All three arrived at Casualty at the same time. A dispute over cows had turned ugly. Guns were fired, two were killed and the rest were brought to our hospital. The most seriously injured were taken to the operating theatre immediately. A few minutes later, Dr. Russ and I took this patient to surgery. He had been shot in the leg just below the knee. The bones were shattered, the foot was cold and numb. He lost a lot of blood at the time of the injury and on the way. A makeshift tourniquet wrapped tightly around the injury and soaked in blood had probably saved his life.
In the operating room, the bleeding was controlled and the injuries quickly assessed. The main artery and vein behind the knee were torn in two. Only a few fibers held the main nerve together. Any chance of saving this man’s leg would require immediately restoring blood flow to the leg. We quickly removed a vein from his other leg and proceeded to replace his torn artery with this harvested vein. The operation is difficult because of the location of the injury, deep behind the knee. Nevertheless, within a little over an hour, the blood was again pulsating to his leg. Once the flow was restored though, the leg began to ooze blood from where all the bullet fragments had torn through the tissue. The patient became unstable, his blood pressure dropped, he was cold and his blood was as thin as Kool-Aid. All of us at the OR table knew that the combination of a cold patient in shock with continued bleeding is often a spiral that cannot be reversed, quickly leading to death.
We called for blood, but the technicians in the lab reported that it wouldn’t be available for another 25 minutes, and they said, when it was available, it would be cold, straight from refrigeration. The situation was desperate. The patient continued to bleed, the blood pressure continued to plummet. Dr. Russ dropped out of the case; he said he wanted to go to the lab to see if he could help retrieve the blood while we continued the resuscitation. Fifteen minutes later, he returned with a big bag of warm blood. It was quickly transfused, the patient began to stabilize, and we were able to proceed with an operation that controlled his bleeding. Everyone in the operating theatre knew that the blood that saved this man’s life was Dr. Russ’s.
A few hours later, I talked to the young man about the operation, and I explained to him that if it had not been for Dr. Russ donating his blood, he would have died on the OR table. The realization that a man who was a total stranger gave his blood to save his life began to sink in. He had no words to convey his gratitude.
Later, I was there when Dr. Russ asked him if he knew Jesus as his Savior. He did not. And then Dr. Russ explained that it was one thing for him (Dr. Russ) to give his blood to save this young man’s physical life. But two thousand years ago, Jesus gave His blood to save us and give us eternal life. Even though this young man didn’t commit his life to Jesus that night, I believe a seed was planted in his heart that he will never forget. That night in a remote mission hospital in Africa, I was reminded that we have no words to convey our gratitude for what Jesus has done for us.
From Africa with love,
We had the opportunity this Sunday to travel by foot into the hills to a small village church. My new Kenyan friend, Summary, invited us to join her at the church she is helping to build in her community.
We were off by nine walking about an hour, passing only huts and small tea plantations on our way. We reached Kapsebet, and Pastor Rono met us at the road and led us to the door of a small wooden room.
Church was supposed to start at ten (but in Kenyan time that meant about 10:30). Slowly the church filled up as people walked from the hills above and all around to worship. We began with singing beautiful traditional hymns. No one had a songbook except Summary, but the room filled with music. The songs were sung in Kipsigis, but we easily could follow along in English to the familiar tunes. Everything was accapella and echoed up the hill along the backside of the building. There was one hand drum played that kept a beautiful rhythmic beat. They treated us as honored guests and had lovely throws on the pews designating our special front row seats. It was a wonderful morning, and we so enjoyed being a part of their service. They translated much of the service into English and made us feel so welcome.
My favorite part of the service was when the offerings and tithes were received. Many people walked up to place their schillings in the basket, but what amazed me was that many people brought up fruits, vegetables and sugar cane. Then at the end of the service, the items were auctioned off to the congregation and the profit added to the tithe. This was such a tender time for us to see people who perhaps did not have any money to spare, but still wanted to give God their best, their first fruits and crops. Someone bought the sugar cane for the children to enjoy after church; this was Jackson’s favorite part!
Pastor Rono asked Paul to close the service. Then we walked up the hill where they, with the help of others, were able to purchase a piece of land and hope to build a building of their own someday. Again, Paul was asked to pray over the construction and finances for this precious congregation.
After the service, we walked another thirty minutes to a home where we were invited for lunch. We had a traditional Kenyan meal of beans, rice, sakumawiki, chapatis (like a tortilla) and ugali. She used what she had and served us her best. We’ll never forget her generous hospitality. It was a highlight for me to be in the village and be a part in a day of Summary’s family and life. I especially enjoyed Summary’s children and fell in love with her three-year-old girl, little Flora.
We were “released” to go about 4:30. In the Kenyan culture, the host literally tells you when you are free to go, and it is considered rude to leave before you have been given permission. We then traveled down the dirt road until we came to the Rickety Bridge. By the way, the bridge is completely torn down, and the metal frame is up and ready for the work team in March to come and finish. It was very exciting to see the progress and know that Summary and hundreds more travel this way everyday to come to work in this area at the compound or school. This meant, however, we had to travel over a makeshift bridge below the new one put together with logs and boards inches over the water….another adventure for my tired little family. I am sure you have read in a previous blog that not everyone in my family was feeling well by this time.:o)
Needless to say, we were early to bed that night after such a full day, some of us doing better than others. It was such a wonderful way to spend our last Sunday in Kenya.
We could not speak the same language, we looked very different in the small sea of beautiful dark skin and much of the culture was new for us. But none of that mattered because we were there for the same reason, to worship and honor our Lord and Savior.
It was a glimpse of heaven.
Not long after we arrived here at Tenwek, my girls asked me if it would be possible for them to be baptized just below the waterfall in the river not far from the hospital. I asked them to think about it for a few days before we made our final decision. About a week ago, all three sat me down and told me they had made up their mind and wanted me to baptize them in water before we left Africa.
So last Wednesday, we made our way 15 minutes down the rocky path that leads to the river. A few of our friends came with us making the moment even more special by their presence. When we arrived, I talked about how proud Jenn and I are of each of the girls for their decision to make Jesus the Lord and Savior of their lives. Dr. Russ explained how baptism represents the fact that we are cleansed from our sins by the sacrifice of Jesus and that when we are baptized, we leave our “old life” in the water and we are raised to a “new life” in Jesus. We then had a prayer, and the four of us climbed into the cold water as mom and Jack watched and took pictures from the bank.
My usual routine when I baptize someone is to call the person by name and then say, “My brother/sister in Christ, because of your profession of faith in the Lord Jesus, I baptize you in the Name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit”. I “held it together” until I called each of my daughters “my sister in Christ”. I cried my own river of tears as I realized that my children are not only a part of MY family, but because they trust Jesus as their Savior, they are a part of THE family of God. What a joy it will be for Jenn and I to spend all of eternity in heaven with our children.
As I baptized each of my girls in that cold, African water last Wednesday, I prayed that their baptism would be a constant reminder that there is a world out there that needs to hear and see the love of Jesus. I pray that each of them–in whatever way God calls them–will be a part of going into all the world with the Good News.
From Africa with love,
There is a local culinary delicacy here in Kenya called “ugali”. It is pronounced “u” (like the “oo” in moon), “gha”, “lee”; with the emphasis on “gha”. What pasta is to the Italians, what tamales are to the Latinos, what hamburgers are to Americans—ugali is to the Kenyans. Even the mention of its name brings a broad smile to their faces, a warm sensation to their hearts and excited anticipation to their stomach juices. I think it is very similar to the same effect the mention of Blue Bell Rocky Road ice cream has on me.Most of the Kenyans I meet insist that I must try ugali before I leave. Several of my friends have offered to have me over for lunch and make ugali for me. Each time I have carefully but graciously declined. That is, until this past Sunday, when over lunch, the host brought in rice and beans in separate big pots that had been warmed over the fire. And then greens in a simple open pan. And then she retrieved out of the depths of her kitchen a small covered dish with her prized offering to us—ugali. What could I do? I had to be a gracious guest. She dished out a small portion of what looked a little like overly thick grits on to my plate. And she mentioned that if I mixed the ugali with the greens it would be the height of my culinary experience while here in Kenya. My thought was to cover the ugali with salsa and cheese, and perhaps, it would taste like an enchilada. I felt like I had to oblige her. The first bite was quite unremarkable—very little taste except for the greens. I became more daring with the next few bites—ugali alone. I must admit, it tastes like a combination of mashed potatoes and grits. My confidence was surging—so I finished my portion, complimented my host and had a sense of connection with the deep roots of the Kenyan culture.
What happened about 30 minutes later is difficult to explain. In medical terms, I would probably describe it as acute gastric distension with a component of severe, unrelenting gastrointestinal spasms. In Texas slang, I was just sick as a dog. I felt like a nuclear explosion started in my lower esophagus and reverberated all the way down to my toes.
We kindly thanked our host and commenced with our 45-minute walk home—yes, I said 45 minutes! The spasms worsened, I began to perspire, and each step of the way, it seemed like the intestinal nuclear melt-down was worsening. By the grace of God, we made it to our cottage. My family quickly offered prayers for my survival, and I created a concoction of Pepto-Bismol, Tums, Alka-Seltzer and Phenergan (don’t try this without medical supervision) and proceeded to bed, where I lay perfectly still so I could keep my ugali inside rather than outside.
I’m now 24 hours past my first ugali experience and am a little more positive about it than I was lying in the bed yesterday. The only residual symptom I have is some heartburn after meals—compared to the intestinal nuclear disaster yesterday, I am not complaining. I have given ugali a new name—I now call it “Oh Golly!!” And needless to say, I will never let this local Kenyan delicacy ever touch my lips again.
From Africa with love,
P.S. Perhaps this distress had nothing to do with ugali, maybe it was the enchiladas and pizza I had the night before!!