

raise a ruckus in the neighborhood.

Try not to pee on everything.  We know you like to leave your

mark, but it's really not necessary.

Try not to break anything or run over any small children in the

vicinity.  Play nice.

Try not to drool all over the place.  Most people don't want to have

to mop up after you. 

But even if you do,

I'm sure they'll love you anyway.