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.

"Sleep with God"

When I walked to my friend Helen's house tonight, it was already dark. "Hodi?" I called at the door. It didn't look like anyone's home. But then again, wood shutters don't let light through...

I could hear the smile in her voice. "Karibu, Adele!" (Welcome!)

The small room was lit by a single kerosene lantern. It really makes for the best atmosphere by which to visit. We were catching up on news, When's the baby due? How are you adjusting to a little one growing inside of you? questions that are actually cultural taboos, especially so early in a pregnancy. But Helen's been telling everyone she's pregnant since the first month when she found out. "How can I keep quiet? God has blessed us with a baby!"

"Hodi?" a neighbor came knocking. She was dropping off a pot of food. Helen explained that they usually cook together, but tonight she told her neighbor "You cook! I'm staying at home. Adele said she'll come to greet me. I don't want to miss her."

I was thankful that I decided to go and visit tonight before going to greet the kids... Once you're at the children's home, it takes hours to go through all 8 rooms of children, hugging each one, looking at homework, listening to stories. I was glad I didn't disappoint Helen, that I actually remembered that I told her yesterday that I'll come to greet her today...

When her husband stopped by for dinner (he's our night watchman, so he's out at night), I left them and went to see the children. But not before Cosmas could tell me how excited he was about raising a baby. He's 42, Helen 39.

Then I went to see my little friends at the children's home. The older kids were in "preps." That's evening tuition. It goes on till 8:30. I got to go and hug all the little ones, though, and most of them were very proud to show me their homework. Some were roasting maize on open fires. It's their favorite snack. Little Brian kept telling me about my car. (Apparently he was guarding my car for me while I was gone, making sure none of the kids play anywhere close to my car. I think this is hilarious, since I trust our kids not to damage the vehicles, but it's especially funny since Brian's just 2 years old.)

I left the children's home grounds by the time the bigger kids came home from preps. Hugging each one as they came by, I wondered about my relationship with them... I don't know these kids nearly as well as I know the ones in Ilula. But I think it's always healthy for any child to see that there are some other adults in their world who care about them. Simply because I want to. I don't have to spend time with them. It's not officially part of my job.

As I left the children's home grounds, walking home under a sky full of stars, one of the little ones called my name. "Adele!" I couldn't see her face, so I just called back, "Lala salama!" (Sleep well.) To which she answered, "Sleep with God, Adele."

I thought that was sweet.

I know it well: Flannel's far from the only other being in my home. God's right here with us. Even while we sleep.

My baby elephant, and other tales

I have an elephant. Not as a pet, of course. She stays at the local elephant orphanage. And I'm one of probably hundreds of people that can call her "mine." After having taken slews of visiting teams to the orphanage last summer, I figured that the sponsorship would cost me less than the entrance fee I had to pay every time. Plus, it would allow me to do what the thousands of other daily visitors don't get to do: Come and help with the evening feeding.

But every time I'm in Nairobi, I have other things to do. Business to take care of. People to see. Supplies to buy. This afternoon, however, after I had completed everything from my Nairobi to-do list, I was about to lay down to take a nap.* I was afraid I might fall into a deep sleep, though, which would prolong jet lag even more. And then I remembered:

I could visit Sinya!

I hopped in the Mayfield rental car and made my way to the center. I was the only visitor (many, if not most, sponsors are international tourists who adopt elephants on behalf of friends/family at home, so very few people actually come out for the evening feedings) and Edwin took me around to meet two new friends.

First, there was a new little elephant who came to the center 2 days ago. She was still pretty aggressive as they had rescued her from an attack by a pride of lions, and wanted to be sure that I knew that she's in charge.


And then I met Maxwell. He's a 2-year-old black rhino that had been abandoned by his mom when she realized he's blind. I fed Maxwell and visited with him till Edwin came to call me, saying, "Come! Quickly! The elephants are coming!"


Next thing, the toddlers came running home with their caregivers.


They spend much of the day in the wild in Nairobi National Park. In fact, when they're ready, they get reintroduced to one of Kenya's many national parks. The babies wear blankets to protect them from sunburn. Mama elephants usually cover their young ones with dust or mud, or make them walk in their shade. But without their mamas to look out for them, the young 'uns can get burned pretty badly.

By the way, this page tells you how each of the elephants were orphaned.

For the next hour, I got to watch the little ones hang out with their caregivers, play around, even go to bed.



By 6, they started laying down, and the caregivers covered them with blankets for the night. They sleep in the stalls with the elephants!

I drove off with a smile on my face and in my heart, passing several giraffes on the side of the road. "It's good to be back in Africa," I thought. Most definitely not just for the animals and the beauty of God's creation here. The people, too, are amazing. I can't wait to see the orphans at Eldoret tomorrow, give them hugs, and to hear their latest stories...

Heading back to Mayfield, I stopped by Ranger's Restaurant, a place that overlooks Nairobi National Park. I sat on the veranda, enjoying a drink while writing in my journal and taking in the beauty of everything around me.

My heart was singing. God is doing some pretty amazing stuff, and I get to see his hand in all of it, firsthand.

It's good to be back.


* I had literally slept only one hour last night. Due to jet lag, I was wide awake and kept working all night till I finally heard the call to prayer at the nearby mosque. That's at 5 a.m. I was supposed to get up at 6, so I hopped into bed for an hour-long nap.

Going for a spin

I had asked some boys at the children's home to wash my car today. It was very muddy, and before leaving it under the care of a colleague, I thought it would be good to get it cleaned up.

When I got to the children's home to move my car, some 4 or 5 kids were sitting on my car's steps, just waiting for me to show up, likely so they could see the look on my face when I see my clean car. I praised them for the great work and asked, "Would you like a ride?"

Of course they did!

I let them (plus a few extra kids) hop in and took them for a fun ride, literally driving in circles on the open field by the children's home.

They giggled. They squealed. They laughed out loud.

They were having a blast. As was I. Some of them may have remembered the day I had picked them up in the village two years ago and brought them to their new home. On those drives, we sang songs and drove through mud puddles. We laughed a lot.

Today, little Dennis kept saying my name, even after I dropped them off. "Sema, Katonye" I'd respond. (Literally, speak, but it's kind of a "yes?" when someone addresses you. Katonye is the name he's given himself. It doesn't mean anything. He just has been using that as his name...)

All he'd do is smile. Maybe he simply doesn't have the words yet to say what's on his mind. But maybe it's just a way to say, "You're my friend. I know you're my friend."

I'll miss him and his buddies.

"Let the children come unto me..."

After sunrise prayer meeting today, I hung around the children's home for a while to visit with friends. These little ones are amazing. They were doing their Saturday morning chores of working in the gardens. (As in, picking up leaves and such. Not hard labor.)

In case you wonder, these kids all go to sunrise prayer meeting on Saturday and Sunday mornings. I absolutely love walking to the field and and seeing close to 100 kids standing all over, simply praying. They're there. Every weekend. I don't always make it.

Faith and Mercy. They're buddies, and technically they're "sisters" since they both live in the same family. They're both about 5. And adorable, yes. You can't help but love 'em.

Mercy, again. She's probably the shortest in the home, but you've got to watch her dance...

Some of the 4- and 5-year-olds. I know. They're the cutest kids. I'll miss them while I'm gone, no doubt.