You know you're in California when . . .

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

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

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

Unlikely Headquarters

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

cultures within cultures

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

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

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

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

Scarred Beauty

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

Chris Cleave, Little Bee

What is Normal??

Here we are in Colorado, staying in a semi-hotelish place surrounded by pine trees, with a view of Pike's peak to the west, to be "debriefed".  That means we spend our mornings in sessions with a seasoned missionary counselor couple and a dozen returning missionaries, then our afternoons journaling, reading, talking, walking, or resting.  And it means that our kids are in programs with a handful of age-mate third-culture-kids too, discussing similar topics of culture, values, stress, and paradox.  The best and worst of times, often too intertwined to distinguish.  In our group there are people who served two or three years overseas, 8 or 10 years, 17 or so like us, and one delightful woman retiring to North Dakota after 38 years in a single mission hospital in West Africa.  People who are coming from China, Thailand, Albania, Jerusalem, Jamaica, Nicaragua, Cameroon, Ghana, and Uganda.  Half male and half female, singles and married, and ranging in age I'm guessing from about 24 or 25 to 65.  In short, a very diverse group.  

Yet when we brainstorm lists of what causes stress in our lives, the responses are all very familiar.  We filled a whole page, for instance, under the topic "daily hassles", things like power and water shortages, inaccessible supplies, stares and comments on the streets, insects in the food, cars that break down, requests that exceed our capacity to respond.  Things that form the normal background of life overseas, so normal that they don't even come to mind under the category of "stress" when we're mentioning wars breaking out, gunfire close by, epidemic diseases, being held up at knife point, etc.  Yet the chronic daily background of life can take a hidden toll, year after year.  Our facilitators look at us and say, people, do you realize, that this is not normal.

But is it?  Part of me wants to say that "normal" for most of the world DOES include poverty and insecurity and unclean water and buggy food and mediocre school choices.  And in spite of the amazing diversity of our group, our lives are pretty similar, so one could call that "normal" for missionaries. But I think I get what they are trying to tell us:  that our "normal" is set in our formative years, and in spite of living decades in hard places, or in spite of the fact that we KNOW that most of the world endures worse, there is a constant push on our hearts that tells us that our life is not "normal" compared to our childhood peers. 

So we can reach our limit and leave, seeking a more "normal" life.  Or we can build capacity, learn to "live artfully".  Which is the purpose of this time I think.  To name losses and grieve, to examine our responses and anticipate where we will struggle, to seek life rhythms that promote healthy growth through all this stress.  We've looked at Jesus in the Garden (crushed, anguished, stressed) to acknowledge that encountering stress does not mean we have missed God's will, there will be times when we just have to walk through it.  Praying we can learn to do that with more grace, to carry the cross as a light yoke, able to love others as we go, even if we'll never again be normal.

On the Mount

Ten thousand feet high, the Colorado Rockies, a 500-acre working ranch where friends who are generous-beyond-anything-we-deserve invited us to spend a weekend of contemplation and fellowship. An old log homestead, long hikes up sage-covered hills and along fencerows, six cows in our back yard, candlelight meals, hours to read and pray, unfiltered powerful sunlight, space and quiet. The blessing of being drawn into a holy family's God-seeking life, and gifted with their friendship. The renewal of pure beauty. Here is what Julia jotted down today: A forest of ever-green pines dotted with clumps of brilliantly golden aspen. A clear mountain stream gurgles by. Here and there huge stands of aspen turn a hillside into solid gold. Tall bare peaks above the tree line are capped with snow during winter. To top it all a cloudless blue sky stretches above.

Even Jesus called a few of his disciples away from the crowd to the high mountains. There is something about the inaccessibility, the strain of the climb, the removal from pressing demands, that we need in order to have the veil of the ordinary peeled back, for a moment, and to glimpse glory. In Matthew 17 this interlude comes just after Jesus' predictions of his death, and just before the real cross-bearing begins. He knows that his friends need to be overwhelmed by the bright cloud of an approving God, need to fall on their faces, feel his touch, and hear his reassuring words, do not be afraid.

So here we are on the mount. We've moved from the ranch to a MTI missionary conference at the Hideaway, five days specifically designed for people in transition like us. Called away from Africa for this climb, and waiting for God to reveal and speak in ways that will empower us to walk back down in the new year.

a tale of redemption

Remember the boy who was so discouraged about football (i.e. soccer)?  And the parents who also grieved to listen to that discouragement at such a distance?  After a soul-searching weekend, the boy decided to play JV and give it his best.  By the end of the week he was named co-captain of the team.  After discussions with his new coach, whom he greatly respects, he changed from defense to mid-field, better suited to his physique.  And at this week's first home game, he started, scored two goals, played almost the entire game, and helped bring his team to victory.  So we're remembering redemption, they way that stories can seem to be drawing to a disappointing fizzle or despairing disaster, and then turn into something better and unanticipated.  And we're trying to remember that the time frame for redemption is usually much longer than a week, so we can all hold on.

Christmas Carol in September

Some of my favorite Christmas movies revolve around the Dickens' Christmas Carol plot, the restless or discouraged supernaturally given a glimpse of what might have been (It's a Wonderful LIfe, Family Man, etc.).  Missionary "HMA" (= Home Ministry Assignment in missions-speak, previously known as furlough) is a bit like being transported by the ghost of Christmas Past as we show up after 20 years in friendships that have lain dormant.  And at times, the Ghost of Christmas Present bedazzles us with alternative lives which we might have lived.  Here in the parallel universe of the United States of America, people who were once very much like us now own expansive houses, write important research papers, take their kids on meaningful missions trips around the world, participate in triathlons, manage hospitals, see patients at experts in their field, provide a backbone to their church, raise fabulous teens, champion important causes.  It's good stuff, and even though everyone who loves us is very respectful of our peculiar life choices, we would not be human or honest if we did not admit that it takes a certain amount of fortitude to bump up against these lives without a bit of wistful wondering.  What if.

Wednesday was one of those days.  Thanks to the advocacy of a fantastic doctor who was a year behind me in residency and in many ways a real soul friend, I found myself invited to speak to the current group of pediatric interns at the same Chicago hospital where I worked from 1988 to 1992. 18 years ago I was one of two "Chief Residents", and I planned many such conferences myself.  And though I have been teaching weekly at Nyahuka, this is a very different world.  The 30-40  young doctors in the room had been selected from a couple of thousand applicants.  Applicants who had COMPLETED medical school, so not exactly average people.  These people are lectured by world-famous researchers and dedicated physicians all the time.  It was a bit intimidating.  In another life I might have been doing such lectures bimonthly, not bi-decadely.

However . . .  as far as I can tell through the fog of this peculiar season in our lives, our calling is to just be who we are, and tell our story, which is really not OUR story but a bigger one of redemption and change and hope and struggle.  So with Scott's help I put together a presentation that was part medical-informational, and part life-experience.  After all, if HALF of all childhood deaths in the WORLD occur in sub-saharan Africa, and if the top five diseases I treat are among the top five problems in the world but uncommon at this hospital, then it is my place to give a voice to the children who remain obscure, to bring a photo of those easily forgotten.  The residents listened politely and respectfully, some asked good questions, many nodded and seemed to connect.  Global health is in, it turns out.  Young doctors are eager to get cross-cultural experience.  I don't know how many want to actually make it their life, but we can all pray for that, that at least a few would consider really coming alongside Africa for the long-haul.  A huge treat for me was that five faculty members who were my teachers and still work at Children's came, and a sixth called in to talk on the phone.  I have not followed in their academic footsteps, but it is nice to be remembered by mentors.  I was really honored.

But the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come did not stir me there.  It was fun and nostalgic to be back, I felt the twang of wondering if I should have tried harder to be more research-oriented, more on top of the game, more connected to higher learning.  The hospital itself represents the stark contrast of that parallel world, more equipment in one room than in our whole district, more doctors in one building than in our country.  At least it seemed that way.  I love my old home, and fully believe in the passion for excellence that serves that city and gives many, many children longer and better lives.  But I did not feel at home the way I do walking into any random African hospital in Congo or Uganda or Kenya or Sudan.  Children's was amazing but not familiar anymore.  I'm not used to the sterile safety of a functional and funded atmosphere.  I miss the paint-peeling grunge, the tangled IV bottles suspended by nails, the flashlight exams, the appreciation of the value of every glove and every needle.  

I suppose in the stories that is the point, to embrace the exact life we've been given, every turn and terror of it, for bringing us uniquely to this exact point of grace.

gorging

We are gorging in Chicago.  Gorging on relationship.  After 5 or 10 years of fasting from most of these friendships, we suddenly feast, abundantly, and stagger away amazed at the generous kindness and helpfulness of people. 

 From Indianapolis we drove North to the lakeside home of Scott's partner in residency who returned to the small town where he grew up and established a thriving medical practice.  It also happens that his front yard melts into the lakeshore, and his family pulled out all the "toys" for an evening of tubing, swimming, kayaking, and even (for Scott) water skiing.  Good food and blending our families once again and discussions around the beach fire.  We were blessed.  

From there we drove to Chicago, arriving in time for a reception another residency friend had planned.  It is hard to describe how wonderful it is to stand in someone's home and greet couple after couple coming through the door, people we went through those crazy work-day-and-night years of medical training with 20 years ago, and a few we've befriended since, all taking their Saturday night to just come and be with us, to listen and catch us up on their kids and work and lives.  Most of the people we really hoped to see were there.  It was a taste of Heaven for sure.

On Sunday we returned to Lawndale Community Church, our worship home for five years during our training.  This church taught us much about cross-cultural missions, about living among the poor, listening and learning and loving in concrete ways with healthcare and housing.  About lively singing and clapping.  About the gospel.  We were embraced by those who were still the church greeters after all those years, we saw women who had been single teen moms now mature and married and sending out their own teens.  Our clinic colleagues took us for a tour of the facility across the street where Scott worked for two years, now vastly expanded.  God has really blessed this church.  And one of the greatest treats was to hear "Coach" preach again, about being defined not by issues but by love.  Again, a feast of fellowship, and we inhaled it.

Now we're staying with a family whom we've known since those days, who could not be more welcoming.  They have the incredible gift of radical hospitality, late night conversations about things that matter, great meals on short notice as our schedule keeps evolving, introducing us into their lives.  And if we needed one more infusion of undeserved favor, at the last minute we were able to arrange a meeting with a pastor and his wife who had taught Scott in seminary and faithfully supported us (which is really humbling).  Though we did not know each other long or well, we felt like we did as we were again led to the banqueting table of kindness from this couple who asked insightful caring questions and overwhelmed us with thanks (when we were trying to thank THEM).

So it's been a week of heroic portions of friendship, and we still have a couple of days to go.  Wish we could spread all this goodness out over time, but such is the missionary life, so we'll keep gorging and try to remember these days in the hunger seasons ahead.

Uncle June

Last week as we drove westward through West Virginia, we arranged to stop and visit my Aunt Dink and Uncle June, my mom's 89-year-old brother. June (a nickname for the "Jr." suffix as he shared his father's name) lived alone with only a part-time housekeeper checking up on him, but my Aunt was in a nursing home, so we met at the home. We saw pictures of their 70th wedding anniversary party from a few months ago, and their great-grand-children, and showed them our pictures of Uganda. Uncle June was a marine who fought in the Pacific in WWII, and remained active in the VFW. He was part of that amazing generation of hardworking patriots, loyal, opinionated, pillar-of-community, church-going, brave, with a great sense of humor and an interest in the world. He spent a lot of time in his later years tracing the family genealogy, and even had a copy made for me to give me during the visit. When his marine grandson was posted to Africa and relayed stories of the school conditions, Uncle June mobilized the local school board and the VFW, got a truckload of books donated, boxed, and sent to Africa as a gesture of American good will.

When we stopped, Uncle June had a fresh bandage on his arm, sheepishly explaining that he had woken up in the night to go to the bathroom and thought he was only 50, forgetting those extra 40 years. He fell on the way to the bathroom and said he hit his wrist against the chair rail. Well, it turned out his fall was more significant than that for an elderly man on coumadin. A couple of days after we saw him he went to see his doctor because he just did not feel right, and by the time he came out of his CT scan he was rapidly deteriorating from intracranial bleeding. He was comatose by the time he was admitted, with no hope of recovery. My mom rushed to his bedside at the hospice where he was transferred. The doctor did not expect him to live more than a few hours, but he held on for over two days. He was one tough guy. He died yesterday afternoon.

I have so much respect for my many uncles (2 on my mom's side and 5 on my dad's) who fought in WWII. They were so young, and put up with so much hardship and horror and loss, then stoically returned and steadfastly worked to raise families. Until the 50th anniversary of the war, they rarely talked of it. The last visit to Uncle June's before this one, though, I remember him pulling out a Japanese sword from his basement that impressed my boys.

Only 1 of my mom's 4 siblings is now alive, and 5 of my dad's 14. They were both the youngest in large families, so this is a decade of many deaths. I'm thankful that God allowed us to stop and see this Uncle in what turned out to be the last week of his life, to give a good hug and goodbye not knowing it would be our last.