RIP, Kevin Kiprotich Busienei

I received sad news yesterday from Kipkaren.

My dear friends John and Veronica Busienei (or Bush, for short) lost their 8-year-old son Kevin. I have not yet heard what the cause of death was; I was just told that he was being treated during a short illness and passed away yesterday morning at 2 am.

Since Kevin's parents are the directors of Kipkaren Children's Home, Kevin spent much of his time with his 100 "brothers and sisters" at the home.

Kevin (on the left) with Collins and Rooney

Please pray for the Bush family as well as for the community in Kipkaren, especially the kids at the children's home, who are all too familiar with the pain and reality of death.

The funeral will be held on Tuesday.

The Problem with Death

This morning, during our staff devotions, our director spoke about some of the challenges brought on by death. Death itself is painful to the community. But the challenges that follow are often even more painful.

Take Amin's family. His daughter died about 10 days ago. She was a young, single mother of three. She hemorrhaged while giving birth to her baby. The family rushed her to our clinic on foot, across the river, carrying the bleeding young mother on a tarp. Our nurses tried all they could to save her life, but she had already been bleeding for several hours, and there was nothing we could do to help. For that family, this was the fourth of nine grown children to die.

Today, I joined our three home-based care interns on their visit to the family.

The grandma (Rosemary) introduced us to Michelle (probably named after our nurse who had been providing ante-natal care). We sat under the banana tree and visited about the situation. The grandma's taking care of six orphans. She can take care of Michelle, but just needed help with formula, diapers, some clothing. Our home-based care team were buying formula today, plus bottles, plus clothing, diapers.

Those are things you can buy.

You cannot buy love. And this grandma obviously loved her grandchildren.

Some other relatives were trying to convince her that it would be easier to find someone to raise the baby for them, but she was adamant that she can do it.

I was strangely proud of Rosemary.

She didn't ask for money. But she also didn't pretend to have it all together. "I just need help with milk and clothing for the baby."

The home-based care team will continue to follow up, to check in on the baby as well as the other orphans.

They literally live right across the river from me.

As I held the little one, I could feel my lap getting warm. And it wasn't because the sun was beating down on us now that the rains have ended. Her urine was seeping through the rags her grandma had used as a diaper, and through the little blanket she was wrapped in. And through my skirt, onto my legs.

What do you do in a situation like this? You simply sit there. You keep holding the baby. You keep praying good things for the little one. You deal with the wet skirt when you're at home.

And what do you do about the baby? You thank God for a grandma like Rosemary, who, though she has very little in worldly terms, has a heart full of love for her grandchildren, and for God. You give out of that which God has provided for you. And you pray that this little one will grow up knowing that she is loved.

That indeed is the problem with death. Especially in Africa, where too many children are left orphaned by preventable causes such us death during childbirth, or malaria, or TB, or other opportune infections because of HIV/AIDS. They are left in the care of grandparents with no source of income, or other relatives who are already taking care of several other orphans.

And the problem doesn't go away. That's why groups like ELI will always have an enormous task before us. Because death simply is part of life.

Hannah went to be with Jesus

I just got an e-mail from my friends in Kipkaren. Hannah passed away yesterday morning. I am so very sad that I am not there for the funeral and to support the family. I am sad that I won't get to joke around with my friend any longer. I am sad that I simply won't get to see her any longer.

But I rejoice in knowing she's with Jesus. I rejoice in that fact, and in knowing that for the first time in years, she is without pain! During our last visit, my colleague Juli visited with Hannah about the fact that Jesus had gone to prepare a place for us where there will be no more tears, pain or suffering. Hannah told us that if she goes there before us, she'll take greetings to the Father. That's so like Hannah. She often joked.

But when I showed the the picture of the two of us (above), she looked serious. "Just look at that..." she said. But moments later, she was joking once again, asking me if I'd send her some chicken livers for Christmas. And she urged us again not to worry about her.

Oh, how I wish I could visit with the Bande family, to cry with them and sit with them. To talk with Nancy, who has sat by her mother's side for the past 4 years.

Thank you for those of you who've been praying for her and believing with me that Jesus will heal her. Her daughters and I visited a number of times about the miracles God has done in their lives through this season of Hannah's tumor. We talked about how we know God can heal her, but we shouldn't miss the fact that he's also doing other works. They told me how they as sisters spend time every evening worshiping Jesus, something they had never done before. They shared how they've grown in their faith, despite their frustrations with knowing God could heal their mom in an instant. He chose not to. He chose to take her home instead. In that, we rejoice.

The Corpse in my Car

Today, I had a dead body in my car. Her name was Caroline, and she was 16. She drowned on Tuesday. Her body was found today.

Caroline wasn't originally from this area. She was living with family in our neighborhood in Kipkaren. So her body had to be transported up into the Nandi hills, 40 kilometers (25 miles) from here. When I was asked if it would be possible for me to help by driving the body home, I didn't think twice. My car is big. The back seat can fold down. I'll go.

It's only after I had said "Yes" that reality set in. I'm not afraid of a corpse. It's just a shell, after all. But she's been dead for three days, and her body had been in the river all this time. So I grabbed some Tiger Balm to put under my nose and left for the family's house nearby, where I was to pick up the body.

My upper lip was still burning from the Tiger Balm when I rounded the corner to the hut. I greeted the solemn crowd, not sure who to convey my condolences to. One man stepped up. "Thank you for coming. Now, are you brave?"

"Why do you ask?" I responded politely, not sure what to expect.

"Do you want to see the body?"

Quite frankly, I didn't. I've seen very few dead bodies in my life. In my culture, we don't have viewings, and we rarely have open caskets. I can count on one hand the number of dead bodies I've seen. "Can you help me?" I asked, still not sure who the gentleman is who I was talking to. A family member? A pastor? Neighbor? "What is the best thing in this culture? Should I go to see it, or not?"

"You come," he said, and promptly led me through the crowd. I stepped into the mud hut. There was nothing in the living room, except the body. "This is it," the man said somewhat nonchalantly. She died on Tuesday. She fell in the river. She was found today. Now, let's see who will drive with you."

Before my eyes had adjusted properly to the darkness in the hut, we were out of there.

I put the back seat down and lay the tarp on the floor of my vehicle. As they carried the body - simply resting on some sacks and a sheet - through the crowd, no one cried. Some children simply stared. I wished I could speak Nandi so I could understand what was happening around me.

After we prayed, people started filing into the car. Grandpa in the front seat. The girl's dad in the seat behind him. I had thought only two people would fit in the back on one fold-down seat, but they said more can get in. I put down the second fold-down seat, and now the body was surrounded on all sides. An uncle. Two gogos from the community. And John, the neighbor who was with the girl when she fell in the river and drowned. Her head was right behind my seat, and everyone in the back was trying not to step on the body. (!) Someone covered her face with a veil. And off we went.

As we passed through the market, the neighbor asked me to stop. He needed to buy Doom. It started raining as we were waiting. The roads were already drenched and streams were flowing on both sides of the road. John came back with the can of insect repellent. They were spraying the body as well as their feet as I continued driving, not sure if the smell of the poison was stronger, or that of the body. What made it worse was that I couldn't open my window because of the rain.

David (my director at Kipkaren) called soon afterwards. "Adele, are you scared?"

"No, David," I assured him. "What is there to be afraid of?"

The answer came to me hardly two minutes later, as we started fishtailing on the muddy road. To add to it all, the road we were on was incredibly bumpy. All of us were bouncing in our seats while I tried my best to keep the car on the road. I felt badly that Caroline was having such a bumpy last ride, but what can you do?

I passed two small cars that had ended up in the ditches on the side of the road and prayed that God would protect us from sliding into a ditch, too. Not much later, as I was coming round a bend in the road, going at no more than 10 kmh (5mph), there were two trucks that had gone off the road... It was clear that we wouldn't be able to pass. "No worries," the grandpas explained. "There's another road. Go back."


After finding a safe spot to make a U-turn, we headed back to where the road had forked, and took an even worse road, one that would take me through two rivers. Through, yes. They had thoroughly flooded the road. One was so strong, I had to cross toward the opposite direction where I wanted to go and make another U-turn up the road.

And so the journey continued, all the way back to the Nandi Hills where I had picked up orphans a year ago. In fact, I recognized many a beacon on the road, and literally passed three of the homes along the way where I had picked up children. How ironic, I thought, last time I was here, I brought good news for the children and their guardians. Today, I'm the bearer of sadness.

The last stretch of the journey took me down a road that has likely not seen a car in ages. And then we were there. Two hours for forty kilometers.

I got out to meet the family while the men were carrying the body on the tarp from the car. One lady greeted me with an enthusiastic smile, and seconds later, started wailing. It was surreal. And it was strange being in a place where I didn't think I should be. Caroline is being brought home. This is family time. But even as I got ready to start the return journey, neighbors started coming. Some by foot. Later, I passed a truckload full of people from Kipkaren who were coming to mourn with the family.

The road back seemed a bit easier. The rain had let up, and one of the three gogos who were going home with me ended up navigating a bit shorter way home, one that didn't take me through the rivers again. But on the worst stretch, there was once again vehicles stuck in the most awkward spots.

I was relieved to pull into our compound ninety minutes later, just as the sun started setting.

"Two more children fell in the river at Turbo today," Sammy told me. "Their parents are now around here looking for them." That would bring the total to four people drowning in this river in five days. (A nephew to one of our staff members drowned on Monday. His grandma had given him a cookie, and he was washing his hands in the river before eating his cookie. But the cookie fell into the water, as did he when he reached for it...)

As the rains continue and the river keeps swelling, please pray for safety for people who, like Caroline, have to cross the river every day. (There are few bridges in this area, and the logs where Caroline crossed were submerged in the swollen water.) Or for young and old who depend on the river to bathe and to feed their cattle.

This is Africa. And life in this part of Africa can sometimes be tough. Yet we have hope. Can't imagine life without it.

In Memory of Barra Barra

My pet chameleon has passed away. How, I don't know. I just got a message from the family who took care of him, saying, "Barabara was replaced by another one after it developed some health problems."

That's it. Nothing more. I can't help but wonder what caused his death. But I won't ask too many questions. I don't want to make my petsitting friend feel worse.

Barra Barra was probably the easiest pet I had ever had. Didn't shed. Didn't cause allergies. Didn't cost me a thing. He was a great conversation piece, and a master flycatcher. He could zip his tongue out faster than any creature I had ever seen. And then reel it in just as fast. He kept my house free of flies.

I'm not sure how I feel about the new chameleon. It's most likely one that's been living in the bottlebrush tree by my front door for the past year. Will have to see if he's as tame as Barra Barra had become.

Such is life.