A Concussion's Answered Prayer: One Year Later

Her body slumped over.
Faintly crying.

Difficulty breathing.
I couldn't get to her fast enough.
My legs ran while my heart raced and my mouth prayed.
Is she okay?  God, let it be a broken bone.  Bones mend.  Internal healing is harder.
I carefully picked up her fragile body and cradled her in my arms.  Her forehead, chin, elbow and knee were scraped from the hard, brown dirt that blackened her world for a few long seconds.  The tree swing swung like a pendulum above where I stood.  Her injured head throbbed and she lay limp.

Kaylee and her best friend a few weeks' prior to the accident.

"Kaylee!  Kaylee!"  I wanted to shout but instead whispered to her.  "I've got you."
"Where am I?" she whispered back.
I recalled to her the events of the day (at the park, playing tennis, went on the tree swing, and took a tumble), and she blankly stared at me.
"What's your name?" I asked her.
"Kaylee," she quietly answered.
Phew.  She knew her name.  With a series of quick events, we got her home within a few minutes.  We knew she experienced a concussion; we just didn't know the severity of it.
In the next few hours, she would have every freakishly scary sign of a concussion and would spend awhile in the ER.  The scans came back clear (praise God!).  No bleeding in the brain.  Rest.  Rest.  Rest.  Wake her up and check her vitals.  Rest.  Rest.  Rest.  Repeat.

The next day after her doctor's appointment, we were driving in the car.
"Mom, I know that angels were protecting me when I fell," she shared from the backseat.
"Really?  How do you know?" I asked.  Honestly, I was skeptical.  I mean, c'mon, I viewed for that moment that they could have protected her more, and here she is teaching my heart a lesson.
"It could have been so much worse," she answered.

It made me think about something bigger than a concussion.  For nearly two years before this accident, we nightly prayed the same prayer by her bedside.  When we lived in California, their school had a lockdown, and she developed a fear of "robbers"  (there was a man who had stolen a car in the vicinity, so they locked down the school as a precaution).  From that experience, she began to have nightmares which made nighttime difficult, and most nights she would end up in the wee morning hours sandwiched between me and Matt in our bed.  We had prayed for peace over her dreams, and, honestly, we were beginning to run out of words to pray.
When she told me about the angels protecting her, I remembered all of those nights where we prayed she'd feel God's protection around her, and now she understood it in a rather obscure, interesting way.  
It has been 365 days since the concussion, and the number of nightmares this year haven't even filled up the fingers on one hand!  A crazy, horrible concussion jolted all of us to the reality that God's plans and ways are higher than ours (Isaiah 55:8-9).

"Yes, Baby, angels were watching out for you." 

When Your Anchor is Pulled: Love and Loss

 

The radiant sun setting behind Mt. Baker and the British Columbia sky glowing with an indelible silhouette of colors was the perfect ending for a day filled with celebrating my Grandpa's life.  One of triumph.  Overcoming.  Legacy.  Beauty.  Devotion.  Sacrifice. 
I have tears of sadness at the simple reality that I miss him.  I miss the weekly emails.  I miss him telling me to give Matt a swift kick in the pants for him.  I miss just being in the same room as him; I always left filled, better, inspired, and reflective.

Our Edmonds Walk on Thanksgiving

This past Thanksgiving while the turkey was baking, and we were waiting for family to arrive I decided to briefly drive to my favorite spot: the Edmonds waterfront.  The landscape feels like you've entered a painting with the bright blue Puget Sound below the majestic Olympic Mountain Range and whistling ferries and gentle boats on the water.  My 92-year-old Grandpa headed to his room at my parent's

house to take a rest when I disrupted it with, "Grandpa, do you want to go with me to Edmonds?"
He looked at me with his inquisitive, always thinking and loving eyes and immediately said, "Well, of course." 
It is one of my most special memories.  Him and I walking arm and arm in the clear, brisk November air as we took in the beauty, talked about life, I listened to stories, and sat in silence with my head on his strong shoulders. 

He never wanted to miss moments in each and every day.

Didn't know this would be our last picture together. 

And so today we said goodbye.  As we crossed back into the US from Canada, I felt like the family's anchor was pulled from the ship suddenly.  The pain is real.  But somehow, in a strange and amazing way, the ship sails and the compass points north, and the anchor remains in the life Grandpa gave us and taught us.
I thank the Lord for this man who helped guide me.  And his beautiful life forever continues in our hearts and the way we live each day.        

11 of his 14 great-grandkids he prayed for daily

Connor's World Series Moment....Defining Winning

It’s the final game of the West Linn baseball season on a windy, overcast May day.  A loud eruption of clapping and elated cheering disrupts the focus from my 12-year-old son’s game to the baseball game on the next field.  I crank my neck around to see a tall young man in a red jersey wearing #17 on the pitcher’s mound saying "Yes!" with two pumped fists to the heavens.  His teammates swarm him as if their team won the championship. 

My eyes glance at the scoreboard. 
1 out.  
I figure out the excitement when a parent exclaims, “Connor just struck him out!!” 

The ovation for Connor’s strike out is far louder than for any home run all season, I quickly surmise.

“You’ve got to see this,” a high school boy standing next to me says to another with giddy delight.  “And he better get here so he can see Connor pitch.” 

I’m not sure who the “he” is that this boy is referring to, but I know this is a special moment and won’t quickly be forgotten. 
Not for the spectators of this game. 
Not for his family with the camera pointing at the scene. 
Not for Connor. 
Not for Connor’s coaches and teammates. 
Not for me.
You see, Connor is autistic.  For those who know him he is kind, gentle, courageous and always smiling.  He smiled at my one-year-old pig-tailed daughter earlier in the season, she reached out her pudgy hand to him and smiled back. 

Two years ago we were new to this community and met many families at the ballpark.  One of the things I noticed is that the last three baseball seasons Connor is on the same coach’s team, Coach Kadel, in his red uniform (and come to find out...he's coached him seven of the eight seasons Connor's played in the league).  From my vantage of the coach to the player, there is only ever encouragement and corrective teaching, believing in him.  In a highly competitive sport and city where banners hang from the outfield asserting national championships, it’s refreshing to see a reminder that the bigger picture of life is more important than the final score, and I realize I need to check my own competitive spirit with my heart and my head.  What is winning?  Is it the final score from one game, or the trophy at the end of the season?  Or is it teaching the next generation what it looks like to take care of each other, to respect authority, to love deeply, to understand what teamwork looks like, and to recognize that the opportunity to simply play is often the biggest privilege (do our kids really understand this?!)?  Connor gets it.  Don't get me wrong: I like to win.  But I'm reminded by the scene in front of me that what lasts is not the trophy that will get dusty on the shelf but who we are to a world that so desperately needs what this tick on time's clock is teaching. Somewhere lost

in the jumble and desire of wanting to give our kids the best we can lose the importance of character development and looking within ourselves at the scoreboard that truly matters.

I can’t imagine the inexplicable joy that filled Connor’s soul (and Coach Kadel's soul) when the coach grabbed the game ball, put it in his hand, and sent him to the mound.  
The coach believes in the player.   
The player trusts the coach.

And now here Connor is.

With every strike, the crowd erupts.  The inning finishes as Connor pitches superbly, and his teammates and some from the opposing team come to give him a high five as he trots off the field with a bigger smile than the Cheshire Cat. 

This was his World-Series-Game-7-Bottom-of-the-9th-Major-League-Moment.  

His coach puts his arm around Connor, and I imagine the words exchanged went something like this: “I’m so proud of you.  You did awesome.  I knew you could do it.”

And I do hope that “he” witnessed Connor’s moment.  I wish the world could have seen it. True winning.  If you don't agree, I dare you to ask any of Connor's coaches, teammates or the opposing team what they will remember from today.  I dare you.  My guess is 100% would say, "Connor!"  And, thank you, Connor, for teaching all of our hearts today.  

*Thanks to Connor Tiffany's family for letting me share this story.  They have an amazing foundation, The Tiffany Autism Foundation, that helps local and national autism organizations dedicated to education, awareness and research. 

Grandpa's Sweet Aroma

Ding.   

An incoming text alerts me to look at my phone. 

“The Dr. called and said he is deteriorating rapidly,” reads a message from my Uncle Phil about my Grandpa.

I start the car. 

Celebrate good times, c’mon! blasts from the radio. 

The irony of the situation makes me laugh outloud.  That’s exactly what Grandpa would want right now:  Celebrate the good times.  The memories.  The laughter.  The hugs.  The Brazilian stories.  The walks.  As I drive to Kaylee’s school, my mind floods and the dam breaks behind my eyes. 

Just last week I sat next to his bed in a Canadian hospital, held his hand, placed the hospital bib around his neck so he could eat without spilling, and watched as this man who means the world to me still made me laugh and smile yet the reality of the situation sunk deeply.  A rough fall.  Broken jaw. Ribs. Arms. Shoulder blade.  Brain bleed.  In a split second with a face-to-face meeting with the unforgiving concrete, he went from his routine mile walk around Mill Lake to a hospital bed.  We wait.  Not out of the clear yet. 

It was his name I wrote on my leg as a 19-year-old for inspiration on the day I ran 12 miles in the middle of Ansel Adams Wilderness in California.  It was his amazing story I wrote about that won me $100 in an essay contest as a freshman in college.  It was his life I watched as an impressionable child that inspired so many of the choices I made and make.  It was his frail hand squeezed around my squirmy, pig-tailed and smiley 15-month-old last week that made me say, “It is well with my soul,” knowing full well the fragility of life. 

I am forever indebted to him.  And I’m so grateful he knows that.  Words flowed between us with         

weekly emails up to two weeks ago. And.I.Have.Every.Single.One.

The brain bleed creeps in like a snake on the prowl.  The doctor says he has 24 hours.  But even death can’t snuff life.  The life he gave to every person around him through his 92 unbelievable years shines, radiates and continues.  That light can’t be extinguished, and I hope my life reflects my gratitude to him and his example to me.  Grandpa exemplifies this: “Everywhere we go, people breathe in the exquisite fragrance. Because of Christ, we give off a sweet scent rising to God, which is recognized by those on the way of salvation—an aroma redolent with life” (2 Corinthians 2:15).  He lived a life that smelled better than a million roses after a gentle rain.    

And through my grief-stricken, overwhelming-gratitude tears, I sing, “It is well with my soul,” and we WILL celebrate the good times.  I love you, Gramps!!!            

Last week with Gracie: sweet exchanges

Kaylee giggling because Grandpa was going higher than her!

Day 9: Championship Game: Street Boys -vs- Samro

Day 9: Change the Future Tournament: Championship Game

From the moment we awoke until our beds called us in the evening, our day was packed.  We prepared a Palm Sunday/Easter lesson for the Sunday School children and enjoyed every second of it.    It was incredible to sit in the church service (although the American Choir did participate, ha!); we remember the doors opening 14 years ago. 

After lunch, we walked the short distance to A-STEP’s soccer field where hundreds of those in the community and on the teams gathered.  There was a large white tent with chairs where the adults sat, and wood goalposts showed where the teams would play.  Sheep ate on the field.  Boys were busy with excitement.  Boisterous music from the speakers filled the air.  Five-year-old children from a local school repeated poems about education.  The third place consolation game began first with Mama Kigen and me kicking the ball to start the game.  Everyone screamed as a goal was scored and then another. 

Then, the game everyone was waiting for: the championship.  Samro School –vs- The Street Boys.  An official from Uasin Gishu District presented each boy with a new jersey.  Burgundy for the street   Black with yellow for Samro.  Faces were beaming with delight as they proudly put on their jerseys.  The whistle blew.  From one end to the other, it was a tight, evenly-matched game.  Most players from both teams competed without shoes and darted all around the field.  Kenyan runners are known worldwide, and most of those Olympic runners come from this area and the Kalenjin tribe.  It was easy to see why as they are fast!  Everyone would scream as a goal was imminent on both ends of the field, only to be saved every time.  The final whistle blew.  Penalty kicks.  Best out of three.
boys.

First try for Street Boys.  Save.

First try for Samro.  Goal.

Second try for Street Boys.  Save.

Second try for Samro.  Save.

Third try for Street Boys. Goal.  And the ensuing cheer from their sidelines would have made you  

think they won.

Third try for Samro.  Goal.

Samro wins.  A victorious moment for Samro and every bit deserved. 

But part of me wanted Street Boys to win.  Just once in their life.  Not meant to be today. 

Sad faces gathered on the sideline.  Many sat in the grass.  Exhausted.  Hungry.  Bummed. 

I walked over to their Mom, and told her they should be so proud.  She then called all of the boys over.   The group encircled me as I held Gracie.  She smiled at them.  They smiled back and wanted to shake her hand.  I told them in a Swahili-English mix to hold their heads up.  To see all they’ve accomplished.  I felt words failed.  I wanted to take them all home with me.  I wanted to give them a place to rest their heads tonight.  I wanted to dump my children’s clothes in their hands.  I wanted to feed their bellies.  I wanted to fix.  But at this moment they wanted to know they were okay.  They hadn’t won.  Again.  But they hadn’t been forgotten.  They were okay.  

The teams gathered behind the goal for words of encouragement from Cameron as he shared from I Timothy 4:12.  He had prepared his speech for days, practicing and rehearsing it over and over.  Cameron shared his own journey in his faith and in the common sport: from field player to goalkeeper as no one else volunteered, and what he learned about stepping out and having courage in the Lord.  I Timothy 4:12 says, “Don’t let anyone look down on you because you are young, but set an example for the believers in speech, in life, in love, and in purity.”  This verse is written on the backs of the shirts each player of the 20 participating teams received.  One by one the boys from all of the teams received medals around their necks to remind them of the tournament, and they can Be the Change as the tournament name stated.

The Street Boys raised their second place trophy high into the sky!  I’m sure their mom will keep this safe and show them regularly, and hopefully when they see it they are reminded they are special, valued, and loved. 

As we leave, more questions swirl in our hearts and heads as we take with us what we’ve seen, heard, and experienced and process all that it means. 

And then one of the most humbling moments: during our goodbye, Tim, the founder of A-STEP, had a presentation for Cameron.  The boys wanted to say thank you.  But they don't have anything.  They don't own anything.  Except one thing.  Tim handed their VERY OWN soccer ball made out of string and plastic bags.  They gave their only possession.  Humbling.  Beautiful.  Treasure.
Tears flowed down my 12-year-old's face...and mine.
And I can’t stop thinking about those beautiful street boys.  

Day 7: Matt...the First Guest at a New National Game Park, Chebet, and Samro

Day 7: First Guest at a National Game Park, Chebet, and Samro

March 18, 2016

Matt left early in the morning with Samuel and headed to the Kerio Valley to check on some feeding grass growing on his property that neighbors a new national game park.  What crazy stories he has from today: news

cameras in his face, first guest into the park, pulled into tribal dancing, ushered into sitting with the village chiefs.  He had quite the adventure!  Hilarious! The video tells it all, but is too big to upload right now (will try another time).

I had the privilege of spending time with Chebet who had come from four hours away to see us.  Chebet was five when I first met her, and she became like a little sister to me when we lived here.  Her mom and I taught Sunday School together, and Chebet would faithfully come and learn until this day when she is walking with the Lord and sees His goodness in her life.  Life has been difficult for her.  There were many nights that her father would come home drunk, and we’d hear beatings from their compound and her mom and the children would come for safety.  I’m so proud of the choices she is making for her future, and it was a joy to sit in her presence.  

After lunch we distributed the pencils to the Samro children, the seeds, and a soccer ball.  Cameron was quick to join the boys during recess in soccer, and Kaylee joined the girls in hand games and taught them how to make rubber band bracelets.  The best gift to my heart in the world is watching my children grow in the knowledge of the Lord and seeing their hearts full as they learn and jump in with both feet in this amazing land. 

Gracie and Kaylee on a walk

 

Kaylee teaching the girls how to make rubber band bracelets with just fingers

Gracie playing with the children at ELI's children's home

Kaylee and Deborah: another story for another day

Chebet and Gracie