sneaky grief . . .

 . . . stalked unexpectedly in a lecture on pediatric pain control during procedures yesterday, which reminded me of a horrific night in Bundibugyo hospital about ten years ago with Caleb having surgery under somewhat minimal anesthesia, trading off his cries for the risk of him not breathing.  Which in the context of this weekend's bout with pneumonia and the previous evening's return to school and separation, suddenly just overwhelmed my heart, so that I was hardly tuning in for the rest of the morning and as soon as Scott presented a sympathetic face at lunch the dam burst in embarrassing snotty tears.  Grief is that way, hiding in the shadows, ready to pounce when least expected.  

Later a sweet moment, a gift of memory that balanced that context.  We braved the rough dirt-road trek up the ridge in the evening to visit the home of the Kenyan lady who helped us back in 1997-8 when we had evacuated from war and were working here until Jack was born.  Over the years we've kept up with visits or short-term work together.  How many people can walk into a Kikuyu log home in Kenya and find several pictures of their kids displayed on the wall?  I love that.  We prayed for her elderly prayer-warrior mom and her brother with cancer, and thanked God that she now has a full-time job.  She was one of the first people in this world that Jack saw . . and here he was playing with her mangy puppy and drinking ginger-spiced tea.

Job said, the Lord gives and the Lord takes away, but in either case, blessed be His name.  Even in the small details of our lives, grieving over our struggles and losses but rejoicing in the gift of a kind friend.