Heartache

I stood by the grave with Agnes and some friends. Moments earlier her tears had poured as I stepped out of the car. She couldn’t say much. Just two words repeatedly.

“So sad. So sad.”

She shook the hands of each person exiting the vehicles. We were all silent.

After a brief moment of no one knowing exactly where to look or what to say, Agnes led us to the freshly filled grave. There were several flower arrangements on the moist earth. Agnes stood closest to the burial site. She was stoic. We all gathered around and a prayer was spoken. Young Anna Marie, stood back from the rest. She didn’t take her eyes off her mom. Her normally happy eyes filled with deep concern each time Agnes’ tears overflowed.

The next hour ushered us into a grandmother’s sitting room and into Scripture.

We weren’t looking for answers.

I do not know of any answers in the face of such sorrow.

I sought to offer Ivan’s family a response.

Jesus stood by fresh graves too. He saw burials and heard the wails of the grieving.

We are told that Jesus was deeply moved or troubled in spirit when he witnessed the grieving. (Luke 7:11-17; John 11:1-44)

According to the Lazarus story, he even wept.

Yet, in both of those scripture references, He was going to conquer the death. He was going to raise the person up. Amazement and joy were coming, and He was burdened by the death anyway.

We offered to Agnes that Jesus sees her tears, hears her wails and aches for her loneliness.

Even though He knows that good is coming. And Life awaits those who believe.

Our current pain is still His pain.

I long for people to meet this Jesus. This One who knows us so well.

The One who has cried real tears and felt real heartbreak. The One who had to wipe his snotty nose.

Our King.

I believe young Ivan walks with Him now.

The holidays are a painful time to grieve. But inevitably, grief comes. Or returns. The lights, the decorations, the songs and the food can ignite memories of those who have passed on.

Dear Ones, who carry such a weight, Jesus knows. He completely understands the pain and stench of death. He went, even there.

Death could not hold Him. Nor will it hold us, if we believe in Him.

I am certain of that life on the other side.

But my tears sure flow freely right now.

Maranatha.

Ivan passed from this life on the morning of November 17, 2009. He was hit by a car on the road near his home. He was not yet 10 years old. He is survived by his mother Akiiki Agnes, sister Anna Marie, grandmother, uncles, aunts, cousins and a church family who loved him so much.

“…weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.” Psalm 30:5

Thankful Mondays

-pretty toes
-girl's day out
-good friends
-good news
-hot coffee
-a great series of books
-oreo ice cream
-new football games to watch
-hearing my niece's sweet, sweet voice for the first time

(Join the crowd! )

"Cutter, Cutter, Peanut Butter"

The school term begins this week in Uganda. Which means that school fees are being paid en masse at banks across this land.

I have been paying fees for awhile now. Start early. That’s the secret.

Unfortunately, “early” is not an easy thing for me.

So, it was with firm resolve that I walked up the stairs of the bank last Thursday at 11AM.

Yep. Almost midday. The line was all the way to the door.

Resigned to my fate, I joined the queue.

A queue full of two faces: The Stare and The Gawk.

I have mastered The Stare. The trick is finding nothing to look at. No person. No one thing for a very long time. Just an indifferent sort of gaze.
Most of my fellow queue-ers were already well into The Stare mode when I entered. I broke their reverie with my arrival.

The long line, to a person, broke wholeheartedly into The Gawk. This is enabled by my very white face.

I pretend not to notice. But The Gawk actually seems to burn holes in my back.

I ignore The Gawk and with a deep breath I enable my own Stare hoping that the effort will somehow, magically make me blend in.

Everyone’s attention is drawn away from my pale skin by the first cutter.

She is smooth. She walks past all of us with her heavy bag and stack of papers. She, in mastery of The Confident Gait, takes her place well in front of me.

I am silently annoyed. But I say nothing. Everyone's attention was just drawn AWAY from me. I did not want to call that attention back. Several of my Queue-mates raise their eyebrows and snicker. It seems they are almost thankful for the break in the endless staring. Her misdeed is a sort of distraction. (telling) We all quickly settle back into The Stare.

Two more self serving individuals place themselves conveniently at the front part of the line.

I decide, that the next time I will speak up.

And in walks E. The sweetest older woman you’ve ever met. I have only had two opportunities to speak with her through the years, but she is deeply respected and valued in this community.

I felt my Stare morph into Gawk as sweet little E greeted her way to the front of the line.

I imagined myself calling sweet E out. And I shuddered a little bit.

With a sigh, I kept my mouth closed.

The woman with the crippled leg grabbed my attention next. She limped her way to the front of the line and no one complained. I momentarily felt proud of the compassion and patience we were all exhibiting on her behalf. Of course SHE can go to the front of the line.

She approached the teller. Finished her transaction and then left.

A few minutes later she was back. With another transaction.

And again.

And again.

Seems she had a bit of a hustle going on. ☺

Meanwhile, I barely moved for another half hour.

All of a sudden (I must have dozed), I was near the front of the line. There were two in front of me.

Only.

And then.

The Nun.

She jumped in front of the first gentlemen. He was caught off guard, lost The Stare and looked annoyed for a quarter of a second. Then was jolted back into reality by the fact that she was A Nun.

She sidled up to the teller and pulled out a huge stack of papers.

Gracious me.

I think she was paying school fees for the entire tribe.

More unfortunate than her stack of papers, was the teller she chose. In over an hour of waiting time, I had carefully observed the tellers. There were four at work. One was for business customers only. Three were for the rest of us. Two of the tellers I had begun to think of as MH1 and MH2 (“MH” stands for molasses hands). The teller at the first window would be our savior. He worked quickly, relatively speaking. And I loved him.

UNTIL…and in the third world there is ALWAYS something else…

Mr Bank Employee in is stylin’ tweed jacket comes to complain to the tellers about the line. After talking their ears off for several minutes, which only served to slow them down, (have mercy!) he came out to address the crowd.

He said something like, “This line is too long!”

Thank you. I will now refer to you as Einstein.

So Einstein begins to peruse everyone’s deposit slips. In some seemingly arbitrary way, he pulls people from the line BEHIND me and puts them in a direct line for teller #1. The savior. Which, in effect, made him lost to me forever.

Now, thanks to the brilliant categorizing of Einstein, I am stuck behind Pushy Nun and my entire day rests in Hands Made of Molasses.

At this point, I began to huff. I couldn’t help it.

It did no good.

Twenty five minutes later, I dragged my weary bones to the teller window and handed her my papers.

She languidly went through the motions. I held my breath lest she decide it was tea time and leave me standing there. But, with a million slamming slaps of her official stamps, she finally completed my transaction.

Painful. Long. And able to reduce my maturity level to that of a 1st grader.

“Cutter, cutter, peanut butter!”

Next time I’m going with that!

Thankful for...

---a moment alone on the porch with a cup of tea and a cool breeze
---fajitas!
---American football
---long conversations with my husband
---chocolate frozen desserts
---my daughter cooking breakfast
---older siblings leading younger siblings through reading and math
---completed tasks
---new school books
---speaking Rutoro to children

Mojo Magic

I went to a wonderful high school some years ago.

20 years ago.

I know! I can’t believe that either. ☺

But nevertheless, the time, it passes.

As I perused FB photos from the reunion this last week, I remembered many things about high school. The memories are random and in no particular order. Which is pretty much life for me these days.

So. High school.

1. My graduating class had @650 graduates. I can’t remember the exact number.
2. At graduation I did not know either of the people sitting next to me. (I had to count down the row 10 people before I came to someone I knew.)
3. My sophomore year of school I never saw my best friend at school, ever. We had different lunches and class schedules and so had to meet up on the weekends.
4. I was in band and choir.
5. I loved band. They were like family during those years and some of my best memories are with those funny, funny folks.
6. Our band was really great!
7. It took 6 buses to transport our band and equipment to games and contests.
8. MA was always my seatmate on band bus trips. Unless she had a boyfriend.
9. I had a boyfriend every year of high school but rarely had a date on the weekends. Unless it was a holiday. (it’s like a riddle)
10. I did not go to prom and I’m still okay with that.
11. My dad heard about more of my friend’s parties than I did. (clarification: he was never invited. He just always heard about them.)
12. I was only offered drugs once. (I stared at the young man in shocked silence and he immediately shoved the goods back in his pocket and sulked in the back of our chemistry class. I never saw him in class again.)
13. I cannot stand KFC because of a very ill-fated meal on a cross country band trip at a Moose Lodge in Arizona. Yucky.
14. I loved football season.
15. I was a Pepette my senior year.
16. My track runner was Shane, my basketball player was ?, and my football player was Tag. (why can’t I remember my basketball player? Shawn Almond? Did he play basketball?)
17. I first got to know Tag in 8th grade. In junior high, the football players joined home economics class for laughs and Tag was placed in my cooking group. I cooked. He made jokes. We got an A.
18. An author followed our football team around all year and told our student body at a pep rally that he was going to write a book about Permian like the story “Hoosiers”.
19. He did write a book.
20. It is nothing like Hoosiers.
21. The book made me sad. The movie was weird to watch. The TV show is one of my favorites. Go figure.
22. The first time I took a computer class was my junior year.
23. We learned MSDOS code. We thought we were so advanced.
24. We often wrote words and messages on each other’s car windows with white shoe polish.
25. I remember the first time I heard the brass section play in a rehearsal at the band hall. It was impressive.
26. Mr Nail called me a slug once over his bullhorn.
27. I remember all the girls curling our bangs in the dressing room after early morning marching. And the smell of hairspray that permeated the air. Bangs were so important then. (Okay. Bangs are still important. We just don’t make them so big.)
28. The invention of the butane curling iron revolutionized life for the band girls.
29. The last time I ever marched, it was rainy and cold.
30. My dad always played Santa Claus at our half time show at Christmas.
31. Hawai 50!
32. I can still play part of the Mojo fight song on the flute. (powerful ☺)
33. Arlington High vs Permian was the best high school football game I have ever seen. Maybe that was ever played?
34. The Arlington High band got aggressive during our pre-game march around the track thing. The band. They marched into our band and hit us. Meanies. I thought we were really going to see Mr Nail’s head explode.
35. My friends gave me a surprise party for my 18th birthday.
36. I made a bet with my BFF that whoever married first had to buy dinner for the other at a very expensive restaurant when we turned 40. We got married within a month of each other. (after college, not in high school) I owe her dinner. Soon.
37. I loved sitting next to Karina in band. We were funny. (even if no one else appreciated the humor)
38. There was this one intersection of halls at Permian where you could barely move through between classes. You just sort of smooshed into an obscure sort of “lane” and inched your way in the direction of your next class. It was noisy and crowded and always made me nervous.
39. I think of that every time I drive in Kampala traffic.
40. I made first chair in the PHS band flute section exactly one time.
41. I never sat first chair because, well, Denise and Stephanie…but I told my dear friend Mary and she celebrated with me.
42. TACO VILLA!!!!
43. Before I got my car I rode to school in a white mustang with Jill. We were always running a wee bit late, so Jill had to drive fast. It broke her heart to do so because she was such a safe and conscientious driver. ☺
44. Open-campus meant we got to eat out for lunch. I thought this was so cool but it was also the most stressful time of day. Drive somewhere. Eat. Drive back. In 25 minutes.
45. Eating at Wendy’s always makes me think of Danny, Mary and a brown Honda.
46. I was president of the National Honor Society.
47. I was chaplain of band and choir.
48. I led a lot of prayers.
49. I had a Physics teacher named Mr. Hare who was completely bald. And he was a contortionist.
50. I started and ended every school day in the band hall. It was home away from home.



Our class became somewhat famous. We are the class from Friday Night Lights.

It was exciting to think of someone writing a book about our school. Until it was published. And then most folks were underwhelmed or irate. It is difficult to be scrutinized publicly.

I never played football. (shocker) But I was an active part of many other aspects of Permian High School. So, for me, the very public analysis of our football program, school and town never felt complete. Did Mr. Bissinger really do all his homework?

He never interviewed me.

Smile

Go MOJO! Keep supporting your kids.

I loved being a part of your tradition and memories!

"MOM!!!!"

Remarkable things follow that familiar cry. Sometimes love. Sometimes tears.

And sometimes…

“He peed on my stomach and now I HAVE to take a bath.”

“We were playing the game where we hit our heads against each other’s knees…”

“There are nine rats in our closet.”

It’s never boring around here!

A Glimpse

Glimpse: a momentary or partial view

Silas stopped by the kitchen for his snack break. It had been a whole 5 minutes since his last request for chocolate. A request that scored a banana. He was back to try again.

He could not stand still. Arms tugging at his shirt and hands tapping the table and eyes darting around the room.

“Mom. Could I have something to eat….like chocolate?”

I pause to take in this sweet, sweet boy. Growing seemingly before my very eyes.

And I catch a glimpse of something odd around his waist.

“What is that around your waist?!”

Head ducking…

“A rubber band.”

“Why is it around your waist?”

“Well, these shorts are too big and keep falling off, so I put a rubber band around them to keep them up.”

Matter of fact. Eyes searching my face for an explanation of my concern.

“Please take that off. Rubber bands can cut off circulation and cause problems. Belts are for your waist. Rubber bands are for…something else. NOT any body part. Ever.”

“Yes mam.”

And then up over his head (!) comes the rubber band and still in tact, he hands it to me and runs off to play.

Tugging at his shorts and shouting to his brothers…

“She said no to the chocolate.”

106. Silas and Jotham laughing over a silly joke.

107. Isaac reading a book.

108. Anticipation of fellowship.

109. Healing.

110. Enough Velveeta to make Queso.

111. Sharing Queso with friends!

112. Praying with brave women.

113. Comfy jeans.

114. Helpful kiddos.

115. A very hot cup of tea.

Thankful for all of these...

Rescue

"He reached down from on high and took hold of me; he drew me out of deep waters. He rescued me from my powerful enemy, from my foes, who were too strong for me. They confronted me in the day of my disaster, but the Lord was my support. He brought me out into a spacious place; he rescued me because he delighted in me." 2 Samuel 22: 17-20

I pray this scripture often throughout my recent days. Seems this is a season of "deep waters" for many.

My appreciation to all who prayed for our friends, Kevin and JD. Their story is so amazing and has brought much hope and thankfulness to our hearts. JD’s recounting is moving and God glorifying. Read and be blessed.

Our hearts labor in prayer for our brothers and sisters in Cochabamba, Bolivia. A terrible bus accident has rocked the church family there. Please go here to read the details and updates and lift these dear ones up as they struggle through grief and the emotion of trauma.

And then...

Jobs, sickness, death, relationships, choices, decisions, ministry, war...

"...he rescued me because he delighted in me."

Reminded of his unfailing love and delight in us.

Emboldened by His victory.

"But thanks be to God, who always leads us in triumphal procession in Christ and through us spreads everywhere the fragrance of the knowledge of him." 2 Cor 2:14

Triumph is good. And "always" boasts pretty great odds.

So, I'm sticking close to Christ. Praying His scent emanates.

And lifting up the names, the precious spirits God lays on my heart.

Love to you, my friends. Whatever deep waters you find yourself in today. Or witness others treading through...

Fight the good fight.

Stand firm.

Spacious places await.

I'm counting on it.

For all of us.

Prayer Cover

UpdateKevin regained conciousness Friday evening and is sustaining breathing on his own. Praise the Lord! Please continue to pray for his complete healing.

Will you pray for our friends today?

Kevin and JD are friends who served as missionaries in Bundibugyo for over a decade. They founded a secondary school. Their four children are the ages of ours.

They relocated to the US last year and recently announced Kevin's new teaching job at a wonderful school in the Northeast.

Yesterday, Kevin collapsed while on a jog with their oldest son. JD found him with no pulse or breathing.

He was revived and is currently in very critical condition.

Please pray for Kevin, JD, Joe, Louisa, Savannah and Nate.

Father, please hold these, Your dear ones, tight. Please heal Kevin, for Your Glory. Thank you for the medical care that was near him and for restarting his heart. Please comfort Joe and JD through the trauma they have faced. Hold them all through the trauma they continue to walk through. Please pull your Body, your Church around them to help them function and thrive through these days. Thank you for hearing us. In Jesus, Amen

Goodbyes and Grace

And here we are again. That word.

Goodbye.

In January of 1995 Jeff and I arrived, with our vehicle and 9 rubbermaid trunks to Kagote housing district, Ft Portal. We had no beds. No table. No stove. No furniture.

Whew.

We also had no friends. In our pockets were two letters. One was for David and one was for the LC5, a local government official. We would eventually meet those two men, but for some weeks, it was just us, two german shepherds and a very foreign place.

Sometime during those first months, on a Sunday, an American drove into our compound. His name was Bob and he and his wife were planning to move to Ft Portal permanently. They were building a house and in the process of adopting their first baby. We quickly made plans to meet up for a meal.

Over the next months we shared many candlelit dinners with Bob and Jennifer. Candlelit because we had to. No power. We lived for those debrief times. Bob and Jennifer were living in two tiny mud rooms. We were carving a niche in a rat and cockroach infested concrete house.

We would talk late into the night about this foreign culture we were trying so earnestly to learn about and survive in. We always had hours of stories between us. Marriage. Language. Electricity. Water. Construction. We laughed a lot. Cried some. Prayed for each other. And hoped. We had so much hope during those days.

We were unlikely friends. Presbyterians thrown together with the church of Christ. Theological differences, varying backgrounds, contrasting personalities.

One Lord.

And that was enough. He is always Enough.

Twelve years and 9 children later, we stand on the other side of our goodbye.

Thankful for Grace.

Because that is what made it all possible. Grace for our differences. Grace for our shortcomings. Grace in a million big and little ways.

How do you summarize 12 years of births, adoptions, burials, birthdays, holidays, victories and defeats?

I don't think I can.

Instead, I take all that those years have given. Give thanks.
And move forward.

Looking towards Home.

God be with you, Chedesters. We love you.

I know His Grace more for walking with you.

The Wedding Ring

I love my wedding ring.

It is, just what I wanted.

Jeff and I were poor when we began wedding plans. We were poor and set on living our life in Africa.

I decided that a plain, simple wedding band would suit me just fine. I love diamonds but financially and practically it didn’t seem the time for diamonds. We could save and invest in some gems later.

Jeff decided differently.

One time he asked me what kind of ring I would want if I could choose. Shape of diamond? Yellow gold or white gold? Solitaire or in a larger setting?

Honestly, I answered, “Heirloom.”

I had developed a fondness for antique/old jewelry. Especially, if said jewelry came with a story. A happy one, preferably.

But, I quickly brushed this discussion aside. Plain bands. We had decided.

About a week before my birthday, Jeff began to verbally “stress out” over my empty ring finger. He said that every girl deserved an engagement story. An engagement ring.

He said that he felt like a bum.

I prayed for him. I asked God to help him be content.

My birthday rolled around with big plans for a whole day together. Jeff asked me to dress up and said that we would have a nice lunch at a restaurant of my choosing. He was to meet me after chapel. (I was still in college).

The singing group I was in was singing that day in chapel and towards the end of our presentation, I noticed Jeff walk in the back of the auditorium. He was dressed in a suit.

This made me very happy. It was going to be a nice date!

During announcements, I tried to leave out of a side door, anxious to meet up with my knight and begin our day of romance. Just as I reached the door, my roommate grabbed my arm and shoved me in the chair beside her. I complained and she said, oddly, “Don’t you want to hear them wish you happy birthday?!” (birthdays were announced in chapel daily)

No. I did not care to waste my romantic day waiting to hear my name said over a microphone. And then, I noticed Jeff. He and his roommate were walking down the aisles of chapel. They were both wearing suits, dark sunglasses and had earpieces, like the Secret Service.

I began to feel very nervous. And if my roommate hadn’t had such superhuman strength at that moment, I would have successfully escaped out the side door.

I was scared, all of a sudden.

Jeff went up on stage and called me to the front. Things began to go fuzzy. My face felt on fire. What in the world was he doing?! I was handcuffed and escorted outside for “questioning”.

I don’t remember specifics of the next bit of time. Humiliation blocks memory apparently.

I was blindfolded, driven all over Lubbock Tx, switched from car to car and finally told to remove my blindfold to discover I was in the middle of nowhere West Texas being driven by Jeff’s roommate, also named Jeff. We were turning into a private airfield and there was a helicopter waiting.

A helicopter? We were quickly informed that the helicopter couldn’t fly today. Too windy. (In Lubbock? Wind? Shocking.)

Roommate Jeff shifted to Plan B and drove me to Boyfriend Jeff who was waiting on a dock near a pond in a park with a table, chairs and birthday cake.

I chastised my love. He had shared many elaborate date stories from his own college experiences. But our dating life had, up until this moment, remained pretty low key. I accepted the events of the morning as they were meant. A birthday surprise and a lot of hoopla to cement a memory and have some fun. My embarrassment was just icing on the cake.

Cake. Jeff had made a strawberry cake and we sat down to enjoy it. I assumed all the excitement was over. Jeff served my piece and it looked a little odd.

It was not a piece of cake at all. But a ring box, iced into the strawberry cake.

I was shocked.

And my mind raced. Where did he get the money for this? How did he do this? What did it look like?!?!

He ceremoniously got down on one knee, opened the ring box, took out the ring and began to speak.

“Will you….”

The world seemed to stop for a minute. THE moment was before me.. The words and event romanticized and play acted by little girls for generations.

The Proposal. It was happening. I was trying to take it all in.

I was wrapped up in the exhilaration of surprise and expectantly held my breath.

In that flash of an instant…my dear suitor… dropped the ring.

In slow motion I watched the ring bounce off the deck and into the water. With a tiny little plunk that seemed to echo for several minutes.

Jeff tore off his coat and tie and jumped into the pond. I stared in disbelief.

Who does this? Who drops the ring? Who loses THE moment?

Was it a sign?

I felt sick.

The water of the man-made pond was as thick as the silence around me.

We were supposed to be celebrating by now, tears of joy pouring down our love struck faces. But instead…

Jeff came out of the water overwhelmed with apology. He said we needed to go get his scuba gear. I didn’t have the heart to speak the obvious truth. The ring was gone.

Why did I feel such loss when I didn’t even have my heart set on it in the first place?

We began to load the uneaten cake and the small table and chairs into the car. There were two other presents under the table, wrapped with beautiful bows. He had asked my shirt size the day before and so I figured he had bought me clothes. (he does a great job at picking out clothes for me, BTW)

He asked me to open those presents, at least. He continued to apologize and lament.

I unwrapped the first box, pulled back the tissue paper to see…

A ring box.

A. Ring. Box.

I looked up to the twinkling eyes of my very mischievous boyfriend who innocently said, “What’s this?!”

He took the box, opened it and got down on one knee again.

He said something about me never losing his love and then “Will you marry me?”

I paused longer than he expected.

But then I decided it was safer to get the ring on MY finger before he dropped it again.

I said, “Yes”, which was a decision I had already made through a series of long talks, heart sharing and prayers. Good thing for him. This proposal was turning me every which way but loose.

He gently placed a beautiful, old fashioned, heirloom ring on my finger and then I punched him in the arm. Repeatedly.

Jeff confessed that the first ring was a set up. A Walmart $3 ring he purposefully tossed in the water.

Why?

Well. That’s just how he rolls.

The writing was on the wall for me.

This man was a mess. A MESS. He would always surprise me, never be boring and never outgrow his propensity for losing things. (sigh)

But he wouldn’t lose me. True to his word. He has held on and persevered and somehow managed to treasure me through this life.

The ring was gorgeous. Perfect.

His grandmother’s. She was one of our first phone calls after my heart started beating again and I had quit punching him.

She was thrilled to share the story of the ring. As I remember, she said the ring was given to her and AJ (Jeff’s grandfather) by a friend. AJ served as a minister and they never had a lot of money. Her original wedding band was simple and inexpensive. When their friend presented them with this ring, she and AJ were so thankful and thrilled. Grandma Rose wore it for many years.

Jeff’s Mom shared with me once about her Mom and Dad (Rose and AJ) enjoying a cup of coffee together every day when AJ came in from work. Phyllis remembered that as their time. The kids were not allowed to interrupt. Phyllis saw their friendship and their adoration for each other in those coffee moments. And in many other moments too.

When AJ passed away, Rose, grieved so much. Their relationship had been faithful, deep and precious. Losing him was devastating to her.

Some years later, Rose met Francis and he asked her to be his wife. At that time, she passed on this wedding ring to Phyllis. Phyllis had in mind for the ring to go to her daughter Kristi.

When Jeff decided to marry me he asked his Mom if she knew of any heirloom jewelry in the family. Phyllis asked Kristi, who said she would be happy for Jeff to have the ring, and sent the ring to Jeff.

And that is how I came to have Grandma Rose’s wedding ring.

It represents love, faithfulness and the generosity of loved ones. It also represents many sweet moments over coffee.

Jeff and I have been incredibly blessed by the heritage we have in our grandparents. All four sets, loving each other “til death do us part.” Their marital faithfulness and devotion has encouraged and spurred us on as we continue to learn and grow together. We don’t take this heritage for granted.

Grandma Rose was buried last week. She was our last living grandparent. We grieve her passing, and long for heaven. Where hugs, reunion and peace will reward those of us redeemed by Grace.

Until then, we have many wonderful things to hold on to as we journey.

Grandma’s ring and what it represents is one of those things for me.

A heritage, that we will never lose. An heirloom ring with a story.

A happy one.

The Tent

Not enough words in the world to describe the journey to this moment.

Fort Portal Church of Christ. Worshiping on their land. In the tent.

Of course, there will always be a next step. The church land committee is working towards the laying of a cement floor.

The full length tent will be set up on this floor.

But for now, in true Ugandan fashion, we set up what we can. Meet on our land. And, mpora, mpora, (slowly, slowly) we complete the place for the full tent.


The first morning brought me to tears. Long awaited. Much appreciated. Well received.

Please, Holy Father, be honored in this place. It is truly our deepest desire.

Thank you Glenwood.

(smile)

How deep our grateful hearts feel love for you.

PRAISE!!!

And Then There Was April...

Isaac sighs with a glance at the calendar.

“April has been a long year.”

(Smile)

Some months feel that way don’t they?

We’ve had much to celebrate and rejoice over this month. So much activity, in fact, that sitting to write about it has been impossible. Too busy living it. There is much good in that too.

So now, on this last day of a “long year”, here are the bullet points of the Cash family April.

1. Easter—What a week we had. So busy. So full of good things. Family from America and Rwanda arrived midweek and spent the holiday weekend with us. We dyed eggs, decorated cupcakes, perused old pictures, talked late into the night, enjoyed Starbucks (!), celebrated a Seder meal, hunted Easter eggs and shared dinner on the grounds with our town church. We even managed to give Evan Martin his Empako (nickname and important ceremonial “welcoming” of babies in the Tooro culture).

2. We all awoke early on the day after Easter to depart in different directions. Our Rwanda visitors headed home by bus. Our American visitors rode to Kampala to fly out (to Rwanda) for more time with their kids. And Aimee Jo, Cheryl and baby Evan driving to Kenya for the East Africa Women’s retreat in Kakamega rainforest.

3. Driving in Africa—by leaps and bounds THE most dangerous thing we do. I do not like driving here and thank God daily for Jeff’s proficiency and willingness to shoulder this task. But among the girls, I was the most experienced so climbed behind the wheel with constant prayers for God’s mercies and protection.
We had two close calls. Two young girls walked in front of our vehicle sending me skidding and drifting into the other lane. And a dying lorry (semi truck) blocking traffic on a hill locked us into oncoming traffic.
We were carried through the incidents successfully, but their memory robbed me of sleep. And flooded my heart with thankfulness. We had one flat tire. Which was discovered while still in a major town. We were directed to a terrific gas station and with the help of able men, our tire was repaired and we were on our way.

4. We didn’t get lost. We went a new way (for me) to cross the border between Kenya and Uganda. Which means new roads and new turns. All of which had been described to me by my husband, but a bit of risk, nonetheless. I was so thrilled to make the trek with no missed turns at all. A miracle to be sure!

5. Ladies Retreat. Wonderful. There is a camaraderie among women who share this type of life. Shared struggle. Understanding hearts. Much laughing and always some tears. How sweet the fellowship.

6. The delight of home. I love hugging my kids. Hearing their fun memories with Dad (hide and seek in the night time!) Sleeping in my own bed. I’m thankful that coming home is such a wonderful feeling.

7. Back to it. There are meetings, school lessons, Bible studies, goodbyes, a little thing we call Faith Quest….all around the corner. So I breathe deep, cling to His hand and forward we go.

Hope your April has been blessed!

Honoring the Miracle--Conclusion

March 20.

After a long night of intermittent labor and an early morning of excruciating work…

One little girl changed our world forever.

The cord was wrapped around her neck and tied into a knot. The doctor worked quickly and expertly cut the cord, loosening its hold on our baby’s airway. She took gasping breaths, while the rest of the delivery room held theirs. Her pinking up and loud wails brought cheers and tears all around.

Our doctor, glanced at Jeff to say, “You have one lucky girl here.”

Jeff replied, “Blessed, Dr Patel. She is blessed.”

Once Kinley started to wail she didn’t stop. She was in the baby warmer being checked over by a pediatrician while Jeff held my hand and we offered prayers of more gratitude than I had ever felt. The doctor asked Jeff to come and comfort our baby girl, until I was able to take her.

Jeff walked near to the baby warmer and leaned in close, Kinley’s wails filled the room. Jeff said, “Kinley, honey. It’s Daddy.”

Her cries immediately stopped, and her head turned towards his voice.

My big strong hubby broke into tears, looked at me and said, “She knows me!” And, my friends, that was that. She had his heart. Forever and for always.

I could not stop looking at her. Could. Not. Stop.

I watched her chest rise and fall. Rise and fall. Rise and fall.

I put my ear to her chest to hear the thumping of her heart.

Alive.

I’ve been given many things from my Lord. Many things.

But those early days of motherhood, with the memory of sickness and fever in the recent past, were some of my most grateful days ever.

Why did He do this for me?

She turned eleven last week. She has a passion for God that is astounding to me. She loves people. She loves her family. She is a terrific artist.

Our days are full of school and cooking together and hearing her dreams and plans. We’ve painted her room pink and blue and stenciled and picked out curtains. We’ve taped her ballet classes and enjoyed sleepovers and movie nights. We have lively discussions about fashion and what she can (or can’t) wear. We’ve heard her confess Christ as Lord and seen her be baptized. We’ve pierced her ears and cut her hair.

We’ve lived.

But I always know in my mother’s heart. She is His. His.

He decided to let me know her on this earth. I may never understand all the reasons why.

I drink in the fear of those early months. The desperate prayers. The understanding that at any point it could have gone the other way. The knowledge that for many it does.

I swallow all of that and let it refine and remind me of Him.

My Kinley does that. Testifies to Him. Without saying a word.

I love you my girl. God sent you here for a purpose. Never stray from His side. He loves you more than I do. And, sweet girl, that is saying a lot.

Thank you Jesus.

Honoring the Miracle Part IV

At month 5, I turned a corner. I began to feel hungry again and managed to keep food down. I moved from my bed to the couch. I bathed.

Praise Jesus, I felt that baby kick.

I cry even now.

Months passed and I gradually gained more strength. I rejoiced at my expanding middle and celebrated every movement in my womb. We made difficult decisions about where we would birth this child. We chose Nairobi, Kenya and made detailed and complicated arrangements for housing, transportation, physicians and hospitals.

The week before we left for Nairobi I traveled to a nearby village to say goodbye to a group of women I had been studying with. As my language helper and I drove into the village, we saw the women moving en masse towards Akiik’s home. The mood was somber and we immediately knew that a burial was imminent.

We drove into Akiiki’s compound and were informed that Akiiki had delivered a baby boy and that he had quickly died. Burial was today. The community of women gathering took in my heavy form and quickly moved inside to scurry and speak in hushed tones. My language helper explained that the baby’s body was laid out in the sitting room and that they were covering it because I shouldn’t see it.

I’m sure there were some animistic principles I could have addressed, but my head and emotions were swimming and I took this act as a mercy from friends and quietly entered to sit near to Akiiki’s weeping form. I held her hand and cried with her. And somewhere in the hour I managed to publicly word a prayer. I remember my baby kicking as I prayed.

After an appropriate time together, my language helper and I departed for home. As I drove us over the bumpy roads I could hardly think straight, let alone speak.

When I dropped my language helper at her home, I asked why the baby had died. Joy solemnly replied, ‘Akiiki had malaria early in her pregnancy and did not treat it. Her fever took his life.”

I managed to reach home before falling apart.

Honestly, without the expertise and science of an autopsy report, we could not know for sure what sickness had taken Akiiki’s son. But the reality of what God had mercifully carried me and our child through so far was heavy and convicting to me. Treatment or no treatment…God had saved our baby up to now. It was in His hands as to our story’s conclusion. The mourning and grief of Akiiki and her community flooded me with the unanswered questions I was growing accustomed to in the Third World. So much devastation. So much brokenness.

I walked through the irony of my friend’s grief and my own preparation for our baby. I wish I could say I was optimistic. I think I was just resolute. One day at a time. Baby is okay for now. Don’t worry about tomorrow.

(to be continued...)

Honoring the Miracle Part III

By God’s grace I completed the second cycle of malaria meds over the next week and slowly felt the malaria symptoms subside.

There was no sonogram at that point in our town. No way to check on the baby. I panicked at every tummy cramp and longed to feel the baby move. Just to be sure.
I began living in constant fear of another relapse. When the days would grow warm, I would fret. Was my sweating from a fever? Could we survive it again?

I continued to struggle with nausea and vomiting and I remained very dehydrated. We called doctors and prayed and I barely moved from my bed.

I recalled the story of Adoniram Judson and his wife Ann. They are known as the first American missionaries and they served in India. Ann suffered long with fever that ultimately took her life. She spent nearly two years alone with her sickness. I pathetically wondered if that was in fact my fate. It was a strange cycle of emotions. I lay on that bed because I could not physically move anywhere else. I missed my family so much during those days. There was little TV to watch (power was sporadic), no distraction. Just hour after hour of staring at those walls. And listening to that cow.

One evening, I sank lower than ever before. My spirit cried out to God with groans that words cannot express. I thought that maybe I was already insane. I spoke out loud, “God I feel so alone.”

The words were not even completely out of my mouth, when my phone rang.

Now, you could not fully comprehend my astonishment over this fact unless you had driven our muddy roads and viewed our phone lines. Draped through trees, tied in bows around wooden poles…cut and stolen. Phone lines were a delicate matter and rarely ever worked. Phone calls were a test of endurance and patience. And calls from the States were unexpected and usually impossible.

I stared at the ringing phone in shock. I wondered if it might be God. ☺ Only He could make those silly phone lines work!

The voice I heard was my Mam-ma’s. She said, “Is that my Cheryl?!?!” I couldn’t answer well because of my tears. She rattled on about the weather and her menu for the week and Granddaddy’s lawnmower repair and her own pregnancies and she made some joke about pantyhose that had me in stitches…Mam-ma.

Yep, God was definitely in on that call.

Mam-ma talked for 45 minutes. I gently laid the phone in its cradle after the “I love yous” were said.

And the phone rang again.

I kid you not.

With reverent tone, I answered.

Amy. My best friend, Amy. She had just had her first baby boy. Twins were around the corner for her (though I don’t think we knew that yet?) She talked about pregnancy, and medications, and she encouraged me. She was always encouraging me. I cleaned out a box of greeting cards recently. Cards we received during our first years in Africa. Probably every third or fourth card was from Amy. Can’t say with words how much she means to me. That evening discussion was fellowship I drank in like a dry sponge. My best friend. Forty five minutes of love, friendship and laughter.

I hung up, astonished at God’s abundant provision and perfect timing.

And that phone rang for a third time.

I answered to a fellow missionary who told me I had been on her mind all day and that she was praying. Was I okay? I told her the truth. And I praised God.

He Sees.

I slept well that night. Not insane. Not alone.

(to be continued...)

Honoring the Miracle Part II

We were in Kampala and had a very difficult trip ahead of us. I was holding in more liquids than before the malaria, but I was still feeling constant nausea (due to pregnancy). The bumpy, six hour ride home did not seem inviting. But we struck out anyway.

We reached our house in Ft Portal on a Sunday morning, and found our town church waiting on the porch. Jeff led them in worship in our living room and I went straight to bed.

I expected my strength to return over the next days. But it didn’t. I stayed in bed. I cried. I prayed. And I threw up. A lot.

I remember white walls. Our room didn’t have any pictures hanging in it yet. And the cow. Our next door neighbors had a sad, loud cow, that wandered the length of our shared fence mooing so loudly and so persistently I was nearly driven over the brink.

After another week in bed, throwing up 7-8 times a day and growing weaker and weaker, I felt a fever again. Jeff was out helping feed a small displacement camp in town and I again felt waves of hysteria engulf me. My fever was back. What could this mean?

Jeff came home and drove me to the Catholic hospital in town. I could barely walk to and from the car. A European doctor examined and diagnosed me.

Malaria. Again.

The doctor brusquely prescribed my medication and harshly informed me that I had to drink more water. I explained that I was vomiting everything that went in. She told me to try harder.

I cried all the way home.

The malaria treatment increased my nausea ten-fold. My days were agony. We found out that it would take my body one hour to absorb the medication and begin circulating it through my system. So I would swallow the pills and will myself to not throw up. It took all of my energy. I would have Jeff squeeze my feet or hands to the point of pain to take my mind off the nausea.

I would pray. Beg really. I could not see how we (my sweet baby and me) could both survive this onslaught for a second time.

I threw away my “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” book. It was too depressing in my current predicament.

I could not keep fluids or food in my system. I was battling malaria again with only chloroquine. Most malaria in our part of Africa is chloroquine resistant but it was the only drug the doctors felt was relatively safe for the baby. A gamble either way. There was a chance the drug would not eradicate the parasite. A stronger drug could eradicate the pregnancy.

I was ravaged by fever. And I was in my first trimester of pregnancy.

I fought desperately to NOT dwell on the impossible odds.

(to be continued...)

Honoring the Miracle Part I

My thoughts have been overcome the last week with Kinley’s story. Our story. I kept a journal during that time for her, but feel compelled to write the story here to be sure that we never forget what God did for us in those telling times. I sank to depths, physically and emotionally, that I never had thought possible in my blessed, happy life. I feared devastation and often found myself there.

I also found Him. A Powerful God Who, beyond my comprehension, chooses to meet me in the ugliness and drought as easily as He is revealed in times of victory and glory. He is big enough for both. How could I ever be devoted to anyone else?

This from a post written two years ago:

During our second and third years in Uganda, our little corner of the country faced a drastic crisis. A rebel army began terrorizing the villages all through the Rwenzori Moutains.
Jeff and the young men at church spent the better part of the two years delivering food relief and medical treatment to the hardest hit villages. It was a difficult, blessed, exhausting, amazing time.

I experienced this time in a unique way. From my bed.

Just as the rebels marched within 15 miles of our quaint little town...I discovered that one of my greatest longings had been fulfilled. I was officially going to be a mommy. Jeff and I were ecstatic over the news of our first little one. Soon after the nausea and pregnancy sickness began to take firm hold of my being...another sickness attempted to steal the whole show. Malaria.

The first diagnosis came at the International Health Clinic. Just a few days earlier I had celebrated at a doctor’s office. We were pregnant. Our circumstance less than 72 hours later was more somber. I found myself at another clinic in another town and I could not even bear to sit in the waiting room. My constant vomiting and the resulting dehydration now coupled with the agonizing cycles of malaria had weakened me beyond exhaustion. Dr Clarke led me into a smaller room with a metal table I could lie on. When the cycle of chills would over take my body, I would shake so much the table would bounce up and down and move away from the wall. Jeff, who himself was suffering from malaria, would put all his weight on the table to hold it steady until the chills and shaking would subside.

Lying on that table, watching IV fluids drip slowly into my system was one my loneliest moments. No one in our family knew yet about the baby. And now we had to tell them in tandem with news of a scary sickness. Did God see us here? Would He heal me and save our baby? What would His sovereign choice be?

The days that followed are a foggy memory to me. We were staying in another missionary family’s home. I drifted in and out of fever-wearied sleep. I begged God for healing. And I begged him for electricity. The fan was our only relief from the fever. Jeff and I faced nearly a week of malaria treatment together. When my fever broke, I praised the Lord, but still felt deep concern over the well being of our tiny fetus.

When I had completed the cycle of malaria meds, Dr Clarke tested my blood and found the malaria parasite gone. He set up the sonogram equipment to double check the baby’s heartbeat.

Some very silent, agonizing minutes followed. Dr Clarke couldn’t find the baby on the monitor. He asked me to drink more water so that the baby would be easier to see. His look was compassionate and resolute. What was…was. We calmly found some drinking water, but inside my brain was in overdrive. Could this be happening to me? Of course it could.

With my heart in pure torture I drank nearly 2 liters of water. Quickly. Feeling about to burst, I crawled onto the examination bed and stared at the blank screen begging God for His mercy.

The little blip we saw flooded the room and my soul with relief. There she was (though we didn’t know she was a she) and her heart was thumping away.

I didn’t stop thanking God all the way home and into the next day.

I felt released from the worry of the previous week. But I had no idea what was still ahead for our baby and for me.

(to be continued)

Sunday Musings

There was a rush to be ready this morning. The thunderous explosions and torrential downpour of the early morning hours disturbed our rest and our response to the alarm clock. I bustle and hustle little ones. All the while digging deep for motivation. Church services with young children when hubby is preaching are challenging experiences.

Despite the late start, we manage our church departure. Everyone was dressed in reasonable Sunday attire. And everyone had shoes.

Worship was good. Songs in three different languages. Warm smiles and greetings. Old friends and new. A baby to hold.

Bible class brought Hilda to the front to teach us a song and a principle. “Don’t worry. Don’t cry. God is near.”

Alex also took a turn at teaching a song. “I Am Not Afraid of 10,000’s of People”

I share a story on the flannel board: Jesus teaching on the Sea of Galilee from Simon’s boat. Crowds were pressing in, eager to hear.

Simon (the boat lender) and his partners were disappointed fisherman cleaning very empty nets. Jesus gives a mysterious directive to go back out on the lake and work some more.

Peter’s reply, “We’ve worked all night for nothing,” is followed by obedience despite the frustrating facts.

Rowing into the lake. Tired, strong arms tossing the nets. Same lake. Same fish percentage.

Suddenly overflowing nets! Ecstatic cries for assistance resonate.

“We can’t do this by ourselves. Come and help us!”

Now sinking boats heavy with fish pull to shore and Peter drops to his knees crying confession and repentance. (Maybe the biggest miracle…)

Jesus calls, “Don’t be afraid; from now on you will catch men.”

Peter and his partners left everything and followed Him.

When the flannel figures had told their tale, we wrangled our charges through coloring pages, snacks and a photo shoot. All the while I’m reflecting on the Bible Class story. The Christ given analogy of being “fishers of men”. The discouragement of empty nets. How tired my arms can feel. How I sometimes long for another lake…

The final prayer of corporate worship is said. We gather belongings and enter into the chatter of fellowship.

One precious friend reports she is nearly finished with her teaching assignment for school. She built a café/shop out of cardboard for her students to learn from and play with. My spirit is encouraged much by her creativity and investment in her teaching.

Bent, weak Akiiki shares the loss of a large bunch of bananas. She had purchased her surplus for selling in the village. The transport driver stole her produce. Could we help?

Abooki is exclaiming over Kinley’s 11th birthday.

We inquire of our friends about “all the people at home” and “ the animals” and “the gardens”. We exult over the massive rainfalls and tell our stories of being awakened by the thunder. We thank Abugaba for his success in killing the bees that had attempted residence at the airstrip.

Eventually our noisy tummies motivate our leave for lunch.

But first, a quick stop at the newly graded church land. The muddy upturned dirt marks one more step forward in a long development process. Our family circles for prayer on ground that has most likely been used for unholy purposes in the past. We ask God for His claiming. His Spirit’s presence. A place for Jehovah to be glorified.

Then home. Leftovers. Dishes. M&M’s from Nana and Papa.

Rest. Reading. Puzzles. Games.

There is supper to set out and nighttime reading and prayers ahead.

Sunday will be ending soon. But the remnant for me is that flannel graph story. It has taken form, jumped off the page and landed squarely in my heart.

There is a new week before me. More rowing in a very familiar lake.

Only this week, I’m reminded afresh of His refining Call. “Do not be discouraged. Try again. I’m watching. And I have a plan.”

So we row, and toss the net and hold on to the hope of a miraculous result…

Maybe just the fruit of my own repentance and confession.

Steady on.

(Bible story from Luke 5:1-11)