Returning Home

With evening rapidly approaching, my young son ran up to me holding a book my mother use to read me. It’s a book full of short little poems and although it is not a new book by any means, the lessons it taught hold truer than I could ever have imagined. Joshua opened it up for me, saying, “Here. Start on this page.” The first little poem titled Near and Far* began softly with the words,

Little children far away,

“Cross the ocean wide,

“Though they do not look like us

Are the same inside.”

Initially I wondered if my five year old is understanding current events. Simultaneously my mind thought back to lessons learned at home. Lessons about right and wrong and humanity. With the Golden Rule** as a constant guide, it’s no wonder poems like Near and Far and TV shows like Mr. Rogers Neighborhood helped me grasp the greater command of Love your neighbor as yourself.*** A command of action.

Living out these lessons and sharing them with others does not require grand gestures and dramatic statements, but it does require action in love to step up and step out. After all, treating our neighbor as we want to be treated, in love and dignity, is necessary to restore our road home toward the reconciliation that God had in mind before the world began.

 

Won’t You Be My Neighbor? Reconciliation and Foot-Washing in Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood

* Near and Far by Kate Cox Goddard

**Matthew 7:12

*** Mark 12:30-31—-Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.’ The second is this: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself. There is no commandment greater than these.”

Save Us

“I am a rock. I am an island. And a rock feels no pain. And an island never cries.”*

My home culture encourages the, go it alone mentality claiming strength from self. We sing praises to the stoic one who stands alone. The lone underdog who with his own strength and power, overcomes everything to find triumph and victory from his own doing. While not self created, he is self saved. Coupled with this belief is the cultural notion that it is the male that has traditionally been promoted as the one to stand tall in the face of adversity, overcoming all to provide for friend and family. Songs sung of individual greatness. Folktales feeding the fables of the one man show. The Western movies I consumed, or the Rambo characters I portrayed myself as may have left me with a view of myself that may not be entirely true.

It’s never been a simple thing for me to ask for help. I would so much like to point to my home culture for this, however, if anything is to blame for this trait I suppose it would be my pride. So when 3 out of 5 of my family developed pneumonia it was not something to easily power through and fix myself. As strong as my pride is, it was not capable of saving us. Self survival was no longer an option. And that’s when Community stepped in.

Community nourishes in sickness.

Community accepts and carries each other burdens.

Community enriches.

Community builds up in spirit.

Community sustains.

Community loves unconditionally.

It is our pride that screams out, “I am enough.” But honestly, deep down, we know we are not self-sustaining. In pride we claim, “I am my own god!” Yet, throughout humanity it has never been proven that we can be our own god and find life. We simply can not save ourselves. We need Community.

A community that is bound together three in one. A community that takes us as we are and gives us hope. A hope that is not fleeting or drifting on the whims and fads of life, but a hope that is based upon a solid foundation of unconditional love. A community that hangs our transgressions on a cross, yet bookends the deal with an empty tomb. In this community, and this community alone, we find that we not only have life but life in abundance. Through this community alone, we can be saved.

 

 

• I Am a Rock by Simon and Garfunkle

All Because

“Papa. It’s been 28 years since your bellybutton problem. That makes you 45.”

“What? Why are you up? It’s not even six.”

“Papa. I just wanted you to know.”

“What are you talking about? Ugh. Go back to bed. It’s too early.”

It was then that I noticed a different little boy, wide-eyed, lying next to me.

“You’re awake. Get up! Get up! Let’s get some juice.”

Inside my head, it went something like this, “AHHHHH!”

Setting aside resentment against my wife who seemingly slept blissfully beside me, I forced myself out of bed, as a little one helped by pushing my back and a bigger one pulled on my arm. Morning is never as enjoyable as I would wish. Stepping out of the bedroom I am met by another child, saying he couldn’t sleep anymore since it was light outside and obviously the day was well underway. To say there was light outside would be a gross exaggeration. I think there was one, earliest of early birds which was just beginning to tune its song for the day stretching in its nest as the light was nothing more than the faintest of faint hazy glowing embers of pre-brightness. This is not the morning I had envisioned during spring break. Or any other day for that matter. I consider it less than joy to be up at this time of what some call “day” but never-the-less, up I must be.

Having three different sons with incredibly different sleep needs I find it a challenge to constantly be patient, kind, and not jealous of my sleeping wife. In all honesty, it’s hard. Well, actually hard doesn’t even come close. It’s a challenge to say the least, a chore to borrow a term from an older generation, and a daily choice to make. But isn’t that what real love is made from?

Now I’m not trying to boast and I certainly don’t want to come across arrogant as to say I have it all figured out, but it seems to me that love is a challenge sometimes. It is a daily chore. And it must be a constant choice. Throw in attitude, action, and behavior into the mix and love is something that is clearly in a different realm from the emotion based phrase, “I love pizza.” I have nothing against pizza but when our own personal emotional enjoyment of something, or someone, is the driving force behind our actions and behavior, we’re not talking love anymore.

Could you even imagine if Jesus decided he didn’t feel like hanging on the cross? To hang on the cross knowing there will be suffering. That he must bear all things without boasting. Intentionally choosing to endure such agony without being provoked. He chose to get up out of his comfort zone, meet us with all our unique needs, and still love us by putting us first. Now that’s a choice. That’s love.

Kind of puts into perspective my whiny little feeling based mornings as they really are. Struggles of self-centeredness. Yep, it’s that frustratingly resentful feeling, the beginning of irritation, when my self-centered world collides with the needs of others. There’s no falling out of love. Just a choice between self or others. I think that’s what the real action, attitude, and behavior are all about. A battle to see who has importance.

So, although it may be a challenge and a chore at times, I will constantly choose to love my family, even when they think a cricket is the starting sounds of morning. Striving to have the right attitude so that my actions will be the real indicator of my love, thereby showing a pattern of behavior that rejoices to everyone of the One who is True Love.

Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. — 1 Corinthians 13:4-7

 

My Shepherd

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He makes me lie down in green pastures

He leads me beside still waters

He restores my soul.

He leads me in paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.

***

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me;

Your rod and your staff they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;

you anoint my head with oil,

my cup overflows.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,

and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

Psalm 23

A Maasai perspective

 

To Follow

 

Benjamin read the sign and questioned whether or not this was wise but after being assured by the guide, he followed. What once was beautiful green grass had turned to a dirty brown path from all the followers.

Some of us have been taught to disregard established signs and encouraged to make our own paths. Others of us are taught to always obey them in spite of personal thoughts that may differ. Still others are taught to differentiate, going back and forth, based on an intricate internal system of ethics. And each of us grows up thinking the way of life around us is normal.

I’m sure the migratory creatures of the world never question why they are compelled to propel themselves in front of the waiting crocodile. Going with the herd often feels wisest regardless of where they are going. Sometimes following for the sake of following is not right. Although the boys are growing up in a transitional tribe where normal is a mix of locations, cultures, and the typical state or condition of things is as solid as liquid, they are not blind followers. Like crossing zebra and wildebeest they do not question the moments of chaos and obstacles that may arise in their path. Chaos and obstacles are normal. However, unlike the seemingly blind migratory creatures, we can question to make sure we are not flinging ourselves in front of metaphorical crocodiles. Even so, being a follower can be costly.

Following through life’s rapids, magically appearing obstacles, and plummeting waterfalls are never fun. However, all are navigable with the right guide. When you know you’re following a purpose and headed in the right direction the departures and river crossings of life are merely normal. And as hard as it is to step away from the herd mentality, it can be done.

It’s been said that a smooth stone has endured many tumbles in order to be considered smooth. There are times when this is exactly how we feel our lives are developing. Our paths are naturally full of trials and obstacles, but it is in the chaos of the moment that our character stands to make the decision of which path to follow. Which guide we choose. The path may be narrow. The path may be wide. However, unlike the animal kingdom, we have a say in which path to follow. But without a purposeful end in sight it is nothing but a foray into the heart of darkness.

Exploding Lights and Wet Dogs: Tales of Iron-Mama

While it may be true that a mother does so much for her family, it is equally impressive to note the things she survives. After putting in a full day of work, often much of it needing to be finished each evening, she comes home to a life that disregards personal time and relaxation.

So many things encompass your bi-vocational life and to note them all would be too massive and daunting of a task. So only a few character building memories are listed as our Tribute To Mama.

***

Exploding light-bulbs and haircuts to squirming boys.

Thousands of ants seeking shelter from the rains in your kitchen. Giving the illusion of moving walls.

Magical dishes that never seem to stay washed. Magically discouraging.

Dinners of disappointment while food sits cold in a powerless oven.

“So you had a bad day” loops nonstop in your head while nostalgic dreams of McDonald’s seems an illusive cure.

Red mud and red dirt. In spite of your endless hours of scrubbing, the boys are still tinged red and grubby.

Cat hair. Dog hair. Dead rats. Burning rubbish. It all leads to allergies galore.

Rain so loud all hope of hearing the person next to you is lost.

Wanting to feel special but the only one expressing any gratitude is a smelly wet dog.

Spiders dropping babies, mosquitoes hatching in the shower.

Clothes that grow beyond all comfort, oh for the want of a dryer.

Pot holes that swallow cars. Our van was no exception.

Sleeping in never seems to materialize with all of our ruckus each and every morning.

Snakes in the toilet, snakes in the yard. Termites flying from light to light while lizards laugh from afar.

Ants in our water purifier giving us a little crunch with our cleanliness.

Moths eat at your clothes and attack your headlamp when power fades away.

Cherished items inexplicably missing from store shelves. Survival without diet Coke is not a laughing matter.

Madness of drivers hellbent on meeting their Maker drives you to drink. . . frappuccinos galore.

Pressures from work intensified by our lack of listening and lackadaisical attitudes.

We boys try to listen, we really do, but there are so many things to distra . . . . . . . . . . . . (see what I mean)

Yet through it all you refuse to leave us to our own devices. You shy from the limelight yet your super powers are always aware. Always a bright light on our darkest days. Your love is unconditional despite who we are and the challenges of living.

Thank you for being our Iron-Mama. We love you!

Happy Mother’s Day!!!

Disemboweled Rats And Fuzzy Thoughts

“Papa. If you and Mama die we won’t know how to cook,” said Benjamin one evening. Michael’s immediate reply from the bottom bunk was, “Ah man! I don’t know how to cook pizza.” A dialog on death ensued. The take away from it all was that cooking lessons would begin immediately. ***Be prepared for the future.

Sometimes thoughts are fuzzy and time to clarify seems nowhere to be found. Here is a small collection of fuzzy thoughts that are yours for the developing. I have given an initial developmental thought but honestly there are so many avenues for one to take.

Joshua is getting used to helping his brothers go back and forth to school each day. These mini-excursions provide many life enhancing opportunities. Last week he apparently had his fill of opportunities. He started saying good-bye before entering the school gates and then upon entering he went silent. ***Sometimes we say goodbye before we ever arrive, thus sabotaging the experience and crippling our chances to live to our full potential.

Similarly, upon walking up to our gate guard one morning, Benjamin and Michael shook hands saying “Habari. ” The greetings went well until it was Joshua’s turn. When the guard reached his hand out to shake Joshua’s, he was taken aback by Joshua’s clear response of “Noooo!” *** Often we write off people before we even get a chance to know who they really are.

Often I wonder if it is the child strapped to me, or me to the child. Much like the cup of coffee that leads a person around, so too the boy drives the man from the back seat. ***What do we allow to lead us in our lives? 

Of our two outdoor cats it is the small one, who is actually the mother of the larger, that regularly leaves behind half eaten creatures for us to discover upon exiting the house in the morning. Usually the “presents” are left on the doorstep to either appease us or pay for the cat food she eats. This time the gift was a disemboweled rat at her feet and what looked like a pleased prideful look on her little cat face. ***Appreciating gifts cross-culturally can be challenging. Or… watch where you step.

Two small squirrels, which is nothing more than a fancy cousin of the rat, were huddled in the hedge screaming out their last prayers as a hawk circled above. While the natural cycle of life attempted to play out in our yard, our dog ran in circles barking at the hawk. Two boys raced back and forth from the front door to the gate, dragging their feet in the fine red dust trying to get as dirty as possible before going to school, while two cats sat nearby watching the hedge rats. Joshua took the perceived chaos in then looked into my eyes pleadingly and began to shake until I held him tight. *** “So hold me Jesus, cause I’m shaking like a leaf. You have been king of my glory, won’t you be my Prince of Peace.”–Rich Mullins

Just had another awkward breast feeding conversation with Jocinta, our Kenyan house helper. It’s easier to crawl into a hole than to have these breastfeeding discussions. No matter what the benefits are or the fact that “It’s the African way”. . . I just can’t.

There is no easy way to say this so I’ll just be blunt. Children, Geodes and Gold. *** Yeah, I got nothing. I’ll let you work it out. 

 

The Bridge: A Prelude

 

Origins of traditions can be hard to pinpoint sometimes. Other times the initial event that began it all can only be disputed by the blind. For some there seems no rhyme or reason as to why things occur as they do, you just know you should continue along. Christmas traditions have a clear beginning with our family. Mainly because the boys were so young to remember or be active in anything prior to Africa, our traditions began when we arrived in Kenya. Prior to knowing how a calendar worked our boys knew Christmas was coming by visiting the annual Christmas Fair in Nairobi. An amazing event with great food, fun and support of local and regional organizations intent on making the world a better place.

After the fair we would look for Creepy Saxophone Santa in front of Nakumatt and see how close we could get before being completely creeped out. The “Santa”, and I use this term loosely, would be still and then all of a sudden jump to life playing a weird version of some Christmas song. Then without notice he would cease moving until the next random spastic movement began. Like I said, creepy. Once this was accomplished my wife and I would pressure the boys to sit on Indian Santa’s lap for a photo. I could never really wrap my mind around why it was such an odd site to see a Santa from India in Kenya (yes I understand history). I guess my brain is still clinging to ingrained North American traditions. Regardless this was our prelude to the Christmas season.

This year it seems Creepy Saxophone Santa has been replaced with Blue Nakumatt Santa. Other than obvious marketing reasons, I’m not really sure why the Blue Santa is here. I tried to ask him but he wasn’t at liberty to say. What I do know is that the Kenyan guy in the blue felt suit was drenched with perspiration and still creeping out little kids. The tradition continues.

Certainly some traditions are just for fun while others, like Indian Santa begin purely by opportunity. However, other traditions, like setting up the Veggie Tales nativity, are rooted in an uncompromising and unchanging gift that bridged all time. A prelude to a second birth.

 

Don’t Wake The Monster

After being told repeatedly that his behavior was not something desired, the mother said in a stern voice, “Benjamin. What am I going to say to you?” The almost six year old sat pensively for a moment, cocked his head, and with all seriousness uttered “Bleh.”

I couldn’t help myself. I laughed out loud from where I was standing in the kitchen. Immediately two sets of eyes flashed their way to meet mine. One pair with a gleam of approval and a touch of playful mischief. The other pair had the look that you get from someone who says they love you yet nothing in their look is loving. Parenting is such a delicate balance. On one hand you get to enjoy the moments of randomness and discovery, encouraging them to go further than they ever thought possible. Enjoying the messiness of life and laughter of love. While on the other hand instructing that sometimes what is thought as creativity is not really creativity at all.

We have one son who thinks that streaking through the house is hysterical. He’s dramatic about it too. No mere naked running for the little dude. Oh no, he needs to make enough noise to draw attention to his marathon. Occasionally he wears a hat but usually that’s just an after thought. So where is the line drawn? When is it ok to laugh and let it go and when do you turn it into a teachable moment giving instruction on acceptable behavior? Maybe I should just let it all go and wait for Grandma to deal with it the next time she visits.

Sometimes a parent or teacher can feel like a monster squashing creativity for conformity. Sacrificing aspects of independence and pride for integrity and humility. It seems that even the clothes the boys have tells us to let it go and just be friends. However, truth be told, my sons are not my friends. They are my sons. Knowing right from wrong and acceptable behaviors are not something for me to ignore teaching. Having high expectations and holding them and myself accountable is not something to be inconsistent about. The real loveless monster would be to ignore such instruction in their lives. What they learn now will be the foundation they stand on later in life.

I will continue to enjoy every moment of my current world. A world where plastic dinosaurs high-five each other and the bad guys say “excuse me” and “sorry” after doing a most heinous crime, such as laughing loudly in an evil villain way. “Mwa-ha ha.” But deep within me I know that the monster of self entitlement and complacency waits for all of us just around the corner.

 

 

 

Mimesis

Chills. Sweats. Nausea. Constant desire to crawl into a hole never to return. Been there? Many times this is just common place when you live in a country that sells awesome, but not always clean, street food. For the last six days I’ve been traveling the road of food poisoning. This in and of itself is not such an issue, although one I certainly don’t need to repeat. There is no pleasantness in this form of discomfort but it is livable.

This time was different though. The crawl in the hole part was much the same but the chills and sweats were replaced with a draining fatigue actively extracting energy at every moment of my consciousness. If given a choice I’m sure I would have just closed my eyes and hoped to wake at some time in the future, but there was no such choice. Between dragging my deteriorating body from one room to the next it was the driving knowledge that in spite of my present ailments, aches, and dare I say it attitude, my focus could not be about me. I was here for a greater purpose.

I’m sure my son thought I was trying a new teaching approach to get him to crawl as I regularly pulled my body across the floor towards him. After his initial staring at my attempts of mobility, he most likely thought I was mocking him, he realized there was a possibility of freedom if I ever reached him. No doubt he would interpret his cries as encouragement for me to get there sooner. One wretched day he seemed to encourage me a bit more. Seems he was desperate to be free from the disturbingly uncomfortable stench wafting into the air. Of course smell is a trigger point for all kinds of emotions, and it did. Then it intensified my nausea causing me to turn and crawl back towards the toilet. With my departure Joshua’s cries pierced louder leading me to turn back to him. And there it was, that awkward moment where you find yourself lying on the floor halfway between the toilet and the crib, reduced to the mere mortal who realizes they have no control over life itself. If there had been an observer I’m sure this would have been a moment of farce watching a grown man on the floor flopping like a dying fish.

As I lay dying, or so it felt, it occurred to me that it wasn’t just in my sickness that my focal point was skewed. Oh certainly it would not be pleasant to vomit on a child, even though a small child does not carry the same sentiments towards an adult, but how often had I truly and completely focused on his needs alone? Now in my incapacitation I could only resolve to devote more to him and less to me. Even in a small guesthouse with minimal distractions on an isolated hill and a singular goal, the self cries out for complete devotion. A constant battle of two opposing forces frantic in efforts to defeat and reclaim my life. One force a poison needing purging the other a requirement for love.

Before leaving Kenya I jokingly told people I didn’t want God teaching me any lessons through the upcoming experience. In my life, lessons from God often come after an uncomfortable understanding that I am not God. A simple little concept that anyone who knows me can clearly see, yet when I place myself first that’s exactly what I am saying. Humanistic actions, justification, and rationalization always seem to seep into me leading me back to me. And so I flop from God to me. Perhaps it was a lack of food for six days that led my thoughts to this point or possibly just the perspective to see the unfolding comedy as a tragedy. Regardless, I am glad for the lesson.

My son on the other hand, well I think he feels I should have got the message a lot sooner.

“So God bruise the heels we’ve dug in ground, that we might move closer to love. Pull out the roots we’ve dug in so deep. Finish what you’ve started. Help us to believe. Keep our eyes wide open.” — Eyes Wide Open by Jars of Clay

Although there are many meanings for Mimesis, most hover around the central definition of imitator or to imitate. I prefer Aristotle’s definition with regards to literature – “Imitation of life”