roots of my heart

My 3^rd grade year was a monumental year for me.  It was the first year I lived in the U.S. (that I remember). It was the first year I was in a traditional classroom. It was the first time I lived near our extended family and got to know them better. In short, it was a year full of firsts.  And it was a year full of vivid, clear memories.

I found some pictures of my brother and me taken that year.  There is one of us playing in snow. We had scraped together enough snow to make a tiny snowman.  Another one shows us carving pumpkins with our grandparents.  I remember both of those events very clearly.

This picture is nothing extraordinary.  First day of school: Backpacks loaded with fresh school supplies, lunchbox packed, grinning with anticipation.  But then it hit me.  In this picture my brother and I are the exact age that my boys are right now.  And I wonder.

I wonder what events are taking place in their lives that will be monumental.  I wonder what moments will be burned into their lifelong memories. I wonder if there are things that seem like everyday occurrences that are life-changing. I wonder what events are having an impact. I just pray and I hope and I wonder.

Time is a slippery little bugger, isn’t it?  I am not sure where all the time has gone since the last post. Nor am I entirely certain what’s been filling so much time, but regardless, I’ve been MIA for awhile.

Well, I’m here now.

We loved playing in the creeks around our house in Kenya.  Some were closer than others.  One creek had a sandy bottom, shallow clear water, and lots of little alcoves to explore.  There were fresh water crabs to catch and leaves to race through the swift current.  We called this “The Fast River” because of the swift current.  We didn’t go to that creek all that often because it was a main thoroughfare and it also had great big boulders that made navigating the water rather tricky.

There was a great, lumbering, slow-current, mysteriously murky creek just down the hill.  We played there often because of its proximity to the house, in spite of the stench and gooey river bottom. We called it “The Slow River”.

"Workin' at the car wash, yea"

When visitors came to our house, however, we usually made our way to our favorite creek: “The Car-Wash Fast River.”  Admittedly not the catchiest title, but very aptly named.  It was further away from the house, so we didn’t go very often.  In my child’s mind, this was a separate creek from the other fast river, but it was likely just a different bend of the same one.

Washing a filthy car that had navigated the unpredictable, dusty, and bumpy back roads of Kenya was a great reason to go to “The Car-Wash Fast River”.

The Christmases of my childhood looked both very similar and very different from a traditional American Christmas.  Come with me on a short journey into a Christmas past.

It’s Christmas Eve!  The cedar tree is propped precariously in the corner laden with bows and sentimental decorations.  In the kitchen preparations are underway for Christmas dinner.  There’s turkey (an expensive and rare delicacy), stuffing (made from home made bread), sweet potato casserole (scratch that, there were no sweet potatoes available, so we’ll make it with pumpkin instead), pumpkin pie, rolls, the works!  This is by far my favorite time of year.  We sit down to our fancy table, with soft strains of Christmas music floating through the air and dig in!

Christmas morning dawns bright and warm!  This is the part of Christmas that may look familiar to you.  A loving family scattered around the living room in their jammies, scrambling through stockings, tearing through paper, sipping hot cocoa, and reveling in the joy that comes with Christmas morning.  But wait.  Just when the last scrap of paper has been picked up, it is time to begin the next traditional part of Christmas.

I rush upstairs and don my proper bush missionary apparel; a denim skirt, socks & tennis shoes, t-shirt, and my brightly colored Maasai beaded jewelry.  We set out together with any of the Maasai people who are headed to the big celebration.  All the villages in surrounding areas will convene in one village for a massive party.

After a mile-long hot and dusty walk, we arrive at the village.  The sounds of the celebration are audible long before you reach the village.  Laughter, singing, kids yelling and playing, goat and cowbells clinking softly.  This is the sound of joy. The smell of the celebration hits next.  The smell of goat meat roasting over an open fire, onions and vegetables in the stew, and the faint intermingling aroma of cows and all that entails.  There is no program to a party like this.  All of the following events take place simultaneously and all are welcome to partake of any portion anytime they please.

We enter a home and are served a steaming cup of strong Kenyan tea with plenty of milk and sugar.  This is what they Maasai call Shai (pronounced shy).  Along with it, we are served chapati, a thick tortilla-like bread.  It’s only the first of many times we’ll be fed during this Christmas day.

The warriors can always be found in full regalia, red sheets billowing in the wind, skin smeared with red ochre, and hair twisted into long braids.  They stand in a large circle with their spears nearby stuck in the ground.  They take turns stepping into the middle of the ring to jump as high as they can in rhythm.

When it’s time for us to eat, we are seated in a small clearing on the ground.  They brought us each our heaping bowls of rice with large hunks of roasted meat on top. We eat with our hands.  This is one day that nothing is held back.  It is humbling to see the generosity of these people who have so little, but give so much.

A church service takes place throughout the time of the party.  People come and go as they please.  There are no assigned pastors or speakers, just a group of believers coming together to celebrate the birth of the Savior.  The singing is loud and whole-hearted.  The speaking is heart-felt and spontaneous.

The traditions may vary from culture to culture, but the essentials are the same.  Christ came to earth and we will gather together to celebrate!  Merry Christmas!

Kenya is not known for her evergreen trees.  Thorn trees, yes. Natural beauty, yes. Noble Fir, no. This can pose a problem for the family who would like to have a live tree at Christmas.

It was with great anticipation that our family would pile into our big, lumbering four-wheel-drive vehicle and venture into the forests in the Loita hills.  Finding a tree that resembles a Christmas tree is no small feat, I tell you.  In case you’re wondering, the cedar is about as close as it gets.

Every member of the family was charged with the task of keeping their eyes peeled for the right tree.  There were many false alarms where we would jump out and fight through the brush only to find that the tree was too tall or too spindly or too inaccessible.

The search is over!

We’d finally find the perfect(ish) tree (or the tree that was most available, of suitable size, and not too covered in bugs), cut it down and take it home.  It required some finagling to make it stand.  We would fill a 5 gallon bucket with sand, dirt, and rocks to try to coax the tree to remain upright. Then we tried to disguise the bucket under a swath of holiday fabric.

We would proudly hang as many ornaments as the spindly branches could hold. The light-weight ornaments consisted of crocheted snowflakes, stuffed fabric ornaments, red velvet bows, and lights.  Our tree topper was a 3” crocheted angel that never threatened to topple the whole thing. The precious family ornaments were hung right next to the trunk where the branches were a little stronger.

I always wanted to get a thorn tree. I think my parents resisted on account of the GINORMOUS THORNS! That and the fact that they were generally infested with ants and all manner of insects were apparently a deterrent.

So, Charlie Brown, I thank you for making the less-than-perfect tree endearing rather than inadequate.

I’ve been thinking a lot this week about thankfulness.  I have an inordinate number of blessings for which I’m grateful.

I am thankful for this good life I get to lead. I am privileged beyond measure and I know that.

I am really grateful for the unique (sometimes painfully so) childhood I lived. There are not enough words to capture what it was really like, but here’s a little.

The Kenya of My Childhood:

Where the skies are inexplicably grander

An alarm clock is a kind of necessary evil:  An object to which we give very little thought.  And yet, how very different our mornings would be without it.

This photo was taken by a girl named Heather. Her family lived in Loita after we moved on. They have also since moved, but they frequently visit Loita.

We had no need for alarm clocks when we lived far out in the Loita hills.  Partially because there was no office and desk and boss with time constraints waiting for us.  Partially because the concept of time is pretty bendy to the people of the Maasai tribe.  Mostly because the nature in Loita is LOUD!

There are hundreds of thousands-maybe millions-of birds (I never counted. I’m just judging by the volume of their songs).  They screech and scream and warble the chilly mornings away.

The trees surrounding our house were full of life.  Besides the birds and other mysterious critters, there were Colobus Monkeys.  They hopped from branch to branch and tree to tree, croaking their good morning songs and playing their monkey games.

After they had rousted us from our beds with their throaty calls, we sat and tried to catch glimpses of them as they bounded about the forest.

Loita had remarkable alarm clocks.

My words are running a little sparse.  Several of you just fainted and are pulling yourself up off the floor at this moment.  You doubted me.  You thought I could never run out of words. There is a legitimate reason for my unwordiness (see what I mean? Eloquence has vanished).  I am participating in my second NaNoWriMo.  I didn’t make that word up.  I promise.  November is National Novel Writing Month.  It’s great.  They set goals and I work to achieve them.  There are no accolades for those who complete them and there are no punishments for those who don’t.  The goal is to write about 1,700 words per day so that at the end of November you have a 50,000 word novella ready for editing.

All that to say (maybe I’m not as short on words as I thought) that my posts may be less wordy this month.  Or maybe they won’t.

I’ve been thinking about illness lately.  There is a vast difference between illness here and illness in Kenya.  True, there are some strange tropical diseases to be contracted over there.  But the tragedy lies in the number of lives lost to preventable diseases.

Vaccinations are a hot button topic in our society today.  The truth is, we have the luxury of deciding whether or not we CHOOSE to vaccinate our children and ourselves.  We know that if we or our children contract a disease, we can see a doctor or hospital for treatment.

Every so often, the missionary doctor held a vaccination clinic. People came in droves to line up in hopes of receiving one shot for their child. Lines like we see here for a movie premier or a popular concert. A few of them had immunization cards, but many did not.  Someone (in this picture my mom and the doctor’s wife) would write their name, the date, and the vaccination on a 3×5 card.  Those who already had cards (scraps of paper) carried them in plastic bags for protection.

Here in the U.S. people die of cancer.  There people die of dehydration (diarrhea). Here Polio is almost unheard of.  There you’ll still find people disabled by it.  Here if you test positive for TB you’ll have to take a bunch of antibiotics.  There if you test positive for TB chances are it will be the disease your HIV+ system can’t fight off. Here people die of untreatable disease.  There people die of preventable disease.

We are so privileged.  So very, very privileged.

Remember when I said that creativity was key in our costume creation?  If this picture doesn’t demonstrate our hard work and imagination, I don’t know what will. My dad sitting on the steps of the backhouse/office offering our treats for the trick-or-treat marathon.  Our classroom was in this same building to the left.  That day in school we had worked so hard to create these costumes.  The one in the box (me) is an elephant.  See the paper plate ears and the accordion paper trunk?  The large paper bag (brother) is a robot complete with  antennae, buttons and dials, the works.  To this day the process of purchasing a ready-made costume feels pretty anti-climactic.

Happy Halloween, all! Be safe and have fun!

Have you ever eaten honey straight from the comb?  It’s fabulous!  We would turn the piece of honeycomb this way and that to be certain we weren’t going to bite a bee, as that is rumored to detract from the fabulousness of the experience.  Fresh, thick, amber honey dripped off fingers and down chins.

My dad helped to oversee a beekeeping project when we lived in Entasekera.  We got to eat fresh honey.  The honey was called Warrior Gold and was sold in a few select dukas (shops) and it was delicious!

There were about ten hives (right Dad? Mom? Little help here.) that hung from the trees surrounding a tiny two-room concrete building.  There, Jeremiah (pronounced Jer-eh-MEE-uh) would clean, process, and jar all the honey.  The details on that are a little fuzzy because, frankly, what six-year-old is interested in honey-processing details?

I do remember a giant vat where he would melt down the beeswax to make candles.  That process was fascinating!  Rows and rows of deep golden candles, at varying phases of completion.  I especially liked the very skinny candles that hadn’t yet been dipped too many times.  We regularly burnt the beeswax candles in our home. They burned very quickly and made a big mess, but the smell!  Oh, merciful heavens, the sweet intoxicating smell of warm beeswax candles!

The business didn’t last long.  The hives were constantly getting robbed, both by human thieves and badgers.  In fact, one time a Maasai man flagged my dad down for a ride.  He had two big paint cans full of wild honey, but that wasn’t terribly uncommon.  My dad gave him a ride to his village, let him out and proceeded home, where he learned that the hives had just been robbed and he had been the getaway car for his own robbery.

I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating.  Life in Africa is raw.  The project had already been floundering.  It wasn’t proving to be all that helpful to the local people.  Then Jeremiah died.  No, he was violently killed.  A leopard accidentally wandered into his home, panicked, and in its attempt to escape began attacking everything in its path.  Jeremiah was in its path.  His life ended far too soon.

Honey reminds me of my childhood.  I think of the happy hours spent in that itty bitty concrete house.  I remember the rows of dripping, sweet-smelling candles.  I remember Jeremiah’s bright smile.

Who knew honey could be so complex?

I had an opportunity to go to a fantastic conference in Phoenix over the weekend called Together for Adoption.  Whoa, hey! No jumping to conclusions, now.  We don’t have plans to expand our family.  Despite the title of the conference, much of the subject matter had to do with international orphan care and that is a topic about which I’m pretty passionate.

It was a fantastic conference full of information and by the time I left my head literally hurt (not to mention my hiney) and I felt like I might be slathered in remnants of PhD that had dripped down off the stage.

Long story long, (I know I’m wordy) I have been processing.  Thinking and processing and trying to ease my brain back into this everyday life in light of the new information crowding my tired head.

In light of all the thinking and the brain-hurting and the getting-back-into-the-swing-of-things, I chose a picture that doesn’t need a lot of explanation.

Every day, people came.  They all had different needs and wants.  Some came for medical attention (neither of my parents is in the medical field), some out of curiosity, and some for friendship and social reasons.

We served chai.

Chai is the fuel for relationships.  It is warm, liquid friendship prepared and shared among people.  The sweet, hot, milky tea was poured day after day to share among neighbors.

Gallons upon gallons brewed and shared.

It’s the whole purpose, right? To bask in His love so you can pour it into the lives of those around you.