Safely Home, Looking Forward

We've been home over a week now, and we're all well. The kids slept and watched movies most of the way home on the plane, which made it much easier than it was when we traveled eastward a few months ago. When we disembarked after the eight plus hour leg over the Atlantic, the man who had been sitting behind t. remarked how well behaved our kids are. It was the first time I'd ever heard anyone say that about my kiddos. Maybe we are doing something right.

Since we've been home, t. has vacillated back and forth between saying he wants to go back and saying he doesn't want to go back. I can live with that. Because we are going back: this July and August, and then more after that. At least there are some things t. is looking forward to. Though it is difficult for him at his age, and thus vicariously difficult for us, and I am convinced that in the long run it will be good for him. He will not grow up with the same assumptions as other American kids. I can't help but think this will be good for him. Sure he'll be infected to some degree with ipods and shopping malls, and later with cars and houses, but he will at least be aware that that is not the only way to see life. OK, I'll admit it: He's already completely obsessed with both ipods and cars. But still, there is nothing like being transplanted to a different culture, where your family is working toward different goals, for challenging your own assumptions and worldview. It's hard, even for adults, but it's good. It's a way to pursue a true worldview rather than just adopting the one of your own culture.

My own calling has never been so clear to me as it is now--as God has made it over the past months. First and foremost I am a husband and a father. My primary vocational effort is centered around transforming the diminished understanding of health, creation, and personhood that has infected my culture and is thus spreading around the world. We in the West take scarcely little time to even consider what health and personhood are.

If you don't believe me, ask a medical student, who has just finished 8 years of training to the tune of several hundred thousand dollars and who is about to give at least three more years in harsh indentured servitude to residency training: "What is health, actually?" "What does it mean to be a person?" You'll mostly get blank stares. No kidding. But it's not their fault, they've been fed a consistent ten to twenty year diet of institution focused, disease focused, reductionist curricula, which is incapable of answering the deeper questions of life.

That's where my generation of doctors are. The generation before me is probably worse off. And we're just a subset--an example of a culture that is at a loss to engage with its shortcomings. We wonder why addiction, depression, and cynicism are rampant and worsening. We fail to engage with poverty in any real way, and our development projects fail to transform peoples lives--all stemming from a disordered understanding of personhood and all that proceeds from it.

My calling? To engage with the next generation over these issues, and to do it through relational mentorship. As my friend recently put it: "The relationship is the curriculum." I will strive to communicate the truth about personhood, health, and creation to the next generation by investing in trusting relationships. I suspect that if all I did were to rant about it in a blog, it would not make a bit of difference.

So we will be going back to Tanzania, to City of Hope, and taking students and residents along with us. As I said above, there is nothing like being in a different culture to make you evaluate your own assumptions. We will work with Americans and Africans together, to ask honestly: What does it mean to be a person? What does the Bible say about health and healing? And hopefully by God's grace, we will be renewed by the transforming of our minds.

So, if you or anyone you know is interested, we will be facilitating a seminar in Tanzania this summer entitled Foundations of Health and Development. Half day of discussions about the issues above and half day of practical application through community health outreach. Americans and Tanzanians working and dialoguing together. Anyone is welcome. It will be roughly mid-July to mid-August, and we are working with several universities and medical schools to have it listed as an accredited program. Contact us for more details. Here's a link to info: http://teamworkcityofhope.com/foundations-of-health-and-development/

Safari Njema

In an effort to create some positive memories for t., who has been struggling to adjust here, we took a short trip to the Serengeti National Park this past weekend. Everyone had a great time, and we were even able to bring Esther along, the orphan who has been helping us with the kids for the past couple of weeks. At the lodge she enjoyed her first ever hot shower (I was pretty excited about it myself) and her first visit to the Serengeti. Thankfully the park is free for Tanzanian citizens, so it is accessible to all the kids, if they can only get there and find a vehicle to ride in...it wouldn't really be safe to just walk around, and I think it is not permitted anyway...enoy some of the pictures! This may be the last post until we get home. We leave tomorrow.
Asante sana, Tanzania. We love you.

Take Opportunities to Exhibit Grace, Part 2

After Dr. C heard what happened, he invited the girl's father into the privacy of his small home and listened to the story, I am told he said the following to the girl's father: “I'm sorry she doesn't know how to behave properly. Why don't you send her here [to school at the City of Hope—this girl is not in school at all] so that we can teach her?”

Z told me this story as we had chai together the next morning. His comment was, “You know, Dr. C. responds in such a Godly way.” Then Z told me another similar story. He said, “A few months ago a boy was caught stealing maize from our cornfield. He had only a small amount, maybe six ears. He was almost through the fence when he was caught and brought to Dr. C. You know what he said to this boy? He said, 'I'm sorry you do not know to ask. You don't have to steal from us. Stealing is wrong. (That is not a given in this culture.) Next time you are hungry, just come and ask for food.' And he gave the boy even more maize and some other things and let him go!” Z concluded his story with an absolutely beautiful smile.

Philemon teaches a similar lesson. Onesimus the slave has run away from his owner, Philemon, whom Paul knows to be a Christian. But then in Rome, Onesimus then meets Paul, becomes a Christian—a new man through transformation by the gospel. He also becomes a brother in arms to Paul, serving him while he is in prison. Paul knows that between Onesimus and Philemon, both professing Christians, there must now be reconciliation, so he writes the letter to Philemon, saying that Onesimus must ask forgiveness for running away, and that Philemon must forgive him and take him back with grace—and not just as a slave, but as an equal—a brother in Christ. Surely this is hard for both men, but for both of them it is an opportunity to grow in Christian virtue. Paul sees this, and behaves accordingly. He takes it not only as an opportunity for reconciliation, but also an opportunity for Onesimus to learn the humility of admitting wrong, taking responsibility, begging forgiveness, and attempting to make amends, and an opportunity for Philemon to learn the discipline of genuine active forgiveness and the lesson of unity and equality in Christ—equality of a learned man with slave—a totally counter-cultural lesson.

All of my adult life, even as I have had many positions of leadership, I have feared correction, conflict resolution, and confrontation. It's hard to tell people that they are wrong. But today I see it in a new light. Every conflict resolution, every correction, every confrontation is an opportunity for discipleship. It is an opportunity to exhibit grace. It is an opportunity to be Christ. For all parties, it is an opportunity to grow closer to Christ, and it is an opportunity for me to help them in those steps. So I resolve to strive to see these things this way when they came up. Clearly Paul did. Clearly Dr. C. does. As I see it, the biggest challenge for me will be to learn to do this as a parent. It is one thing to do it for an adult who can see that you are showing mercy, and focusing on demonstrating the gospel instead of focusing on making them behave correctly. It is another thing to do it for a rebellious four year old who doesn't even recognize (on a conscious level) the grace he is being shown.

Lord, thank you for teaching me this lesson. Help me as a leader and as a father to take each instance of correction as an opportunity to exhibit grace while still acknowledging the wrong. That's what you do for me. Help me do it for others. I need your help, because this is going to be hard...

Photo Journal of the little world of t. and w.

So, our children can't write blog updates yet, but I'm sure they would love to share with you a little bit about what life has been like for them here. I will post pictures until my patience for the internet wears out completely.

In general t. and w. enjoy lots of playing inside and out, although t. is still hesitant to go outside when the children here are on recess or if it is after school. There are just too many of them for him to feel completely secure, and they enjoy calling his name repeatedly whether he ignores them or not. Sometimes when they call his name he will yell “I'm too busy!!!!!” or “I have germs!!!!” and run away.

Anything in italics is t's exact description of the photo.

Farm animals are a part of the agriculture
program they have for the orphans.

Me and w are chasing the pigs.

w. is swinging.



I am sorting the beans. The children here work the fields
before school and on Fridays.
They are currently harvesting beans and maize.




Did you know that boy was, like, sharing his cars?



I am peeling potatoes. The children are constantly "helping" Margaret and Miriam with the cooking.

It may be hard to see but this is the result of
a "nairobi fly" landing on the skin and walking around.
It secretes a trail that is irritating to the skin.

I was holding a chick. I saw him in a family!

W is washing with mommy.

W. gets a kiswahili lesson from Mr. Ben

I am sitting on a mountain. Going "to the mountain"
 is by far t's favorite activity.

Not unlike an animal at the zoo...

A favorite activity among all the children is to push the stroller.

After a little too much freedom with some crayons,
t. removes the evidence.

w. is obsessed with writing, drawing and painting on herself.

Far more exciting than the stroller is the wheelbarrow.
It goes a lot faster, too.

t. helped harvest a bunch of banannas
from the tree behind our house.

Evening ritual-Daddy reads Black Beauty
and t. falls asleep on the couch.

Snacking on the stoop.

The girls from the children's home love to play with t and w.

Who doesn't love a game of magnet fishing for bottlecaps?

Despite the fact that we eat 3 amazing meals a day, w. makes
 her way to the children's home as often as she can and
steals ugali from the children at dinner. (cornmeal mash)

Movie night! Guess what they are watching? Laurel and Hardy!

The rains have finally come and created irresistable mud puddles.

Post-mudbath bath.

t and his best friend, Esther.

This is what happens when a 1 year old is
supposedly napping.We can't decide if she looks
more like smurfette or the incredible hulk.

Well, after about 4 hours I am pretty tired of posting. I will probably put up more pictures after we get home, when the internet is more friendly.

I should thank Esther (sitting on the tire with t.) for without her there is no way I could have done this today. Asante sana, Esther.

Take Opportunities to Exhibit Grace

I am always on the look out for lessons to be learned from those who have gone before me. This past week, by the confluence of events I will describe here and the reading of Philemon in my daily Bible study, I was taught a beautiful lesson—one I hope I shall never forget.

It had been another hard day of travel. We had gone to see the government again. (Thankfully, we now have in hand the legal papers to open the hospital!) The van rocked back and forth as Zecharia navigated the foot deep ruts in the road spawned by the recent rains. Imani and I reclined in back seats of the van, our feet propped on piles of supplies. We were all trail worn. We were running late. I had had to make the unpopular decision to abandon the remainder of our errands in order to arrive home before dark (thus depriving poor Baba of his dinner).

Ahadi and her new tiny baby rattled around in the front seat. We had picked them up from the hospital on our way home. She recently had a C-section and is recovering well. It awes me to watch her bring home a premature (under five pounds) infant to a mud hut where she has minimal belongings and essentially no resources. I know for a fact that she doesn't have ten dollars to her name. In her little home she will care for her infant and give him her strength in the coming weeks. Jolting from the bumps with a new ten inch scar on her abdomen (it's got to hurt), she doesn't even act like there is any hardship about it. She smiles so happily with her miraculous baby boy. When I think of what copious resources (easily a hundred thousand dollars) a similar case in America would subsume...social workers, ultrasounds, five thousand dollars a night for the hospital, neonatal intensive care units (or as my friend calls them: more intensive than careful units). What does Ahadi have? One blanket. Enough food and tea for the next day. It's hard to wrap my head around why the world is the way it is. Don't feel guilty for all that you have, that is not my intention. But if you will, please remember to pray for her, for she will need it. And bear in mind that she and her son are rich in ways that you, dear American, are not...

We were only a mile or two from home when a tremendous crack tore through the van. Shattered glass showered Imani and I (he got the worst of it). Instinctively I got on my toes and crouched low in the van, wondering if someone was shooting at us. A rock the size of a baseball skittered over the van floor and clunked into the well by the sliding door. Someone had a thrown a rock through our window! As the van skidded to a halt in the sand, Zecharia was out of the driver's seat and running after the vandals before the vehicle even stopped. Like an bailing fighter pilot, he had just jerked the emergency brake and jumped!

By the time I got my bearings and scanned the horizon for threats, Z was interrogating a ten year old boy by the side of the road. Already a group of witnesses was gathering. The youth had in fact seen the whole thing, and he knew the girls that had hurled the rock. He pointed to their house—the typical mud hut with a thatch roof. Not knowing how we were going to negotiate this, I agreed to go to the house and talk with the girls' parents. I wondered, “How do you handle vandalism in this context? How can we ask a family to replace a window knowing that it will cost as much as they make in a year? But people have to be held responsible for their crimes don't they?”

I knew we could call the police, and I knew that because we have a very good relationship with them and there were many eyewitnesses, they would take the case seriously, but what would happen to the little girl if we did that? Was that a tenable solution? Could we demand payment, even if it was in tiny increments? Should we just forgive the whole thing and write off the $200 loss? Wouldn't that just invite this kind of thing again? I didn't know what to do, but since Z said we should talk to the parents, I figured that was a good place to start. He actually did all the talking.

We learned that her brother actually goes to school here at City of Hope. Before long thirty people were engaged in the negotiations by the side of the road. The girls had disappeared. The parents did not argue. They were clearly distraught. They are wise enough to realize that the education of their children, which the City of Hope is providing, is perhaps their most valuable asset. The father agreed to come to City of Hope to talk to the director, Dr. C.

So what should we do? What would you do? Feel free to leave a comment.

to be continued...

African killer bees-all they're cracked up to bee?

Preparing the smoker.

Walking towards the hive, which is under the
tall tree at the far end of the shamba. (garden)

A few days ago I had a truly singular experience: I was attacked by killer bees... no kidding.

Recently it came to my attention that we have some beehives here at City of Hope, and that they had been unharvested for some time. Now, I have made some attempts at beekeeping at home, mostly with dismal results, but I am at least familiar enough with hives and bees to be able to figure out how to get the honey out. Honey would certainly be a welcome addition to our sometimes too healthy diet here, and the collection of it would be a welcome diversion on a Sunday afternoon.

I have heard that African bees can be on the aggressive side, and what is more, I had the good fortune of locating a couple of protective beekeeper's suits, so I decided to use one. One of my friends here heard I was going to collect the honey. His response was, “During the day?!” (Bees are more docile at night). I didn't want to bother with the hassle of not being able to see well, so I didn't want to wait for night. My answer to him was a confident, “Well, I have a beesuit, so what could go wrong? I'll be fine.” I said all this knowing that the African honey bee is infamous for its malevolence. We even refer to hostile bees in America as having become Africanized.

I carefully put on the suit, and even started a fire with cornstalks in a smoker—an apparatus that looks like a tin teapot with a bellows attached that is used to blow smoke onto a beehive. The smoke desensitizes their sense of smell (which they use to communicate) and has a soporific effect. I don't have any boots, but I was careful to put on shoes and socks, thinking this would be adequate. “They won't bother to seek out the only chink in my armor, and it's only a few square inches. It won't be a big deal even if they do sting me a few times there,” I thought. I couldn't have been more wrong.

To put things into perspective, in two summers of beekeeping at home, I never wore any protective clothing except sometimes gloves, and in total I was stung probably four times. Moreover, any time our docile Italian bees became at all agitated, all I had to do was walk fifty feet from the hive and they gave up totally.

I smoked the hive carefully for perhaps two minutes, a precaution I rarely took at home. The bees did not seem to be excited. Then I removed the lid from the hive. Now I know. What I later found on Wikipedia is true:

"African bees are characterized by greater defensiveness in established hives than European honey bees. They are more likely to attack a perceived threat and, when they do so, attack relentlessly in larger numbers. Also, they have been known to pursue their threat for over a mile. This aggressively protective behavior has been termed by scientists as hyper-defensive behavior. This defensiveness has earned them the nickname "killer bees," the aptness of which is debated. Over the decades, several deaths in the Americas have been attributed to African bees. The venom of an African bee is no more potent than that of a European honey bee, but since the former tends to sting in greater numbers, the number of deaths from them are greater than from the European honey bee. What makes Africanized honey bees more dangerous is that they are more easily provoked, quick to swarm, attack in greater numbers, and pursue their victims for greater distances. An Africanized bee colony can remain agitated longer and may attack up to a quarter of a mile away from the hive. One or two deaths per year in the US can be attributed to the African honey bee."  (A much larger but unknown number in Africa, to be sure.)

They found my ankles almost immediately. Now I've been stung by bees many times in my life. As a kid I was given a box of empty pill bottles and spent the summer collecting bees for “my collection.” I've never been afraid of them, and even when stung, I am apt to ignore it. One bee sting just doesn't bother me. But this was different. Within ten seconds my ankles started to burn. “How can they have found my ankles already?” I wondered. I looked down. My ankles were completely covered with bees.  Bee suits are made of material so tightly woven that is feels somewhat slick. The bees can hardly light on it, much less sting through it. Not so with my socks. There were a few hundred bees crawling on my suit. There were a few hundred more in bilateral bands around both my ankles—living anklets of angry bees. And they were fighting mad.  Now I've been close to a lot of infamous animals, (lions, cobras, mambas, crocodiles, hippos, a rugby player named Spike) but I've never seen raw agression like this.

After a few seconds I thought, “Okay, this is starting to hurt. I'll walk away and brush these guys off.” Brushing them off only made them more mad. Plus it killed some of them. When bees are killed, including if they die whilst stinging a victim, which they invariably do because their stingers are barbed--thus they lose a body part when they are swept away--they give off a chemical message indicating, “Danger!” Trying to brush them off just made it worse.

“Grrrrrr. This really hurts,” I said. Soon I was aggressively giving my ankles a dust bath by rubbing them firmly with dirt from the garden. “I can't believe how aggressive these things are,” I breathed. By now I was a hundred yards from the hive—unthinkably far from the hive for them to attack me in my mind, but instead of subsiding the assault only grew more intense. I must have had a thousand bees on the suit. They peppered the sides of the head covering incessantly. I sounded very much like popcorn when it's cooking on full heat. The kamikaze collisions were that frequent and that loud at such close range to my eardrums. And the buzzing was louder—almost deafening. It was very disconcerting. “No wonder people panic from these things. This is scary.” I thought.

By now I had washed them from my ankles with a bucket of wash water that someone had fortuitously left outside our house. My ankles throbbed. My mind was reeling from the incessant dive-bombing. I couldn't get help; who could help me? I couldn't even approach anyone to ask for help, since they would be attacked if I got close.

J., who had watched this whole escapade from a distance, provided me with a can of insecticide and another of repellant. I emptied both of them onto myself to little effect except that it gave me a headache. Soon I began to hear noise from the other side of the house. The bees had decided that I was difficult to kill and so had found others to assail. I later heard that as many as twenty people were stung—all hundreds of yards from the hive.

Eventually I enjoined J. to pass me a book out the window. I spent about an hour just sitting on a tire reading “A Brave New World,” waiting for the bees to go away and thinking that it's no surprise that horror movies have been made about these miniature kamikazes. When they were finally down to two or three assailants, I ran inside and shut the door. Thankfully none of them were able to follow me.

My ankles were a swollen mess when I peeled the suit off. I had less than ten square inches of unprotected skin. When I got to 100, I stopped trying to count the stings. I washed my feet and slathered my ankles in toothpaste, which I've heard helps. At home I know what weed to put on bee stings, but that weed doesn't grow here. I don't think the toothpaste helped. By dinner time I was shaking and vomiting violently. I had a fever. I was prostrate on the couch. J. looked it up. According to the Mayo Clinic website, bee envenomation from more than ten stings can cause these symptoms. It lasted most of the night—from ten square inches of skin! What if I hadn't had that suit on!

The next day I asked Baba about it. (He and his wife were both stung in the melee). “Yes,” he said. “They can even kill people. I know a man whose wife was killed by them. They were attacking her goat. She tried to save the goat and they attacked her. She died.” Wow. According to Wikipedia, the aptness of the name “killer bees” is debated by some. I don't find it debatable.

The next morning a five gallon bucket of honey appeared on the doorstep. My dear friend Zekaria had succeeded where I had not—and with no bee suit. He's the same guy who fixed the clutch with thread and superglue. He's kind of an African ninja. He just went in the night and was only stung a few times. Bless him and Baba both for not berating me for ignorantly plunging ahead when they had subtly warned me not to go in the daytime.

Birth in Tanzania (Part 4 of 4)

Hi!

Mother and child resting at home.



"Look!He's just a speck!" says T.

Once we got to the hospital, we had no choice but to leave Ahadi in their hands for a C-section. I had called ahead to tell them of the situation, but when we arrived they were not ready for a C-section. The doctor had not even been called. However, after about two hours of—dare I say fooling around?—they took her to surgery. Thankfully her contractions had nearly subsided and that two hours did not seem overly hard on her or the baby.

The sun was setting, and as it is inadvisable to travel in the dark, we had to leave trusting that she would be taken care of at the hospital and drive home. We sat mostly in silence hoping and praying the surgery would begin quickly and that mother and baby would survive.

As we pulled into the compound, Baba called the hospital to check in. According to the nurse who answered, the baby was out and they were closing the incision. A tremendous relief poured over us and we thanked God for His provision, protection and love.

A week later Ahadi brought home a beautiful baby boy named David. He's tiny—clearly a few weeks early, but is doing well. He is breastfeeding successfully and is clearly loved and adored by his mother—and so many others here at City of Hope. They were granted a heroes welcome upon their arrival and there has been a steady stream of visitors to Ahadi's house.

Thanks for all your prayers. Consider continuing to pray for Ahadi and David: the family situation is difficult and David still has many hurdles to overcome.