Open Letter to the Uncertain

Dear students and friends,
As we all process and grieve the tragic events of this past week near our home, I have heard a couple of you say that your biggest fear is that you would "deny your faith" if you were in a situation like Westgate.

I don't know if everyone will agree with me, but here are some thoughts I hope came from the Spirit today.  Read it and pray and think about it, and see what God shows you.  In my opinion, He says:

PLEASE DO NOT WORRY ABOUT THIS.

If you are ever in a similar situation, where angry ruthless armed men are firing into crowds to terrorize a country and make a political statement, and they start asking people to answer questions or recite verses from the Qran, one of two things will happen.

1.  Possibly, in some cases, the Holy Spirit will give you courage and conviction to stand up and even die.  YOU CAN NOT PREPARE for this.  Nor can you guarantee this will be God's path for you.  I believe the Bible promises that at the crucial moment, the words will be given to you as needed (Matt 10:19-20).  Rest in the assurance that if God wants you to do this, you will be able to do it.

2.  Usually, the God of all compassion will allow you to escape, by running, by reading a verse handed to you by a kind neighbor, by hiding.  This is not a denial of faith.  The Matthew 10 passage starts by saying we should be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.  It is not wrong to preserve life when terrorists try to destroy it.  These are people bent on evil and destruction, people with a political agenda about wars and borders and publicity.  They are not empowered to examine your beliefs.  As a victim, it is heaping harm upon harm to blame yourself or feel guilty.  The terrorist agenda is about power, perceived injustice, resources, respect, and while a religious framework is used for justification, it is mostly not a matter of faith.  Rest in the assurance of grace, the charitable understanding of God.

In a week of uncertainty, misinformation, horrific photos, gunfire and smoke and funerals and sadness, we do not need more worries.

Instead we need truth.  Nothing can separate us from LOVE.  We can walk through fire and deep water because in all things we know God is overcoming evil with good, is bending the sadness to create redemption.  Not even a hair can fall from your head without His knowledge and permission and ability to work each detail for ultimate good.

Pulling for your healing and courage.
We Are One.
Love, Dr. Jennifer/Mrs. Myhre

Back to the Mall

Not Westgate, which is still a crime scene, heavily shrouded in secrecy and collapse.

But to Village Market, a more out-door sprawling ad-hoc mall, which convoluted corridors and multiple loosely connected one and two-story buildings, another popular mall, this one nearer the embassy and UN.  We drove to the outskirts of Nairobi this afternoon for a Varsity Football (soccer) match, RVA vs. Braeburn Gardens (a British/International school).  Which was a wonderfully refreshing couple of hours in the midst of a very stressful and loss-filled week.  The game did begin with a minute of silence and bowed heads in honor of the national days of mourning, but then we were lost in the normalcy of sport.  After a tense first half in which Jack finally scored to equalize 1-1 against an aggressive and competent team, the Braeburn boys wore out, and we pulled ahead 6 to 1.  Jack had his second hat trick (out of only 3 games so far) and we rejoiced over impressive goals by his friends as well.  Julia meanwhile won her tennis match across town, but she and her doubles partner were the only victorious RVA students, so the team lost.

At any rate, after the games, we decided to stop off at Village Market for a few groceries on the way home.  Which was a glimpse into the new reality of shopping in Nairobi.  First, the gate we usually enter was closed, and we joined a queue of vehicles at a further gate.  We had to step out of the car while security guards searched inside, under our seats, opening the hood, looking in our bags.  Then once inside, there were abundant parking spaces since few people had ventured in.  After parking, the usual security guards at the open, out-door entrance points actually made the effort to look through my purse and scan me with a wand.  These guards have long been posted, but they generally only paid attention to men prior to Westgate.  Not today.  They were careful.  Once inside, the bakery had no bread.  The vegetable store had only one cashier.  Scott found Nakumatt nearly empty.  Clearly, people are still reluctant to visit the Malls.  Which is, I suppose a point of terrorism.  To impart terror.

However, there was also a good side to the post-Westgate reality.  A helpful but idle vegetable store employee helped me wheel my cart of produce out to the car.  As we stood waiting for Scott to unlock, he kindly asked if I had lost anyone at Westgate.  He told me he was thankful that none of his friends or family had been there.  We talked about the quietness of the shopping area now, about the sorrow of Kenya.  It was a small conversation, but a week ago I don't think that such a person would have initiated personal conversation with me, would have found that point of connection from shared tragedy.

Because Kenya has shared this tragedy.  Each and every person has taken it personally.  Many, many people had visited Westgate, as showcase for the country.  Many foreigners found it a place to feel at home, but the vast majority of the clients were Kenyans.  Most people seem to find some connection to a neighbor's relative, a friend's friend, in the victims.  Everyone spent four days glued to the news, to tweets, to discussion, to papers.  Unprecedented numbers responded with donations of blood and money and time and prayers.  In an attempt to harm and divide and terrorize, the gunmen accomplished something that prosperity never seems to do.  They brought the nation together, they gave a venue for the best to be seen, for bravery and kindness to prevail.

Scott also had a conversation with one of the security guards at Westgate when he was later waiting for me.  Was he reconsidering his line of work, Scott asked?  Absolutely not, the guard replied.  "I am here to help people. If anyone wants to disturb this place, they will have to go through me, and I will never back down."  Wow.  What makes some people terrified galvanizes others with a surety of what is right.

Yes, after Westgate, security is intense and public shopping is fraught with a shadow of potential disaster.  But after Westgate, people are reaching out to connect with each other in a way that is powerful.  They have clarified what matters, and are sure of their course.  We know we need each other, and we are one.

Westgate Mall

In the middle of Nairobi's Westlands neighborhood lies a gorgeous mall.  When one steps into Westgate, you could be in any city in America or Europe.  The Art Cafe on the first floor serves artisan salads and amazing coffee.  Java House makes my favorite espresso shake.  The movie theatres show films within days of their worldwide openings.  The Nakumatt grocery store is one of the biggest in the country.  Hundreds of other smaller shops specialize in jewelry or dresses.  There are wide spaces, skylights, tasteful posters, escalators.  We and most expatriates and Kenyan professionals find reasons to stop into Westgate whenever we can.  This summer we watched movies, took kids for a birthday, stopped for dinner, bought groceries, even shopped for a banquet dress (it was way too expensive).

On Saturday, Scott was in Nairobi a few miles from the mall watching Jack play in a football (soccer) tournament while I helped make and sell 180 pizza servings at Senior Store.  Julia's tennis shoes had developed a hole in the sole, so Scott planned to zip over to Westgate to see if he could find her some new ones.  Only before he could go, he got messages that began to spread among friends:  gunshots had been fired at Westgate.  He texted me saying he wouldn't be going.  It was mid day, and we thought it was a brazen time for a robbery.  Then he got more messages:  a family from RVA was in the mall, and as often happens had split up to accomplish more errands.  They reported lots of heavy gunfire, and were hiding.  Soon after we got emergency-system messages from the hospital and the embassy:  Don't go to Westgate.  I came home and turned on the National TV station, in disbelief, as cameras filmed people crouched in a run, streaming out in groups, gunfire echoing, the Red Cross already gathering.  There were bodies on the steps, police with guns drawn backing around corners, soon helicopters hovering, and bloodied escapees trickling out.  The parking lot where we always park on the roof had been hosting a cooking competition for kids, but now the cameras picked up people hiding behind and under cars.  The restaurants where we eat had upturned tables; the grocery store where we shop had blood smeared on the tiles.

Slowly the story emerged: about 15 armed men, some with checkered head scarves, some dressed as women, had stormed the mall.  Using grenades and targeting the security, they came in through outdoor cafe entrances, and fired on vehicles and people.  The few guards who would normally screen purses and pockets at the doors were overwhelmed.  Explosions, gunfire, confusion, hiding, hunting and shouts.  The gunmen announced that muslims should leave, and many were able to.  They asked a guard who Mohammed's mother was, and when he could not answer, they shot him in the head.  Then some of the muslims quickly wrote Q'ran verses for their fellow-hiding-Kenyans to use if questioned.  Within the day, Al-Shabab claimed responsibility.  Kenya invaded Somalia; now Somalian terrorists wanted to fight back.  So they took over the biggest, nicest shopping mall in the city at the peak of Saturday business, and started killing civilians.

The entire country watched in horror.  We could hear gunfire behind the reporters, we could see people coming out in clumps, terrified, hands up.  Occasionally a wounded person would stumble out.  A woman dropped out of an airduct into the arms of others.  A man who wanted to help simply ran into a service entrance and started helping people get out.  The police began to take back the mall, shop by shop, sweeping with guns.  None seemed to have bullet-proof vests or helmets.  Eventually the police had to use tear gas to drive back the crowd; so many separated families, anxious relatives were thronging around the periphery in dangerous reach of snipers.  We got the amazingly good news that the RVA kid who had been holed up for five or six hours with his dad had made it out.  We got the sad news that another RVA kid's extended family had had two killed (Kenyan of Asian descent).

The sun set, and we were stunned that the standoff continued.  And then all day Sunday, and all day today, the attack dragged on.  The death toll rose, to 62.  The injured, at least 175.  Hospitals were full.  The Red Cross appealed for blood and 1500 units were donated.  About 1000 people were escorted to safety.  No one knows how many remain.  Ten? Thirty?  By this afternoon, thick black clouds of smoke were rising from the mall, after intermittent sounds of explosions.  The Kenyan Defense Forces claimed to control all four floors of the mall, and to have the attackers cornered.  But the terrorists may be in a bullet-proof room, and the KDF is showing extreme restraint to save the lives of the remaining hostages.  Three gunmen have been killed.  We don't know how many remain.  After the Al-Shabab twitter feed was shut down, they started posting on another.

In the meantime, we gathered last night for "prayer and lament" with the lower station families and Moffat Bible College students.  And again this morning, and this afternoon.  Praying for those still trapped to have food and water, to be sustained, to have hope, to know God's presence.  Praying for the attackers to have second thoughts, to sense God's love, the possibility of forgiveness, the potential value of surrender.  Praying for the military and police to make wise decisions, to be protected.  Praying for Kenyans to continue to show the world unity, sacrifice, calm, determination, resolve.  Praying for students and friends who are shaken, as I am. It is hard to focus on anything else.  A patient for whom I worked and prayed all week died today.  it was a hard hard day, with the constant background of crisis.

 Ironically I taught Sunday School with a dozen girls in the middle of this on "A Theology of Risk."  Normal life is not safe.  Obedience sometimes leads us in paths of danger.  Psalm 91 was meaningful to us during Ebola, and here again people are falling at our sides yet we are safe.  Does this Psalm mean no harm shall ever befall a Christian?  No, just look at the cross.  There are times when the Kingdom comes via suffering, when risk leads to loss, and loss leads to glory.  There are times when evil strikes.  But there is NO TIME when we can be separated from God's love.  And there is no evil so dark that God can not redeem it.  This is what we hold on to on this terrible weekend in Kenya. '

Tonight we go to bed for the third evening in a row with terrorists holed up in "our" town, with victims cut off from our knowledge of their suffering or survival, with smoke and gunfire and confusion and the interminable announcements.

But we also go to bed having watched ordinary kindness and every day heroism, the commitment of Kenyans to peace and justice, the bonding of shared terror, and the assurance that Love is deeper and stronger than hate.

     

Of Strategies and Squid

For the last week, Scott and I have been out of town.  Way out of town.  Our mission's semi-annual leadership meetings for the Executive Leadership and Area Directors (15 people this time as a few spouses were missing) were held in the Canary Islands.  Which is geographically Africa, culturally and legally Spain, and in spite of looking ideal for a meeting of people from the US, all over Europe, and East Africa, turns out to be a bit challenging to get to from here in Kenya.  We had three flight legs, ranging from 2 to 8 hours each, which with early check-ins, delays, and layovers meant 24 or more hours of travel each way.

However, it was well worth it.  It was my first time to attend these meetings, because the decision was made recently to encourage couples to participate together in leadership at the AD (Area Director) level just like we did as Team Leaders.  So I enjoyed praying for our missionaries together, debating cultural trends and security issues and what God calls us to do and how to best fulfill our mission and achieve our vision.  We started with breakfast about 8 and went until after dinner about 9:30, every day, with an hour break mid-day for a swim in the salt-water pool, and another hour break around 6 pm for bocce.  Yes, bocce, these people are serious about the bocce.  So the schedule was pretty demanding, but the fellowship was fun.  I felt it was a privilege to get to know the leadership more intimately in this kind of setting.  Our mission is full of creative, dedicated people quick to admit their weakness and rest on grace.  People who are refreshing to be around.

Best of all, almost a week in a nice hotel at bargain rates with my husband.  In our life, ten hour work-days that involve no overnight call and include abundant food, hot showers, a view of a harbor into the ocean, well, that's pretty sweet.  Tuna carpaccio and squid on black rice and ice cream and . . . well, enough said on all that.

We landed back into real life on Saturday.  JKIA arrivals are now being processed in the basement of the massive new parking garage that was nearly complete when the terminal fire happened.  Professional, efficient, and a thousand times better than the chaos of the first days.  We were able to pause at a sports tournament where Jack's team lost in semi-finals, probably about second out of 18 teams, some great football (soccer).  And get back home in time to grill out pork chops for six seniors in our "Caring Community".  And this morning hold our first Sunday School for a dozen Junior and Senior Girls looking at suffering and risk and how to peer-counsel friends in crisis from a Biblical standpoint (Bethany is my partner in this effort, and so far has done all the work).  And take back-up call to support a rotating American Paeds resident, who is perfectly competent on his own.

And to run into the hospital mid day when a Kenyan doctor colleague needed an emergency C-section, the anxiety of potential disaster for dear friends, turning into relieved joy as a healthy baby girl was born.  Beautiful to see the Kenyan staff rallying around her, and rejoicing with the parents.

So we're back to normal life.  To homework and call schedules and meetings and a pesky rat, to friends and ideas and African sun.  Tonight I'm thankful for:

• Bethany, who stayed with the kids and held down the fort.  And our kids who graciously wanted us to go, and loyally bemoaned the fact that we never even made it to the beach.
• The richness of community that at the nearly-three-year mark has taken a turn for the better somehow.  I have new friendships in the WHM leadership, in the TL's we support, and growing depth of relationship here at Kijabe which I'm glad to come back to.
• New life, waiting in the theatre with my intern and nurse, telling the story of having my own babies here, holding the hand of my doctor colleague, praying over her baby with the whole surgical team.
• The turn of season towards warmth, the promise of many afternoons of cheering on sports teams, the amazing kids in our loose orbit whom we can feed and pray for.

A new week, a new year, and General Happenings

The kids are off to a new school year:  Luke a senior in college, Caleb a sophomore which at the USAFA is officially a C3C-Cadet Third Class, Julia a senior in high school, Jack and Acacia Juniors in high school.  Meanwhile our Paeds department lost colleagues to further training and higher jobs, with Mardi now the Medical Director I am working pretty much full time.  We'll see how that goes, and there is hope that we will get more help again soon.  Bethany came to RVA from Sudan to work as a counselor at RVA, so now we have the Maras, Myhres, and Bethany as a WHM contingent and are eating together several times a month.  We're starting back into RVA rhythms with Caring Community and Class Sponsor activities.  And just to keep us thoroughly off-balance, this coming week I am joining Scott for the first time at WHM Area Director meetings.  Bethany will stay with the kids and we will fly tomorrow to a location that sounded quite exotic until I saw the schedule:  7 am to 7:30 pm meetings, with a couple of half-hour breaks.  Please do pray for the kids while we're gone, and for the WHM leadership to be sensitive to God's presence and leading.

Meanwhile here are a few images of the week:

It is amazing to work with our Neurosurgery team.  The ten-year-old girl whose CT is above had a huge mass occupying a large section of her brain.  But this non-malignant tumor was removed, and we watched over her in ICU a couple of days and she should fully recover.  Sadly a different neurosurgical post-op baby yesterday developed a severe pneumonia complication and in spite of trying three hours to keep her alive, she died shortly after I got her into the ICU.

First Thursday Lunch with the kids we sponsor.  Only now I work on Thursdays.  Thankful for Abigail, so I could just zip home and say hi while she had prepared a lunch of rice and beans.

Mardi in her new office!  She is gifted and dedicated and we are thankful for her new role.

Monthly Medical Staff Meeting:  16 Kenyan and 16 Expatriate consultants, a great group to work with.  Ann Mara just put together our new Kijabe Hospital web site:  http://kijabehospital.org/

My last clinic patient yesterday.  They were missing this sewing needle then noticed that the 1 year old had a swollen foot.

It's also great to have an excellent general Paeds surgical team.  Not only can they remove the above needle but also treat many congenital malformations, like this infant born with his liver and a large part of his bowel in an external sac by his umbilical cord.

Caleb's friend and class mate Aneurin stayed with us a good part of the week, always a joy.  Here he is with his brother Ali and our kids after a goodbye dinner, before he headed back to St. Andrew's.  Love the connections this place allows with amazing families from all over the world.

So that's the week:  colleagues, xrays, patients, death, smiles, kids, food, meetings, homework, phone calls, early morning psalms, schedules, music.  

Praying the next week allows Scott and I to join together for the good of all our Africa teams.

'tTis the Season

Julia's common app is nearly done, and when she hits "send" it is as if her fate is being thrown out into cyberspace for the colleges to affirm or reject her.  Luke's med school application document (something with initials like AMCAS) is similarly hovering in digital limbo somewhere waiting for opinion.  Jack is trying out for soccer and ran the fastest mile of all the ?60 boys who are vying for about 30 spots on two teams, but injury or mistakes always lurk around the corner.  Julia made the tennis team for which we are extremely grateful as the sport enjoyed a surge in popularity this year so competition was stiffer.  And Acacia has hung in there for a week of girls' basketball, as cuts pare the pool slowly.  She was also fastest in suicide sprints yesterday, but the coaches' opinions are still unknown.  Caleb rejoiced in getting to solo (yes, truly fly alone) in his soaring class this week, something he was far from sure of achieving when he started a few weeks ago.  Most of his classes are going well, but one is particularly obscure and difficult.  He lives a life of constant evaluation and competition.

'Tis the season when my parental heart skips beats and holds breath, waiting to see what paths open for my kids.  

Which is why I keep going back to one of the passages that most convicts me in the Gospels. In Mathew 20:20-28, the mother of Zebedee's sons comes to Jesus to ask for her sons' honor and success. Jesus has one question for her:  are they ready to suffer?  To drink the bitter cup of death?  Because in God's Kingdom, to lead is to serve.  The place of honor is the place of laying down one's life.

So when I pray for my kids, I want to pray that they will make teams and be accepted to good schools, that they will be chosen for honor.  These are good gifts and I believe God has often given them to us.  But I hear a still small reminder, a voice saying, "Are you able to drink the cup I am about to drink, and be baptized with the baptism that I am baptized with?"  Because Kingdom leading is about suffering.  For my kids, and for me as I watch them.  Redemption passes through pain.

A New School Year

20 years ago next month, we landed in Africa.  5 years ago exactly, we sent our 15 year old son off to boarding school at RVA in spite of being sure we weren't that kind of parent, thereby ending family life as a majority-of-the-year normal forever.  4 years ago, we sent the second son at age 14.  Both of those years we attended New Parent Orientation, overwhelmed by grace in the midst of bewilderment and painful separation. 3 years ago, we accompanied the first son at age 17 to America to start college and sent the second at age 15 back to boarding school in Kenya on his own.  2 1/2 years ago we moved to Kenya from Uganda ourselves, just outside the school gates, to work at Kijabe hospital, adding our other two children to this school as "station kids".  2 years ago, we added another daughter for 9 months of the year as our dear friends and mission colleagues sent their oldest to live with us and go to school.  That year was my first to participate in New Parent Orientation as the school doc, welcoming parents on tour.  One year ago, the younger kids started school being tended by colleagues so we could attend the Parents' Weekend at the US Air Force Academy for son 2.  And this year, thanks to all that crazy experience, we are officially part of the welcoming committee for RVA, helping new parents assimilate.

This is an inclusion that I do not take for granted.  I was the ONLY parent on the panel of six who was a first generation missionary, who had not grown up going to boarding school myself.  Twenty years is small potatoes around here, and I was honored to be asked to help.

New families took tours and met teachers and drank chai, and eventually all the parents listened to us panelists discussing issues like how to say goodbye well, what is the impact on the siblings left behind, what to expect during vacations, and how to communicate when far apart.  We told our stories, and I told our mistakes, with the assurance that in spite of us our kids are thriving.  Mostly I listened to my fellow more-experienced panelists and marveled at their parenting.  Towards the end of the first session, the moderator asked if we had anything to add.  I did, of course.  And this is the thought I believe the Spirit gave me to share.

The central story of the Bible is one of parental separation.  Jesus left home, and left full communication with His Father, and entered a distant school of difficulty and obedience.  A placement that led to His great suffering and loss, and yet through that loss, the redemption of the world.  So for parents saying goodbye, for hearts torn in two (or three or four), the truth remains that this may be the very means of redemption working through our lives.

I was preaching this to myself, of course.

A new school year means that our oldest is now choosing classes and finishing up applications and juggling responsibilities alone for his last year of college.  Our second is in the midst of Parents' Weekend again, but this time without our parental presence.  Thankfully our dear friend whose daughter we have here is serving as our surrogate there, going to classes and meeting professors and being an encouragement.  Meanwhile we're here with a full hospital schedule and three kids to parent in their own new school year start.  It's a lot of transition, change, absence, pulled hearts.

So I cling to the facts. At my first New Parent Orientation, I saw clearly two things.  One was that RVA was full of godly gifted people who could give more to my child than I could alone.  Another was that God had led us in this direction, and would redeem the losses for good.

The pattern of healing this world was set by Jesus, it is the path of the cross, and a new school year reminds me of this again.  The cross of separation brings the Kingdom to the far reaches of the earth.  I thank my parents for realizing that, and all the parents who said goodbye today, and all the kids who are on their own, praying we all see hope.  The valley that is watered by tears will pool forth in flowering fruit.

A LAMent

I'm reading Psalms, and there are plenty of laments.  How LONG oh Lord?  Why?  Remember how it used to be?

So I think a small lament is in order today, for the departure of our eldest son.  His last day was perfect.  Early church where the rocking arrangement of hymns during the offering included How Firm a Foundation, which has been a theme for my faith as a mother in his life (reached through my sorrows to grab me when I was tenuously pregnant with him and visiting McLean Presbyterian Church, and repeated randomly as we walked into the chapel at Yale to drop him off for college). Sunshine like we have barely seen in these southern hemisphere winter months.  A couple of hours of fooling around with tennis and soccer after a huge cinnamon roll post-church brunch.  Last meal at Habesha, an Ethiopian restaurant that was mouth-watering spicy and delicious and enjoyed with a fireplace view of the second half of the Tottenham game on the way to the airport, family expanded with Bethany and Jack's friend Rich.  Then the flurry of getting his trunk off the roof-rack, the still-discombobulated post-fire airport (WAY WAY more organized than our last post-fire disaster departure), hugs and lines and finally he tells us to get going home since it will be well after ten when we stumble down the escarpment in the extreme dark with groceries to unload.

And so the summer comes to an end.  And what a run it was.  If I had to name this boy's main talent, it might be the ability to get back to Africa with funding and a purpose and yet manage to seem to have loads of time to enjoy life and this place.

This year he took up a question I've had since many years ago in Uganda, seeing kids born with spina bifida, and wondering about a possible connection to malaria.  Only now there is technology for geographic information and ways to statistically look at this, and we now live in a country where malaria is not a universal blanket but a disease with a distribution.  He and his colleague, another delightful student, worked on collecting data which they can now analyze in their Fall research course.
But though that was the structure and justification for the summer, he packed in much more.  Motorcycle rides and repairs, camping with nothing but a pan and a blanket, hikes, bus ride to Mombasa and back, friends and more friends (Mom did I tell you so and so was going to spend the night?), football practice with his little brother and tennis with his sister, indoor soccer nights, swahili, Top Gear on satellite TV, med school applications, cooking or making coffee, all with background music from new artists on his ipod instead of ours, all with a presence and passion that is unmistakable.

And now all that is over and gone, the very house feels empty.

Our firstborn has many gifts.  Perhaps they are best described as an exuberance of life.  Energy.  Curiosity and insistence.  A whirlwind of greasy tools and strewn clothes and empty coconuts and finished books.  Loud music, ready arguments, fresh viewpoints, new ideas.  No fear in pushing back against the status quo, calling us on our own sins and inconsistencies.  What used to feel like a strong-willed frustration I now see as a gift that sharpens and grows us as parents.  He revels in Africa, in all its crazy washed-out roads and hard-to-understand customs and loss, in all its spectacular vistas and animals and freedom.  He is deep-down loyal, to us, to family, to mission, to place.  He is a force that draws all of us into his orbit for a while, and leaves us a bit bewildered in his wake.  His siblings look up to him, and he cares about who they are.  Though he is surrounded by the epitome of success-reaching colleagues, he is bold enough to define that in his own terms.  Though as a mom I could wish for a little less love of risk-taking, I believe that because of that characteristic he will be a blessing in this world.

So today feels a bit grey, a bit flat, a bit subdued and too easy.  I am remembering the summer, particularly those golden 9 days with the WHOLE family here, with a mixture of thankfulness and longing.  It has been five full years since we first dropped this boy off, so small, age 15, drove away with him standing under the tree in the parking lot of RVA, both Scott and I with flowing tears, our car silent and edgy.  Every year adds more goodbyes.  That was the moment which launched independent directions for our family, necessary and right, but my heart wished it could have come five (or twenty or a hundred) years later.  Since then, the rhythm has not been a nuclear family with occasional separations, but a dispersed family with occasional reunions.

Our mission's motto: for the world's good and God's glory.  This is the cost.  Independent kids with a drive to do and be, who move out with courage.  And who, so far, come back, and with that I have to be content.

African Alpine

Last weekend our family of five (missing Caleb) headed into the high mists of the Aberdare Mountain range, a national park situated at ten to thirteen thousand feet, only a couple of hours from Kijabe.  We packed for self-sufficient wilderness camping, and took a not-often-traveled spur off the main gravel road to a camp site deep in the bush.  The track was basically a barely discernible set of tire tracks bouncing through a bog and forest.  At one point we thought we had arrived, but I detected further tracks and walked ahead to look for the actual camp site.  As I emerged there was a snorting and crashing of dark shapes through the dense brush, two buffalo, as I hid behind a fallen tree and shouted!  Thankfully they never came back, but we could see areas of pressed grass where others had lain, and plenty of droppings in the vicinity.  We set up our tents in the dusk and got the fire going to heat up our chili.


The most magical aspect of that campsite, besides the spacious shade, the uninterrupted sky, the dense greenery, the distant sound of falling water, the complete absence of human noise or presence, was the bushbuck.  These curious deer-like mammals came to check us out as we set up camp, and became pleasant pests throughout our stay.  As long as we sat still they approached us, gingerly, carefully, ears pricked and noses quivering.  We set out some salt, and they were hooked.  By the end of the first evening they were licking salt out of our hands, nosing into our tents, pawing through our ashes.  We learned that they make a dog-like (or baboon-like) bark when alarmed.  We were quietly entertained by the half-dozen or more that grazed around us.  The males were darker, with spiraling horns, bolder.  The females were more skittish, preferring to approach in pairs.  In twenty years of game driving we have often spotted bushbuck and reedbuck, but they were always a glimpse of fur disappearing into a thicket.  It was truly amazing to observe them at leisure, with no fear, inches away.

Of course it would not be a Myhre vacation if we merely grilled tandoori chicken and nan by a blazing fire, or made pancakes and coffee as the day warmed.  We headed out Saturday to try and climb to the highest point in the range.  Only the road to the trail was almost as untraveled as the road to the campsite.  Time and time again Scott locked into low-4WD to grind through mud and puddles.  We looked out over the lobelias and bamboo, the tussocks and bogs, the purples and yellows of wild flowers, spectacular alpine scenery.  And we had very nearly made it to our goal when a particularly muddy uphill slowed us down to a crawl, and then we began to slide.  Within seconds the car was wedged into a deep rut, nearly axle-deep in mud that dripped down from a hillside bog.  Good thing we have Luke and Jack along to push, I thought, we'll be out in no time.


However what followed was about a two-hour ordeal.  We were very very far from any park headquarters, out of cell phone range, on a road no one else seemed to travel.  Scott dug, moving mud behind our wheels, creating better tracks.  Jack and Luke cut down branches and small trees to lay down for traction.  Julia and I hiked back to a culvert where we gathered stones to laboriously drag back to wedge under the wheels.  We pushed and rocked, stood on the sideboards to provide counter-weight, revved and spun.  After a herculean effort Scott got it going in reverse, and we traded one swamp for another.  Julia and I jumped off the side as the car tilted a perilous 45 degrees into more muck. More digging, more stones, more tree-cutting, more spattering mud and spinning tires, until we at last emerged back onto the road.

Turning around was not an appealing option, and probably not possible at that point.  Scott decided to try the hill one more time, staying far to the other side.  The boys put down more branches.  We all got inside to improve traction, and Scott got up as much momentum as we could.  However we slowed and slowed and just at the point we were starting to slip back, Scott yelled "PUSH" and Luke and Jack were out their doors in two seconds flat, shoulders into the rear of the car, shoving.  Which was exactly enough to keep us from repeating the slide into the bog, and they muscled us up to the top of the hill.  I think that was my favorite moment of the trip, the sudden leap out the door rescue.


After all that time and struggle, we did not end up pursuing the hike.  Instead we drove out of the park by another gate, took washboard farming roads in a big loop, came back into the park on the salient side, drove by buffalo herds and jumpy wart hogs and graceful waterbuck, then climbed back to the alpine meadows from the other side.  As we drove each day we had periods of gathering clouds, driving rain, and pounding hail.  Real ice, falling from the sky here near the equator, piling in little white frozen drifts on the roadside.  It was cold.  Very cold.  But then the rain would stop and patches of blue would open up again.

We read books and listened to a sermon, cooked great meals, made up stories.  As we left Sunday we hiked to a spectacular serious of waterfalls, the Karungu Falls, plunging hundreds of feet over sheer rock, splitting the steep jungle.

It was truly an out-of-time experience, the alpine world seeming farther away than would be possible on a short drive.  My "love language" is quality time, so a weekend campout with my kids (most of them) is a huge gift to me.  I returned to the sheer stress of the ICU, three babies with overwhelming infections have died in the last two weeks, the struggling nights I had spent seeming to be for nothing.  Grieving families and blood and CPR drain life, and I am thankful for an African alpine weekend of restoration.

(Note pictures are mostly Luke's which is why he isn't in them . . .)

What I read on my summer vacation

A novel of the plague, based on the true story of an English village in 1666.  Brooks writes in what comes to my ear as an authentic middle-ages voice (until the end, when the plot turn was in my opinion too 21rst century), poetic and compelling.  This is one of my favorite genres because the issues of disease and survival, and the outlook of a spiritual universe, are so close to Africa today.  The voice of the rector is for the most part one of grace in the midst of loss.  Good character and plot development, an overall great read.

A surprisingly good read--illusion and magic, a plot that jumps through time, beautiful writing, and mystery.  Like the above, I was not fully fond of the ending.  However I think it is an interesting parable of good and evil and the way they perhaps play out in the real universe.  Interesting time setting of the late 19th century too.  Definitely a good read.

This one was a gift from a fellow book-loving friend.  I believe it is a "young adult" genre, but I like reading that too.  The two main characters are teens with cancer, who struggle through support groups and the longing for love and friendship and the impending possibility of death.  Which is pretty much what all our lives are about.  I think the characters are the best part of this novel, really unique personalities that are wonderfully developed. Poignant and hopeful without being sappy.  Liked it a lot.

This book was a pleasant surprise.  Though I suspect it is of the genre that gets chosen for Oprah book clubs or something (not usually my favorite), it has a quirky sweet quality and an underlying seriousness that makes it worth reading.  A middle-aged man gets a letter from a former colleague who is dying, and sets out to mail a reply, only as he walks away from his own unhappy home he keeps going on the eponymous unlikely pilgrimage.  Which is more than a physical walk, as he confronts himself and his past.  My favorite part was the sense that every plain person one meets has an interesting story beneath the facade.  And the touch of redemption.  Good read.

This was my one serious book, which I had started prior to vacation but savored during the week.  Dawn writes poetically with an academic soundness, and shares enough of her life to make her conclusions compelling.  She is grounded in historical Christianity but willing to live it in a counter-cultural way.  I need her sabbath perspective.  Worth reading, and will do so more than once.

Mixed feelings about this one.  A real page-turner tale of a wife gone missing and a husband accused, with decent writing and major plot twists.  Works as a cautionary tale of mental illness and infidelity.  But a bit trashy.  And not terribly satisfying.

The best for last.  This book is just as beautiful and tragic as one would expect from Hosseini.  In the opening chapter, a father tells a tale to his children that frames the whole story as one of sacrificial parental love.  Hosseini is a real artist, and the style of this book is amazing.  Each chapter is a different part of a connected story told from a different character's point of view.  He is able to write believably in many different voices.  As with his other novels, this one gives a glimpse into a country (Afghanistan) we would otherwise be hard pressed to know much about on this side of the world.








One week, seven books.  Several of those books were recommended by my newest book-loving friend, Ann M.  One was a gift from Bethany F.  I was able to borrow several electronically from my old library in Virginia, which is a great way for missionaries to read current literature.  I bought the first and the last and am glad I did, they are worth it.  A book a day at the beach is pretty much my definition of a great rest.

Previously this summer I read two books which were both written by different missionary colleagues here at Kijabe (both left in July for good, after longish terms of service).  I'll mention those two here as well, since I rarely review books on the blog.

Harry Kraus is a surgeon from Virginia who spent the last several years working at Kijabe.  He has written a slew of books in a genre I have heard described as "medical realism meets Christian romance."  They feature doctors, with page-turning fast-moving plots, mysteries that turn on a medical detail, and characters that struggle with spiritual dilemmas.  This one though is unique, because it is actually SET IN KIJABE.  Some of the details are recognizable lore from this place, but he weaves a fascinating plot involving witchcraft and politics and corruption.  Fun read for those of us who live here, and worth reading for others.

Steve and Nancy Peifer moved to Kenya more than a decade ago, intending a year filling in as dorm parents to provide space for healing from the loss of a baby with Trisomy 18.  Instead they stayed on and on, taught French and Driver's Ed and did College guidance counseling, adopted orphaned Kenyan twins, and eventually started a program to provide needy Kenyan schools with food for kids' lunches and solar-powered computer centers that have touched the lives of thousands and thousands of kids.  What makes this book a treat is that Steve writes with Dave Barry-like humor and self-deprecating honesty, always giving credit to God and to others.  This is a book about GRACE in the life of an ordinary family who did something extraordinary in God's hands.  A definite must-read.




If those aren't enough, I bought for my kids Orson Scott Card's Gate Thief/Mither Mages series (only 2 so far, very good, but more of mid-late teen to adult level), Andrew Peterson's Wingfeather Sagas (haven't read but Julia devoured them), and Josh Trott's Illumen's children (fantasy with a Christian allegorical bent, excellent).  And for Scott, A Rumor of War, which I haven't read yet.  So the total book consumption at the beach was considerable.

Happy reading.