Great Goat, Heinrich's 30!

Heinrich turned 30 last week.

It was a pretty big deal. :)

The guy has been dreaming of a birthday BBQ for literally months. But I think it turned into a bit more of a nightmare than he was ready for.

It took three days to track down a goat, with lots of false starts and failed hopes. But, he did finally drag one home and--umm--butchered it on his kitchen table. You can imagine Doris as she told me this over the radio...

So, everything was set for one amazing night. But then Heinrich got a bad fever. Can you even believe it? He's never sick. And then it rained. Poured even. You know... in dry season. Haha!

But, Heinrich is a trooper, and the man really wanted the BBQ to happen, so it did. We had a great time. HK stuck it out as long as he could, left for a nap, then came back for more. Like I said, quite the trooper.

Happy Birthday, HK!

This picture is hilarious.

Tobias, manning the grill. Turns out Tobi is a perfect gentleman, by the way. He's a huge help 'round here.

What's more adorable than a baby gnawing on a goat rib? Only baby Joy gnawing on a goat rib.

Speaking of babies... Jen had to cut my goat for me, since my shoudler is still a piece of junk. Just one humbling day after another 'round here. But, hey, we got MEAT!

Pictures...

Hey gang. I added a handful of pictures to go with some older posts. Enjoy!

Pattie Chapati...

(We are such) Suckers

More drama at Christmas...

But this was the good kind of drama.


Cath and Martin put together a really nice drama for Christmas this year, based on the story of Job. They did a great job of bringing in music and making it culturally appropriate... Well done, team.

Maandazi's with Mary...

Mary came over, and we made maandazis. Yum!

You've got a little schmutz right there...

Franco was quietly double-fisting it all night. Way to be, Eddir.

Mama Ellen

They've started calling me "hotonye Idule"--Mama Ellen. Haha.

Get to the point...

In Lopitland, if someone is being naughty, or maybe just funny, or if you just want to make fun with them, the people have this way of saying "Iye!" or "Ette!" all drawn out like. (Umm... Like... "Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-YE!")

Well, Kim and I do that to Ellen sometimes when she's being Ellen, and we often point, too. Ellen started doing it back to us recently.

And that's what she's doing here...

Also, there's this old guy, David, who comes by every night and straightens the bamboo in our fence at this certain spot. He always shakes his head and talks to himself while he does it, probably cursing the children who are constantly parting the bamboo and making the hole. I'll give you one guess who the main hole-maker is.

January

Howdy, howdy! Here's my January prayer letter! Just give 'er a click and it should get big for ya.

Checking in…

When did I write last? Who knows?
I did squeeze out a prayer letter this week (that’s always a big accomplishment), and Ginger (my “U.S. Missions Manager”) seems to be all over it.
I’m not sure what I’d do without my stateside team. Bunch of superstars, they are.

Dropping Bombs…

Mary has come over nearly every morning this week to sit and take coffee with me. It’s been nice, though sometimes I struggle with what to say. My vocabulary is so limited, and really, our common ground so little, even after a year and a half of being here.
Today the topic turned to the war. She told me about fleeing to the bush up higher on the mountain with all the other women and their children. They were hiding from the planes that came and dropped bombs twice a day. I guess the men slept in the villages, dodging the bombs when they came. It’s such a strange for me to think of, this area being attacked. I can’t really fathom what strategy there would be in that, as the Lopit really don’t have much to do with anything. But I suppose war isn’t known for its tendency to make sense. Quite the opposite. She told me about Kakuma (refugee camp in Kenya) and the U.N. and their ratio cards and things. It’s strange to think that she went through that, and that people here have gone through much worse, but you wouldn’t know it from just being here. They rarely talk about things like that.
I asked her if she’d come get us before they escaped up the mountains if planes started dropping bombs again. That’s become a favorite question, because they’re appalled by our very asking of it, as if they’d leave us here! Haha. But it was an easy segue to their new favorite subject—when are we leaving and, more importantly, are we coming back.
A different kind of bombshells. ;)
A day doesn’t go by without someone asking those dreaded questions. It’s easy for Pattie; she knows she’s coming back. But I haven’t a clue. I don’t know where I’m going from here.
It’s funny, because just last night, Pattie was asking me about Campus Crusade, because I mentioned I’m considering doing at least an internship with them, stateside, for a while. And I was getting all excited talking about their vision and their method and what it would mean to me to go back to the ministry that brought me to Christ, that fed me and grew me, and eventually sent me out. And I thought, maybe this is what God has for me next!
Then Mary is telling me it’s good if I come back. And, better, come back with a husband, so I can have children here and our kids can play together. Ugh, Mary! So cruel.
Anyway, ya’ll can be praying. I’ve got six months left here on TIMO, and I want to “be where I’m at,” so to speak, as much as possible. But there are already a lot of questions about what comes next. If you hear anything from God about it, let me know. He’s about the only who hasn’t voiced a direct opinion on the matter! ;)

Streaking, pooper-scooping, and other adventures….

As I sat doing my quiet time this morning, I was cognizant of a presence at my window. I should have been, as my desk abuts the window frame, and the little shadow of a face belonging to this presence wasn’t but a couple feet from my own face, which was buried alternatively in my journal and Romans.

It was Night, one of the neighbor girls, testing the feeling of her tongue against my tattered window screen, and earnestly watching the movement of my pen and the bouncing of my somewhat-out-of-control curls as I preformed what she must know as my morning ritual. You might know it as my quiet time.

I’m often baffled at the rapt audience we have in the Lopit people, especially the children.

But, then again, I guess we are a strange lot, and sometimes I even find myself thinking of our mud-house life here as a lot like an episode of Seinfeld.

Take yesterday, for instance. As Kim and I were stirring our coffee in the kitchen, we saw a giant cow—astray from the trail nearby—trot by our kitchen window. Oh, what fun! We both dashed outside, hollering, trying to shoo it around the house, down the craggy path and out our gate. What a spectacle for the Lopit children, already perched on our front-yard rocks, ready for that day’s show. And a show they did get. It wasn’t until a few minutes into this gleeful-yet-frantic cowgirling that I stopped dead in my tracks, realizing I was still in my pajamas—shorts and a tanktop. I might as well have been running around in my skivvies. I yelped and ran back inside, to the tune of the giggling children.

Or take later in the day, when we found ourselves peering down our longdrop toilet, by the light of my headtorch. Pattie accidently shattered our water filter that morning and threw the pieces down the choo. We didn’t realize for a few hours that on that shattered filter was a little plastic piece, necessary to hook up our new filter. A curious situation indeed. Perhaps more curious was the bamboo pole/wire/kitchen cup contraption that we eventually used to pull that precious filter from the depths of that stinky hole. I can’t say our choo has ever echoed with laughter like it did yesterday afternoon, as our two blonde heads bumped and hollered at each other as we balanced that chunk of clay between our two poles and slowly pulled it out, holding our breath—more in concentration than against the smell.

So maybe I should wonder less at the children’s fascination with us, and wonder more at how we make it work out here—three single American women, living in a mud house, on a rather forgotten and remote mountainside in South Sudan.

Soap on a rope…

At the moment, Kim is trying to convince Pattie to try a bite of this neat soap Pattie got, because Kim is convinced it looks like that candy, Dots. I’m a little worried for poor Pattie, as Kim can be furiously persuasive sometimes.
“They even SMELL like Dots!”
Meanwhile, Francis (who we gave the English name “Grasshopper”) is outside, singing a song… about himself. It goes something like this: Lopit childish garble, garble, garble, “Grasshopper!” garble, garble, “Grasshopper!” garble, “Yo, yo, Grasshopper!”

Stickbread, the Sequel.

On New Year’s day, we thought it would be a lot of fun to share our new stickbread treat with the neighbor kids.

So, that afternoon, I and a handful of my favorite kids—following me much as a string of ducklings follow the mother duck—dodged and poked around in the bush, searching for good skewer sticks. I should say: I searched for the skewer sticks; they would sort of pick up any scraggly little thing, hold it up and ask if it was good.

That night I warned Laudina we were coming to make her some bread. She laughed at me when I told her. And she laughed at me even more when we showed up in her hut with our sticks, strange dough and goofy smiles on our faces. She has this way of saying our names and shaking her head with a funny grin. I get the idea she thinks we’re crazy.

So there we were, with Thomaso and Jessica, perched right on the edge of their cooking fire, trying to maneuver these long sticks we brought around the big clay pots, piles of sorghum and other random things crammed in the hut, and doing our best not to make fools of ourselves.

I doubt we succeeded in that end, but we did get some bread made, though Laudina just held the queer thing in her hand and laughed at us. Whatever the case, we eventually were outside, sitting in absolute darkness under a starless sky, cooled by the dry season wind on our faces, and laughing with our dear friend as her children drifted off next to us.

Mirror Images…

Ellen’s joy is currently found in walking around in my sandals, “helping” me type or finding small, dirty objects to stick in my keyboard. Naturally, I prefer to the former to the two latter, but am always at risk of allowing any, as a hapless victim to her tiny little grin.
I’m sitting in our front yard now, computer in my lap and children at my elbows. Ellen is so dirty, she—and I’m not exaggerating—brings the flies.
It was a mistake to get the slick, glossy screen option on my computer, as I can hardly type now, with the kids all around, jumping and dancing and giggling at their faint reflections in the white canvas of my Microsoft Word document.
What a blow to a journalist suffering from writers’ block would that be, to have children so thoroughly enjoying the blankness of your next assignment!

Slightly Discouraged

I’d say a good way to discourage me is to put me off my bicycle, into the hospital and back in Sudan doing physical therapy.
But I’d also say a BETTER way to discourage me is to do all that, then have it five weeks later and me still in a lot of pain.
I’m back to left-handed typing tonight, on account of being back in this terrible immobilizer contraption—by my own doing, in an attempt to make my shoulder stop hurting, if only for a little bit, and at the cost of sweating buckets. (It’s very hot.) I’ve had moments where I feel like there are knives in my shoulder, but the last few days, it’s been like that quite a lot. I probably just did too much and have brought this on myself—even more frustrating.
Anyway, just pray for patience—I’ve never had much in the area of injury, and the well is running a bit dry!

Kenya

I never would have thought that our security concerns would have come from outside Sudan—imagine!
I’m sure you’ve heard what’s going on in Kenya. We are also aware (or becoming so). Kim and I are listening to the BBC now, in fact.
I’m not sure how things will affect us exactly, but be praying for wisdom in how we act in light of the stuff that’s going down over there, since Kenya has always been a sort of lifeline for us.
More when I know more…

When does dead mean dead?

Yesterday the sound of wailing was added to the sound of my watch’s alarm going off in the early twilight of morning.
It wasn’t such a surprise, this sign of a funeral, because our neighbor kid—Monday—has been sick for a while. In fact, you might remember her as the girl who in November “died” and was “resurrected.” (That would make this funeral number two.) She also lived on the same compound as Tito, the little boy we lost not a month ago, and next door to Ichol, who died on Christmas Eve. Kim and I have been watching her, and even got her mom to take her to the clinic, but it seems they didn’t do much for her either.
I slunk out of bed, tossed a mu-mu over my pajamas and climbed up the path to her mom’s compound.
My fear was confirmed on the way there by a simple exchange with Laudina.
“Who?”
“Monday. Monday is dead.”
So I went and sat with the other women as they cried (“Oye hito! Oye hito!”/“A child has died! A child has died!”) and thought more about life and ministry here, as the twilight turned into dawn, and then I came back home.
The day didn’t get much better from there, as I was puking most of the morning and sleeping much of the day, but it took a curious turn that afternoon, when Mary came for tea.
We asked her if she’d been to the house of the funeral. She said yes, Monday had died, and now they had taken her to Sohot. Her heart is still beating, like this (and she pulsed her hand, from fist to splayed fingers).
She died, but her heart is still beating?
Yes.
But she died. Last night, she died.
Yes.
But her heart is still beating, like this?
Yes. She died, but her heart is still beating.
They’ve taken her where?
To the witchdoctor, in Sohot.
Got it.
Again, a concept of Lopit thought that finds no place in the organization and thinking of my Western mind. And what, then, of our Gospel message? What does it mean for Jesus to die? Was he dead, as in DEAD dead—what I think of as dead—or was he dead like Monday was dead (this time, or last time)? And what does it mean for him to be raised from the dead? Does that land with its full magnitude? Or is it an every-day thing, not in any way remarkable? Consider, this girl “died” and “lived again” not once, but TWICE.
So, these questions were raised among my other thoughts, thoughts of a creeping something—something akin to fatalism of the Lopit, I guess, before it was checked by truth. I don’t know why our kids keep dying—closer and closer to our inner circle of friends—and I don’t know why everything we do doesn’t help.
Kim got stung by a scorpion that night—this is how our days go lately, heaped with things—and nearly at the same time, the wailing started up again. (Funeral number three, if you’re counting.) I figured Monday had finally passed, and, when I went by the next morning to offer my sorrys, the small mound of freshly placed dirt next to the house, next to the fading mound of Tito, told me I was right.
Or, at least, I hoped I was right.
Because the alternative is really horrifying.

Happy New Year!

We shared a quiet New Year’s Eve with Heinrich, Doris and the two teachers last night.

Heinrich and Doris invited us over, and—I’m telling you—they really know how to make a mud house a home. They’ve built a little sitting area out in back of their house, so we sat out there on grass mats and under the stars. Doris set out some candles, balloons and cold sodas; Heinrich lit a cozy little bonfire. These days, it’s rare that we get to share a relaxing evening with one another—let alone one full of laughter—so this was a really special night.

Would you believe we didn’t have a Lopit audience at all? It certainly was peculiar. The village was abnormally quiet, and left us all to our quietly festive selves. What a blessing.

In the course of the night, Kim and I were able to unfold some of the mysteries of our culture to our wonderful hosts. Earlier in the day, Heinrich had chanced to see a measuring cup at our house, which apparently, to them, was the key to unlocking a whole slew of culinary secrets. He said they’d always wondered, when our American recipes called for a cup of such-and-such, WHICH cup exactly we Yankees were talking about. Admittedly, there are a whole bunch of different size cups out there. Touché.

Doris taught us how to make “stickbread” over the bonfire, which proved to be lots of fun, especially when Ruth’s stickbread kept sludging off her rather elastic skewer stick. It became a sort of game, dodging that doughy missile as she flung it about, trying to get control of her stick amid fits of laughter. (No one was injured in the making of said stickbread.)

In turn, I taught our dear German counterparts about the greatness of s’mores—ingredients compliments of a one Danzania, TIMO Tanzania extraordinaire. I’m afraid the long-awaited unveiling wasn’t all it could have been—we were, by that time, absolutely stuffed full of stickbread, and any s’more is incomplete without the original Hershey’s chocolate and graham crackers. (No graham crackers in Africa.) But I feel I’ve done a good thing, passing along such a cherished treat.

I know I’m going on, and there’s no way I can fit this seamlessly into this blog, but I have to tell this story. Heinrich and Doris brought up the fact that in nearly every movie I lend to them, there is some sort of Thanksgiving celebration. They said they’d never realized how important it was, and asked a few questions, including, “So, you get dressed up for your Thanksgiving celebration, yeah?” And, Kim and I, thinking he meant dressed up in nice clothes, answered in the affirmative. But then Heinrich asked Kim what she dressed up AS.

Wait. What?

Upon reflection, I remembered the last two movies I’d lent to them—Stepmom (there’s a big children’s thanksgiving play, with all of them dressed up as pilgrims, Indians or some kind of food for the feast) and Must Love Dogs (she’s a preschool teacher, and the kids have a pilgrims/Indians feast, I think). Hence comes the misunderstanding. Hahahaha. No wonder.

Culture is such a funny, slippery thing.

Holiday Happenings…

What a queer, queer Christmas this is turning out to be. Hahaha.

We left the house at 10:17 a.m. for a church service set to start at 9… and we still got there very, very early, all things considered. I think things got started about 11:30ish. That’s Africa!

And, as expected, the church really filled up right as Joshua’s fired-up message was finishing. You see, the church slaughters a cow each year for Christmas, and that’s basically what draws people down the mountain—free food. (In this way, I see the Lopit a lot like university students.) But the joke was on them this year. There was some confusion and the cow was spared to live another day. Haha.

Now we’re back at the house. Kim’s sick and under orders from Doris to drink a glass of water every half hour. So we’re reclining with 2L pitchers in our laps, drinking Kool-Aid with straws. It’s become a bit of a drill. One of us hollers “water,” and we slurp until we simply can’t take it anymore.

Things got a lot better just now, thanks to a whole tray of rotten eggs. Kim got the incredible idea of shooting them over our fence with a slingshot. This girl really has streaks of genius. I’ll let you come to your own conclusions about how fun that was, and how things may or may not have taken a few bad turns.

This is how I’m spending Christmas this year. So weird.

Merry Christmas!

You can probably imagine that some of my eggs didn't go so far, considering I don't really have a puller on my right arm... At least it was good fun!

All the trappings of Christmas…

So, it’s Christmas.
Kim says Christmas on the field is all about striking a balance between forgetting all our fond memories and traditions from home, and remembering the birth of our dear Lord Jesus Christ.
I’ll let you know how that goes, exactly. Hahaha.
For now, know that we had a delightful Christmas Eve morning. Kim was giddy as she tore open the Christmas package her momsie sent, and I was equally excited about uncovering my Christmas gift—a big ol’ rat in my trap. Hooray! Merry Christmas!
I won’t lie—this Christmas hasn’t been and won’t likely be anything spectacular. Save for maybe spectacularly trying. (How tempted I am to list off all the reasons to find our current circumstances wearisome!) But one thing I’ve learned in my life is this: Sometimes, things are given to you; sometimes, you’ve got to fight for them. And you can bet we’re going to put up a heckuva fight for a joyful Christmas this year. :)

God of all comfort…

(This one’s not for the kiddos. And it’s very long. Sorry.)
In the last three weeks, I’ve watched two children die. Right there, right with me.And today, we lost another one—the second in as many days.
I realized I never did say what traumatic event it was that turned out to be our unfortunate sendoff for Nairobi, The Sequel.
It all started with wailing, and it ended with me watching the life float out of our neighbor’s toddler son, Tito, despite our best efforts to keep him alive. I still can’t really put words to it. He was there, in the arms of a woman not his mother—his mother, in her grief, began to reject him—crying and whimpering a bit, and generally listless. Then, he just… stopped crying.
Chaos broke. The mother threw herself to the ground. Other women fought to keep her there. The wails reached a peak. The body of the boy was wrestled away, whisked away into the hut amid the bedlam. Even I found myself as part of the grasping, the short struggle, as I frantically tried to feel for a pulse. I think I felt one—very slight—but my cries fell on deaf, resolved ears, and the boy was laid in the hut, to grow cold.
Here it was, a death closer than ever before. This was our neighbor’s—our friend’s—child. And we’d come running up with our funny white ways, our funny white optimism about medicine and some God yet unknown to the people here. There we were, the cavalry, triumphantly come to… in the end… do absolutely nothing of help.
I pressed my forehead to the ground in my grief, and I listened to the other women wail and the men cry. I heard them say again and again, “Joik has taken him.” Do you know how many times lately I’ve had to hear the speech about, “We are all Joik’s goats, and when he’s hungry, he takes”? It nearly brings me physical pain, this fatalism.
And then came the most painful line: “Oudo and Ifeja brought the medicine of Hollum (the Christian God), and He did nothing.”
Oh, Lord, why?
Kim broke down, and Laudina and another woman tried to comfort her. Would you believe, the woman began to pray for her, to Hollum? You’d think this would be encouraging. It wasn’t. It only served to remind me that it seems the Lopit think this Hollum character is a god only for other folks. In a rather uncharacteristic move, I’d earlier stood up in the middle of all the crying women and men who’d come to mourn the dying baby, and I said, “Come, let’s pray. Let’s pray to Hollum. We need to ask Hollum to help us.” They ignored me.
So that was how we left things.
I thought about that night, and all in Nairobi, and many days since. And it still baffles me that I honestly did not think Tito was going to die. (This is only ONE of the MANY things that keeps my mind coming back to the situation, mind you.) We got there, and I saw him, and I saw the crowd slowly starting to gather, and I questioned them even being there. I remember wondering aloud to Kim about why they were gathering, he wasn’t going to die. And in that, I’ve learned something. The Lopit know what death looks like. They really do.
And I’m afraid it’s a lesson I’m starting to learn.
Yesterday we were called to a house again by the wailing. I ducked into the hut, let my eyes adjust to the smoky darkness and looked at the child, and I knew—by virtue of my recent education—that I was looking at the face of death. Another barely toddler, in another women’s arms—his little head heavy against her chest, his eyes blank, his eyelids fluttering a bit. And then, as we sat there, he, too, faded away and was gone. And, again, we could do nothing.
Then today, when I got home from making merry at our team Christmas lunch, Laudina came to me and solemnly said quietly, “Ifeja, did you hear? The child of Elizabeth has died.”
And I think this one has hurt the most so far, as it hits even closer to home, though I’m surprised to find my emotional reaction to be more of a blunt, numbing one. I did my homestay with Elizabeth. I’ve seen Ichol grow up—start walking, start talking, develop a little personality. And today I found myself sitting on their compound, surrounded again by the same ailing men and women, mourning her far-too-early death.
And maybe it hurts the most because Elizabeth came to me the day I got home with Ichol. She told me she was sick. I’m not a nurse; if it’s not malaria, I don’t have a clue what to do with it. So I sent them to the clinic. And then she died.
Anyway, I realize that, as an American with largely American readers, I’m supposed to tag on some hopeful, positive ending to a story like this. And you and I both know it’s there, in my mind, with the knowledge and hope I have in Christ. But it will take a while for my MIND to get through to my HEART on this one. So forgive me, as I simply close with that.

Christmas News

Hmm. News from here. Where do I start?

Pattie left early this morning for Nairobi. That’s right, after five full days of the three of us being together, Pattie up and left for her holiday. How absolutely ghastly of her. ;)

She was delayed a day when her flight fell through, much to her chagrin, but that actually worked out for the better, as Kimmie came down with something terrible yesterday, and we both needed Pattie here to weather the storm. (Ahh, yes, the perfect timing of our sovereign God.) I know leaving a sick Kim behind broke poor Pattie’s heart. And what peril, to leave her behind with me. I can sometimes appear a bit of a stoic, a demeanor which doesn’t inject much confidence in the mind/heart of a feeler like Pattie Chapatti. :) But she can rest, assured—yes, Schnukums, if you’re reading this from Kijabe: rest, assured—that I’ll take good care of my dear roomie.

So now it’s me and the bum shoulder, and Kim and her bum stomach. And, oh, a whole, whole bunch of seemingly inexplicable Christmas joy. That last sentence was more forecast than fact; I’m hopeful God will choose to overwhelm our hearts and fill our mouths with rejoicing—“Hooray! Our Savior is born!” How else can we bear our burdens?

We’re a biiiiiit short on Christmas spirit ‘round these parts just now, but I’m thinking maybe I’ll spend today tending Kimmie and making Christmas cookies, just to try to turn the tide toward merriment. :) That is, if I can rustle up enough charcoal…

In other news, Cath, Martin & Co. are halfway through putting on a Christmas drama in the villages. I haven’t been yet, but the traveling troupe comes to our village today. Heinrich put together a Christmas tract (in Lopit) to pass out to the monyemiji, so that’s exciting, too.

I think that’s it for now!

Sounds like home…

I woke up to the sounds of our village this morning, and it was great. I’ve never been so happy to hear Ellen crying for an hour on end. My dear little Monkey…
We were greeted at the airstrip by a bunch of Lopit boys… not Steve, strangely. But that’s OK, our welcome was warm enough—the boys were so excited to see us and happy to gawk at my bulky sling until Steve came. Pattie was in tow, which was the most wonderful part. It’s so nice to be home with Pattie. (Today, I’m reluctant to let her out of my sight. She probably finds me a bit peculiar.)
Some of the village boys heard we were coming and ran down the mountain path to greet us and take our bags. It was nice, too, because soon enough I had boys in front of and behind me who were anxious to tell everyone my story and answer all the passerby’s questions. It’s a bit overwhelming to have everyone jump on you at once, so I felt a little like a running back with good tackles all around.
When little Thomaso’s grinning face peeked around the corner of our fence, I was in heaven. It was funny, to have Abuba and Laudina and Mary all tsking me and lu-lu-luing at the sight of my bandage and lumpy shoulder. They couldn’t tell me enough how much they thought of and prayed for me. I couldn’t tell them enough I really was fine.
Then I got a German/English song from the teachers, our visitors, Craigers and Tobias. “We wish you a gute Besserung!” Haha. And Craig and Tobi were more than ready to help with anything possible. (On a related note, Tobi seems to be Mr. Personable in the village these days and even speaks a little Lopit—impressive!)
Anyway, it’s good to be home. I’ve already thought of a bunch of ways I can incorporate the village kids in my physical therapy, and I’m working on making a new “Lopit life plan” for myself. (Ironically, Kim and I were on our second day of our newest new life plans when I biffed it.)
We’ll see how things go!

So much to say...

There just aren't words--and, unfortunately, there just isn't time--to tell you all about the ways God has blessed me in the last few days here at Mayfield. But let me give you a rundown before we dash out to the airport this morning...

Oh, which I should mention—we got a flight! Kimmie was scheduled to fly this morning anyway, and they were able to squeeze me in, too. Hooray! Praise the Lord! So I’ve just got a few hours to finish up all my business in Kenya, then we’re headed home. :)

Last night, Dick from AIMCare came to check on me. I guess word got back to the States, then back to him, that I might be stuck here for a while, etc. So it was good to chat it up with him for a while.

And, in a funny twist of divine help, just as he was telling me, “If my wife (an orthopedic nurse) were here, I know she’d tell you not to go back in,” my friend from our training last July popped her head over the back of another couch. Duh, Andi. She’s was a physical therapist back stateside. Talk about right under your nose.

She gave me a bunch of exercises to start doing, got on me about my posture (Kim likes to tell me I look like Quasimodo) and the way I’m carrying my arm, and hammered home that if I wanted to really throw a baseball again, I’m going to have to work for it. Gulp. I’ve never been much for disciplined workout routines. Well, until I found my bike. But you see how that turned out. Hmm.

What else? OH! Get this. I’ve been stressing a bit about money. And I suppose I have good reason (if you’re allowed to say that and not appear “unspiritual”). The things that aren’t covered by insurance—the flights in and out of Sudan (probably $800+), my and Kim’s accommodation here at Mayfield, the phone calls to doctors, the $100 taxi out to Kijabe alone, and random expenses here and there—have heaped up to nearly $2000. Do I have that kind of money lying around? No. No, I do not. And I don’t have it in my work funds account either, come to find out. Whimper.

Can I talk about money so candidly? I haven’t a clue what’s tactful. Anyway, all that to tell you this: I went to pay for Kim and my guesthouse bill yesterday and John at the desk gave me this squirrely grin and talked around in circles for a while before putting it as plainly as an African can—“It’s taken care of.”

WHAT?! Yeah, I dunno. Someone paid for our stay. That’s $350!!! They won’t tell us who it was. But wow. I get all teary-eyed just thinking about it. Wow.

Anyway, I’ve lingered too long. Suffice it all to say, I’m really feeling the love of the AIM and African missionary family. That’s cliché, I know, to say we’re like family. But it’s true. And I’m feeling so much support from home—from my family, from my churches, from random folks. (Hello, random folks.) And I’m blessed. I know I am. Sometimes I just forget to live like it.

So, I’m going to try to be as thankful as I can for the opportunities God has provided me on my path to a new bionic shoulder, as disciplined as I can about getting my fastball back, as trusting as I can about the financial situation and as joyful as I can about being in Christ and being able to share him with the LoPeeps. :)

Mechanical Arm...

I'm sorry, but I couldn't resist.



I was able to see my post-op X-Rays for the first time today. Kimpers and I were absolutely shocked to see this huge knot of metal in there! I mean, what the JUNK!? Chanda burst out laughing.

In a related story, do you know how hard it is to take a picture of an X-Ray, especially when you're all alone and only have one good arm?

Joy to the world...

Joy came back into our lives yesterday.

Joy… and her husband, Dave—the fun friends we met last time we were at Mayfield.

It’s hard to put to words what their being here has done for us. Joy was pretty fired up about me getting out to Kijabe, and she’s also really hilarious. It was a nice combination.

She and Dave took us out to dinner tonight. You may recognize this napkin-on-the-head move.

And Joy took great… joy… in cutting up my steak (STEAK!) for me. They’re a wonderful couple!

(PS: It's as pathetic to me as it is to you that I made three lame plays on "joy" in this one post. Going to Africa makes you dumb and robs you of your humor.)

Freedom. Bliss. Homeward bound.

I went to AIM’s missionary hospital up at Kijabe today, to get another (inarguably qualified) opinion on just what I need to do about my shoulder. One of the orthopedic surgeons dashed out between surgeries and checked out my X-Rays and records.

He thinks I’m safe to back in, so long as I’m good about doing the physiotherapy stuff myself, as a shoulder is really “unforgiving” if you neglect it. So praise the Lord for that. I was worried I was going to be held here past AIMAIR’s last flight date before the holidays, putting me in Nairobi into January. (I shudder at the thought.)

So now all I have to do is wrangle a plane, and I’ll be home with my neighbors and team for Christmas! Hooray!

Village Gossip.

Pattie continues to be wonderful about sending news from home…

It seems the Thomaso Peanut-in-the-Nose drama is over. It came out on its own the other day when he blew his nose. A bit anticlimactic, but still great.

Pattie passed along specific greetings from our neighbors today. Laudina said to greet us “bino-no-no-no” (very, very, very much) and that when we come home, we’ll all “eyaba” (chat). Abuba says she’s praying I’ll be better soon—“Elwak iso Hollum.” (God will help me.)—and that she thinks about us “saa hien dang” (“all the time”). That’s the Lopit way of saying they miss you.

The real funny update was that five monyemiji descended on the house today, coming from a group up at the mangot, where all the men gather and talk about important (or not-so-important) village matters. They requested that Pattie come out and settle a dispute. “We need help. We have an argument.” The argument? They couldn’t agree on who it was that fell off the bike—Kim (Oudo) or me (Ifeja). I guess there was a split in opinion. Hahahaha. That Oudo/Ifeja, one person/two people, which-is-which confusion may never, ever clear up, I’m afraid. Sigh. Anyway, Pattie set them straight. She said they disappeared back to the mangot just as quickly as they’d come. Hahaha.

It’s funny, to think of a bunch of warrior guys, sitting up on their mighty bamboo, communal throne, debating such important issues as which one of the whiteys was stupid enough to biff it on her bike...

How sweet the sound...

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
Call for songs of loudest praise.

I was trying really hard not to be a Debbie Downer today, since I’ve honestly been barely keeping it together here over here in Kenya the last few days. I’ve been a bit of a fun burglar, I’m afraid. I’ve been trying to cling to joy, just finding it harder than usual, you know?

Teach me some melodious sonnet,
Sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount! I’m fixed upon it,
Mount of Thy redeeming love.

This morning, I found myself in the back of a cab, jolting with the potholes on my way to AIM’s missionary hospital to get a second opinion about my shoulder, and again feeling far too sorry for myself.

Here I raise my Ebenezer;
Here by Thy great help I’ve come;
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure,
Safely to arrive at home.

So I started to sing hymns. (Well, think in hymns. I don’t sing, for the sake of other people.) I love hymns. You know all the great truths there are in those old songs? Wow. And there’s something about truth that even my Debbie Downer-prone self can’t compete with.

Jesus sought me when a stranger,
Wandering from the fold of God;
He, to rescue me from danger,
Interposed His precious blood.

When I’m lying in bed and there are waves of thoughts crashing in my head, I sing hymns. When I wake up in the middle of the night and can’t sleep, I sing hymns.

O to grace how great a debtor
Daily I’m constrained to be!
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter,
Bind my wandering heart to Thee.

Sometimes, in the mornings, when the sun is coming over the mountains, I can’t help but sing hymns. When I went into surgery last week, I sang hymns. And, so, today, in the back of that cab, I sang hymns.

Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love;
Here’s my heart, O take and seal it,
Seal it for Thy courts above.

And it was really, really nice.

Sweden...

What a day. What a long, crazy day.

I weaseled my way into the doctor a day early, with the sincere (and perhaps too optimistic) hope that KP and I could be on a plane back into the Sudan tomorrow.

No such luck.

Since my orthopedic surgeon guy was in the theatre* this afternoon, I got his assistant, who did nothing more than grimace at my shoulder a few times and tell me he’d take the stitches out next Wednesday.

Now, hold on just a cotton-pickin’ minute. The Professor (my doc) said this Wednesday. So we went around about that. The assistant was like, “OK, sure, you can go back now, but next Wednesday, go to the doctor there, get the stitches out and start physical therapy.”

Doctor? In Sudan? There are no doctors in Sudan.

“There are no doctors in Sweden?”

Sudan.

“Oh, that’s different.”

Yes, very.

Anyway, long story short—I did finally get shady permission to leave for So Sud tomorrow. I confess, I’m very good at rephrasing the same question again and again until I get the answer I want. (For shame.)

But then I told the physical therapist about all this, and the “Are you out of your mind?” look she gave me got my conscious going, which got me thinking a lot about baseball and how much I really do appreciate my right (throwing) arm, and how I already buggered up my legs good when I didn’t let myself recover right.

Then there was Chanda. Darn that man.

And Kim’s no help. “I think you should do what’s wisest.” Genius, Kim.

So now I’m left to decide what exactly is wisest.

Meh.

*Not a movie theatre, and operating theatre. Yes, of course Kim and I tried the “What’s showing?” line. Not funny. Not in Kenya, anyway. Please feel free to chuckle.

Give him a hand.

I look really strange here (I was looking at some kid outside the window), but I wanted to share with you what was perhaps the worst part of my day.

When I got out of surgery, Prof told me about the dislocated business and about how all the ligaments were shredded. I asked him how big the scar was. He told me--and I quote--it's "two-fingers breadth."

Nurse lady pulled off my bandage today and the scar just kept coming. It's NOT "two-fingers breadth." It's ginormous. It's as long as my hand, not two measly fingers.

Let's face it, there's a miniature-scale (but still huge) Grand Canyon on my shoulder.

I might as well be a mutant.

Ice cream!

My mom said the other day that if I ever want to get married, I should stop putting up terrible pictures of myself on the blog. Sorry, Mom.

I love ice cream more than I love marriage. :)

Kim.

Today, Kim has...

- Slammed her palms down on my shoulders, to push me back down in a chair while she was doing my hair. Doing my hair because I can't do it myself. Because I can't move my shoulder. One of the two shoulders she pushed down. With force.

- Poked me (just now) in the shoulder, to reprimand me for not listening to her. Poked me in that same, aforementioned shoulder. The one you shouldn't poke.

I'm totally returning her. She's a terrible nurse.

Where's Pattie?

("Mention that I'm going to tweeze out all your eyebrows tonight." -KP)

On Field Media...

Part of our TIMO curriculum is what the folks at En Gedi call "Month Out." It's where we leave Lopitland for a month and join another ministry somewhere for a month.

The point? I think it's two-fold.

First, we use what we've learned on TIMO to look at this ministry in a new way. We're not supposed to evaluate it, per se, but we can look at it in a new way.

Second, TIMO is heralded as a "two-year foundation for a lifetime of ministry." So, during these two years we're supposed to build a ministry philosophy and figure out what kind of missions work is best suited for us and the gifts God has given us. What better way to figure something like that out than to pair up with a ministry we think might work?

Our Month Out is in February/March, and I'll actually be based in Nairobi (drat!) and joining up with the fellas over at AIM's new On Field Media team. AIM's PR guy in NY, Andy, tossed the idea of the team my direction when I first went out for Candidate Week in the summer of 2005. Then, it was a proposal; now, it's a reality. Ted & Co. open shop in September and have hit the ground running.

I can't wait to see what Month Out with OFM is like. These guys have the same heart I do for connecting people and declaring God's glory through it.

I dropped by when I was here last, just to say hello and get acquainted. I actually left the office whimpering a bit. I told them I'd put together a dinky little video for TIMO, so we skimmed it. Then they put on their Psalm 40 video (available on the Web site). I'm way out of my league here. I can only pray I can offer in words what they've done in video.

Peanut!

Pattie wrote today. She tries to keep us up to date on life in Lopit, you see.

In chronicling this Sunday morning’s adventures, she reported that Laudina came over a’blazing, asking to borrow her tweezers.

Apparently, little Thomaso got a peanut stuck up his nose.

This has provided Kim and I with fodder for spontaneous laughter all day long.

Thank you, Lopitland.

Also, thank you Thomaso. And the peanut.

In other news, I’m so bored, I’m contemplating putting up a profile for Kimberly on SovereignGraceSingles.com. (Google is so handy.) Honestly, how fun would that be?

“Single white female. Enjoys long walks on the beach and/or poopy paths in Southern Sudan.”

Kim has threatened to tweeze all my eyebrows out if I did that, so the project is on hold while I contemplate the consequences.

Go Go Gadget...

Pattie wrote me today about the team's idea for my rehab--a mechanical arm. It made me smile, so I thought I'd share it with you.

"So about that mechanical arm. Probably won't be nearly as funny in email as it was in person, but Jen and Craig were joking about how you are having to choose which kind of special arm to have installed.

"You could go for the "go go gadget arm" that could serve many purposes. We thought maybe you could get one that is rechargeable and then I could borrow it to smack the misbehaving children (quite loud recently in the mornings with all the buleta [fruit from our tree]) through my window screen--or the fighting dogs :0)

[Pattie would never really smack children; just so there isn't a misunderstanding. It's safe to say most of our team members would never hit a child...]

"Jen is actually voting for the 'spider man arm' which could be used to cocoon the misbehavers. Besides, think how easy it would be to get from [our village] to [Steve's village] with a spider man arm. If I am not mistaken, this was also Craiger's preference :0)

"Or jen says you could get one like 'the thing' from Adam's family that will just walk around by itself and do whatever you want. I mean think of the possibilities here.

"We're all willing to donate for such a cause, as long as you will let us borrow it from time to time!!!! Just trying to prepare you for what you're coming home to HE HE!!!"

:)

I really Schruted it.

In my quiet time Tuesday morning, I asked the Lord to humble me.

I wasn't expecting such an immediate and heavy helping of humility.

My dear mother posted up here a bit already, and news has gotten around inexplicably fast through church channels, but just so we're on the same page--I had a bit of a hectic bike accident Tuesday morning.

The funny thing is, I was so excited about writing everyone and saying how great it was to be back on the dry season schedule--waking up early, enjoying uninterrupted time in the Word before catching the sunrise on my bike, then working in the village centers with the kids for preschool. The perfect beginning to my Lopit day!

But Tuesday I hit a patch of sand, slid into a hole and went head-over-handlebars about a mile from Steve’s compound. I’m so thankful I wasn’t 10K’s out. I’d just passed one of the pastors, who saw me biff it and came running. I came up screaming for Kim—who I knew wasn’t too far behind me, running—but begged Pastor S. to unclip my feet from my toeclips and get the bike off me. He did that and more—yanked me up under the armpits, then took my hurt arm, pulling, pushing and wrenching it around until I finally convinced him to stop. His heart was good, I’m sure. But probably not the ideal response, medically speaking. Yikes.

Kim wanted to run back and get a car, but I didn’t think it was that bad, so we walked. I think three quarters of a mile later, I realized that was a really stupid idea. Steve caught sight of me from his breakfast table and I must’ve looked something terrible, because before I knew it I had ice on my shoulder, Iris at my side and a washcloth on my face.

Would you believe that within two hours of biting it, I was at the airstrip, hitching a ride on a mosquito plane? Pretty amazing stuff. Thank you AIMAIR. I spent most of the first flight (to Loki) bawling and feeling sorry for myself. I spent most of the second flight (a long one, in the tiny plane, to Nairobi) trying not to barf, feeling terrible for Kim (who came with and hates flying) and praying it’d all just be over. Our pilot, Mike, was an all-star; he flew the plane through choppy air and helped take care of me. Thank you, Mike.

Chanda (marked on my medical forms as my “guardian angel”) met us at the airport and, lickidy split, we were at Nairobi hospital.

I couldn’t get surgery that first day—something about respiratory concerns because I’d just flown—but the next afternoon I went in. My collarbone was dislocated from my shoulder blade by about an inch and a half, and all the ligaments torn clear away. So the orthopedic surgeon took a wire and pulled everything back together.

Three days in the hospital was more than enough for me, so I’m happy to be at Mayfield now. But I’m constantly being humbled because I can’t do much for myself and it hurts really bad. I’m here ‘til at least Wednesday, when I have an appointment to get the stitches out. Then, I dunno. Hopefully back to So Sud as soon as possible. Sling for four weeks; recovery will take about six, they say. It will never be 100% again, so my major league pitching dreams have been shattered. Whimper.

Honestly, this couldn’t have come at a worse time—I was so happy to be back home, yet discouraged recently in other ways. (I’ll write on that when I can.) I talk rather flippantly about it now, but—like my mom says—what else can I do? In reality, being out AGAIN for medical stuff makes me wonder if I should even be in the field at all, certainly because it came right after a rough night where it just seemed like nothing we do in Lopit actually gets to the people. (Again, later.)

So, as you pray for healing, pray for encouragement or guidance. And pray for finances; Chanda took care of all that so far, so I don’t know what I’m looking at, but it is still scary, especially since I don’t know how much travel costs insurance will cover, particularly for Kimmie. Just one more thing I’m trying to put off thinking about. Meh.

I’ll write more when I can; typing with one hand is really tiring. Thanks for all the emails everyone; I’m sorry I probably won’t write you back just yet—part of the reason of this lengthy post, so I only have to type it once. I’d better stop now—I seem to be getting more discouraged as I go.

Thanks again, and keep loving Jesus.

F is for Francis...

some wonderful people from home sent a few sets of letter and number stamps to use in the preschool. i was really excited to get them, so we tried them out on francis and jessica.


francis is a very serious student!

i'm certain he doesn't get the idea that these are letters, which represent sounds and make words. but it was enough to know we make these shapes a lot and it had something to do with his name, i think. so he carefully traced the letters, then proudly showed us his work.

even better, he asked if he could hang his little sheet full of F's on our cabinet door, where we sometimes put cartoons or quotes. i just smiled and grabbed the tack. he doesn't know a thing about the american tendency yo display kids' artwork on the fridge. :)

Hey, Good Lookin'

For whatever reason, Jessica, Thomaso and Ellen had free reign of my room the other day. The mirror was a huge distraction. I don't quite get what Thomaso is doing here, with the mirror pressed to his face, but I snapped a picture just before he caught on to me...

Moment of Vanity...

The way I figure it, I should use the free net and immobility to my advantage and post some pictures for ya'll...

Jessica is so beautiful, it blows me away. Here, she wanted to join Kim in getting ready for church...

Kissy face. :)

Happy Thanksgiving!

Jen held off on her big Thanksgiving meal until KP and I got back. Very, very sweet.

Another wonderful night off food and fellowship.

Joshua can be hilarious.

Miss Pattie and baby Joy.

Quite a crowd. Even Steve & Co. came--a small miracle.

Iris and the kiddos.

The lovely Mama Dure.

Boston cream pie. And Ohesa.

On the mend ...

Andi asked me to post this to let you know that she is out of surgery and doing fine, although in quite a bit of pain at the moment. Her guardian angel, Kimmie, was seeking more meds for her from the nurse when I called and had already gone out and gotten some "good" food. Kimmie says she expects Andi will be in the hospital for one, maybe two more days. And although Andi is ready to go home now, Kimmie assures me she'll make sure Andi does what the doctors say.

Thanks for all your prayers and concern.

Andi's mom

Editted to add:
Sorry to be so cryptic with the first post, I wasn't thinking clearly! Andi had an accident on her bike Tuesday morning and dislocated her collarbone. AIM flew her and Kimmie out to Nairobi, where the doctors determined that they needed to wire her shoulder and collarbone back together. She had surgery Wednesday. I will post more after I talk to her tomorrow (Thursday).

Lopitland meets Hollywood…

Hey gang, I finally got that video finished and kicked back Stateside. Hooray!
My dear friend Rev. Mark, who represents (and comprises) the USA branch of this adventure, has so graciously offered his services to copy and send out this little production.
(You folks at OUC or Faith—when you see him, hug him. He does a lot for me!)
Anyway, if you’d like a closer look at our work out here, my team and what TIMO is all about, drop Mark a line and he’ll send you a copy.
Here’s his email: markalexander17@yahoo.com
Make sure you let him know your name and address. And, if you’re from Faith or OUC, make a note of that; he’ll save on postage and give them to the church.
I hope you’re blessed by the video, and can better know how to pray for us from it!
Cheers!

What is the What.

I picked up a novel about the Lost Boys while I was in Nairobi—“What is the What.”
I was having a hard enough time reading about the horrible things this character Achak saw and experienced as he first walked to Ethiopia, then back across the country to Kenya, being attacked by animals (both of the lion and Arab horseman variety), bombed by the North, used by the SPLA and worn down nearly to death or insanity. But during one of my breaks—I made a habit or putting down the book and resting now and then, lest I be overwhelmed by it—I happened upon the title page, where I saw under the title, “An Autobiography by Achak Valentino…”
I can’t begin to tell you how this affected me. There’s quite a difference between a NOVEL—like the front cover said—and an AUTOBIOGRAPHY. Before, the character was just that—a character. He was fictional, likely many boys’ experiences distilled down into one storyline.
But then—“autobiography.” Suddenly, Achak wasn’t just the story of many faceless boys. The suffering had a face. It could be pinned down, put in a specific time and place, given a name. This was actually someone’s life.
It made me sick, to read about this boy’s life and to know it was very real, and being forced to confront the fact that his life was the same life thousands of other boys lived, and are still living today.
Imagine, not knowing anything but war. Or being born and raised in Kakuma, a refugee camp in the desert of Kenya.
Hmmph.
Anyway, it’s a good book. If you’re into that kind of thing, you should give it a read.

New guy on the block…

We came back to find out we’ve had one added to our ranks.
This fella Toby came out to help for a few weeks, but apparently has decided to stay indefinitely. Or something.
Anyway, I guess it’s cool because he’ll be helping do some of the practical work. And there’s a place for him to stay in the boys’ house now, since Daniel is gone. I guess all the village folk mistake him for Daniel, and he acts/looks very much like him. So maybe it’s like we didn’t lose anyone at all, after all.
Or maybe not. The guy he came with told me he was “The New Daniel.” Which I guess might be funny to him, but sort of made me want to punch him. (See previous bit about how losing a team member is like losing your nose or some other essential body part.)
It’s a little painful, knowing that this guy gets to live among the LoPeeps and the TIMO team, but doesn’t have the responsibilities of TIMO and just does practical stuff, because that’s exactly what Daniel wanted to do, but was told he couldn’t do here.
So, perhaps a bit bittersweet, but good nonetheless.
And, who knows, maybe, come Christmas, he’ll fill in as the Weihnachtsmann, too.
Karibu, Toby!

Home!

A week’s lesson in patience, two uneventful flights and slightly annoying (but very short) stop in Loki* later, we’re finally back home in Lopitland.
(*I’m sorry, I really hate Loki. To me, Loki is where malaria is born. And where dust lives. And the breeding ground of a whole host of other evils. I, um, might not be giving Loki a fair shake. Forgive me.)
Flying over so much nothingness makes you realize how we really are in the middle of nowhere. Then our pilot buzzed around the horseshoe of our mountain range; Kim and I had our noses pressed to the windows. It’s so cool, to see our little villages from the air—outlines of the compounds, the haphazard lines of the peanut fields, the funny cone roofs.
We carried entirely too much up the mountain, but were rewarded when we got home—Pattie had made us special lemonade and put seats under our tired bodies. She even had the whole inside of the house poohed while we were gone! In a word—amazing.
Our neighbors were excited to have us home, too. It just made my heart happy to shake their hands and smile with them. I really enjoy being home.
In a related story, it’s officially Christmas season in Lopit. I put up the lights just as soon as my tired body would let me. Then, unfortunately, I proceeded to fall backward off the stool I was hanging them from. My first thought was, “Oh, please, Lord, tell me I didn’t break anything. Steve would absolutely kill me. And I’m in no mood to wait for another flight.”
But, no worries. I’m OK. :)

Un-stuck.

Tomorrow, we get un-stuck. That is, we get to leave Nairobi. Praise the Lord.

I took down a lot of my Nairobi posts. I figured anyone short of a stalker wouldn't want to read all about our crazy city adventures and misadventures.

My apologies to all the stalkers out there.

Update from Pattie...

I got an email from Pattie the other day.

Seeing that thing in my inbox did terrible things to my stomach. I was so afraid she was going to tell me about one of our friends dying or something.

Praise God, she didn’t.

Let me glean from her two emails here, to give you an update.

To go back, it looks like the monyemiji came down and begged Steve to get the meds sent out a bit ago, because so many kids were dying. That’s a pretty big move. Good on you, monyemiji folk.

Franco was sick, but Pattie started treating him with the new medicine and he looks like he’ll be fine. Paula even carried him most of the way down to church Sunday, Pattie says, because they asked him and he said he wanted to go. She said it’s been so wonderful to see how Abuba is taking to heart our lessons on the importance and method of getting a fever down. I think maybe when our neighbors saw Pattie and Kim soaking me down with our precious little water when I was sick, that did something in their minds. Pattie says Abuba even helped her explain to other people why it was important and how to do it. I think Pattie was really encouraged.

One of our friend’s kids, Monday, was really sick. (There’s a picture of Monday somewhere on here.) I’m not even sure how to explain this story, because even Pattie was having a hard time telling it. Here’s the thing: Sometimes, the Lopit declare someone dead before they’re actually dead. Which leads to confusion, when people are… resurrected. They, umm… come back to life. Anyway, this seems to be the case with Monday. Pattie woke up to the women wailing in mourning and telling her Monday died, but then Monday was really just sick. And now she’s in the clinic, and it sounds like she’s getting better.

Pattie said she was “mad enough to spit nails” (I think that means really mad) when she heard from our neighbor that, though they just got a whole slew of meds on that plane HK sent up, the clinic had sent her away, saying there was no more medicine. Not yet sure if that’s really the case—people have a habit of saying that when they’re lying about having been to the clinic. We’ll see what good ol’ Pattie says in her next email.

I miss Pattie. :(

Boxing for Breakfast

The other day I enjoyed a really great breakfast with Adele, a missionary/ photojournalist I met last time we were in Kenya.

She chatted with us a bit under the glow of our Christmas lights on “Christmas Day” and invited me out to this beautiful place in Karen for a Boxing Day treat.

It was nice, just sitting there, enjoying coffee and good food, and each other. We talked about a lot of things—the supporter stress, how we’ve been challenged in our walks, war (did you know there is a war on in Congo right now? I didn’t), being a single missionary in Africa, etc.

I remember sitting back for a moment and thinking, “Oh, wow, I’m really relaxing.” That was a good moment.

It was nice to understand and be understood. That is so rare here.

And it was nice to be challenged, as well—just hearing about how she is studying the Word, how she’s trusting God to teach her “new” things from “old” texts, how she’s being deliberate about living what she’s learning… that spurred me on.

Anyway, our morning out at this lovely café stands out in my mind—sort of a calm in the middle of the Nairobi storm, a real blessing.

Yuletide craziness...

So, today was our Christmas. We did our best to wish as many people as possible a merry Christmas. Some--yea even most--were confused by our holiday cheer and greetings, but after a lot of explaining, some caught on and humored us.



We got all dressed up and went out to eat for our "Christmas" dinner. It was excellent fun.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Let's see if this works...

In a moment of decent internet connection, I'm trying to see if posting my prayer letter on here works. Let me know if you can click on it and it's big enough to read!

Also, if you're not on my mailing list but want to be, just email me: aclinard@gmail.com.

Golly, having internet is really great...

Santa!

How great is it that on our Christmas Eve, we see Santa at Nakumatt? Apparently, even Father Christmas does his shopping last minute. (I feel he and my Dad could bond over that fact.)

Hooked…

Grasshopper and Monkey, hamming it up.




Also not unusual.