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
Friday, June 12, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, June 08, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, May 11, 2009
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!!!
Friday, May 01, 2009
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!
“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!
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, March 30, 2009
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...)
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...)
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...)
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