Roving Around to the Ends of the Earth

 I arrived in Addis on a Sunday morning. By the time I was settled in my guesthouse room, I had already been contacted by former Gambella mission friends who have now relocated to Addis. I hired a taxi to their house for a wonderful Sunday dinner and lots of reminiscing and talking about how to do mission best (or at least better). Monday, I visited with another mission friend, who is also a friend from school days in Addis. No shortage of things to talk about there, either! 

And then on Tuesday I arrived in Gambella to the house we left 2 1/2 years ago where some of our stuff is still, and more importantly, where many friends still are and will be for many years to come. I reunited with my  not-actually-adopted Oromo "grand-daughter", Meraaj, and her parents and brother, and enjoyed a good home-cooked Ethiopian meal complete with Ethiopian coffee, fresh roasted and ground! The best!

The next morning I was told we would leave "early" to go to Burbei to attend the West Gambella Bethel Synod Annual Convention - a gathering of all the presbytery and synod leaders to manage and organize the work of the church. I woke up at 7 and figured I had at least an hour, so I got a cup of coffee and got my stuff together and by 9 someone came to tell me we'd be going soon, so we'd go get some breakfast together first. We walked to the hotel, ordered and ate breakfast, walked back, sat and talked a while. The car came and we were on the road at 12:30. The five hour drive to Burbei was uneventful with the exception of one easily fixed flat tire. 

Arriving at the church where we were to spend the next four days, we extricated ourselves from the truck and began unloading our stuff from the back, and suddenly there were people grabbing our stuff and running and dancing with it across the field to the gate of the church compound. At the gate of the compound the women of Burbei Presbytery greeted us with the traditional feet, arms, and head washing along with lots of singing and laughing. 

I emerged fantastically welcomed!

First things first - all the travelers and welcomers gathered at the meeting place to give thanks to God.

Then we went to settle our stuff in the places where we would be staying for the next few days. I put my stuff in the "bileh" (a temporary shelter), where it would be out of the weather, and set up a mosquito net where I would lie comfortably on a mattress looking up at the stars until I fell asleep. Nights were cool - down to the low 70s (Fahrenheit). I would cover up with a doubled over sheet.

As more participants arrived there was more singing, dancing, washing, and praying throughout the evening. The meetings started after a communion worship service the next morning. 

Michael and I have been to several of this kind of meeting. For me, they are wonderful days of fellowship and camaraderie along with the necessary business of church organization. We are invited guests, with no voting rights or responsibilities, but are given the chance to comment on various topics that come up. I don't understand nearly enough of the Nuer language to follow the discussions without interpretation, but I enjoy listening to decipher words I do know and try to figure out some I don't. I'm not sure Nuers actually speak their language - they swallow most of it, as far as I can hear. But laughing and joyful singing I can understand clearly - and that happens a lot! 

The "Convention Center"

The meeting was conducted tactfully by Rev. James Gatdet Tang, the synod president. The organizers made time in the mornings (5:30!) and evenings to pray for the meeting and participants. There were few disagreements, few tough decisions, but even the one that could have erupted in anger was well-managed because of the time dedicated to prayer and the wise leadership skills of Rev. James. Several years ago, Michael and I attended the first annual synod convention led by Rev. James. At that time the synod was struggling to meet all its financial responsibilities. Rev. James explained the process of keeping accurate records and making appropriate contributions up the church chain so that the work the members expected could happen smoothly. At that meeting there was a lot of animated discussion and not everyone left in full agreement. 

This meeting was very different. Most presbyteries are understanding the need for and the method of counting, collecting, and dispersing that serves the needs of all church workers. Presbyteries were given awards for meeting goals and for making attempts to meet goals. The participants left with a sense of accomplishment. 

Burbei Presbytery is on the western edge of Ethiopia, right up against South Sudan, after the asphalt road ends. It is one of the most desolate places I have ever been to. We ate fish. Nothing else is locally available. Some of it was fished out of the river a couple miles away and some of it was dug out of the mud where they were "hibernating" (is that what they do?) until the rains start again and the river rises over its banks. It was boiled or fried or made into a stew and was served with corn porridge made from dry corn brought from Gambella or a couple times with fresh corn brought from the river banks. The corn was ground on a stone at the "convention center". 

Burbei is one of those areas where any sickness is possibly fatal. Clean water from the borehole is a hot 30 min walk away and even hotter and more tired return with a full 25 liter jerry can on her head. No one complains. It's life. During the meetings a woman fell over with exhaustion with a fever from malaria (probably). I gave her the round of malaria medicine I carry with me just in case I get bit by a mosquito on my way back to the States. A million dollars couldn't have bought it for her - it simply is not available in Burbei. I'll get a replacement for less than $1 before I return to the States ... just in case. 

Next week I'm hoping to have some time with the East Gambella Bethel Synod and my Anywaa and Majangir colleagues to talk about their work and how I can continue to to support them.  But for the next few days I will be figuring out how to get Michael's books into suitcases without going over the airline weight limit - they're huge theology books and only a few of them take up half the allowed weight of one piece of luggage. Maybe I'll use the other half for hand roasted coffee. That should work.

The village outside the convention center.
The cows came home - as they do every night.

Raveling Back

When there's a pile of unraveled yarn or thread in my project basket, it means my mind has not been able to focus on what I'm doing. Life has been uncertain, ideas are running in and out of my brain, I'm mulling over plans, hopes, and needs and haven't found any answers. 

So there have been a number of unraveled projects in my basket recently.

Not sure if this is my mind or a knitting project.

Then a conversation with a friend and a simple suggestion about just doing what needs to be done put everything into perspective and I got my act together and re-instated my ticket. I'll fly out of Durham, NC on Sat morning. I'm feeling a little more focused.

Michael and I drove to Durham on Tuesday for his most-of-the-day appointments at the Duke Brain Cancer Center. Even as I was booking my tickets I wondered what the test results and doctor consultations would reveal and if I'd have to change my plans. There hasn't really been anything to indicate that we'd hear something unexpected, but, well, you know ... that worry is always there.

If someone was looking at his MRI and bloodwork with no knowledge of the history, they'd wonder what any one is worried about! Once again, God has kept the miracle going. Michael's got a beautiful brain and his bloodwork shows no damage from the monthly chemo. So the monthly chemo at the envelope-pushing levels continues and we continue to be overwhelmed by God's grace and kindness to us. 

And I just got a negative covid test, so tomorrow morning I'll get on a plane in Durham and fly to Washington, DC where I'll get on the Ethiopian Airline flight to Addis Ababa. 

I'll have enough time to finish a whole sock.   

After a couple days in Addis I'll fly to Gambella where I'll spend most of the next four weeks. 

And what will I do there? That is the question.

My priority is to deal with the stuff we left there. It's not a lot, but decisions need to be made. 

Between sorting, thinking, and disposing of, I will be visiting with friends and colleagues and discussing ways that I can be involved with the ongoing work of the church in Gambella. 

The first thing I'll be doing, though, is taking a road trip out to the edge of Ethiopia to participate in the West Gambella Bethel Synod yearly convention, where the leaders from all the presbyteries come together for business and fellowship. It is always held on the grounds of one of the synods. The Youth usually put up shelters - one for each presbytery - to be used to keep stuff in and to sleep in for those who want more protection than a mosquito net. I'm hoping to find the small tent Michael and I left. Or else I'll get a mosquito net.

This is one of the gatherings I look forward to. There is always so much joy and delight. Lots of singing. Sometimes there is a fight - when church leaders don't agree - but laughter is most common. 

I hope I'll be able to have a strong enough internet connection to keep you updated more frequently than usual. 

I am sad that, for the first time, Michael and I won't be returning to Ethiopia together. But I'm glad that, at the end of my trip, I'll be returning home for the first time ever. Now to figure out how to live in my two homes at the same time.

Thanks for your accompaniment. Thanks for the prayers. 

Rejoice with the Rejoicing; Weep with the Weeping

 

Have you ever been so overwhelmed by God’s goodness and mercy that you were left speechless?

Surprising as it might seem, the excitement in the exam room a month ago, left Michael … and even me … speechless. 

Michael, as you know, is part of a vaccine trial at Duke University Brain Cancer Center. They only see people who are dealing with brain tumors.  We go monthly. The routine goes like this: a tech meets us at the door and escorts Michael to the scales and BP cuff and takes all his vitals, then a nurse escorts us to the exam room where she asks all the questions about how he’s been since last visit, then a nurse practitioner comes in and goes over the day’s lab work, does the neuro-checks (you know: touch your nose, walk heal-toe without falling over, subtract by 7s ...)  and shows us the MRI. She then goes and consults with the doctor, who comes back in with the nurse to reiterate what’s already been said by the NP and make sure we understand the next steps. This time, though, it really felt like the doctor just wanted to be in on the fun – yes, fun! 

The nurse practitioner said, “We rarely see MRI’s this good.” Then when the doctor came in, she said, “You know what all the excitement was out there just now? We were all talking about how your MRI is the best one we’re going to see all day, or longer! Look! What was a small spot last time, is hardly a shadow now! And there's no sign of any new growth anywhere else!" 

And Michael and I just sat there. Yes, it is all so very overwhelming. Exciting. And overwhelming.

 And then, later in the week, we received the news that a friend and supporter, whose wife has been to Gambella to talk with me about health work there, died ten months after being diagnosed with the same kind of cancer.

And so our excitement is tempered. We are humbled. 

In the midst of our joy, we mourn with our friend. We mourn with our other friend, whose wife “received her eternal healing” from cancer, (as her husband texted me) just a few months ago. We mourn with so many others who do not receive a miracle, who struggle with daily problems of life, who seek relief from endless burdens, whose loss seems overwhelming.

Long ago I stopped looking for reasons, reasons for miraculous healing, reasons for death too soon, reasons for trials, reasons for amazing blessings. Together, Michael and I persist in our assurance that God is good, that God hears our pains, that God weeps with us and comforts us and gives us strength. And that God smiles and dances and rejoices with us when we are joyful. We persist in our attempts to show our gratitude for all good things by, as faithfully as we know how, doing what God has for us to do. Sometimes our work is to cheer each other on in joy and sometimes it is to sit quietly and mourn together for what is lost.

We are thankful for scientific knowledge; we consider it a gift of God. We are thankful for the opportunity to benefit from some of the most advanced medical knowledge regarding the cancer that invaded Michael's brain. 

Michael will continue with monthly chemotherapy (tablets at home) and immunotherapy (injections at the brain cancer center) for the next year. He will be on the highest doses of chemo possible “because he tolerates it so well”. He tolerated one of those highest doses in January and will take the next series in a couple weeks. It is timed so that his worst days fall between Sundays so he is able to look strong in the pulpit every week!

Thank you for your support in the many ways you have shown it to us. All the notes, cards, calls, emails, visits, and prayers sustain us. We thank God for each of you.

Hope

What does it mean to live in Hope with the real possibility of death staring you in the face? That's what I continue to ponder. Somehow, normalcy has to continue; people cannot sit around staring at the "dying" person anticipating the signals that "it" is about to happen, can we? Especially not, when the dying person gives no indication that his death is as imminent as certain statistics indicated. 

I decided, a month or so ago, that I was going to go about my life as if everything were normal and just deal with the extra-ordinary things as they crop up. And then I lost my step, grabbed the door handle nearby, and yanked my arm out of its socket. Now my movement around town is dependent upon a "dying" man rather than him being dependent on me for transport. Or that's what it seemed for a while.

This week Michael had an appointment at the Duke Brain Tumor Clinic at Duke University in Durham, NC. He had the usual radiology and blood work and then we met with the research doctor in charge of his case and the immunotherapy trial that he is now a part of. She came in to the exam room and sat down. She was almost excited as she told us everything looked good. She pulled up the MRI of Michael's brain and showed us the tiny white spot that indicated something had been there and that the area was healing - more specifically, almost completely healed! Then we talked about the trial and how it is done in conjunction with chemotherapy because that therapy is, in fact, the only thing known for sure to be at all effective. In the trial, Michael is given "re-trained" antibodies - his own antibodies that were removed and then "taught" to attack cells that cause the tumor. She explained that in the nearly 2 decades she's been working with this, she has seen very good response and that, because Michael's surgery was done well, and his particular type of tumor responds well to chemo, and Michael is otherwise basically healthy, there is a lot of reason to believe that he will respond well to the immunotherapy treatments. Regarding the word "cure" - that, she said, is what we're hoping for!

We left the Duke Cancer Center smiling! 

We will celebrate Christmas with our kids and grandkids this year, thinking of traditions we can start. We will talk about what we will do when we eventually retire. We will work on plans to continue serving God where each of us is called. And when physical therapy has strengthened my right arm sufficiently, I will sit in the left seat of my Jeep and drive Michael crazy, again!

We are thankful for God's presence. We are constantly aware that our complete Hope is in God and the fullness of the Resurrection.

We pray that each of you will know the certain Hope that began with the babe in the manger.

How is Michael Doing?

 --- that's the most common question I get these days.

And the answer is complicated. Michael is fine. And he has something going on in his body that is unusual has no sure solution. It's hard to think about. It's hard to write about.

Since I wrote last, Michael went through six weeks of chemotherapy (he took pills at home) and going to the local cancer center for radiation treatments to the area of his brain where the tumor was, with the aim of keeping more tumor cells from growing. As expected, he tolerated that well -  it made him tired enough so that he spent his energy preparing for Sunday and then leading the two services on Sunday. He only had a couple brief bouts of nausea. I think he's put on weight!

Every morning Gabi and I walked (and ran) around the Cancer Center while Michael was radiated.

He had two weeks off in which he pretended to be completely normal. I pretended, too. Then we went back to see doctors, who told him that everything was progressing very well. His brain is healing well and brain tissue is taking back the area that the tumor had claimed, there was no sign of new tumor growth, no neurologic deficits - he can subtract by 7s from 100 and spell "world" backwards - and a test of the tumor showed that it is the kind that responds well to the chemotherapy he is on, so it will continue monthly for more than a year. We were encouraged.  He signed papers agreeing to participate in an immunotherapy trial. 

The trial involves using antibodies from Michael's own system that showed up when he was exposed to a particular virus that invaded his body at some point in his life, but never made him sick. (Apparently, many of us have the same antibodies.) The Duke research team believes that the virus has something to do with the formation of the tumor. The antibodies in his system fight the tumor, but reinforcement might even eliminate it - at least for longer than the chemotherapy does. The immunotherapy that he will receive is currently in the process of being made from the antibodies they took from his system; it is the reinforcer. The hope is that the antibody army will be strong enough to get rid of the cells that cause the tumor. It is a hope, not a sure thing. They will also be monitoring for side-effects, though it has already been determined that side-effects will be few.
We are satisfied that we are contributing to a deeper understanding of the treatment of brain tumors. We received pages and pages of technical information regarding the reasons researchers think this is a possibility. They've looked at parts of parts of cells and have a certain understanding of what happens when other cells are applied to them. Frankly, I am amazed at what scientists are able to see about the hidden things that God created. It just increases my awe at God's creativity and invitation for people to participate in understanding and using the goodness of the secrets of Creation. 

These have been hard weeks. We don't talk deeply. Sitting together and breathing deep breaths that turn into heavy sighs says enough.  We hug each other more than ever. We enjoy our crazy puppy together. We discuss news or books together. We call our kids. 

We have our individual ways of coping. I often sit quietly thinking. Deep breaths turn into heavy sighs that sometimes feel like boulders thrown to the pit of my stomach, landing with a thud displacing water that runs silently down my cheeks. I play pieces I already know on the piano. I tried to start a knitting project; it takes too much thinking. I'm helping a friend with some very simple computer work at his shop. 
During his break from chemo, Michael has had enough energy to add a couple meetings and visits to his routine. He continues to be strong in the pulpit. His stamina is down, but he gets out with the dog on occasion. 

Radiation took a chunk of hair. He took the rest.

God's presence is very hard to explain, but very clearly surrounding us. Michael's strength comes from God. Our comfort comes from God. God works through all of you - our community in Wise County, VA, in Ethiopia and South Sudan, an in all the places where you readers are. Your prayers, notes, calls, emails, and even visits assure us of God's presence in the world and give us peace.

 

It's the First Day of the Rest of Your Life. Have a Good Day

He took a few weeks off and went back to work.

 

We went to the doctor for the post-op visit. Michael had a tumor taken out of his brain, and this was two weeks later. No one had really told us clearly what it was we were dealing with. The doctor was cordial enough, but he's a neuro surgeon. Ask him a question; he'll answer it - factually, statistically, from everything he has read. Michael said, "What's the prognosis?" He responded, "18 to 24 months". 

We left. I burst into tears. And then we went to buy some plants. 

As we left the store with our purchases, the cashier cheerfully said, "Have a good day!" And I thought, "Right. Today is the first day of the rest of our life together. Have a good day."

Driving home, all I could think was 18 to 24 months. Have a good day! 18 to 24 months. Have a good day. 18 to 24 months, Have a good ... 

Today we are several weeks later. I have had several tearful days, where I just want to hold on to Michael's arm, to touch him, to be wrapped in his embrace. He's recovering from surgery; he sleeps a lot. He's taking anti-seizure medicine; he sleeps a lot. What was removed from his head left him with a lot of heavy thoughts in there. 

Michael is quiet. He has work to do, sermons and services to prepare. His work requires a lot of thinking about things to share publicly. These days he has other thoughts that remain mostly private. I know he contemplates his losses - experiences he won't have, relationships he won't have time for, adult children he'll miss engaging in conversation, activities that will be limited, curtailed, out of reach. He thinks about God, who loves him, draws him near, embraces him. He keeps on working.

We were advised to get a second opinion at Duke University Brain Cancer Research Center. We did that. They were great. After about five hours, we had talked to a nurse several times, a PA, someone who deals with money, and a doctor, a neuro oncologist. The first thing they told us was, "Don't google it" (gliobalstoma, that is). Yeah, well - too late. Their point, however, is even though there is no cure, and the timeline seems pretty short, there are anomalies; there are those who don't follow the rules. While they were realistic, they also encouraged us to live each day well. "Don't be a couch potato," said Nurse Nancy. And that is our hope. We hope that each day that Michael has to share with us will be the best day possible. We hope that the treatments ahead will bring more days and more good days. And we Hope. 

Another line runs through my head, "For me to live is Christ, to die is gain." What a Hope! We have Hope. We have hope that God will bear us up, that God will be our life, that God will draw us to him. The Creator of the Universe wants us, Michael and me, to be with him today and always! The Creator of the Universe, who clothes the sparrows, who cultivates soil for us to grow in, who bears our grief, carries our sorrows has always been faithful. That is the Hope that we cling to. 

And that is the Hope that allows us, all of us ... you're invited, too ... to Have a Good Day! 

Writing makes things clear for me. I plan to write my way through this journey. You are welcome to join me. I Hope we will have lots of Good Days together.