The Remarkable Journey of Caleb and Jennifer

A long time ago, in a seminar with the late Dave Pollock, guru of the Third Culture Kid, we heard the excellent advice that missionary families should try to take a pause when they travel, a few days as a family when they can carve that out between continents.  Because Caleb had to start the USAFA a month before his scheduled High School graduation, this was a bit more challenging for us this year.  Scott very graciously allowed me to travel with Caleb while he stays in Africa with Julia, Jack, and Acacia, not to mention Luke who is studying Swahili in a Yale program in Mombasa this summer as well.  So when Caleb decided on the Air Force and I booked our tickets (through our same life-saver Mission Concepts agent Paul Cardell), I put in a two-night one-day stop in Amsterdam for the two of us.

Planes, buses, trains, tram, bicycles, and feet all propelled us to and from Haarlem, the seashore, and the city of Amsterdam.  We stayed in an authentic Dutch home on a canal, with a brother/sister pair who rent the top story as a bed and breakfast.  

Saw the watch-shop where Corrie Ten Boom's family hid Jews and organized resistance to the Nazi's in WWII, at the cost of most of their lives in concentration camps.  The Hiding Place tells the amazing redemptive story of how Corrie is inspired by her dying sister to forgive their captors and make peace.

Other highlights were the quaint historic streets, scrumptious food, and a Sunday evening vesper's service in the Cathedral complete with pipe organ, soloist, and cello, us and a dozen elderly Dutch people meditating on Jesus as the shepherd.  We like the Netherlands.  A lot.

The next morning we rented bikes and explored a national park, the dunes and dikes that keep Holland from being swallowed by the sea.  Cool wind, flowering grasses, and about twenty kilometers of exercise and fun.

Our favorite thing to do on an Amsterdam stop is to catch up with our friends Bob and Miriam, who are WHM missionaries and extraordinary people.

When we landed in Virginia we had one week to:  buy clothes for Caleb for his Thanksgiving and Christmas breaks, the only time this year he'll be out of uniform, as well as a few essential toiletries; drive to West Virginia for an annual Aylestock family reunion and time to re-connect with about 50 relatives, swim in the river (fun until we found three ominous-appearing snakes sunning on the rocks then shooting into the water), hike, cook, make homeade ice cream, and mostly socialize; attempt to get my driver's license renewed (success) and Caleb's driver's license period (failure, they rejected his RVA driver's ed); and celebrate my 50th birthday.

For my Birthday we went to a restaurant in Leesburg, the same town where I was born and married.  Love those full-circle completeness sort of milestones.  Our close family friends were also celebrating their 50th anniversary, so Chuck and Kay Meyer, my sister and mother, Caleb and I all had dinner.  I chose the bison-and-shrimp, with a local-winery beverage.  Not your every-day occurrence.  

The next day we flew to Colorado, where our remarkable journey continued.  We were welcomed at the airport by a trio of Bolthouse girls, and showered with their blessings particularly in the form of a Subaru station-wagon to borrow.  As Caleb and I drove into Colorado Springs, we could see the wall of smoke from the forest fire that had been burning for a few days.  But we checked with our friends the Grahams who told us to come on.  Since Caleb had never even laid eyes on the Academy, I decided to drive him through the base.  It is like going to college in a national park.  Twenty or forty thousand acres or something like that, bordering on national forest.  The stunning chapel, the academic quad, the expansive fields and trails.  We paused at an overlook for photos, walked on a trail a bit, and drove on.  As we looped to the southern side of the base, Caleb said he spotted fire coming over the ridge.  I said, no, they told us the fire is not on this side, you must just be seeing the smoke rising.  No, mom, it's fire.  AS WE WATCHED the fire exploded from the hot afternoon wind, and raced into the valley towards the town.  I pulled off the road with dozens of others, amazed.

When we got to the Grahams, they were glued to the news, and preparing themselves for possible evacuation.  That evening we helped them take all their heirloom family pictures off the walls and wrap them, load up boxes, and fill their car.  Ashes settled down onto their porch.  Darkness fell, and the fire glowed a few miles away.  They were a few blocks east of the mandatory evacuation zone, but not far enough away.  About 9:30 we realized the fire had gone from 5,000 to 15,000 acres that afternoon, and was out of control.  It was hard to decide to leave, but no one was going to sleep in that danger anyway.  To make things less complicated we split up, the Grahams going to their friends, and  we pulled out the contacts several friends had given us and by 10 pm we were settling in the basement guest room of Heidi's aunt and uncle's house.

The next morning the Lutjens got news that they needed to take in other evacuees, so after a day of errands and repacking and preparing Caleb for the next morning's in-processing, we attended a reception for Officer's Christian Fellowship, and then landed at a third contact's home, people we had connected with through speaking at a grad fellowship at UVA a decade ago!

Which brings our remarkable journey to the point of goodbye, which has already been covered in another post.  The 36 or so hours in Colorado Springs prior to Caleb's entry was supposed to be a cushion of time to settle and prepare, but became a crazy unsettled uncertain experience of breathing smoke, navigating the town, finding people to take us in, wondering whether the program would even go on (the USAFA evacuated their faculty housing area, but shifted the cadets and kept them on schedule).  Meanwhile we kept coming back to the Grahams for good food and news updates and hugs.  In the end we connected with four families (the Grahams, the two homes where we spent a night, and Caleb's sponsor family, not to mention the entire OCF community of inspiring military Christians) in ways we might not have without the fire.  Colorado Springs is a haven of kind, godly people, and we were well supported.

It has been a remarkable 12 days since we flew out of Nairobi, long days with the Northern Hemisphere summer of early dawns and lingering dusk.  Remarkable for the long parade of helpful, giving, family and friends.  For the spectacular scenery (drove over the Eastern Continental Divide in WV and the Western Continental Divide in CO), the ice cream and berries and steaks and salads, the speedy highways.  The memories that will not likely ever be repeated, to be treasured in the process of releasing Caleb to serve and grow and learn.

Jennifer's summer plan

In case you're wondering . . . while Scott is doing a fantastic job as Mr. Dr. Mom, running the medicine department (short staffed), directing the WHM field, managing an inpatient service, teaching interns and residents, covering all student health needs at RVA and that weekly clinic, fielding crisis calls, filtering through over a hundred emails a day and answering with grace and wisdom, cooking dinners and cheering at games and generally being amazing . . . . I am doing the exact opposite.  Which makes us a good wholesome combination, but I definitely come out on the good side of this deal.

After the swearing-in ceremony today, I left Colorado Springs and headed northwest into the Rockies.  For 40 days while Caleb is in Basic Training Boot Camp, I am staying on a ranch owned by friends who have graciously leant me a cottage for quiet contemplation, prayer, and writing.  There is no internet here, but I'll find some intermittently to check on my family.  Please pray for me to listen to God, be renewed and refreshed, and write the story of our first 19 years in Africa in a way that might bless others and give Him glory.  It is a fast of sorts, from the world, from my normal work and connections, from noise and input, from even good things relationally.  This is day one and I miss my husband and kids.  A lot.  But it is also a gift, a time I don't expect will be repeated in my life.  

The family who owns the ranch is extremely generous with their fellow Kingdom-workers, offering respite in a place that is high (9300 feet), clear, stunning, peaceful.  They stay in the main house part-time, but I am alone in the "Tack House" next to the barn.  When you pray for me, ask God to bless these gracious people too.

Swearing In

This morning dawned clear, and after a scrumptious breakfast with the Grahams I pulled out to the north to attend the Basic Cadet Swearing-In Ceremony.  A helpful person at the In-Processing told me to come early.  She was certainly right.  I arrived a full hour early and got one of the last front-row spots and parking places.  The Basic Cadets (known as Doolies, I have to look up the origin of that still) were already out at 7:30 practicing their marching.  As we parents gathered on the balcony-like high overlook by the chapel, they formed up in the quad below, obeying orders over the loudspeaker as they practiced for the ceremony.  I brought binoculars and could identify the G squadron, but with the distance, the angle, the wind, the packed-in nature of the formation of a thousand kids, it was very very very difficult to pick Caleb out.  I'm pretty sure I saw him once, and I waved enthusiastically even though he couldn't possibly see me.

What is most shocking is the transformation in 24 hours.  Yesterday these kids looked like most high schoolers (well, a bit more fit and clean cut, but still in shorts and T shirts, with families and smiles and hair).  Today there were a thousand of them marching in ten groups of a hundred, in rows, in step, all wearing the same uniform, same boots, same hat, same shaved head.  In Kenya and Uganda I can pick my kids out a mile away, but there are an awful lot of white people here.

They all swore not to lie, cheat or steal, to uphold the constitution, to defend the country, to fulfill their duties.  The band played, the National Anthem was sung as the flag went up, and the Air Force song which I was pleasantly surprised (thanks to my mom) to find that I knew ("Here we go, into the wild blue yonder . . .").  There was an inspirational speech referencing Saving Private Ryan (the movie).  And then they all marched away.  To more drills, and abuse.  

I read today that the "altitude index" which takes heat and summer humidity into account makes their atmosphere more like 11,000 plus feet.  It is hot.  About five Basic Cadets swooned or fainted during the ceremony, and had to be escorted to the rear to sit or lie in the grass and drink water and revive.  It's going to be a rough six weeks.

These kids are all smart and successful, but the summer is designed to break them.  To make them humble.  To build esprit de corps.  To weed out any that can't function under extreme pressure, and give them the practice and skills of focus in adversity that will enable them to think clearly and react wisely in combat, or if they become POW's.  To demand the attention to detail (the dreaded room inspections evidently take hours and hours to prepare for) that will carry over into their aviation, when details count for life or death.  To give them confidence eventually that they are able to survive and accomplish.  To turn them into leaders.  Pray for Caleb to persevere through the intense physical and mental strain of this boot camp and emerge with personal strength and a team-spirit outlook.

Caleb Processes into the USAFA

 Today, Thursday 28 June 2012, Caleb entered the military.  I will write more later about the last week which has been full of good things (and fires).  But a few hours ago I snapped these pictures as I dropped Caleb off.  Above we are in the parking lot of the Field House, where the cadet "in-processing" was moved to get further away from the fires that threatened the southern border of the massive Academy base.  Cadets walk up to a table in the lot and drop off their bag, which includes the limited personal possessions one may bring:  ID, toilettries, Bible, soccer cleats, stationery.  That's it.  No clothes, no photos, nothing personal.

 Inside the field house cadets and parents listen to a brief cheery introduction with bad Navy and Army jokes to loosen us up and make us smile in spite of the impending goodbyes.  When they asked for shows of hands from various states the MC ended with Alaska and Hawaii and then asked if anyone traveled further.  Caleb raised his hand and said "Kenya" which the MC used as a PR point with parents to show how diverse the class is.  So here is Mr. Diversity.  Then there was a brief tear-y hug and the cadets filed to the right and the parents to the left.

 The indoor field was the site for the initial stage of inprocessing.  Parents could watch this part from a balcony.

 Caleb at the table, reporting.

 Another station, signing something.

 After about five stops at tables, Caleb walks across the field towards the track.  I wanted him to look up so I used the Nyati call (a poor imitation, but it worked, and I don't care what the other parents thought). 

 Last few of Caleb as he walks out into the 100 degree day to line up for the buses that take the kids from the Field House to the cadet area.  This is where the yelling starts, but mercifully for me the parents can't see that part.

 Afterwards there was a parent fair of sorts, tables and booths and displays, helpful polite people answering questions in a very reassuring manner.  I found out that Caleb is in G squadron (referred to as GUTS, as in no guts no glory)  for the summer (A through J makes ten squadrons of about 100 each, for the 1000-strong class of 2016).  Each squadron has four "flights" a, b, c, and d.  Caleb is in flight "c".  Those 40 flights (Aa, Ab, Ac, Ad, Ba, Bb, etc.) join the 40 cadet squadrons in August after Basic Training.  At that point Caleb's flight (Gc) joins squadron 27 which is named the Thunderbirds.  Very sweet since that was my Dad's vintage car.

From this moment until Parents' Weekend (American Labor Day, Sep 1-3), except for a couple hours on "Acceptance Day" Aug 7, we can not see Caleb or talk to him on the phone or email.  His only communication is by written letters.  I have mailed the first two already, and am very grateful to the RVA community for sending me here with a stack of notes!  If anyone else wants to write to him to encourage him, use plain paper, no pictures, no colors, no cards, and mail to this address:
Basic Cadet Caleb S. Myhre
PO Box 2694
USAFA CO 80841

I cried a lot today.  I was brave all week, right up to the last minute.  Not really brave but at peace, knowing this was Caleb's desire, and believing it to be God's leading.  As a parent it would be selfish for me to keep him from that just because I want him to be with me.  This launching is what we prepare for over 17 years.  It is good, and right, but still very very painful.  I told him my tears and grief do not take away from the fact that he's making good choices that I believe in, I just MISS him already.

Thanks for prayers.  Grief is exhausting, so more of the story of our travels eventually, but this is all I can muster for now.

A day in the life of Mister Mom

Five days down, 58 days to go until I see Jennifer again.

Joni Mitchell sings "you don't know what you've got 'til its gone…"  Well, I had a pretty good idea of my blessings, but the reality without her is pretty brutal.

No snoozing after the alarm yesterday.  Hopped out of bed - still dark.  Set the table, mix the pancakes, grind the coffee, rouse the kids, feed the dog, cook the pancakes, read the Jesus Calling devotion for the day, shave, hug the kids and and then I'm out the door for a Medical Staff meeting at 7:30am.  Lots of good discussion about the Kijabe Hospital Big Picture.  Our Medical Director is a fantastic BP guy, leading, modeling, exhorting, and delegating.  Then we transition to debate the details of new Transfusion Protocols.  There's some painful but good transition going on as KH becomes more organized, methodical in the delivery of health care, partially because the Govt of Kenya is demanding higher standards in the way transfusion medicine is practiced.  It's hard work, but good.

Rush back home.  Another hour to invest in the Malaria Lecture I must deliver for the Intern Core Internal Medicine Lunchtime Conference at 1pm.   The details of the parasite's complex life cycle and cunning pathophysiologic designs are so colossal it's hard to know how to approach the teaching of the topic.  Do I focus on the basic biochemical facets of the surface proteins which underly the sequestration that leads to seizures and coma, or the controversies regarding artesunate versus quinine for severe cerebral malaria?  Or perhaps the critical need for better prevention strategies such as improved bednet coverage or intermittent preventive treatment in pregnancy?  I compromise and close.

Out the door to round on the inpatient women's ward.  Twenty seriously sick women admitted to the hospital.  The diagnoses range from tuberculous meningitis in an AIDS patient, to severe hyponatremia, to stroke, to asthma, to diabetes and hypertension.  We agonize at the bedside of a woman who at the tender age of 39 looks like she has hours or days to live.  She has cancer which has spread to the liver - incurable in any hospital in the world.  So, we try to comfort and pray, but the pain of loss weighs heavy.

I get a call from my Team Leader of the WHM Uganda Team in the midst of rounds.  I promise to call back within a half hour.  I rush to the Intensive Care Unit where I am backing up the Kenyan Medical Officer posted there.  Our ICU consultant is away for two days for a conference.  I hear some details about a selection of the five patients there and then call Uganda.  There appears to be a cholera outbreak in Nyahuka.  We experienced several of those in the late 90s - but we had the assistance of MSF (Doctors without Borders) at the time.  The Ugandan doctor of Nyahuka Health Center took the keys to the Health Center and fled to Kampala - in protest that he hasn't been paid by the district his salary due.   Not sure if I should laugh or cry.  In the middle of the call, my airtime runs out, because it costs about 50 cents a minute.  So, TJ calls back and we finish strategizing about cholera. 

Rush downstairs to the conference room to set up for my lecture.  The computer won't recognize my flash stick.  Call IT.  IT agrees - the computer won't recognize my flash stick.  We search and find for a different laptop.  Success. My PowerPoint is up and running as the interns start to trickle in.   There is no real sense of urgency in our discussion of malaria, because we hardly ever SEE malaria at Kijabe.  The elevation (7000 ft) makes life inhospitable for mosquitoes.   But after I remind everyone that in one short year, any of them might be posted by the government to rural government District Hospital where they might be inundated by malaria - they seem more engaged…

Not much time for questions….I'm out the door and hurrying and huffing up the hill to RVA Student Health Clinic where I have about eight kids to see for a variety of issues ranging from basic exit physicals, to acne, to pneumonia, to diarrhea.  We love RVA and the opportunity to be part of the community there is a tremendous privilege. 

Home by 5pm.  Had hope for a chance to go running with Star, but can't now, because there is a long Choir Rehearsal at 7pm in preparation for the Big Weekend Tour.  So, dinner needs to be ready by 615pm.  The fridge is full because I stocked up at the grocery when I went into Nairobi for Jack's rugby game on Wednesday.  I scored in the produce section - a nice bag of fresh broccoli.   So, I plan for oatmeal muffins, broccoli and beef on rice and a lettuce salad with feta, cashews, and sliced grapes.  I get the muffin and broccoli recipe from cooking.com.  The batter goes into the muffin tins effortlessly.  The beef fillet looks tender as I slice and toss it into the soy-and-wine marinade.  I begin to saute the beef and move onto salad prep.  I'm on a roll.  I can do this.  I move back to the beef.  I want a little more sauce.  I add more soy sauce, wine and corn starch.  The gravy is turning to glue.  I add more liquid.   Too watery….more corn starch…too sticky….smell burning….the muffins!!  I never set a timer!!  I look in the oven and see every muffin is dark brown with a black circular edge.  Bummer.  I pull 'em out and try to salvage.  Now the rice is boiling over on the stove…I take the top off…I go back to extract these crispy critters from the muffin tin.  I cut the charcoal edges off and cover them with a towel in a basket hoping they will soften.  Somehow, I manage to get the right amount of liquid and corn starch for a nice salty coating on the broccoli and beef.  We dine by candlelight which helps hide the imperfections.  No one complains -except me.  Tummies get full, the kids go out the door, and then it's time for clean-up.

The evening is spent plowing through emails.  Our Google Report says we received 1262 emails in the last 4 weeks.  That's more than 40 per day.  It's pretty rough to keep up.  I try to deal with the flagged messages until my energy flags.  Then I look over and see that there is two days worth of clean clothes which have been folded and stacked by Abigail.  Hey, that's Jennifer's job!   I don't know which clothes belong to which people!  I give a half hearted effort, knowing that Acacia and Julia will be able to re-sort the girl clothes which I pile into one big girl stack.





I crawl into a cold lonely bed.

58 days. 

The Kenya National Anthem

It's not a professional quality recording...nonetheless, the haunting harmonies came through as the RVA Choir sang this at Caleb's "mini-graduation" on Friday.  (You may notice that Julia and Mel were moved to tears by the melody and the occasion.   They were not alone).

Embracing Farewell

I would wish today upon any young man entering the armed forces.  Caleb was truly embraced by the RVA community, in a beautiful and meaningful way.  We arrived at chapel early, to stake out our front row seats, and there was a buzz of greeting and activity as the kids and teachers drifted in.  Caleb showed up putting on the cap and gown neatly pressed from laundry, greeting friends and giving hugs and posing for photos.  It was all cheery and surreal until two of my fellow class-sponsor friends said "how are YOU doing?". . .Sigh.  The choir opened with the beautiful, haunting Kenyan national anthem, 70-some kids in their normal school clothes and Caleb in his graduation garb.  Then they sang "God bless the rains down in Africa . . ", a striking arrangement, but the words are deeply emotional for kids who have grown up here and have to leave.  Julia and a couple of Caleb's friends were crying by this point while trying to sing, and that pretty much crumpled the rest of our reserve.  After the choir, the principal spoke about living for something greater than yourself and Caleb's example of this, and then called him up and prayed for him. He handed Caleb his diploma, and the entire school clapped.  And clapped.  And soon the whole student body was giving him a standing ovation.  Caleb broke down in tears at that point, then pulled it together and stood there and saluted. It was a wonderful moment.  After the short ceremony there were more tears and hugs.  It felt more like a funeral than a celebration.  I think Caleb provided the flash point for all the senior angst, all the building emotions, the first rain in the storm of goodbye that is gathering. 

The night before friends had arranged a prayer time during the Koinonia fellowship; there was a party in English with more stories and cupcakes and prayer; the entire choir pulled in to lay hands on Caleb and pray at the beginning of choir class.  Throughout the day Caleb was singled out, blessed, thanked, exhorted, prayed over.  It was, in short, Caleb Day.  His quiet strength, his determination, his courage, something about him struck a chord at last.  We could only marvel at where God had brought him, through years of being on the outside, being the foreign kid, the new kid, to the point of being at the very center of a very caring community.

The next two months will push Caleb to his limits.  When that happens, the strength of the love that embraced him today will propel him on towards perseverance and service.


We end by appending the letter we sent out to supporters last month, which summarizes our gratefulness to all of you who read and pray, in making it to this day: 

1 May 2012

Seventeen years ago we wrote an article for WHM’s newsletter about some of the difficult decisions around Caleb’s birth entitled “Why Risk My Son’s Life?”  The cover photo shows a much-younger mom supporting a plump and floppy little guy with sparse hair.  After losing three children in pregnancy and then having Luke prematurely, we were soberly aware that being faithful missionaries in Uganda and responsible parents to our unborn son Caleb required a hard look at faith.  We wrote, “The risk we incur with our children is not theoretical.  Living in isolated conditions in rural Africa, it is disturbingly, palpably real . . .And faith does not erase it.”  A close look at Hebrews 11 made it clear that faith would not guarantee an optimistic outcome to Caleb’s gestation.  Though we were tempted to demand health and life somehow earned by missionary service, God led us to the story of Abraham and we followed, laying Caleb on that altar.

And like Abraham, we suspect, that excruciating choice had to be repeated day after day, year after year.  Through repeated illnesses that sapped his little body of strength until he was hospitalized at Hopkins, through the dangers of two emergency surgeries in marginal conditions in Uganda.  Through escapes from rebels, through days and years of watching him fend for himself amongst older and sometimes hostile peers.  Through sending him off to boarding school at age 14.  Through hesitant permission to let him scale a glacier, bungee jump a hundred meter fall, raft the Nile, fly a Cessna, drive a motorcycle, play rugby, or embark unaccompanied to foreign countries.  Through the molding of a boy into a man of inner strength, a musical ear, a ready kindness and thoughtful spirituality.

So it should not have surprised us when this child who taught us about faith decided to pursue pilot training via the United States Air Force Academy.  The application process itself was a daunting accomplishment to complete, and against very stiff odds Caleb was nominated by Senator Mark Warner and subsequently offered an appointment in the class of 2016.  On Easter, after two weeks of prayer and pondering several great options, he announced that he had decided to enter this service.  He embraces the physical as well as the mental challenge, and the opportunity to serve a higher purpose than his own comfort.

Today we write to thank you for being an integral part of this story from before birth to high school graduation.  You have prayed Caleb through many dangers, toils and snares, and we would ask that you continue to pray for the grace he needs to survive this next phase of God’s calling.  And the grace we need to let go, and lay him on that altar once again.

Caleb will leave RVA a month early, in mid-June, to get through jet lag and be ready to enter Basic Cadet Training (boot camp) on June 28 in Colorado Springs.  So you can’t really come to his graduation (he won’t be there), nor can you give him gifts (personal possessions will be nearly non-existent, though we hope he can have his beloved guitar with him eventually).  But you can pray.  And you can write him letters to lift his spirits in the grueling weeks of boot camp, or the demanding years of a tough school far from home that will follow.

With deeply grateful and trembling hearts . . .

Jennifer and Scott, for Luke, Caleb, Julia, and Jack too.

Mail:  Basic Cadet Caleb S. Myhre/PO Box 2694/USAF   CO  80841

Here we are, at the end of all things

I know graduations are called "commencements" which is one of those optimistic spins that doesn't really fool anyone.  Two weeks ago we had "the breaking of the fellowship", our last day as a family.  Now Luke is in Mombasa and by the time he comes back Caleb and I will be far away.  Today Caleb is slated to stand up during chapel and receive his diploma, all alone.  There is another month of school at RVA, but he has worked hard to complete all his courses in time to enter basic cadet training for the Air Force.  So in an hour we'll head up to witness this lone graduate coming to the end of his high school, his Africa-school, career.

 This map shows the loneliness of this process.  These are the tags of where RVA students are going to college. There are clusters at some of the popular Christian schools:  Calvin, Anderson, Asbury, Liberty, Le Tourneu.  There are kids scattered up and down the coasts at Duke, Princeton, UNC, Florida, Biola.  But that one little tag in the green square, all by itself in the middle, is Caleb.

 Last night we had installment one of our two last family meals, with a scrap-book review of Caleb's growing up and some hilarious readings of his 1rst to 3rd grade school papers.  Back when his favorite afternoon was to shoot baskets in our yard with Basiime Godfrey, or to get pounded  in the goal with all the boys playing soccer.  We read his version of being stuck in the elevator at a team retreat (Pain in Spain).  We laughed.  And then watched a video about the summer of Basic Cadet Training that the Kraus family lent us, from when their son went through five years ago.  It was sobering but helpful to see in real life the shouting, the inspections, the grueling crawls through mud and under barbed wire, the team events, even the gliding and parachuting. 

This photo I purchased when parents were given the option to buy their kids' graduation pictures (they suit up early and do a photo op in March so there is time to process and print in Africa . . ).  Two smiling friends who will hopefully inspire Caleb to persevere.  I know they'll be praying for him.

Meanwhile life goes on, and Julia and Acacia and Jack have sports events this weekend.  The teams dress for a "psych": Volleyball as princesses, and Rugby as  . . rugby players.

 Julia and Acacia above at Moi Girls' High School in Nairobi--they played well, but were defeated by some very adept Kenyan girls.  Our newest WHM-Kenya missionaries Stephen and Karis Rigby live near the school and were able to join us at the match to visit.  We're so thankful they are here now, exploring ways to bring the Kingdom to the poor in the city through sports ministry.

Lastly La Trattoria, the RVA cafeteria transformed into an Italian pizzaria for Sophomore Restaurant last weekend, which took a huge amount of collective time and energy this past week.

As we head up the hill to graduation, it is a bit sad that we won't have family or team here.  But we do have the entire RVA community, one we have grown to love and appreciate.  So here at the end of life as we've known it we are thankful for the dedicated teachers, caring chaplains, skilled coaches, organized administrators, inspiring choir director, helpful nurses, capable dorm parents, reliable cooks, all the people who have poured into Caleb's life to enable him to reach this milestone today.

Off-Kilter

I'm not sure if KILTER is a physical part of the brain, or a quality of the soul, or an achievement of community, or all of the above.  Perhaps the Hebrew is shalom.  One of those things that you can take for granted until it is missing.

This is a week (month . . year?) in which the kilter is askew.  Monday, instead of working, I was in the car.  ALL DAY.  Reading a good book (Allah, a Christian Perspective, by Miroslav Volf) and doing some computer work, but confined to the car nonetheless.  Leaving half our family (Luke and Caleb) behind on the coast, and hurtling back towards responsibility.  Because of that, and some staffing issues, I worked T/W/R instead of M/T/W in the hospital, which meant that my usual R things like Swahili lessons and prayer meeting and RVA clinic had to be juggled alongside of patient care.  The week was also kilter-imbalanced because the interns were pulled off their rotations for trauma training, and my only remaining partner, a clinical officer, was feeling sick.  Scott and I had staggered calls instead of the same night.  I had two patients die in ICU.  In both cases I poured my all into their care for a day or more, and had glimmers of hope, but in both cases their brains could not recover.  Both had lovely caring pairs of parents.  People that hugged ME and reassured ME that I had done everything possible, people that thanked ME for the care that ended in their child dying.  That, and the sobbing, always get me.  

Some of the off-kilter comes when bumping against good things, too, like having a delightful kid stay with us for the week, or a visit from potential new long-term Kijabe doctors, a pediatric plastic surgeon and his pediatrician wife.  The surgeon was my medical student in Chicago when I was a resident.  Just over twenty years ago now, he was a bright, committed, helpful, competent student who was also a Christian, and we kept in touch as he even supported us over the ensuing decades.  Now he gave a phenomenal talk about the cleft lip surgery program he helped establish in Ethiopia and the way God had used that to concretely demonstrate love to some very resistant unreached people groups.  We're hoping to get them to Kijabe in order to train others.

Then there is the usual fact that our front-line friends have their own off-kilter experiences, week in and week out.  Which mostly affects Scott, who is working very hard.

And did I mention the three-hour sophomore class sponsor meeting?   The guilty anxiety that we're not going to pull off our part of the class project?

Work and sleeplessness and death and loose ends and visitors and cooking are part of life.  The real reason it all felt so . . .well, I should just say it, STRESSFUL . . . was that the background of this week is the looming end-of-this-chapter of our family's life.  The dispersal of the fellowship once again.  A week from today Caleb will have a mini-graduation recognition at chapel, and then over the weekend we'll fly out.  He and Luke already said goodbye.  Reality is hitting, hard, that the days our family can spend together are precious, that we can't see them or count on them from here.  We'll have Luke in a summer Swahili Language program at the coast, Jack and Julia and Acacia finishing the term at RVA, Scott working, and Caleb will be suffering through basic training.  My heart aches, already.  I don't know when we'll be together again.

In a perfect world, such as the one that we are promised, shalom will be the air we breathe, all will be on-kilter.  But in the meantime, I think the jarring imbalance of these sorrows and even joys keeps us living by faith.  Off-kilter can be a state of grace.  A gift.  

At one point this week, I rushed home to pull leftovers out for the kids for lunch and then rushed back in response to a page about a critically ill baby.  When that was settled I had a half hour before RVA clinic so I decided to just plow through some charts in the outpatient clinic, since there are no interns to see them.  I pulled out the first two:  malnutrition, sounding dire.  Depressing, complicated, no-quick-fix, and I admit to feeling resentful and stuck.  When I called the name, it took me a while to reconcile the smiling plump baby with the chart.  It was C, the orphan from Sudan, and his fellow-abandoned-child S.  The Kenyan NGO worker who had been hired by the American group to manage the project in South Sudan had been keeping C and S at his own home in Nairobi for the month since we had discharged them.  He decided that his wife needed to get involved.  And she did.  Those children had each gained 1.2 kg.  C had now doubled his weight since we first started.  They were playful, relaxed, loved-looking kids, with grandparently-type well-educated Kenyan caregivers.  He plans to return them to South Sudan with their siblings but not until next month, when his wife can also go and spend some weeks supervising the care and teaching the orphanage-workers about feeding and nutrition.  

I was almost "too busy" to see these kids, and if I had protected my kilter from one more interruption, I would have missed a real treat.  A reminder that God can mix things up a bit, for good.  Move kids across borders and families, involve multiple people and agencies, push us a little harder but bring out new life.  A reminder that the loss I grieve may be hidden gain and glory.

(above, 3.7 kg, day 3 of admission, to the right 6.2 kg, yesterday)

a weekend together

We drove 11 harrowing, white-knuckle hours (each way) on the pot-holed Nairobi-Mombasa road to spend a 3 day weekend at the beach.  We had just over 24 hours together as an intact family.

After one day together, Scott drove Caleb to the beach hotel where the RVA Senior Class celebrated their last hurrah together.  Sun, surf, and swimming.

Then Luke left to begin his Yale Summer Swahili Study Abroad Program in Mombasa.

Our next time together?  God knows.  Maybe Christmas? Perhaps beyond.  A lot of water to pass under the bridge before then (and a lot of push-ups for Caleb)...