Cancer and A Cup of Water

I remember Friday nights spent driving to St. Louis Family Church, but not before we first made a pit stop at Crazy Bowls & Wraps.  I remember nights spent talking about politics and crazy professors and what it really means to say you're a follower of Christ.  I remember countless trips to Columbia in a little red sports car whose nickname I have since forgotten.  I remember the hard conversations talking about broken hearts and broken dreams.  I remember yelling at each other through the doorway of the bathroom that we shared my freshman year.  I remember the awkward moment when I woke up one morning and found a friend of hers sleeping on the floor next to my bed and wondering why the heck he's there.  (Turns out he was sleepwalking and had zero recollection of any of it happening.) I remember a lot of good times with Kristina.

We actually met online long before I ever left for college in Missouri.  In this divinely orchestrated situation, I wound up joining Delta Gamma, of which Kristina was chapter president at the time.  She would eventually become my big sis and one of my saving graces my freshman year.  We were often each other's only form of sanity and I don't know that I would have made it through my first year of college if she hadn't been around. 

But I've been slapped in the face quite often here lately - especially in light of returning from Kenya - with this simple truth:  Life isn't fair. 

And I feel helpless in the face of that.

Kristina was diagnosed with Stage 3 cancer recently.  Barely into her thirties and the girl is potentially facing the end of the road.  And that's not fair. 

I want to get overwhelmed by that thought a lot, this idea that there is just so much bad in the world, so many things going wrong - and no one is exempt.  I remember thinking that a lot in Kenya, just looking at all of the poverty and overwhelming sadness and contradictions and disparity and unfairness in all that I saw around me.  I sometimes would stumble into this vicious cycle of thinking, while standing in the village kitchen, "Does any of this really matter?  Does anything that I do really make a difference?  People are dying all around me - and what am I doing?  Cutting up carrots?  Making paper crowns?  What good is that?" 

I still wrestle with that thought process, but I remember, too, the words of one of the pastors in Nairobi.  He was talking about the next steps the church needed to be taking and he simply asked the question, "What is our community's cup of water?" 

In Matthew 10:42, Jesus said, "And if anyone gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones who is my disciple, truly I tell you, that person will certainly not lose their reward.”

I have to figure out what my cup of water is.  Jesus isn't asking for the moon here, he's asking for a cup of water.  He isn't asking me to save the whole world, he's asking me to see a need and meet it in very simple ways. He's asking me to extend my hands out to those around me, to those in my own family, to those in my community and to those I now call global friends.  There's a world of hurt out there and I've got to start somewhere, even when I feel like life is so terribly unfair.  If I get bogged down in all that I can't do, then I'm doomed.  If I let cancer and rare disease diagnoses and the death of a friend stop me, then I'll never get anywhere.  If I get overwhelmed by all that is wrong in this world, then I might as well just lie down and die myself.

"This is my one and only life and it's a great and terrible and short and endless thing...and none of us come out alive." - P.S. I Love You

Yes, none of us come out this thing alive.  And yes, life is unfair.  And yes, I don't understand God.  But that doesn't mean that I'm no longer responsible for going to the well, filling up my cup, handing it to someone who needs it and whispering, "Drink deeply, my friend."    

You can continue following Kristina's story over at her blog - http://www.girlonajourneywiththeking.blogspot.com/.      

Sometimes God Just Does Not Behave

Sometimes God just flat out does not behave like I think He should. 

It's so annoying at times.

There have been times in the past when life "just happened" - relationships ended, jobs took a turn, families came undone, school went awry, dumb decisions were made, loved ones died or suffered, pain was inflicted.  You've probably got your own list.  But they were all things that, if I'm honest, I probably got a little mad at God for and wondered why He was letting it all seemingly unravel when He could have stepped in and done something. 

My friends and I have been talking a lot about the story of Lazarus.  We've been talking a lot about small dreams and big dreams, small ideas of God and big ideas of God, and how they all get wrapped up in the life of Lazarus. 

His story picks up in John 11.  The man was a dear friend of Jesus, as were his sisters, Mary and Martha.  The short version of the story is that Lazarus gets sicks and dies.  I know, sorry to spoil your fun if you haven't read the story.  But when Jesus finds out that Lazarus is sick, he takes two days before he decides to go see the man, taking his sweet ol' time.  And in the course of that waiting, Lazarus dies.

When Jesus finally does show up, Martha's first words to him were, "If you had been here, my brother would not have died."

If you had been here, Jesus. 

If you had just done what I wanted.  If you had just done what I asked, done what you were supposed to do, we wouldn't be in this mess.

If you had just been here.

What she's really saying is, "You're not behaving like I think you should."

We walk around with such small views of God, don't we?  All Martha could see was that if Jesus had been there, He could have healed Lazarus and he wouldn't be wrapped up in a tomb.  He'd be alive.  I mean, Jesus had done it time and again, just reached out and healed people, just reached out and touched them.  Heck, sometimes He didn't even touch them, He just told them to get up and start walking.  And that's all Martha can imagine.  She's walking around with this limited view of Jesus and what He can do.  Because up until this point, people coming back from the dead just wasn't conceivable, it wasn't something she had ever experienced or witnessed previously.  She had no frame of reference when it came to people being resurrected.

And apparently her sister had the same vision problem because along comes Mary and says the exact same thing to Jesus, "If you had been here, my brother would not have died."

There you go, again, Jesus.  If you had just done what I thought you were supposed to do, if you had just behaved like I thought you would.

If you had been here, Jesus.

And you know what Jesus says to that?

I was there.  I was there all along.  I just didn't behave like you thought I should have.  I didn't behave like you thought I should have because I am about to do something that your mind can't even conceive.  I'm not only going to heal Lazarus, I'm going to bring him back from the dead. You need a bigger imagination, my sweet friend.

It's so like Jesus.  Sometimes I wonder if God sits on his throne and laughs at how little I think of Him, how little I think of his abilities and power.  I'm busy walking around praying for mere healing or comfort when He's busy plotting the resurrection of the dead.  I'm busy walking around praying for safety and protection when He's busy plotting the fiery pillar that's going to lead me straight to Him.  I'm busy walking around praying for a few bread crumbs and a cup of water when He's busy plotting manna that falls from the sky and water that turns sweet at the touch of a stick.

Aren't you so glad He doesn't behave? Aren't you so glad that He exceeds our wildest imaginations, doing things that we never could have conceived on our own?  Aren't you glad that he comes along and blows our worlds apart by misbehaving?  As much as it might terrify me, I don't want a God who does what I think He should do.  What a boring life that would be.  I want God to be God. 

"Does any-one have the foggiest idea what sort of power we so blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does no one believe a word of it? The churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing up a batch of TNT to kill a Sunday morning. It is madness to wear ladies' straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews. For the sleeping god may wake some day and take offense, or the waking god may draw us out to where we can never return." - Annie Dillard, Teaching a Stone to Talk 

Job Ad

Sometimes the thought strikes me, as if it's never occurred to me before - "Holy smokes. I quit my job."  It always seems to startle me when I think about it.  I rather dread the process of finding a job - sorting through my resume, writing cover letters, applying, defining, articulating, interviewing, searching, networking.  All of that.  Thankfully, I'm not sweating bullets about it and I'm rather enjoying just being at home, being with my family, catching up with friends, purging my room of the things that I pull out and think, "Why in the world do I still have this?!"  But there are days when the following picture applies:

   

Well, except for the gym.  And Kinko's.  Those two don't apply.

Here's to finding a job.  Somewhere.

FH Awareness Day

It feels a bit odd to be looking out the window and seeing fields of corn instead of acacia trees and sisal plants.   But it feels good to be back on American soil.  Sometimes when I'm gone from home awhile, I often come back and wonder why I ever left it in the first place.  But I suppose that's all part of the process.

Christian's banner hanging at the Genzyme headquarters
in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

It feels a bit odd, too, to not be writing much about Kenya.  I did this last time I got back from Kenya - for months now I've been conveying all of these stories and adventures about life on the other side of the world and now I sit down to a computer and think, "Well, now what am I supposed to write about?"  But there are adventures to be had and stories to be told here just as much as there are adventures to be had and stories to be told half-a-world away.

One of those stories belongs to my cousin, Christian.  (I actually should have written this post yesterday on the official FH Awareness Day, but I'm still operating on the Kenyans' approach to time - I'll get there when I get there.)  Christian has this rare disease that I can't even pronounce half the time (Familial Hypercholestrolemia - we'll just go with its initials FH for my sake), but he basically has insanely high cholestrol levels.  It's made him prone to heart disease and the like since he was a child. He had a scare awhile back when doctors discovered he had several parts of his heart over 70% blocked.  Since then, he's been partnering with the FH Foundation and a company called Genzyme to promote awareness about this crazy rare disease.  He's been traversing the country and the globe it seems, giving talks at places like Harvard, meeting other patients and speaking at conferences in England and cheering on runners in the Boston Marathon who were running in his honor.  He's become quite the little spokesman for this disease - because he's literally 1 in a million. I'm so proud of him and all of the work that he's doing. 

I'll take a break from my storytelling, to let him tell his own...

"Never Say Goodbye..."

This is the part where I'm supposed to figure out how to exit gracefully.  I don't know that there is much that I could say that could fully encompass all that these last two months have meant to me.  The one thought that keeps lingering, here at the end of this particular journey to Kenya, comes from C.S. Lewis in the book A Severe Mercy. It is a quote I have often returned to as I pass through so many seasons of life.  It is appropriate now, as well. 

When it came time to part, [C.S. Lewis] insisted that they keep in touch and then said with a cheerful grin, "We'll certainly meet again here or there." The two friends shook hands and Lewis made his way across the busy highway. Then he turned to [Sheldon] Vanauken, raised his voice above the traffic, grinned and shouted, "Besides, Christians never say goodbye."

To my sweet Kenyan friends, we never have to worry about saying goodbye, for if it is not in this lifetime that we should ever cross paths again, it will surely be when we meet our Savior.  

But Our Lives As Well



Thio and I

We were chopping up carrots or tomatoes or some other vegetable that I can't quite remember.  Thio turned to me and asked very quietly, very frankly, "Have you ever prayed to God for something and he has not yet delivered it?"

I don't think I was quite ready for such a profound question so early in the day, let alone while standing over vegetables, doing what seemed to be an all together mindless task.

I nodded and thought about the answer for a moment, slowly rattling off a few things that came to mind.  And I said, "What about you?  What have you been praying for that God has not yet delivered?"

She stopped for a moment and then said in a very humble voice, "A home.  I want a home so that I can serve God with it, so that I can invite people in and give them a place to stay so that they don't have to worry about staying somewhere else.  I want a home so that when my family or my children's friends come over, they can have a room to themselves. I want a home so that when my church hosts conferences, I can invite people to stay with us for the week."

Such a pure and honest a request, from a pure and selfless heart.  A home of her own so that she can give it away to others.  A home of her own, not to enjoy for herself, but so that others might find rest and peace. 

These are the moments I will miss most, moments spent talking about the deep things of life, like unanswered prayers, someday dreams, what it really means to sacrifice your only child and why people in America don't always want to go to church.  And maybe the occasional conversation about how to slaughter a goat, which is what Stephen and I discussed earlier this week.

And these are the people I will miss the most.  When I was here two years ago, the vast majority of my time was spent with the children.  I tried to soak in every moment with them.  The time with them was a gift.  But this time around - the gift has come in the form of friendships formed with the Kenyans who selflessly serve these very same children every day.  I still love the children, but my desire to spend time with them faded more and more over the last two months in light of finding such enjoyment from people like Thio and Stephen, people who love Jesus with their whole heart, people who I look up to and admire a great deal.  These are people I have come to delight in and to enjoy their company so very much.  I have come to love Stephen's laugh and Moses' joking ways.  I have come to love Sophie's attempts at teaching me Kiswahili.  (Turns out I'm not a very good student.)  I have come to love the simple conversations shared over slices of potatoes, kale, tomatoes and spinach.  I have come to love the intense conversations about whether Jephthah actually sacrificed his daughter or not.  (Judges 11 - it has left us perplexed on occasion.) I have come to love the songs that filter through the air as Thio or Sophie sing their way through the morning.  I have come to love the soft greeting of hello that slips from Bevin's mouth, sometimes so quiet I think she's whispering.  Yes, these are but a few of the things I have come to love - and will miss the most.



One thing I have learned - or maybe just been reminded of - while standing in the middle of the hustle and bustle of the village kitchen is this: love is both sacrificial and present.  It not only lays aside its own wants and needs but it shows up.  It makes itself known, it makes itself available, here, now, today.  Love shares its life.  Love does, as Bob Goff says.  I'm sure there are some people who think it's maybe a little bit crazy to spend all this money to buy a plane ticket, quit your job and come halfway around the world just to chop up carrots, tutor some kids and make paper crowns for the latest Resident of the Month.  And that's okay - everybody's entitled to an opinion.  But here's what I figure - there was a man who stepped down from His throne and put on some skin just so He could bandage my wounds.  It's a love that is both sacrificial and present.  Jesus showed up.  He shared not only the gospel, but his life as well.  I am learning to do the same, through the example of these beautiful Kenyan people.


Me, Bevin, Janet, Sophie, Thio, Joyce, and Stephen

I think there are always moments when you come to places like this and you expect to be the blessing to those you meet.  (We're so arrogant, aren't we? We humans always manage to make it about ourselves, don't we?) But the true miracle is when you discover it is you that is blessed by people who have shared with you not only the gospel of God - but their lives as well.     

"Because we loved you so much, we were delighted to share with you not only the gospel of God but our lives as well."  1 Thessalonians 2:8    

His Reflection

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared about returning home in a week and a half.  Don't get me wrong, I am good and ready to come home.  But every day is an act of my discipline to remain fully here - mentally, emotionally, spiritually - because all I think about is being there.  I'm doing my best to not make "to do" lists, writing down all the things I want to do when I get home.  I don't want to miss out on what's here because I'm so busy thinking of home and all that is going on there.

But there are fears nonetheless.

I'm afraid of going back to the routine of who I used to be.

I'm afraid of time having its way with me, forgetting all that I've learned here, of having the memories fade.

I'm afraid of slipping back into old habits, whatever they might be.

I'm afraid of the possible monotony and ordinary.

I'm afraid of people having high expectations of me and then they get disappointed when they realize I'm still the same ol' sinful me.

I'm afraid of not finding a job that doesn't have a strong sense of purpose.

I'm afraid of being silent when I most need to speak up.

I'm afraid of forgetting the value of a dollar and just how much one dollar can change things for someone.

I'm afraid of people asking me questions I don't have answers for.

But do you know what I fear most?

I'm afraid I'll get home and people will still see me instead of seeing Jesus.

A few weeks ago, a man at church here in Nairobi read the following poem and I think it expresses my sentiments better than anything I could ever write to satisfy this moment...

When Jesus looks upon my life,
What picture does He see?
Does He see His own reflection,
Or does He just see me?

Does He see His likeness,
The product of His hand?
Or just another Christian,
Who never took a stand?

Does He see a child of God,
A child that He made free?
Living life to honor Him,
Or does He just see me?

What about the other folks,
I meet along the way?
Do I show them Jesus,
To brighten up their day?

When someone looks into my eyes,
Can they truly see
That calm and gentle peace of God,
That dwells inside of me?

When I reach out and shake a hand,
Is He right there in my grip?
Can they feel that strength from God,
That steadies when I slip?

When folks are in my presence,
Do they know His Spirit's there?
Can they see that He's the one,
Who guides me everywhere?

When other people think of me,
What is on their mind?
Do they think of Jesus Christ,
So gentle and so kind?

I try to be like Jesus
Every single day
Spreading love and kindness,
All along my way.

I'm afraid that I have failed,
I could not pass the test.
Deep inside my heart I know,
I haven't done my best.

I have had to fight my flesh,
Since the day that I was born.
It's always causing trouble,
And being such a thorn.

That's why His Spirit dwells in me,
He's helping me to learn
In every situation
Where I need to turn.

He knew I'd never pass the test,
That's why He took my place.
He gave His life to save my soul,
He suffered my disgrace.

Now I try to be like Him,
I must represent Him well.
So other folks will want His gift,
And turn their backs on hell.

Other folks should see the joy
That Christ has given me.
They should want to have it too,
Especially since it's free.

They should begin to ask me,
What is it they must do,
Just how it is they go about,
Getting Jesus too.

Then I get to tell them,
This wondrous gift is free.
It only takes a humble heart,
A prayer on bended knee.

Someday when I'm face to face,
With the Lord who made me free
Will He see His own reflection,
Or will He just see me?

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.

Birthdays and Simple Truths

I think there are some moments in life when we fail to communicate just how much certain people mean to us or the impact they've had on our lives.  We assume they know.  We assume they know we love them.  We assume they know we respect and admire them.  We assume they know how much we appreciate them.  We assume a lot. And we fail to encourage along the way because of those assumptions.  And it's often the people we think are the strongest are actually the ones who most need to hear how valuable they are.  I think the men in our lives especially never hear the words of encouragement that are so desperately needed.  They live lives of quiet and desperate defeat and we keep passing up the opportunities to speak a few words of life and meaning. 

I'll be the first to admit that my family - well, I probably should speak only for myself - doesn't always do a good job of communicating.  But what family does?  We get our wires crossed and we get bent out of shape - and we assume. 

My dad's birthday is tomorrow (don't shoot me, Dad, for announcing that to the whole wide world - or at least the 12 people who consistently read this blog) and I realized I needed to take this moment and make sure nothing was assumed.

So, to you, Dad - there seems to be this simple truth that I can't escape and I want you to hear it on your birthday and not assume you know this:

You're not a failure.

You're not a failure.

I can't even begin to imagine the sacrifices you (and Mom!) have made for me over the years.  You let go of me when you least wanted to, when your parenting instincts told you to hold on the tightest.  You watched your only daughter and youngest child head off to Missouri and Russia, California and Kenya, and so many other places in between.  Your insides probably screamed and warning bells probably went off in your head, but you gave your blessing anyways, each and every time.  I can't tell you what that means to me, the signficance of those blessings.  I would never even have considered taking the risks I have taken if it weren't for your quiet and steady support - and especially your words of wisdom that always seem to come at just the right moment.

In the past you've often asked me how it is that I got to be so confident and self-assured.  And I think, "Easy - because that's how you and mom are.  I just sat back and watched and learned from the best."  Whoever I am today is made up in part because of you and Mom, through the grace of God.  I know you have often wondered where you went wrong or maybe how you could have done things differently in raising us kids.  We all make mistakes, so yes, we each could have done things differently but you have given us your very best, in the best way you know how.  And that will always be enough.  "Thanks" will never suffice.

But I also want to encourage you to take care of yourself, your health.  I need you (bionic knee and all) to be there to walk me down the aisle should God ever allow that to happen in my life.  We've probably far too often nagged you in the past instead of simply encouraging.  I'm sorry for that. We sometimes just didn't always know the right words to say or how to say them.  We just want you around for as long as possible. 

Sorry for getting all sentimental on you in a public forum. :) I figured it was worth the risk.  The rest of the world needs to know, too, what a great dad  you are.  I wouldn't trade you for anything.  You will always be enough.  Happy birthday, Dad.      

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