Yale Graduation, Part One: Parties and Baccalaureate

Yale's graduation is a marathon event, a three-day stretch of three major cap-and-gown events, interspersed with hors d'oeuvres, music, art, walking, dinners, greeting, and packing.

 As soon as we arrived on Thursday night, we were picked up by Luke and a good friend and whisked up to New Haven, chatting and getting to know a couple of kids.  It is fun to put faces with the names we heard often over the last four years, and to see the same boys and parents we met on that first weekend when we dropped all our sons off into the suite at Davenport.  There was a reception at an art gallery, a reminder of the rich culture of this place, from historic paintings to obscure detailed wildlife sketches, all the while bumping into seniors whom Luke admired for their intense interests and skills.  Then we got a precious hour alone with Luke, clustered in a booth at a local restaurant with burning spicy Thai curry.  Hearing about the end of the year, exams, the Gospel Choir farewell dinner, the last Club Soccer practice. Reflecting on the richness of relationship, the way he has forged a path, learned, grown.  This is the essence of coming, to open the door to our understanding his experience, the joy and wonder of our taste now mingled with the sadness of missing most of it.

On Friday he came down to Westport where we are staying with Scott's friends from high school.  Dave and Laurie have been our lifeline to Connecticut.  They nursed Luke through a rough wisdom tooth extraction, invited him for boat outings and meals, stored his stuff, took him to the airport, and were a home base and source of wisdom over the last four years.  Their home has been ours when we drop through, and we have enjoyed the renewed friendship with someone whom Scott went to school with from Kindergarten through 12th grade.  After a gourmet dinner together we drove back up to New Haven for a lovely reception put on by two sets of parents from Luke's residential college for the dozen kids in the two adjacent suites who became fast friends over the four years.  They are off to med school, banking in New York, cooking and Chinese study in Taiwan, physics research, teaching in city schools, a Rhodes scholarship at Oxford.  And as their days at Yale draw to a close they are celebrating the ties they forged.  We dropped in on another party with Luke's research partner who had spent a summer with us in Kenya, meeting her parents.

Caleb flew in late Friday night, which with flight delays turned into early Saturday morning.  It was a battle against jet lag to force our eyes open and keep in touch waiting for his shuttle to arrive in the rain at 1:20 . . but then we were wide awake with reunion, hugs, coffee cake, stories.

Saturday Luke wanted Caleb and two guitars and his friend Evie to all spend the morning by a lake while Scott and I had our own lovely breakfast in town.  Then the Baccalaureate, which is a more intimate and religiously-based service held in a historic hall vibrating with the glory of a 12-thousand pipe organ. Scripture, hymns, speeches, and most amazingly, the Yale Glee Club singing a choral Hallelujah.  The president of the University spoke eloquently about gratitude, a humble acknowledgement of the communal effort that put the graduates here, the connection of recognizing and thanking those involved.  It was actually quite solid, and impressive, the first of the three cap-and-gown formal events, ending in the organ's mighty rendition of Pomp and Circumstance which was actually composed for Yale in 1905 and premiered in that very hall.  The 12 residential colleges are divided into 3 services, each followed by a reception for parents and guests.  Today's and tomorrow's events will be all-inclusive, involving a couple thousand graduates instead of a few hundred. We ended the day back in Westport for dinner overlooking the sound, a gesture of thanks to our hosts.

So the weekend is now half over, speeding too fast.  Sunshine.  Handshakes.  A spare hour spent packing boxes in Luke's now-chaotic dorm room.  Walking and more walking.  The stone walls, the carillon bells.  Smiles and hugs and introductions.  Delicious food.  Stories spilling out when least anticipated, from Caleb and from Luke.  Driving back and forth in traffic.  Cappuccino.  Talking.

We are so grateful to be here, yet also feeling the ever-present jarring reality of being outsiders.  We aren't the parents who thought of planning a reception.  We are dressed in borrowed clothes and shoes, as if we really mixed in these circles.  We are reveling in the crisp air and blooming dogwood, yet the reality of life-and-death patient encounters lurks on the edge of our consciousness.  We are so proud of our boys and thankful to be with them, but miss Jack and Julia back at home in Kenya.  We are so grateful for this pleasant home and welcoming friends, but vaguely guilty that we are always on the receiving end.  It is a different world, one we step into and then back out of.  One we gladly embrace and yet as we do we feel the slight rub of disconnection that our kids deal with all their life.

Stay tuned for part two . . . 

And we're off

Only an hour left of May 14 and by midnight we will be out of this stuffy departure lounge and high in the sky.

So so so so excited to be heading towards a long weekend with Luke and Caleb. And the graduation festivities will be fun too. Only wish that two hellos were not paid for in two goodbyes. That fracturing of the heart, always.

So it was a smile from God that in the middle of a busy post-call day that included being called to the bedside of someone else's patient, finding the child dead, reviving a bit of life ( CPR never gets old) ... Making week-ahead plans on 28 babies... Managing patients in Icu ... Teaching ...

I found myself in the normal delivery room at the request of the OB team who requested Paeds be present for the delivery of a baby they thought might not do well. The mom had been Laboring all night. She was finally ready to push but she had no energy left.

So there she was in the very bed where I delivered jack 16 years ago. And I was probably the only person in the room who had actually HAD a baby. She grabbed my hand and I turned from paediatrician to labour coach. I prayed for her. We breathed. She wanted to quit. I coaxed. She pushed. Scott helped the OB intern and I helped the mom. At one point she dug her fingernails into my hand so hard she made me bleed. But in less than an hour she, by sheer force of will, pushed out a squalling healthy 3.8 kg baby girl.

Afterwards she was so thankful and happy she held onto me again and asked my name. Which she then gave to her new daughter.

Baby Jennifer probably has more of my hair and shape than my own children do.

It was a tender and blesses moment made possible by intersecting paths and common pain. And a reminder that I am also thankful to the many who have coached and coaxed me all the way to having a 21 year old graduating from university.

Bragging on Kijabe Hospital

In less than 24 hours we fly out to the US for Luke's graduation.  We leave about 30 minutes shy of Thursday and leave the US again on Thursday.  It's a short turn-around.  And like many of our trips, we're working full speed up to the last moment.  So today was a somewhat typical day, and impending absence may be inspiring nostalgia, but I'm really proud of Kijabe Hospital today.  The morning started with a call during rounds that the OB team was taking a mother for an emergency C Section due to cord prolapse.  That means the baby's umbilical cord was coming out ahead of the baby, which would result in the baby dying.  A midwife had her fingers up the mother's vagina to keep the baby's head from smashing his own blood supply and cutting it off, and they were wheeled together (midwife and mother) into the theatre for a rapid extraction.  The baby (who also happened to be premature and HIV-exposed . . ) was a star.  She is lovely and perfect, crying and active.  A truly dramatic save, happy ending to what could have been a disaster.  (The photo is from a later CS this evening with Scott.  That baby was also one that would have probably died many places, with a cord-around-the-neck very distressed infant).

Mid-day, we got a call that another hospital wanted to send us a baby with gastroschisis, a defect in the abdominal wall so that all the intestines are spilling out and exposed to air.  Bad news.  However it was a nearby hospital, and this was the baby's first day of life, and they were coming with an ambulance transport, so it all sounded good.  Even though we had 31 babies (WAY over capacity) at the time I said yes, because we have the only gastroschisis survivors in Kenya (4 so far I think).  This baby rolled in with a temperature of 34 (that's COLD), unmeasurably low blood sugar, in shock, blue.  And again I was so proud of our team.  Within fifteen minutes we had that baby warm, sugars up, fluids pushed, bowel decompressed and covered, pink, on oxygen, and 100% improved.  We were able to send him up to ICU for the night, and the Paeds surgeons will be managing his extruded bowel, slowly pushing it into his abdomen.  He went from almost-dead to possibly-surviving . . . a complicated baby that got fast and effective care.

This is baby K on the day he was born with a severe skin condition called ichthyosis (we think), and today.  He's been with us for just about two weeks.  We really thought his condition was probably fatal but decided to give it our best try to keep him alive and see if we could help him.  The change is remarkable.  Just as we were settling the little one above, baby K's mom called that he had stopped breathing after a trip to the OR for a biopsy .. but he was quickly stimulated and OK.  It's amazing to see that good nursing care, fluids, antibiotics, moisture, feeding have allowed such a dramatic transformation.

The preemie with the Rh-negative mom is alive and kicking, after three exchange transfusions he is doing very well, with relieved and thankful parents.  Again, there are very few places in Africa where a 1.3 kg premature baby with dangerous and severe jaundice could emerge alive and well.

This little guy was brought to us starving from South Sudan after his mother died, and he's finally putting on a little weight and settling from his fevers.  So sweet.  And a little connection with our Mundri team (who is, at the moment, only Scott Will plugging away in the danger zone) and a way to connect and contribute to a place that has been dragged down by war again.

Perhaps not as cute, but something to be proud of, this growth chart on a 27 week preemie who has been with us for about two months.  This is what is supposed to happen.  Yeah. 

 I am looking forward to the break from the daily (and all day all night) demands of this service, chaotic with crying babies, anxious moms, overworked nurses and interns, unpredictable crises, occasional disaster.  But I also realize it is hard to walk away from these little ones whom I'm pouring my soul out for.  And I'm thankful to be part of a great team on a dramatic day of rescues like this one.

127 Years

We used to say in Bundibugyo that time was compressed, kind of like "dog years."  We lived fuller, more complicated lives there.  More life, more death.  It was a complex web.  More happened in a given year than in the parallel lives of our friends elsewhere.  So 17 years in Bundibugyo (times 7) plus another ten outside the Twilight Zone... we've been married roughly 127 years.

On this Mother's Day as I pondered the life of the amazing mother of my children, I revisited my favorite wedding anniversary poem which Jennifer penned on our 20th.  The themes are poignant - sorrow, grief, pain - but like all of her favorite stories ultimately redemptive.   The ties strengthen with time, the hopes solidify, our bonds refined by fire….and our love paradoxically secured.

For Scott, on May 9, 2007

Twenty-year strong bond,

Forged by fire

Today celebrate firmness 

Found in mire

Bless bog's central solid ground:

This rock admire.

Intangible substance binds 

Us more sure

Than ring or name or contract-

Love pure,

The only cord whose weight 

Can life endure.

Liquid ecstasy one link

But weak,

Fouler fluids (pus, blood, tears)

Pool and reek

The truth of twenty-year trek

Through lands bleak.

Grief the furnace of our 

Resilient tie.

Losses: children, father, home

Some dreams die

Yet behind each a resurrected hope

Solidifies.

This union of twenty years

Unyielding binds

The unseen years ahead where 

Time winds

Our thread through sorrows 

Yet to find.

Sorrows not yet seen, nor faith

Still undeterred

Wearing this fire-forged fetter of 

Freedom conferred

A paradox of pain and gain, by mournful

Bonds our love secured

Mothers to Mothers

On this day we honor motherhood.  I taught my Sunday School class this morning on Ruth 1, using Paul Miller's excellent now book A Loving Life: In a World of Broken Relationships.  Naomi and Ruth embody the courage of love, giving up everything for the good of another.  This is the essence of motherhood and why these relationships are where we first and best learn of the essence of God's nature.  A life put on the line for us.  So today, a tribute to the mothers who put me here, and to the way that extends forward, on and on, life for life.

First, my own mother, who lost her father at age 4 and her own mother at age 21, but threw her whole energy into building a life with my Dad, creating a home, helping run a business, taking us to piano lessons and cheering a soccer games, leading in pioneer girls and Sunday School, teaching and loving and providing.  Her passion for history and an artful order are seen in this photo taken in Williamsburg, VA, a few years ago.  Pray for her now, recovering from back surgery and a blood clot in her leg, the combination of which will mean she misses her planned trip to Luke's graduation next week.

Then, Scott's mom Ruth, the best mother-in-law a girl could hope for, kind and encouraging and serving. With a master's in home economics she sounds intimidating, but she taught me to make a pie crust and scandanavian treats and never, ever made me feel inadequate.  She is the glue of the Myhre clan, caring for our kids and planning vacations and drawing in the scattered cousins for Thanksgiving and giving us wise advice.

From these two women, I have received the privilege of being a mother myself.  

This photo is from this morning, I got Julia and me matching batik wrap-around-skirts from the Maasai Market on Friday.  It is by far the greatest privilege and joy of my life to have been able to marry Scott and together parent these amazing children, who are witty and fun and strong and faithful and in all ways an improvement upon the raw material from which they came.   Whatever they do in this world, as parents or doctors or pilots or engineers or nurses or teachers or politicians or builders or cooks or artists or preachers or whatever path they take, they will be an impact and a blessing.

And with them, the friendship that comes from raising children with other women, both my fellow moms and my friends like Bethany who mother my kids and many others.  

And last but not least, my job means that I have a role in supporting motherhood every day.  Literally.  In the last week I have been in the delivery room holding onto crying mothers who were anxious and in pain, praying with them.  Giving them good news and hard news.  Pouring the hours of my life into the survival of that most precious to them, their babies.  Lines and blood transfusions, calculations, listening, inspecting xrays, making decisions.  

Baby Victor's mom lost her first child, then arrived at Kijabe as preterm labor overwhelmed her.  Within the hour she delivered her tiny infant son.  And now we have transfused his little 1.3 kilogram body in 3 double-volume sessions, meaning 6 times his blood volume, in and out.  His life still hangs in the balance, his mother's prayers and our work pulling for him to survive.

Emmanuel was our sickest baby for most of last week, struggling to breathe.  His mom has lost three previous children.  She was anxious, hovering, hoping, crying.  I felt the burden of her need, the difficulty of his survival.  Here she is on the day he turned the corner, tenderly touching him, having taped a Bible verse there by his head.

And one of our youngest survivors, 26 weeks, Mariah snuggles against her mother's chest, content and ready to go home.


So from Victor, Emmanuel, Mariah, from all of us at Kijabe and in our family, a happy mother's day to all.  A day to ponder the blood and determination and grit that brought each of us life, and to purpose to share that with others.

Serge Internships: not for the faint of heart

Every summer our mission brings young people who are on their holiday from college, or recently graduated, and places them with teams around the world.  Our kids always looked forward to "the interns", who were generally way more fun and hip than the old parents.  They helped with nutrition programs or taught in schools, coached, distributed goats and led Bible clubs (oh, and once helped us carry kids as we ran for our lives from rebels, but that's another story).  Now that we're in Kijabe we are focused on Kenyan medical interns and have less exposure to American college students.  But it turned out this year that one of the Nairobi interns was arriving a week or so ahead of the rest of her group, and as an aspiring premed student wanted to visit Kijabe.  So Mae Mae caught a ride out to our rural hospital and is spending a couple of nights.

On rounds this morning, we plugged along seeing our patients, until we came to baby I.  He was born precipitously the night before on Scott's call, and we were glad to see that in spite of being only 32 weeks gestational age (out of 40) and 1.3 kg he was breathing well and active.  He was also, however, yellow.  His mother is B- (negative for the Rh antigen on her blood cells), and he inherited O+ blood from his dad.  His mother had lost her previous baby shortly after birth because of jaundice.  So her body was primed to recognize and react to those + markers on his blood cells, and her womb became a dangerous place for him.

God, however, had plans for his life it seems.  For no known reason his mom went into labor so fast and hard last night that Scott and team had no way to attempt to stop his early delivery, and out he came.  His hematocrit was about a third of the normal at birth, showing that he had been breaking down his blood cells in utero.  If he had continued to term, he probably would have died of heart failure.  But when we rounded this morning the whole story came out, and we saw we would need to do an exchange transfusion to save his life.  This involves taking his blood out a teaspoon or two at a time, and putting someone else's blood back in, blood that matches and is less likely to break down.  This removes the dangerous levels of bilirubin that cause not only yellow skin but permanent brain damage.

Only to do this, we need just the right O- (neg) blood, to match him AND his mom.  And it has to be fresh.  So as I was trying to figure all this out and see our 24 critically ill babies and get up to my weekly RVA clinic, Mae Mae our visiting intern mentioned, oh, I have O- blood. What?  Really?  It is a precious and relatively uncommon type.  Within ten minutes she was in our lab donating.  Meanwhile I walked our new Kenyan medical intern Beatrice through putting in a special umbilical IV line that is used for the blood drawing and transfusing.  Then we sat and pulled blood out an pushed blood in, 10 cc in, 10 cc out, 22 times.

Baby I's mother hovered close by, moving from distraught to smiling with hope.  We prayed over her baby with her and she watched us painstakingly spend the hours this procedure takes.  How amazing is it that her 2-month-early baby popped out in the exact 48-hour space when we had a willing and able donor to save his life?  Or that God sent this young woman around the world for just such a time as this?  That a Serge intern's blood will live on in a tiny Kenyan infant? 

Baby I still has a long way to go.  We may need to repeat the procedure in the middle of the night tonight.  He will risk infection and bleeding and take weeks or even months to recover.  Mae Mae has a long summer ahead too, learning Swahili and delving into Kenyan culture and loving kids through football coaching, all while working on med school applications.  But for today their stories intersected in a way that blessed baby I with life and intern Mae Mae with purpose and the privilege of loving.

Stay tuned for more internship stories from around our East Africa region.

Dysgeusia

I shared my concern with Jennifer…"do you think I could have a brain tumor?"  

For the past three days, I've experienced a delayed, but prolonged bitterness every time I swallow food or liquid.  I'm not taking medicine.  I don't have a tooth ache or sinus infection.  I brush and floss my teeth.  No fever, nausea, vomiting. The bitterness comes after I swallow - not while I'm chewing with food in my mouth…and it lasts for minutes.  Every time I swallow.  It seems neurologic.  Weird.  

So, today I did what any self-respecting medical professional would do.  Google it.  "Bitter aftertaste after swallowing."  Didn't take much work to make the connection.  Pine Nut Syndrome.

In our house, we love making our own pesto.  Fresh basil leaves from the garden, olive oil, parmesan cheese, garlic…and pine nuts…blended up in the food processor.  I made a batch earlier this week - and snacked on the pine nuts while I whizzed it up.

Turns out this Pine Nut Syndrome is fairly well described.  Journal of Toxicology.   There is a specific species of pine nut, Pinus armandii, which is the culprit.  Often of Chinese origin.  Not necessarily rancid or expired.  Nearly indistinguishable from standard pine nuts (Pinus pine, P. koraiensis, P. sibirica, P. gerardiana).  Often purchased at Trader Joes (!!).  

The symptoms (metallic or bitter aftertaste) usually occur within 1-2 days after ingesting as few as 1-3 nuts and symptoms may last up to 4 weeks (blah!)…

So, while it looks like a long three weeks ahead, I'm relieved to find a benign explanation for my bizarre symptoms…Yay, I shall see another day!

Deliver us from Evil

This is an actual picture, not photoshopped, of a dead (?not sure what mechanism) rat on the road near our house.  It was a monster. And it got me thinking.  Bear with me while I digress.

When we pray "deliver us from Evil" (or the Evil One), I think of Evil with a capital E.  War.  Abuse.  Poverty.  Violence.  Hate.  Incurable diseases, ripped ligaments, rape, drought, malaria, car bombs.  Death.  These Evils have been a palpable enemy even in the last week.  Life in Kenya bumps one up against the capital-E Evils of this world.  They are powerful, frightening, and worth fighting against.  I love the fact that I have a job that involves getting out of bed at all hours of the day and night to stand directly against this kind of Evil.  Deliver this baby from death.  Deliver this child from hunger.

But those Evils which are so clearly Evil, are perhaps not the most dangerous.  Perhaps the real evil from which we need deliverance is more subtle.  More small-e.  More insidious, less obvious.  The daily wear and tear of an irritable complaining spirit.  Ambition.  Disappointment.  Bitterness.  Or even more dangerously, the evil which parades as good.  The times my good intentions cause harm, the temptation to take a short-cut to a seemingly good end.  Eugene Peterson's exposition of the Lord's Prayer in Tell it Slant (a fantastic book I am still savoring slowly) reminds us that we are vulnerable, that we too often get it completely wrong.  That we need the Spirit to deliver us.

So back to that rat.  If that monster was hanging out in our kitchen, the Evil would be obvious.  We would immediately react.  

Instead, our house has been infested with some tiny mice.  After a very long LENT of drinking water only . . we turned out wonderful espresso machine back on.  Oh the joy of that buzzing motor, that mounting steam.  The bliss of that first cup.  But our machine kept steaming, and losing water.  So Scott opened it up to investigate, and lo and behold, all those dormant weeks meant a mouse had taken up residence and chewed on the wires.  So that the thermometer was not regulating properly.

If a monster rat was sitting on our espresso machine for six weeks, it would have been killed.  No question of animal rights when it comes to our coffee.  Instead a tiny more subtle animal was left unchecked, gnawing away, small increments of damage that may prove even worse.

Deliver us from Evil, and evil.  From the horrific injustices of this world, and from the insidious creep of selfishness, cynicism, weary discouragement, discontent.  Give us eyes to see the gnawing teeth, and courage to chase both monstrous and micro-rats out of our lives.

Serge, Grace at the Fray

World Harvest Mission has a new name!  While the "World Harvest" label works pretty well in Africa, particularly since we do a good bit of agriculture and nutrition, the label was confusing for most of the rest of the world.  It is a label shared with several other organizations, and sounds a bit harsh and paternalistic if people are the object of the harvesting.  Over the last year our organization has been preparing to make a switch to a name that is more descriptive, poetic, subtle, unique.  A consulting group interviewed many of us and poured over our stories and ministry, and then created a new identity:  Serge, Grace at the Fray.  The serge stitch is used to bind an unraveling edge of fabric, and that is a beautiful picture of the Kingdom work of the people of Jesus in a world that is broken and crumbling.  By grace, we are re-raveling, binding up the broken-hearted, healing and equipping.  Walking into messy places and carefully pulling the pieces back together.  With prayer and courage, participating in Jesus' work to restore and renew.

Check out the logo and a short explanatory video here:  http://vimeo.com/90780178
The new website is here:  http://www.serge.org/

Behold, I make all things new

This has been a rich Easter season, so thankful to be here with the raw and tangible combination of cross and resurrection.  Sacrifice and New Life.  Blood and Glory.  The way of the cross, apparent defeat, willing laying down of life, working, moving through hard places, grief, loss, effort.  Then the waiting, the uncertainty, the hiddeness of God's work.  Finally the dawn, the surprise, the glimpse of power, the righting of wrong, the healing and hope.

Our celebration started on Thursday night with what has become possibly our family's favorite holiday, Passover.  We use a "Messianic Passover Haggadah" full of Scripture readings and responses as we gather to imitate Jesus' last supper with his closest friends, remembering the deliverance from Egypt, the unleavened bread and bitter herbs, the cups of wine.  As we meditate on these things we listen to music by Michael Card.  Our Kijabe team now includes the Massos as well as Bethany Ferguson and the Maras.  Just like Jesus, we had 13 at the "table" this year.  This is an evening full of concrete, edible, touchable lessons, geared towards the children, warm and deep, with delicious food and fellowship.

Friday shifts gears to a day of worship and fasting.  After early morning hospital rounds we went to the local AIC church service, then back to the hospital.  It is a holiday but both of us were on call, so spent a significant part of the day and night caring for patients.  Plenty of evidence for the world as a broken place in need of miracles.  At one point I was making space in our HDU for a toddler who had been injured in a car accident; his mother had been killed along with six other people, and his father was in surgery.  Then I was called to see a little girl with advanced AIDS whose mother had brought her to be checked but was reluctant for admission.  As a single mother living in one of Kenya's most notorious slums in Nairobi (Kibera) she did not have the funds.  At first I was trying to accommodate her desire to be treated as an outpatient back in Kibera, but then I thought about what would reflect Jesus' work on this day.  This little girl was crying from hunger.  I could not send her home.  I handed her mom some money to buy food and arranged for our Needy Children's Fund to pay for the admission.  Later in the evening our family watched Mel Gibson's "The Passion" which is artistically and Biblically rich, overwhelming, and helps to make the history of Jesus' crucifixion real.

I got back from resuscitating a baby who had a difficult delivery about a quarter to 1 am, then Julia and I joined a small group of missionaries up at RVA from 2am til almost 9am for the Secret Church.  A pastor in Birmingham Alabama with experience ministering in places where Christians are persecuted and come together for intense hours of Bible teaching offers this marathon of teaching and prayer for Americans on Good Friday.  In our time zone the simulcast falls in the middle of the night.  Lots of Scripture and solid instruction; the focus of giving up sleep for something more sustaining, the camaraderie of spending the night with friends.


Saturday, an interim day, between the intensity of Friday and the celebration of Sunday.  Rest, preparation, cooking, anticipating.

Then Sunday, the day when history shifts, the inevitable decay to chaos turns back towards renewal, beauty, life.

We arose with the first hint of daylight, to read the story of the resurrection and have breakfast outside as the clouds turned pink.  After a long Lent of drinking only water, our first cup of coffee was a bit of a taste of resurrection, and I made pain au chocolate for the first time, quite a treat. Then up to RVA for their 7 am Easter Sunrise service, a good sermon and fellowship as the sun peaked over
the ridge.  Then over to the Kenyan church for their Easter service, familiar hymns, beautiful music.  And then home to cook up a feast to share with friends, gathering in another dozen or so guests to join our family, visiting residents, a new Rwandan/Burundian family, team, friends.

And so we live the Good Friday and Easter Sunday, both this weekend and throughout our weeks.  And we get foretastes of resurrection over and over.  This week I returned (after our sojourn in Uganda/Rwanda/Burundi) to find some of my sickest patients, kids I had struggled to keep alive, improving and going home:

Baby H has spina bifida and other problems.  The general consensus was that he would not survive an ICU admission.  But when I talked to his mom, and prayed, we decided he deserved a chance to overcome his pneumonia.  So glad we did!

Sweet little M came to us almost two months ago with a rapidly progressive paralysis due to Guillan-Barre syndrome.  She spent a month on a ventilator, unable to move or breathe, the tube entering a tracheostomy.  Now she can sit, move a little, and SMILE.  While she has a long way to go until she's running again, we are very encouraged by her recovery, and her mom is now able to care for her at home.

And R, a teenager who came to us severely wasted, with intractable fevers and lung disease.  We reviewed his records and treated him for every infection known to man, investigated for cancer.  His heart nearly gave out, he developed blood clots, we thought he would die.  Thanks to consults-by-email, prayer, trial-and-error, we finally decided to try stopping all his anti-infective medications and treat him as a patient with auto-immune disease.  And finally, he improved, and went home for Easter.

This weekend another little girl who was having a stroke from sickle-cell-anemia got a complicated all-night partial exchange transfusion, and the next morning I found her smiling and able to talk and eat.  A baby with severe lung damage from inhaling meconium who was not improving with maximal ICU care (I prayed with his weeping mother at 2 am, asking for a miracle without much faith or hope) . . . suddenly improved, oxygen levels climbing from the 30's to 100%, and looks like a survivor.  

These are the stories that keep us plugging on, the places where the all-things-new power of Jesus reaches down into real life.  Long nights, lots of cooking, house full of friends, work, and worship, the fabric of daily life, suddenly shimmers with glory.  He is risen indeed.