The December 27th presidential election in Kenya has caused much upheaval in our country of residence. Problems began when the results were delayed for three days; accusations of corruption from the ruling party fueled the fire. As riots and protests happen in some of the major cities of Kenya (of which Kijabe is NOT one--the people at RVA and Kijabe are safe), what the future holds is uncertain. Our flight is scheduled to leave tomorrow at 5:50 pm, but we're not sure at this point if anyone will be able to retrieve us at the airport and if it's safe to spend the night in the city. My gut feeling is that things will get under control in the next 24 hours, and we will make the flight, but your prayers are appreciated for Kenya.
Read more about the riots here.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Saturday, December 22, 2007
24 Hour Pouty People
From Monday night until Tuesday night, the Murphy Four experienced what could be called a microcosm of the entire missionary life. “Leaving and grieving” is the catch phrase for the emotional state of chaos in which missionaries and MK’s find themselves. Our loved ones are scattered around the world, and anytime we leave one set we find ourselves going to be reunited with another. While everyone (missionary or not) feels loss and loneliness and separation from loved ones in one way or another, missionaries go through this in an exaggerated way. All of our relationships are spread across the world and we spend exponentially more time away from our loved ones than the general population. We’re constantly “leaving” someone, and so we’re perpetually in a state of “grieving.”
I’ll start with Monday night—6 pm West Coast time. We celebrated my father-in-law’s birthday at my brother and sister-in-law’s house. The four grandkids romped around the house, the adults enjoyed watching the kids and conversing, we ate some amazing Mexican food courtesy of my sister-in-law, and we opened some early Christmas presents in addition to Dad’s birthday gift. At the end of the night, we said goodbye to Jason and Cathy, Christian and Tierra—not for the night but for the next two years. My nephew’s life will double in that time period, and my niece will learn how to read for real (she story-tells while looking at pictures now, fooling her younger nephew Micah into thinking she is actually reading). A lot of life will be missed while we’re away.
Fastforward to Tuesday morning—7 am West Coast time. If you didn’t read my “The Curse of Row 13” blog, you won’t understand the complexities of this emotional goodbye, but even without it, you can imagine grandparents having to say goodbye to half of their grandchildren for at least the next nineteen months. Standing in Terminal 1 at San Diego International Airport brought back horrible memories of our first goodbye from them in June 2005. Heather had never moved away from home before, and her parents had never had a heartbreak like this either. As the husband, the son-in-law, the man, and the leader responsible for this move, I felt awful as well, as if somehow I were the one (and not the Lord) who had led us to this life. Luckily, this Tuesday’s goodbye was far less difficult, for it wouldn’t be an indefinite amount of time until we met again and we’d already been through separation before. These waters weren’t unchartered. But the sea will still be rough.
After four and a half hours of decompressing on the airplane, we were transported magically to another emotional country—elation.
4 pm East Coast time. Waiting outside of baggage claim at Washington Dulles were my dad, step-dad, and uncle—all who had never met Asher and of whom I hadn’t seen in two and a half years. Of course, my mom was there too to hug Micah first of all, but we’d seen her a mere nine months earlier. (All grandmothers out there will note the sarcasm in the word “mere” I’m sure.)
9 pm East Coast time. Once we arrived back to my parents’ house, my sister and her fiancé came over to see us. She’s getting married on Friday, and I’d never even met Clint. It was a joy to meet this fella I’d be calling brother in the next few days, and there was also the joy in seeing my baby sister’s belly with a baby in it. I told her that the surreal feeling of seeing her with a rounded belly was akin to seeing Arnold Schwarzenegger pregnant in Junior. I don’t think she liked the comparison.
In 24 hours, we had experienced painful goodbyes and mountain highs, tears of sorrow and tears of joy, grieving and rejoicing. This is the emotional life of a missionary family in a nutshell. Not all days may be as intense as this Monday-Tuesday stretch, but every day possesses these emotions. We’re joyous to be doing what God wants us to do in Africa; we love the people—of all races, nationalities, and ages—whom we live with there. But we long and miss and grieve for those back home. And that’s the tension that’s more than just a 24 hour phenomenon.
I’ll start with Monday night—6 pm West Coast time. We celebrated my father-in-law’s birthday at my brother and sister-in-law’s house. The four grandkids romped around the house, the adults enjoyed watching the kids and conversing, we ate some amazing Mexican food courtesy of my sister-in-law, and we opened some early Christmas presents in addition to Dad’s birthday gift. At the end of the night, we said goodbye to Jason and Cathy, Christian and Tierra—not for the night but for the next two years. My nephew’s life will double in that time period, and my niece will learn how to read for real (she story-tells while looking at pictures now, fooling her younger nephew Micah into thinking she is actually reading). A lot of life will be missed while we’re away.
Fastforward to Tuesday morning—7 am West Coast time. If you didn’t read my “The Curse of Row 13” blog, you won’t understand the complexities of this emotional goodbye, but even without it, you can imagine grandparents having to say goodbye to half of their grandchildren for at least the next nineteen months. Standing in Terminal 1 at San Diego International Airport brought back horrible memories of our first goodbye from them in June 2005. Heather had never moved away from home before, and her parents had never had a heartbreak like this either. As the husband, the son-in-law, the man, and the leader responsible for this move, I felt awful as well, as if somehow I were the one (and not the Lord) who had led us to this life. Luckily, this Tuesday’s goodbye was far less difficult, for it wouldn’t be an indefinite amount of time until we met again and we’d already been through separation before. These waters weren’t unchartered. But the sea will still be rough.
After four and a half hours of decompressing on the airplane, we were transported magically to another emotional country—elation.
4 pm East Coast time. Waiting outside of baggage claim at Washington Dulles were my dad, step-dad, and uncle—all who had never met Asher and of whom I hadn’t seen in two and a half years. Of course, my mom was there too to hug Micah first of all, but we’d seen her a mere nine months earlier. (All grandmothers out there will note the sarcasm in the word “mere” I’m sure.)
9 pm East Coast time. Once we arrived back to my parents’ house, my sister and her fiancé came over to see us. She’s getting married on Friday, and I’d never even met Clint. It was a joy to meet this fella I’d be calling brother in the next few days, and there was also the joy in seeing my baby sister’s belly with a baby in it. I told her that the surreal feeling of seeing her with a rounded belly was akin to seeing Arnold Schwarzenegger pregnant in Junior. I don’t think she liked the comparison.
In 24 hours, we had experienced painful goodbyes and mountain highs, tears of sorrow and tears of joy, grieving and rejoicing. This is the emotional life of a missionary family in a nutshell. Not all days may be as intense as this Monday-Tuesday stretch, but every day possesses these emotions. We’re joyous to be doing what God wants us to do in Africa; we love the people—of all races, nationalities, and ages—whom we live with there. But we long and miss and grieve for those back home. And that’s the tension that’s more than just a 24 hour phenomenon.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
The Curse of Row 13
To quote Michael Scott of The Office: "I'm not superstitious, but I'm a little stitious."
We had our second day of travel on Tuesday, and it didn't go very well. It was only from California to Pennslyvania. It should've gone very well when you stack it up next to our flight from Kenya to California. To California...43 hours of travel time, door to door. From California to PA...12 hours of travel time, door to door. To California...23 hours in the air. To PA...4 hours in the air. Heather lost $40 worth of beauty supplies through US security, I spilled a can of powder baby formula on the airport floor (and inside my laptop computer), we missed our flight in Washington Dulles Airport, and our luggage was all delayed (but not lost) coming to California. A lot went wrong on that grueling flight, but it wasn't as bad as Tuesday. What happened on Tuesday was enough to make anyone a little stitious.
We awoke at 5 am and loaded up three vehicles to drive from Julian (an hour east of San Diego) to the airport. On the way, we needed to drop off our friends car at their house, so I drove Zac and Shelbi's car, Heather drove her mom's car with our two boys in the back, and Heather's dad drove his truck filled with our luggage. As we caravaned down the hill, it was still dark and it was a frigid morning. Although there hadn't been precipitation in a few days, the previous week's snow was still melting on certain hillsides. I drove rather slowly, both because we were traveling together and because the roads were very winding for a dark morning. About fifteen minutes into the journey, I hit a patch of black ice on a curve. I skidded for a few seconds, regained control, and continued on. A bit shocked, I reached for my phone to try to warn Heather, wanting to somehow let her know to be careful. I now wished I had simply stopped around the bend so my imminent lights would have been a caution sign for her.
She was far too close behind me to call and for her to answer, and when I realized this, I then slowed down and waited for her headlights to appear, meaning that she'd made it through successfully.
I waited. I waited. I waited until there were no possible way that something bad hadn't happened. I began to pray and I turned the car around in the middle of the small road. I headed back the 150 yards around the corner unsure of what I'd find. Before I could go 50 yards, three cars with blinkers on drove past me--Heather, her dad, and another car. I breathed a sigh of relief. They seemed to be okay, but why the delay?
After turning around again, I found our two cars pulled over and found out that Heather had fishtailed, slid nearly off the left side of the road, slid 180 degrees in the other direction, and slammed into a bank head on. Everyone was okay (Mom's chronic back pain was aggravated by the jolt), but the front bumper was cracked and a fluid was pouring out of the front of the engine. We decided that the car shouldn've be driven anymore but we still needed to get to the airport ASAP. Heather's mom suggested that we return the borrowed car later in the day, leave the wrecked car by the road, and proceed to the airport. We had lost 15 minutes and didn't have much time to spare.
Since we had to leave the borrowed car behind, we parked it in the airport parking and went to unload Dad's truck curbside. With the truck idling and Heather tending to our two boys, Mom watched the truck and the luggage while a suspicious man lurked vaguely around the area. With everyone emotional frazzled and frantically checking in for our flight (now just 45 minutes away), the man somehow went unnoticed as he grabbed Mom's digital camera.
No one realized it until we all stopped outside of the secuirty checkpoint to say our goodbye that would last the next two years. Mom was terrified as she went to grab her camera to take one last farewell picture. The thief's face immediately came to mind and she was convinced he had taken it. While we tried to propose other positive scenarios, she knew. The camera had been stolen.
The goodbye was now punctuated with the uncertain future of the car (How badly was it damaged? How would Mom and Dad accomplish the deliveries and repairs later in the day?) and the trauma of theft. To make matters worse, the clock was ticking and our plane left in 25 minutes.
The security check point offered no brevity. We unloaded the contents of two carry-ons and a diaper bag into the trays (filling 18 trays total), and we stripped the winter coats and shoes off of our "extreme-threat-to-national-security" sons. To make matters even worse, they took our suitcases aside for further examination, callous to the fact that we were about to miss our flight.
Heather ran ahead once the first bag was done, and she held the gate open for Micah and me. But since the flight was full, they wouldn't let us take our carry-ons (the very carry-ons which kept us for 15 minutes at security) on board with us. They had to be checked with the other baggage, and so we helplessly watched our digital camera, used laptops (donated by Francis Parker School to Rift Valley Academy), baby monitor, and alarm clock be taken away to the savage underbelly of the aircraft. Our stroller was checked too. (A stroller we would find broken when we arrived in Dulles.)
Feeling stripped of our possessions and stripped of our emotions, we shimmied through the aisles and the angry eyes of the earlier-arriving passengers to our seats. Seat A, B, and C. The row?
Row 13. Yes, I'm a little stitious too, Michael.
The few positives that came out of this story were that we made our flight, we got all of our luggage in tact in Dulles, and we were reunited with my parents at the airport. We also found out that the only interior damage to the car was the windshield wiper fluid pipe. The bumper would need to be replaced, but it was a relief that no serious damage happened inside the car.
Oh how we long for the days of cramped seats, bad airplane food , and simple jet lag.
We had our second day of travel on Tuesday, and it didn't go very well. It was only from California to Pennslyvania. It should've gone very well when you stack it up next to our flight from Kenya to California. To California...43 hours of travel time, door to door. From California to PA...12 hours of travel time, door to door. To California...23 hours in the air. To PA...4 hours in the air. Heather lost $40 worth of beauty supplies through US security, I spilled a can of powder baby formula on the airport floor (and inside my laptop computer), we missed our flight in Washington Dulles Airport, and our luggage was all delayed (but not lost) coming to California. A lot went wrong on that grueling flight, but it wasn't as bad as Tuesday. What happened on Tuesday was enough to make anyone a little stitious.
We awoke at 5 am and loaded up three vehicles to drive from Julian (an hour east of San Diego) to the airport. On the way, we needed to drop off our friends car at their house, so I drove Zac and Shelbi's car, Heather drove her mom's car with our two boys in the back, and Heather's dad drove his truck filled with our luggage. As we caravaned down the hill, it was still dark and it was a frigid morning. Although there hadn't been precipitation in a few days, the previous week's snow was still melting on certain hillsides. I drove rather slowly, both because we were traveling together and because the roads were very winding for a dark morning. About fifteen minutes into the journey, I hit a patch of black ice on a curve. I skidded for a few seconds, regained control, and continued on. A bit shocked, I reached for my phone to try to warn Heather, wanting to somehow let her know to be careful. I now wished I had simply stopped around the bend so my imminent lights would have been a caution sign for her.
She was far too close behind me to call and for her to answer, and when I realized this, I then slowed down and waited for her headlights to appear, meaning that she'd made it through successfully.
I waited. I waited. I waited until there were no possible way that something bad hadn't happened. I began to pray and I turned the car around in the middle of the small road. I headed back the 150 yards around the corner unsure of what I'd find. Before I could go 50 yards, three cars with blinkers on drove past me--Heather, her dad, and another car. I breathed a sigh of relief. They seemed to be okay, but why the delay?
After turning around again, I found our two cars pulled over and found out that Heather had fishtailed, slid nearly off the left side of the road, slid 180 degrees in the other direction, and slammed into a bank head on. Everyone was okay (Mom's chronic back pain was aggravated by the jolt), but the front bumper was cracked and a fluid was pouring out of the front of the engine. We decided that the car shouldn've be driven anymore but we still needed to get to the airport ASAP. Heather's mom suggested that we return the borrowed car later in the day, leave the wrecked car by the road, and proceed to the airport. We had lost 15 minutes and didn't have much time to spare.
Since we had to leave the borrowed car behind, we parked it in the airport parking and went to unload Dad's truck curbside. With the truck idling and Heather tending to our two boys, Mom watched the truck and the luggage while a suspicious man lurked vaguely around the area. With everyone emotional frazzled and frantically checking in for our flight (now just 45 minutes away), the man somehow went unnoticed as he grabbed Mom's digital camera.
No one realized it until we all stopped outside of the secuirty checkpoint to say our goodbye that would last the next two years. Mom was terrified as she went to grab her camera to take one last farewell picture. The thief's face immediately came to mind and she was convinced he had taken it. While we tried to propose other positive scenarios, she knew. The camera had been stolen.
The goodbye was now punctuated with the uncertain future of the car (How badly was it damaged? How would Mom and Dad accomplish the deliveries and repairs later in the day?) and the trauma of theft. To make matters worse, the clock was ticking and our plane left in 25 minutes.
The security check point offered no brevity. We unloaded the contents of two carry-ons and a diaper bag into the trays (filling 18 trays total), and we stripped the winter coats and shoes off of our "extreme-threat-to-national-security" sons. To make matters even worse, they took our suitcases aside for further examination, callous to the fact that we were about to miss our flight.
Heather ran ahead once the first bag was done, and she held the gate open for Micah and me. But since the flight was full, they wouldn't let us take our carry-ons (the very carry-ons which kept us for 15 minutes at security) on board with us. They had to be checked with the other baggage, and so we helplessly watched our digital camera, used laptops (donated by Francis Parker School to Rift Valley Academy), baby monitor, and alarm clock be taken away to the savage underbelly of the aircraft. Our stroller was checked too. (A stroller we would find broken when we arrived in Dulles.)
Feeling stripped of our possessions and stripped of our emotions, we shimmied through the aisles and the angry eyes of the earlier-arriving passengers to our seats. Seat A, B, and C. The row?
Row 13. Yes, I'm a little stitious too, Michael.
The few positives that came out of this story were that we made our flight, we got all of our luggage in tact in Dulles, and we were reunited with my parents at the airport. We also found out that the only interior damage to the car was the windshield wiper fluid pipe. The bumper would need to be replaced, but it was a relief that no serious damage happened inside the car.
Oh how we long for the days of cramped seats, bad airplane food , and simple jet lag.
The Great Divorce
I'm creating this blog as a way of separating my normal blogs (family stories, faith lessons, cultural insights) from my "book related" blogs. The status of my book is constantly changing as it grows in readership, and I wanted a place to share information and updates solely related to All That You Can't Leave Behind.
My new book blog is All That You Can't Leave Behind. Check it out and I hope you enjoy the divorce! (When was the last time you heard that phrase uttered?)
My new book blog is All That You Can't Leave Behind. Check it out and I hope you enjoy the divorce! (When was the last time you heard that phrase uttered?)
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
The quest for donut
On our first morning in San Diego, I loaded my young offspring into the family transport and embarked on an American rite of passage, a journey of heroic proportions, a manly quest like no other. We went to buy donuts.
Way back in the year 2005, a wonderful land of sugar and lard could be found every few miles in San Diego. The fairytale world was called Krispy Kreme. So naturally, I took my little man down the yellow lined road to see the wonderful wizard of HOT DONUTS NOW. To my great dismay, I found that the glucose glazed goodies were now polysaturated poultry patties. My Krispy Kreme was now Chik-Fil-A.
Unfulfilled but undeterred, we proceeded to the grocery store across the street. But here is where my mentorship of my son began to fall apart. The vast expanses of an American grocery store made me quickly realize that my auto-pilot function was gone. I had to think long and hard about how to get the thing I knew I could certainly get here. Donuts, donuts, donuts. Where were they?
Bakery, I thought. I scanned the boxes of baked goods—cakes, muffins, rolls, but no donuts. I wandered around some more until I finally broke down and asked. They were hidden on a small set of shelves behind some bags of bagels. I allowed Micah to pick out a colorful sprinkled one, I got Heather an old fashioned cake donut, and I settled on a disappointing, non-Krispy Kreme chocolate iced. Milk was next on the list.
However, a funny thing happened on the way to the milk aisle. We found a row of boxed and bagged donut varieties. You know, the kinds that could survive a nuclear winter with only slight taste alteration. What to do, what to do? It hadn’t dawned on me that there would be more than one area in a store with donuts. We found a much better option there, and now I had to do something which I imagine has never been done in the sanitary history of Ralph’s grocery store. I returned to the donut shelves and placed (using the same sterile wax sheets as before) the donuts back in their nice, neat spots.
Back to the milk aisle. We grabbed our milk and headed for the check out. Before we got more than 20 feet though, we came across a table display filled with an even more alluring selection of donuts. These were the in-betweeners, the not-quite-fresh but only moderately fire retardant. The $1.99 sticker was the clincher, and so we had to return a second selection back to their original spot. At this point, I’d been in the store nearly 10 minutes, dragging my wide-eyed three-year-old through the glimmering fruits and colorful cans.
Since the store was fairly empty, I guess my aimless traipsing caught at least one person’s attention. As my box of donuts and jug of milk raced toward the red lasers, the lady asked, “Are you from out-of-town?” I guess a normal San Diegan would have known exactly how many different selections of donuts were available at any given supermarket and wouldn’t have taken nearly a quarter of an hour to select two items.
They smiled with relief when I said, “No, I live in Kenya.” There was a reason why I couldn’t procure donuts within a reasonable time frame. I was a foreigner.
Way back in the year 2005, a wonderful land of sugar and lard could be found every few miles in San Diego. The fairytale world was called Krispy Kreme. So naturally, I took my little man down the yellow lined road to see the wonderful wizard of HOT DONUTS NOW. To my great dismay, I found that the glucose glazed goodies were now polysaturated poultry patties. My Krispy Kreme was now Chik-Fil-A.
Unfulfilled but undeterred, we proceeded to the grocery store across the street. But here is where my mentorship of my son began to fall apart. The vast expanses of an American grocery store made me quickly realize that my auto-pilot function was gone. I had to think long and hard about how to get the thing I knew I could certainly get here. Donuts, donuts, donuts. Where were they?
Bakery, I thought. I scanned the boxes of baked goods—cakes, muffins, rolls, but no donuts. I wandered around some more until I finally broke down and asked. They were hidden on a small set of shelves behind some bags of bagels. I allowed Micah to pick out a colorful sprinkled one, I got Heather an old fashioned cake donut, and I settled on a disappointing, non-Krispy Kreme chocolate iced. Milk was next on the list.
However, a funny thing happened on the way to the milk aisle. We found a row of boxed and bagged donut varieties. You know, the kinds that could survive a nuclear winter with only slight taste alteration. What to do, what to do? It hadn’t dawned on me that there would be more than one area in a store with donuts. We found a much better option there, and now I had to do something which I imagine has never been done in the sanitary history of Ralph’s grocery store. I returned to the donut shelves and placed (using the same sterile wax sheets as before) the donuts back in their nice, neat spots.
Back to the milk aisle. We grabbed our milk and headed for the check out. Before we got more than 20 feet though, we came across a table display filled with an even more alluring selection of donuts. These were the in-betweeners, the not-quite-fresh but only moderately fire retardant. The $1.99 sticker was the clincher, and so we had to return a second selection back to their original spot. At this point, I’d been in the store nearly 10 minutes, dragging my wide-eyed three-year-old through the glimmering fruits and colorful cans.
Since the store was fairly empty, I guess my aimless traipsing caught at least one person’s attention. As my box of donuts and jug of milk raced toward the red lasers, the lady asked, “Are you from out-of-town?” I guess a normal San Diegan would have known exactly how many different selections of donuts were available at any given supermarket and wouldn’t have taken nearly a quarter of an hour to select two items.
They smiled with relief when I said, “No, I live in Kenya.” There was a reason why I couldn’t procure donuts within a reasonable time frame. I was a foreigner.
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