roots of my heart

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.

One of my great memories is of church in the Maasai villages.  Now, if I am going to be totally one hundred percent honest, I kind of have to address this from my perspective as a child and my perspective as a grown woman looking back.

Sunday morning: I would get up and get dressed.  The appropriate clothing for church in the village is a sturdy, long skirt/dress (usually denim), a lightweight t-shirt, socks and good walking shoes.  Attractive?  Well, if you know me, you know I’m ever the style-conscious fashion plate.  The point is, the clothes needed to be comfortable enough to sit on the ground modestly and walk a good distance.

There was no particularly set time for church to begin.  Things started when a few people arrived and someone started singing.  Singing time went from whenever someone started until someone stood up to preach.  A sermon might last anywhere from 5 minutes to 1 hour.  There is not one designated pastor, but several godly men who generally shared a thought or message.

We usually sat on the ground, women and children on one side and men on the other, as is culturally appropriate.   As the service went on, the kids would gather closer and closer to me.  They loved to touch my hair, rub my arms, touch my clothes, and hold my hand.

Honestly?  As a child it bugged me.  I kind of feel awful writing that.  I just didn’t want to stand out.  I wanted to sit with them and play with them and just not be different.  A lot of times I felt hot and tired and I wanted to just go home.

Looking back, that’s not what stands out, though.  I remember warmth of the sunshine on my back while the sounds of loud praises are raised to the sky. I remember trying desperately to read the words in the song book and keep up and being thrilled when they chose a song I’d memorized so I could join in. Whoever was preaching would stop mid-sentence to greet latecomers. I remember goats wandering through and nibbling on my shoes.  There is no stained glass window backdrop more beautiful than a live thorn tree.  There is no pew harder than the packed down earth.  There is no better way to commune with my Father than to sit and worship Him in His beautiful creation. Welcomed into a community of people to join with them in joyfully praising one God who is bigger than culture, borders, language, and traditions.

Pure and simple, raw, beautiful, honest, worship.

Here are a few more brilliant costume shots.  To be honest, I don’t even really know what we are in this first set.

The Mouse and Superman were pajamas that doubled as costumes.

You already know all about the witch and the ghost.

Halloween in Kenya: where ingenuity, creativity, and whatever-clothing-is-at-hand-and-can-double-as-a-costume meet.

You also already know, if you’ve scanned a few of these posts, that my mother is remarkably creative and fun.

Sometimes my parents were fun and creative even when life was hard.

In a relatively short amount of time, a series of devastating events took place.

We moved to a very remote (beautiful, but unquestionably remote) corner of Kenya.  Entasekera is the place we lived that took about eight hours to get to from Nairobi.  Although it was lovely, there were no more daily visits from missionary friends.  Unquestionably lonely.

My aunt & uncle (Mom’s sister) moved back to the U.S.

My grandparents (Dad’s parents) also moved back to the U.S. after working in Nairobi for 2 years

Our friend, Ray, was killed in a tragic motorcycle accident.

My grandfather (Mom’s dad) passed away suddenly and we didn’t hear until after services had been held.

I’m not saying that all these things were happening during this particular Halloween, but I am saying that life was not always idyllic and easy.  We were able to celebrate small holidays in big ways and have fun in the midst of difficult life circumstances.

This is a little family picture taken when we visited Kenya at Christmas in 2004.

I’ll get back to Halloween sooner or later.  But today is special.  Today is my best friend’s birthday.  I get to be married to him.

Bill and I were raised on opposite sides of the world.  In fact, pretty much everything about our childhoods are opposite from one another.  He was raised in Southern California by a very hard-working single mother.  I was brought up in rough-hewn homes in the very remotest parts of southern Kenya.

We met in college.  Laughing together is our favorite pastime.  It has been from the beginning.  He is a very funny guy.  I love that about him.  There are a few other great things too.  I think I could list hundreds, but the number of “loves” here is significant.

I love his humor.

I love his strength.

I love his dedication.

I love that he’s hardworking.

I love that I can respect him.

I love that he respects me.

I love that he has let me drag him all over the world.

I love that he loves being “dragged” all over the world.

I love that he is forgiving.

I love that he wants me to be my best.

I love that he is learning to love Kenya because of what it means to me.

I love that he has never pushed to try to understand my life, but instead has tried to learn to understand me (No easy task, I assure you).

I love that I get to parent beside him.

I love that he likes road trips.

I love that he teases me.

I love watching him with our boys.

I love that he is intelligent.

I love that he is kind.

I love that he wants to make me laugh.

I love that he is determined to break patterns from his past.

I love his fascination with history.

I love his ability to teach.

I love that his ability to teach extends to me.

I love that his great brain houses great stores of trivia.

I love that he’ll eat whatever I cook and thank me for my efforts (even when my efforts yield strange and inedible experiments).

I love that he wants our children to have incredible life experiences.

I love that he knows my dreams and encourages me in them.

I love that he is my number one fan

I love that he is honest with me when I need to be spurred on to greater things.

I love that he is handsome.

I love that he is funny. I know I already said that, but laughter is really that important to me.

I love that he loves his job.

I love that he prays for me every day.

I love that he has told me he prays for me every day.

I love that he constantly strives to follow the Lord more closely.

I love when he reads Bible stories to the boys.

I love that he answers with full, philosophical answers to our kids’ mundane questions.

I love you, my friend. I am thankful to be on this safari with you. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Happy Birthday!

I think our family’s unofficial motto is “Celebrate small things as though they are big things”. We got very good at making a big deal out of every holiday. And I do mean EVERY last blessed holiday. May Day? Yes indeed.

Halloween was no different. Sometimes our costumes were really incredibly creative. Our toilet paper came in bales. Probably about the size of a pack of Costco’s toilet paper, but a giant paper bag. One year we made our costumes out of these huge bags and some construction paper.

This particular picture makes me smile. My original one-of-a-kind witch costume is made out of my mother’s old nightgown held up by yards of twine. The hat was created with construction paper and tape. The lovely ghost by my side is shrouded in a piece of white fabric from my mom’s sewing stash. And that is our faithful dog, Toby behind us. We even carved an unripe little pumpkin.

Even in the middle of nowhere, Loita, Kenya we got to go trick-or-treating. We didn’t have neighbors who celebrated Halloween with us, but we did have beautifully creative parents. They sent us from door to door in our own house. After my dad would give us candy in the kitchen, he sent us to my mom in the dining room while he dashed to our office in the back house. When my mom sent us to the office, she would dash to the school room beside the office, and so on.

In creating the costumes, we felt the anticipation of the holiday. We hung little pictures of pumpkins and black cats and skeletons. In the dressing up, we felt pride and exhilaration. We got the thrill of feeling our little bags fill with goodies. We felt the rush of a sugar high. It was all very Halloweeny and normal…sort of.

Sometimes there were large groups of people at our house, and we celebrated big. Other times, there were four of us at our house, and we celebrated big. So, celebrate the small stuff. Celebrate the big stuff. Just celebrate!

Sure life in Kenya had its inconveniences, but there were some mighty fine perks too. Tourism is one of Kenya’s main industries. The stunning landscape and exotic animals draw people from all over world.

Every once in awhile, we indulged in the luxury of a tourist location. Here we are at one of the lodges in the Amboseli Game Reserve. Here we sat surrounded by concrete evidence of God’s creativity in the broad landscape, the endless sky, and a clear view of Mount Kilimanjaro in the distance.

Thousands of people paid thousands of dollars to see this place I was privileged to call home. At the time, I only had eyes for the swimming pool. Although I was surrounded by natural beauty, pools were a rare extravagance to me.

Now I look at that landscape and my throat constricts and the back of my eyes get a stinging feeling. I am so grateful that this was the backdrop of my life.

What a luxurious childhood I got to live!

We lived among the Maasai people in the southern region of Kenya.  You’ve likely seen their pictures in magazines, as they are a colorful tribe.  They are a beautiful people rich in tradition and culture.  Other Kenyan tribes generally fear the Maasai.  They are viewed as a savage tribe of warriors.  I believe they are terribly misunderstood.

The reputation is not entirely unwarranted, however.  They were once a nomadic tribe, travelling with their cattle to the places where their herds could flourish.  As they travelled, they often raided the villages of locals and stole their cattle.  According to ancient legends, all the cattle in the world had once belonged to the Maasai, so when they came upon a village that had cattle, it was clearly the duty of the Maasai warriors to take back what had rightfully belonged to their ancestors.

But the Maasai I know are warm, kind, and happy people.  They are hospitable and generous beyond their means.  We never visited a village where we were not invited into at least one home, served a large mug of scalding hot of chai, and embraced as friends.

They were patient in teaching us their language, culture, and traditions.  They were tolerant of our strange and foreign ways.  They smiled readily, laughed heartily, loved deeply, learned quickly, taught patiently, helped willingly, and embraced us warmly.

They dressed brightly (favoring red above all other colors), sang loudly, walked quickly, used sparingly, and shared generously.  When they asked, ‘how are you?’, they expected at least a five-minute response fully outlining the wellbeing of the entire household

I could spend days writing about the customs and traditions of these lovely people, but really I just want you to get an overview.  I want you to know that they are gentle and kind and that they embraced us so warmly.

I consider myself truly blessed to have been raised among these remarkable people.