Fortress America

Basiime Godfrey was denied a visa to America. This is deeply saddening to us, embarrassing really. We have been welcomed to Uganda for 17 years, in homes, to meals, in government offices, in churches, always on the receiving end of gracious hospitality. Six of us, over and over and over again, often at significant cost and inconvenience to others. Yes, we have to go through procedures and paperwork for long-term work permits, but anyone from America can land in Uganda and get a 2 month tourist visa to visit. But that openness is not reciprocated. A young man, a college student who is going blind, who has full sponsorship for an airfare and surgery in the USA, and carried documentation of all that to the embassy, was turned away. Why our country can not allow an orphan with a serious NON-CONTAGIOUS eye problem through our borders for a month in order to receive care at NO COST to the state, is beyond me.

The ever-amazing Dr. B is appealing through his congress-people. We can all appeal through prayer. Basiime's not asking to live in America, to study in America, to do anything other than walk on this soil to a surgical center where his sight could be saved.

Julia the Jewel, at 14

Our girl is now 14 years old. And we never cease to think with awe that we do not deserve her. She is truly an amazing person. For her 14th Birthday, we celebrated early (on Saturday, though her B-day was Monday) so that her cousins from NC could be included in 14 activities on a 14th Bday. We were in West Virginia, on our way back east, and our main activity was MAKING APPLE BUTTER. This is an Aylestock family tradition, for all of my childhood shared with our dear friends the Hubachs, and for the last five years not even attempted. It was our first time to do it without my dad. The first time that our generation (Scott and me, Steve and Janie) were basically in charge. And Julia was right in the middle of the process all the way.

The all-night drive was necessary so that we could spend Friday afternoon peeling, coring, slicing 4 bushels of apples. For those not familiar with a bushel anymore, that's A LOT of apples. It took hours, even with our super-duper peeler/slicer. The NC crew left after school Friday and drove long hours to arrive that night. But Scott and Steve were up at dawn on Saturday to clean the massive copper kettle and start a wood fire. The first apples went into the kettle with a gallon of cider at 7:25 a.m., and the last apples were added by about 9:30 a.m. The entire day someone has to be stirring, scraping the bottom of the kettle with a large wooden paddle so the sauce does not burn, carefully looking for any peels or seeds that rise to the surface, scraping down the sides with a wooden spoon, stoking the fire to just the right heat. Rocking back and forth, turning in a circle, tending the cauldron.

Meanwhile the rest of the crew went from game to game, blind man's bluff, basketball, speed scrabble, soccer, shooting cans off the railroad track, all Julia's favorites. The craziest moment of the day was the polar bear run to the river and swim . . all cousins went into the frigid water (one had to be pushed by Julia, but he was a good sport), and me. I love that river, even though I have no tolerance for the cold.

By 6 the sugar was in, the oil-of-cinnamon flavoring, and the apple butter was pronounced ready. The day ends with an assembly line of sterilized jars and lids, pouring the hot apple butter into the jars, screwing down the tops. We canned 11 1/2 gallons of the sweet brown spread, enough for a winter's luxury on corn bread and toast and rolls and muffins.

Julia's day ended with a reading of the poetry we had encouraged everyone to compose throughout the day as tributes to her, and the list of 18 characteristics as an acronym to her name (such as helpful, enduring, endearing, unforgettable, indispensable, etc. ). We had an apple cake (a la Mrs. Elwood, Nathan's favorite which he brought to our team) to keep in theme, with fun candles. Julia glowed.

Apple butter is sweet, nourishing, a product of many hours of labor, beautiful to behold, satisfying to all. And so is Julia. Her very first birthday was also celebrated in West Virginia at my parents' "Camp", when we had evacuated from rebels and just before we returned to Africa to work at Kijabe until things calmed down in Bundibugyo. So this was another circle completed, celebrating amidst the turning maple leaves and cooling mountain breezes once again. And that baby who was carried uncomplaining to safety through gunfire is now a beautiful young woman, sensitive and loving, sharp and organized, silly and appreciative. She loves life, food, family, soccer, books, crocheting, friends, dogs . . . and apple butter. And we love her.

Visa Prayers

Basiime Godfrey has been a part of our extended-family for many, many years.  He became acquainted with us during his primary school days, became friends with our kids, and we ended up sponsoring him through the end of primary school, six years of secondary school, and now on to University.  He's a orphan, and when his father died his father's family excluded him from the land.  His mother remarried, and this young man is basically on his own.  When Scott was doing his physical exam form for admission to the Uganda Christian University, he realized that Basiime had severe impairment of his vision.  At that very time we received an email from an American ophthalmologist who was coming for a short-term medical mission trip to Uganda and wanted to touch base with us . . . God's providence for Basiime.  Dr. Bonner agreed to evaluate him, found he had sever glaucoma, and performed a surgery to preserve what was left of his vision in one eye.  Since then he's been managing Basiime's care from afar, and on his follow-up mission trip decided that a second surgery was necessary in the other eye.  Without this, Basiime will certainly become blind, sooner rather than later.  The second surgery is more difficult and would best be done by a glaucoma specialist in the USA.  And for no reason other than grace, Dr. Bonner decided to arrange for that to happen, donating funds and care for the month he will need to be here.  So for the last couple of months Basiime and a trusted church leader in Kampala have been working on getting his Ugandan passport and all papers in order (NO SMALL TASK).  Tomorrow, the 7th of October, Basiime Godfrey will be interviewed by the US Embassy for a compassionate-care visa, so that he can temporarily travel to the USA for this surgery.

PLEASE PRAY that the visa would be granted. The USA is cautious about granting visas to Ugandans.  Pray that those responsible tomorrow would see the need for this surgery.  God led this young man into our hearts, opened doors for him at Christ School as a student leader, rescued him when he went astray, gave us grace when we missed deadlines and he still got into the University, brought him to Dr. Bonner's attention, and opened this opportunity for care.  Is it too much to ask for one more thing, an American visa?

Jesus delights in restoring sight.  Please pray that He would heal Basiime's.

Adventure -vs- Quest

Jennifer recently wrote about our all night drive from Chicago to West Virginia. I (Scott) did a lot of the driving, too, traversing Indiana and Ohio on lonely two-lane roads while the enormous luminous half-moon rose over the eastern horizon. And while I cruised down those quiet highways, I listened to a sermon on my iPod by Tim Keller. And I’m still thinking about it.

Keller’s text was Genesis 12 and his theme, the Call of Abraham.

Keller says, “Abraham didn’t just live life. He didn’t just go with the flow of events. He happened a life. He lived a big life. He stood against his family, his society, his culture. He stood alone. What made him different? The call of God.”

He goes on to detail different aspects of the call of God (its power, radical nature, and how we receive it). What sticks in my mind, though, are some comments he made about some of our family’s favorite books by JRR Tolkien. While many consider The Hobbit to be merely a prequel to The Lord of the Rings, Keller makes a distinction…

He says “The Hobbit is a children’s book. Then, comes the three books, the Trilogy, The Lord of the Rings. I was listening to a literary critic who knows these books who said the thing you’ve got to keep in mind is that The Hobbit is an Adventure, but the The Lord of the Rings is a Quest. The Hobbit is a book for children and it is more light-hearted. It is an Adventure and the way the literary critic defines adventure is that an Adventure is a ‘there and back again.’ It’s an exciting thing you choose. You go and you have your adventures and have all your thrills and it spices up your life and then you come home again and you pick your life again where you left off. An Adventure is there and back again.

But a Quest is not something you choose, it comes to you. You sense a requirement. You’re called to it because of what’s involved. And you never really come back from a Quest. In a Quest you either die for the Quest or if you do come back you are so changed that you never in a sense really do come back. You’re never the way you were. You changed radically. I want you to know that Christianity is not an Adventure. It is not there and back again. It’s not like I want to have some fun, I want to enrich my life. Christianity is a Quest. God says Get Out … you’re going to be radically changed. Don’t ask Me whether what I am about to do will fit into your agenda. Christianity is a whole new agenda. Don’t say how will Christianity will fit into my life because Christianity is a whole New Life.”

At our “Debriefing and Renewal” retreat in Colorado, our facilitators showed us the final clip from “Return of the King” where Frodo and Company ride back into the Shire. But, they don’t fit in any more. People look at them with suspicion. They sit in the pub peering into their pints, listening to the revelry, feeling a bit ill at ease but nod at each other in remembrance of the suffering they endured together for The Quest. That’s a familiar feeling. Not really fitting in, not like I did once.

And while our family continues to define a great vacation (Adventure) as one in which there is a thrill resulting from living on the edge -- it’s helpful for me to be reminded of the stark difference between Adventure and Quest.

Quest comes from Calling. It involves cost, sacrifice, and suffering. It is for a Higher Purpose. And you will be changed.

Driving at Night

We don't drive at night in Uganda, at least not if we can help it.  In a place where bandits still roam, where vehicles are ambushed in the darkness, it's not wise.  Not to mention no street lights, and pretty rough conditions even in full daylight.  But in the USA, following in our family's footsteps from our own childhood, we've been known to pull driving all-nighters.  Our plane from California landed in Chicago on Thursday evening at 8:30 pm, where we had left our borrowed car.  Dear friends who have bent over backwards to care for us there met us at the airport with the car, and though we were sorely tempted to go back home with them and have good food and great talks and comfy beds, we knew we needed to be far east by mid-Friday.  So we were on the road by about 9:30 pm, spurts of speed and clots of traffic, as we passed through the fairy lights of downtown Chicago, twinkling windows and powerful strobes, vibrant in the night sky.  And then on to Indiana, and slant-ways down through Ohio, to West Virginia.  About 600 miles, almost 12 hours, 2-lane roads and 8-line interstates, tractor trailers and not much else.  Scott and I traded off driving, and Jack and Julia slept hunched any-which-way in the back seat, no pillows or blankets.  

I took the midnight to 3-something shift.  And rediscovered the beauty of the night drive.  Quiet.  No radio, no ambient noise other than an occasional sleep-talk from Julia, or sigh from sleeping Scott.  My family in my hands, resting, dependent on my alertness and care, but temporarily oblivious.  Praying.  Thinking, uninterrupted.  The world dormant around us, deserted-looking farms, dimly lit closed gas stations and shops.  My faithful gps companion occasionally advising an exit or a turn, one glowing light in the dark world.  In the constant-presence of visiting and constant-something-to-do of moving from place to place, I appreciated the forced immobility, one seat, strapped in, alone. One way, ahead.  A spectacular half-moon accompanying me ahead to the left as I zig-zagged southeast through rural flat states.  

Reluctantly I woke Scott at 3:30, realizing it was actually now 4:30 in the new East Coast time zone, feeling my attention beginning to strain. It was time for a few hours of rest before the sun rose.  I had forgotten how possible, and relaxing it is, to be awake when everyone else is asleep, except God.

You know you're in CA, part 2

When we get to have coffee with one of our most faithful blog-readers, "Judy in HMB". Who became friends with Scott's parents through the church there, and only later realized that Judy's daughter's husband went to medical school with Scott. We all got together Thursday morning before our flight left, a tribute to a small world, ever shrinking.

You know you're in California when . . .

Walking across the Golden Gate Bridge should be enough to know where you are, the iconic red suspension structure like a giant erector-set construction spanning the Bay where the Pacific Ocean flows into America. A mile or two of stunning views, the waves far below, ships pushing seaward or returning, cormorant-like birds perched on the rocks sunning their wings in the breeze, the stepped skyline of San Francisco a few miles into the landward haze, the natural air-conditioning chill of the Pacific ocean cooling the full-noon sun to a pleasant live-able perfection, the brisk exercise of a long walk suspended high in the air. Of course there are the carefully spaced emergency call-boxes connecting would-be jumpers to a counseling hotline, labeled "warning, a fall from this bridge could have fatal or disastrous consequences" (note that the two are not synonyms), which injects a slight doubt into the otherwise idyllic scene.

But you really know you're in California when you're passed by a biker decked in full reflective gear, skin-tight racing togs, clip-shoes, streamlined helmet, and look up to realize she's a 70-something year old, and there's a group out for a training ride together, all with grey hair. Or when you're passed by a 20-something running male, shirtless, designer sunglasses, discreet tattoo, glistening in probably organic sunscreen, wearing a personal training heart-rate monitor . . and he's pushing an inhabited baby-jogger. This is the land of the healthy lifestyle, the gender-neutral role, the environmentally-aware consciousness, the impeccable image, where it's probably easier to find a tofu-based fair-trade free-range all-organic anything than an ounce of fat. A land of spectacular views and climate, and thoughtful people and meaningful community, still some opportunity and a good bit of wealth.

It is also the land of half our family, so we know we're in California when we're eating gourmet meals every night, when we're cared for and rested, when we have access to all their toys and time. Jack and Julia are loving boogey-boarding, riding in the foamy crash of waves up onto the sand, in wet-suits to protect from the frigid ocean temps. We've accompanied granddad on his bike rides, sat around the table with papers and coffee, walked on the beach, and cheered the cousins on in roller hockey and volleyball games. So, to close, we know we're in California when we hear the question that haunts our hearts: "Mom and Dad, why don't we live here?"

Unlikely Headquarters

This, friends, is one of the power centers of world mission, and we made a pilgrimage there yesterday. This is a modest 50-year old home on a random street in Berkley, where an 88-year-old widow labors for the world. Mrs. L taught school, raised two kids, and supported her pastor-husband's ministry all her life. But she had a heart for missions. And a friendship with the Millers, founders of WHM. Early in our experience with World Harvest, some extremely committed saints in the USA were recruited as "prayer warriors", people who would read all the missionary letters and reports and really engage in prayer. Mrs. L was one of them, and we met her briefly at a WHM conference in 1995. She took a look at 2-year-old Luke and 2-month-old Caleb and decided to take it upon herself to pray milk into our lives . . . and a rich flow of first powdered milk, then UHT (long-life) boxed, then goats and a cow, ensued, enabling not only our children but many others to thrive. She prayed for a hospital that would become a regional center for excellent care for kids, and we can see that in the care that NHC was offering. She prayed for Dr. Jonah and mourned his death with us. In short she has been a regular and faithful and persistent force for redemption in Bundibugyo over two decades. So it was a privileged pilgrimage we made, to hug her frail frame and thank her for her advocacy in the heavenly realms. We know of other well-disguised locations like this one, for instance a nursing home near Lancaster . . . part of Jesus' upside-down Kingdom, that people with failing hearts can embrace them around distant needs, that people with artificial knees can bend them to serve, that people subsisting on pensions can generously give beyond their means, that people who are considered a marginal burden in American society can be the very center of the movement of grace.

cultures within cultures

So here we are in the good old US of A where both Scott and I were born and raised.  And where both of us now have to work hard to fit in.  Yes, we've changed, and we've fallen behind many changes here.  But I've also noticed that the nature of HMA (home ministry assignment, the process of re-visiting and thanking and hopefully inspiring a few supporters) is also very cross-cultural.  When we suddenly decide to return to all the places and friends that have made us who we are, we find that there is a huge diversity of cultures that we have to cross, that we lived rather complex lives, and left a trail that is far from straight.  This is accentuated by our own current uncertainty and rootlessness, and by the unnatural time compression of experiencing a decade's worth of friendship in a month.  

It's fun, but also a bit disorienting.  Appalachian country folk, with ATV's and guns.  Suburban family, with kids in umpteen activities, committed to church and neighbors.  Urban poor, deep in the inner city for the duration.  Western ranch, expansive sky and land-rooted values.  Wealthy and generous, or some who used-to-be-wealthy, now pressed financially.  Academic, specialists, pursuing the frontiers of knowledge in their field.  Student-simplicity, still forming lifestyles and opinions.  Small-town, integrated and settled.  More suburbs, with gracious everything-matches kind of houses, and space to enfold us.  Coastal environmentalist.  Historic farm.  Homeschool protective conservative.  In each of these cultures we land with our own mix of messiness, and try to understand a bit of real life for our friends, try to fit in enough to relate and connect, try not to feel to discouraged by the contrasts which show how short we fall, and then we move on.  One day we can be discussing AIDS research with the people who are actually doing it, another day clapping to spirited gospel music in a mostly black church, another day making small talk with successful and relaxed Californians on the sideline of a roller-hockey game.  

We have some really amazing friends, people with vision and passion, people who are raising remarkable children, people who agonize over global warming and middle-East peace and authentic gardening, and people who seem far removed from any of that.  And perhaps BECAUSE they are all such good and interesting people, I find myself trying too hard, to change quickly with each new venue.  And this time that is supposed to be the restful feel-at-home time has become a tiring one.  So, please forgive us, who are supposed to have the stepping-over-culture-line dance down pat.  Realize that we love you all, and that we want to affirm your uniqueness.  And that we are too weak and unsettled to hold our own adequately in this rich and various mix.  

Until Heaven, then.  We salute the palette of cultures, and continue to press on.

Scarred Beauty

I ask you right here to please agree with me that a scar is never ugly.  That is what the scar makers want us to think.  But you and I, we must make an agreement to defy them.  We must see all scars as beauty.  Okay?  This will be our secret.  Because take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying.  A scar means, I survived.

Chris Cleave, Little Bee