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Therefore I will wait for Him.

  • by nic
  • Posted on April 22, 2017December 12, 2018

The first time we moved I was too young to know anything but the slope…

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  • Africa

Keeping watch.

  • by nic
  • Posted on March 7, 2017December 12, 2018

    We’re home again in the Central African Republic for at least a smallish…

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  • Africa

The fine print.

  • by nic
  • Posted on November 17, 2016December 12, 2018

  We haven’t yet arrived in our new village, and already I have my excuses.…

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Serving With

  • Africa Inland Mission
  • Epic Church
  • Excel Church
  • First Missionary Church of Berne
  • Kapaa Missionary
  • Lihue Missionary
  • Muncie First Church of the Nazarene
  • Old Stone Presbyterian

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Kijabe, Kenya
00220

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One thing we’ve started telling our kids is to call us. If they find themselves in an iffy spot, we don’t care if it’s 4am or two countries away or 300% their own fault: call us. We will always come for you. My parents didn’t say these words exactly, but I absolutely knew this was true. Growing up, I was 85% the easy child and 15% the worst, but no amount of my own stupidity or betrayal kept my dad from showing up for me. That man would’ve shouldered continents aside to get to his kids, and I can’t think of a sweeter, more vital gift: the knowing that our parents were relentlessly for us. That we couldn’t step outside of their devotion. I know this isn’t everyone’s reality, and some people’s father-stories are lukewarm or shattering. If this is you, I’m sorry. I wish I could bring you home to meet my dad. In about two seconds, he’d sign himself up to be your dad too. I hope, though, that you find others who’ll stand squarely in that gap for you. When I was 5000 miles from home at 17, Dr. Erdel filled that father-spot for me. When we lived in different countries from our three oldest boys, a bunch of relatives and friends — steely men and women both — stood up for and beside our kids. (Y’all are still doing this for Braden, and we are the luckiest.) I tip my heart to every single one of you today. Keep showing up with your quiet heroics. You’ve made our lives possible and bright. #thisguy #fathersday2019 #peoplewhocare #thanksdad
Sometimes I google-map Zemio just to lay eyeballs on that place. I never quite realize I’m holding my breath till the satellite image loads and everyone still has their roofs. Zoom in on this earth-map, and nobody’s house is a burnt brick shell. The brush and vines haven’t shuffled back in to reclaim vacant neighborhoods. This is Zemio two years ago, a chattery town glazed in jungle heat, where you could slap soapy wash at the river, or duck into a shop for gingered tea. Where families gathered outside as dusk settled, curved around small fires like half-moons, and when you lifted your gaze, you’d see dozens of neighboring fires winking back at you. From the sky at night, our town looked like a jar of fireflies. Fast-forward to right now, and virtually no one has come home. From the sky at night, Zemio is a spill of ink pooling into the silence around it. I wonder if God misses the fireflies, but I know I’m framing it wrong. He’s not unmoved, observing from a clinical distance. He’s Immanuel, sitting with us in hunger, in the honest keening for home. “We are called to enter into one another’s pain, anoint it as holy, and stick around no matter the outcome” (Rachel Held Evans). So that much we do: we keep company in a topography of pain. Meanwhile food + seeds are rolling in, Sam’s Purse keeps wading in to help, our senior class here at school just gave a boatload of their own money for CAR. The way these guys stick around are a balm to that ache inside my ribs. This is the love song threading through our lives. These are holy days. #prayforCAR #Zemio #CentralAfricanRepublic
During our field study in Lamu, we spent an afternoon of soggy heat with the kiddos at Anidan Children’s Shelter. It wasn’t the point of our trip, but I’m so glad we did it. The thing about Lamu is it was hard for me. Most of the time I show up in a place and think, I could make a life here. But with Lamu I thought, I could make a life here if I really, really had to. Just maybe don’t actually sign me up for it. My hesitation boiled down to nothing and everything: the brine-sticky water from the tap, the undertones of female oppression, the way the air packed wet and dense in my lungs. These kids, though. They somehow didn’t get tripped up by hard things. Our student-kids and the Anidan-kids took all of three seconds to shake their shyness, then they teased and cheered and arced basketballs into the sun. I read this quote today in the NYTimes: “Relationship moves at the speed of trust. Social change moves at the speed of relationship.” I saw how quickly these kids extended preludes of friendship, their banter swimming in mutual generosity. If they can step into adulthood with their humanity intact, the decades to come look astonishing. @anidan_ongd
During Sunday church I sat behind Zachamonial and three of his sweetie-pie friends. It’s their last term before they graduate and scoot off to college, and I was maybe a little weird and weepy about it. All four of them can launch me into mama bear mode, where I’ll bring all the fight I’ve got to the table in order to protect them. (Yes, okay, but I’m surprisingly plucky for someone this small, so tuck that away for future reference.) At one point while everyone else was singing and being non-weepy and normal, I prayed over these kids. I prayed that God would hold onto them, that he would keep their hope intact. I prayed that they wouldn’t lose heart. I prayed that they’d know they can’t walk into any room, street, or war zone where God isn’t already on the scene. Z has enrolled at Vassar, and I have many feelings about this. One that looms extra-large is gratitude: Vassar is an excellent school that fosters curiosity and scholarship. An education like this should be out of our financial reach, but they’ve made it happen. It’s interesting in John 17 when Jesus prays for his disciples—he asks God to protect them, even as he sends them straight into a world set against them. It’s like, protect them but off you go, guys. I guess that’s the thing. As much as I want to keep these kids tucked away safe, I know we’d be missing the point. There’s brokenness to bind and injustices to redeem and so much joy and sheer beauty out there. So dive into that fray, kids, as wild and wounding as it may be, and know that you do not go alone.
“My son, my son,” said Aslan. “I know. Grief is great. Only you and I in this land know that yet. Let us be good to one another.”
Things we must discuss: One-point-five weeks ago I was sweating my armpits off on the gorgeous little island of Lamu. That place is sand and lemony fish and heat and stone alleys that spool out like a secret. I learned boatloads about coastal Swahili culture, but mostly I learned how these students of mine are knit from courage and kindness. While in Lamu, on an uncharacteristic whim, I got a beautiful henna tattoo. Turns out I am allergic to the chemical used to blacken the dye, and so now I have swollen elephant disease with pink floral skin-swirls. It’s nice. Some of our bestest people in all the earth came to visit us last week, and we are still basking in the afterglow. We fed giraffes and chased sunsets and felt wholly known and cared for. Today is the mister’s and my anniversary. I’m not exactly sure what he was thinking, signing up for my emotional control-freakism, but thank goodness he did. His patience and steadfast tenderness make my life possible. In the words of dear, wise @annvoskamp: ‘The bravest love is wildly faithful, and it falls hard again every morning.’ I have a thousand quiet stories about Todd, but this is the only one you need: When the night was a maelstrom of bullets and grenades, he tucked the kids and me in the bedroom, then hauled a mattress to the cool cement just outside the door. He sat there all night, slipping between prayer and sleep and strung-out vigilance. Resolute that any harm aimed our way must first get through him. He’s a good man.
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