Of waves and calm

Today's reading was from Matthew 8, the storm on the sea, the panic, the calling out to Jesus for help.  Then the order from chaos.  Wright compares this to creation, when the darkness and formlessness covered the earth, and the Spirit of God hovered to separate light from dark and wet from dry.  Jesus is bringing a new creation to bear upon the chaos of a sin-broken world, so he re-enacts the creation story by calming the waves.  And even though Jesus was present and able, he did not react until his friends cried out to him for help.  The people of God through the centuries fear God is asleep, the world threatens to drown us, and we pray in desperation to actually see the miracle of evil defeated.

This week, make that this month or this year, I've been wave-slapped.  It is rare for me to get to be so overwhelmed I can't even write.  But this is one of those seasons.  It all blurs together, phone calls every fifteen minutes through the night, treks to the hospital to sometimes blow life back into a dying baby, and too often fail, holding sobbing shoulders of distraught moms.  Rounds that drag on and on and on as the patients line the halls and crowd the corners.  Juggling that with three teens, new team mates, end-of-sports-season finals, a birthday.  On the day that we had fifteen kids for pizza making for Jack's birthday, one of my long-term patients died and the parents asked me to attend the burial.  Our life is so often like that paradox:  baby M in his coffin, defeated at only a few months of age by an overwhelming infection in spite of surviving weeks of intensive care early on for congenital anomalies that were surgically corrected, the shuffling crowd of mourners, the grave in the hillside . . .

. . . . then a celebration with huge healthy teasing young men, strong, hopeful, funny, full of life.  Then back into the fray.  After baby M, three more much healthier 4 to 10 month olds all died within the week with a similar pattern of unexplained viral symptoms, wheezing and struggling breaths, draining fluids, dwindling pulses.  I was alarmed enough by the cluster to call the national research lab (equivalent of the CDC here) who sent a team to collect samples. No clear results yet, but we have something dangerous to small children circulating.

So into the middle of the storm about ten days ago a visitor arrived.  Dr. Lina is an ER paediatrician working in Chicago who trained with Mardi years ago in Florida, then worked with my colleagues from residency in my old hospital in Chicago.  She strode into the choppy waters with energy, cheer, and calm.  It has been nice to have a friend to work with--when there are only two of us running nursery (bursting at double capacity), the inpatient floor, the ICU, the outpatient clinic, deliveries, consults, call, teaching . . well, it gets hard, and we barely see each other.  So having one more person to share the load has been HUGE.  Dr. Lina has the heart and skills of a Bible teacher as well, and blessed our monthly team meeting with a devotion that was deep and meaningful.

But the best part of this timing was that Lina's arrival gave me the gift of a weekend off, and that was a key weekend in Julia's life, and one that I would have hated to miss.  First, the girls' football finals were on Saturday.  We played well and controlled the game, but mid-second-half there was still no score.  So when Julia had a solid shot from outside the box that dipped into the back of the net over the keeper . . well, it was a beautiful score and again a game-decider in the finals and a great end to her soccer career at RVA.  She was elated, and so was her team.  

Jack's team won their championship finals too.  It was a great day.

That night we had our "caring community",  a group of seniors who come to eat and relax and be prayed for and just let down in a safe place.

The next day, Julia's senior singing group led worship for all of us at church, and sang a special song for the offeratory.

Then we had the end-of-season football party here, which is another 25 kids and flour everywhere and circles of laughter.

So this is a tribute to crying out to Jesus in the storm and finding some calm in beautiful goals, smiling girls, music, time spent with kids.  In talking to Luke and Caleb on the phone as they were TOGETHER (Luke is visiting Caleb in Colorado for a day on an epic cross-country road trip) and hearing the wholeness in their voices, the completeness that reveals the ragged edge of always being apart.  In having a colleague to cover enough of the duties that I didn't miss milestones.  In enjoying a daughter who will leave us all too soon.  

Sweet 16

Yes, our youngest is now 16.  And he is actually pretty sweet for a 6'2" massive guy.

 Sixteen years ago I hobbled into Kijabe Hospital from the house where we were staying as war-displaced refugees and working temporarily on station.  Scott was my doctor, and I listened for his voice and pushed my heart out.  Today we were both standing in the same room by the same delivery bed as he evaluated another laboring lady, and decided to take her back for a C section.  I think being on this side of sixteen more years of medical practice makes me marvel even more at the healthy baby God gave us in the midst of pretty desperate circumstances:  attack, flight, gunfire, loss, sickness, high fever, delirium.  I was probably as skinny as I have every been as an adult during Jack's first weeks of gestation, and just about as sick with dysentery, and homeless, and on the run.  So the fact that he seems to have a pretty decent brain and body is nothing short of grace.

Jack at 16 is in many ways the same kid he was at six.  Curious, thinking in his own patterns, a problem solver, persistent.  Sharp.  A nose for inconsistency.  No qualms about delving in and diving in, getting dirty, working hard. But a great lover of his favorite couch or hammock, a consumer of books.  Intense.  A person who likes to win.  A thinker.  A kid who has known a bit too much loss, though now he's come through to the other side stronger, he still feels the missing brothers on other continents, the tenuous nature of family.  A protector of his sisters.  A teaser.  Comfortable with older kids.  An arguer.  A lego-master.

Jack at 16 contains all that six-year-old energy, yet tempered now into something new.  He likes to provoke, and laugh, but he is more comfortable in himself and confident in who he is.  He used to pray the most amazing things out loud, and now that faith has moved down into his heart more deeply, more owned and real.  He has channeled some of that sharp talent for debating me into winning a best-speaker award in the Model UN.  He has pulled on all those years of playing with kids older and stronger to be on two Varsity teams as a 15-year-old.  He has survived pretty disparate cultures and school systems to become a person who is not as worried about what others think or approve.  He has taken that drive to win and turned it into consistent performance on the field and in class.  He has strengthened friendships with boys from America, Scotland, Nigeria, Kenya, Rwanda, South Sudan, and many other places as well as Uganda.

We are thankful and privileged to be parents of this young man, and looking forward to his story as it unfolds.  It will be worth watching.

Singing and Swords: Happy 19th to Caleb

Caleb turns 19 today.  So here I am in my USAFA psyche at my computer, missing him.

 And here is the entrance of the hospital this morning, where I went to hug and cry with a grieving mom as we removed her brain-dead baby from life support, a baby whose short four month life I had witnessed in a large portion due to the many anomalies with which he was born.

But 19 years ago I walked into these doors in a lot of pain and with no small amount of trepidation, little knowing the amazing gift that God was giving us.  A perfectly healthy boy, a perfect size, a good sleeper, an avid eater, whose ear was tuned to music even before he could talk.  A runner, a thinker, a loyal friend, a good brother. 

A hardworking student, an adventurer, the one who was always up for a longer hike or a new route.  A boy with an ear for irony, a dry humor, a quick wit.  A kid who values sacrifice over comfort, service over success.  Who is willing to see things a little differently, and think them through.  A young person who has been condemned by his Kenyan birth to an American family to not quite fit in anywhere.  Yet who is perceptive and thoughtful about his outsider-ness, whom others seek out.  A young man who has suffered and whose suffering has produced perseverance.  Who keeps on in spite of injury and setback, who works through pain . .  . but who also loves to be alone with a guitar, to sleep deeply, to eat well, to watch the sunset.  

A kid for whom we feel equal parts of grief (when he struggles, when we say goodbye, when his life is difficult) and joy (in who he is).

Which is the nature of being a parent, and accentuated by a birthday separated by continents once again.  

So this post is for Caleb, a celebration of 19 years of making us smile.  And this verse could be his for the year:

For the LORD takes pleasure in his people;

   he adorns the humble with salvation.

Let the godly exult in glory;

   let them sing for joy on their beds.

Let the high praises of God be in their throats, 

   and two-edged swords in their hands . . . . Psalm 149: 4-6

Caleb is one who leads in worship, in music, in singing (and he likes his bed); Caleb is also strong in mind and body, training as a warrior.  God takes pleasure in this humble guy, and we do too.  We pray that God leads him in good paths this year.  And that our paths intersect as much as possible!!  Happy Birthday Caleb.  We love you.  

Whose Glory?

The Bible character with whom I most frequently and closely identify has changed over the years.  In this season of kids from age 15 to 21, it is the mother of the sons of Zebedee.  Bear with me on this one.  In Matthew 20, she kneels before Jesus and asks for their success.  "Say that these two sons of mine are to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your kingdom."  That sounds like my prayers rather often.  This is the season of goals, applications, programs, awards, teams, cuts.  Of exams, scores, reports, recommendations.  Of interviews, tournaments, evaluations, speed.  Of inclusion or exclusion.  And I'm right there with Mrs. Zebedee, asking for my kids to not only do their best, but to be best.  I hear other parents say this too, comments about just having prayed that a goal would be scored, about praying for a university spot to open.

But Jesus' reply is sobering.  Jesus answered, "You do not know what you are asking.  Are you able to drink the cup that I am to drink?"  Jesus' answer to success-seeking is that the road to glory lies through suffering.  One must drink the cup, of wrath, of struggle, of grief and loss, to enjoy the rewards of the Kingdom.  Of course James and John thought they could handle it.  Their mom was ready to overlook the fine print about suffering to get them close to the "top." But Jesus wanted them to see that leadership in the Kingdom comes by serving, that being out in front means laying down your life.

So it is with some trepidation that I ask for prayer for my kids.  On Friday, the oldest will compete in a final round of selection to potentially become the student graduation speaker for his University.  It is down to the final three.  This sounds like a real opportunity for him to present Kingdom values and to challenge complacency, to stand for something that is inspiring and different.  It also could be a hidden call to a bitter cup.

Would you pray that God would be glorified whether the committee chooses Luke or someone else?  Would you pray he would do his best with this, and biochemistry and medical school interviews and friendships and all the complexity of being a Senior? In the end, the effort is hollow if personal glory is the end. But if this speech could be part of the big picture of a redeeming God on the move, then it is worth praying for.

And the same for son two, who is recovering from knee surgery, always on the edge of survival.  Should we pray that his grades are excellent and his commanders look on him with favor? Or that he hears God's clarity in his calling, and continues to serve in a hard place full of broken people?

And the younger ones, finding their way, taking SAT's, preparing for college.  My heart wants them to have the superb lift of spirit that comes from a glorious game-winning shot, or getting recognized for their grades.  But am I ready to see them walk the same kind of lonely and challenging paths their brothers' "success" has earned them?

My Life in the Biathlon

We are watching the Olympics, at least little snatches of them when we can.  The graceful ice dancers twirling in unison, the bird-like flights of the petite ski jumpers, the dangerously fast luge, the brutal bounce and spins of the free-style moguls.  But if I were an olympic athlete, I would enter the biathlon.  That's the cross-country ski endurance race punctuated by rifle shooting.  Scott and I actually did have cross country skis when we were newlyweds in Chicago.  Thanks to his Norwegian roots, we inherited them from his parents and used them on the Lake Chicago trails.  And as much as I deplore gun violence in America, I did grow up with guns.  From my first pellet gun to 22's to gauge shot guns, I was a decent shot.  Many cans jumped off the railroad track where we set them up, and clay pigeons burst into shards when we shot skeet.  So the idea of being strong enough to slog through the snow on skis, and sharp enough to hold a gun steady and shoot, appeals to me.

Mom and patient in ICU 

A panel of Kenya's leading paediatricians as we debate improving infant survival 

Our Caring Community learning Scottish Dancing for an evening activity

The orthopedic surgeon from Charlotte NC who operated on my mom two weeks prior, doing a teaching/surgical trip to Kenyatta the same day I was there for neonatal survival meetings.  How crazy is that?????

Because my life is a biathlon.  Most days are a cross-country endurance race through slippery and hazardous conditions.  Up in the dark, prayer and maybe exercise, breakfast and plans for the day, devotions with kids.  Day in and out at the hospital, covering rounds, checking labs, teaching.  Sorting out call schedules, meeting with my team, mentoring younger docs.  Covering RVA student health, appointments, immunization policies, working with students, projects.  Laundry.  Emails, planning WHM conferences, answering questions, accounting.  Prayer meeting times, communication.  Cooking dinner, creating atmosphere and wholeness.  Cheering at games, thinking, reading, learning.  Meetings. The marathon continues, day after day, striding through and over, pushing back against the path of least resistance.

Birthday for Jack's classmate

Sunday morning pre-Valentine treats 

First-place Basketball tournament 

Colleagues reporting on their trip to a Paeds conference in Germany 

Kenyan Raspberries, which are being off-loaded at Kijabe 

New surgical residents-note Erik second from left, who brought his daughter here for treatment from Congo and developed relationship and trust here and is now staying for his own residency 

My "Banquet Ask" at our Student Health Clinic

Then the beeper goes off, and it is time to shoot.  In the war against disease, in the covert effort to save the lives of children, one has to go on the offensive.  No matter how weary, to take a deep breath and line up the gun, to carefully but boldly pull the trigger.  This week it was baby B, another gastroschisis, plummeting down.  We were so close to our fourth save; he had been doing so well.  But when the pager went off at church, I went into shooting mode, intubating, changing therapies, xrays, antibiotics, move to ICU.  He stabilized temporarily, but then he needed blood.  Fresh blood.  And I was the only handy compatible donor, so another round of shooting, this time in the lab's blood donor room.  Perhaps these shots were off target.  Bahati died that night.  Or perhaps they were on target, the target of showing love to this family, giving these parents the assurance that they and we had done everything possible.

More cross-country endurance, normal life, then boom, time to lift the gun.  Our friend E.N., who took care of our family almost 16 years ago when Jack was born here, was having her baby.  She's a little older than the average first-time mom, after many years of working for others, finally she has her own husband, a hard-fought struggle for pregnancy with many complications.  But the day had arrived for delivery, and I went in to comfort, to wait, to celebrate, to be the one to receive her baby, from Scott who was doing her C-section, no easy matter.  Baby M.J. was vigorous, crying even before he was fully "out".  But my heart sank as I dried him off.  Down Syndrome.  Almost 14 years ago I was in the same situation, at my sister's delivery for moral support.  Only when her sweet Micah was delivered, I knew he was not quite alright.  Just like MJ, unexpected but certain subtle signs.  I found myself once again comforting the mourning loss of the expected baby, but enjoining her to be thankful and anticipate blessing in the unique and loving baby she did get.

 So that is the biathlon- straining on, sweating, muscles tired, rhythms, pull, the constant background of effort.  Then the beeper, the call, the all-out push to defeat, to pull off victory.  Ski, ski, ski, ski, shoot.  Ski some more.  Never quite balanced.

When the women finish this event, they fall over into the snow, and gasp and cry.  That's how I feel some weeks.  Stretched by the pace of a normal day, then energized by the adrenaline-rush-demands of a dehydrated burned baby coming to life as we push fluids into an emergency needle into his bone.  Or challenged to come up with a plan for a nearly-dying patient.  Then back to the steady pace of normal life, thinking about what we can pull together for a meal.

Maybe one day I'll have skis and a gun again.  Or maybe for now, it will be pots and pans, and a stethoscope and a needle.

Building in Bundibugyo?

World Harvest Mission short-term-trip-leader and construction-guru-with-decades-of-experience Brad Wallace is planning a construction trip to Bundibugyo May 9-25.  He has four people signed up and could use 4 to 5 more to help on building projects at Christ School.  This is the first time in AGES that we've had an opportunity like this for handy construction-oriented people to bless Bundibugyo.

If you are interested please contact Brad.  703.969.5309 or bwallace@whm.org.  

Our children studied in these classrooms.  Our friends are the teachers who still faithfully bring the Kingdom of God to Bundibugyo one child at a time.  Our team mentors young people, coaches sports, helps with the farms, leads studies.  Our Ugandan boys have found Jesus here, have received the foundations for their lives.  The buildings are not just buildings, they are the the venue for real change in real peoples' lives.

Thanks for considering!