I’d like to say the moment I stepped off the plane in Nairobi on Tuesday, January 11, 2022, at 10 P.M., I was on solid ground–normally when I land in Kenya, that’s how I feel.  However, traveling internationally during the pandemic adds a layer of insecurity to each step. And the steps are many: extra forms to be filled out, proof of a negative COVID test—timed just right, QR code for Kenya downloaded (what’s a QR code anyway???), proof of vaccination. All these steps before even boarding the plane to leave California!  And now, with each leg of the flight there are more papers to fill out–frankly, I don’t even think anyone looks at them.  Once in Kenya, the QR code is scanned again, and temperatures taken. The lines for Visa and Passport control seem longer. Everything seems to be extra stressful, especially after wearing a mask for 30 hours and getting little to no sleep. Thankfully, I had a travel partner, Anne, with me this trip.

We follow the hordes of people heading to baggage claim, hoping to get lost in the crowd and make a quick exit out of the airport to a waiting shuttle to our hotel. We snag our luggage off the baggage carousel and notice the yellow Xs marked on our bags. “Hmmm,” I pondered. “What is going on?” These yellow Xs were new to me. When we reached the last security check before exiting, our bags were put on the conveyor belt to be X-rayed. Then they were pulled off and set aside. In the past when I’ve gone through the checkpoint to leave the airport, my bags are scanned and occasionally opened.  Negotiations happen right then and there. Perhaps I “gift” someone with a water filter or some other little thing. This time, I had to hand over my passport which was taken to the custom agent’s office, and we had to wait our turn to see her. An hour ticked by as other passengers negotiated their customs fees.  I was exhausted, irritated, worried about Anne, my new travel companion. Finally, it was my turn, I sat in the hard plastic chair across from the at the custom agent’s desk weighing my options.  I negotiated a $100 “customs fee”, receiving no receipt. By now it was past midnight. I feared our shuttle to the hotel had left figuring we hadn’t made it.  I tried to call the hotel via WhatsApp, but wouldn’t connect. A kind airline worker took pity on us and called the hotel, arranging for the shuttle to come get us.

I was on shaky ground.

The next morning, we flew to Kisumu, a city at the Western edge of Kenya on Lake Victoria. We were greeted by my longtime friend, Pastor David Chuchu.  As we embraced, I began to breathe a little easier, knowing we were in good hands.  However, the 4 hours of sleep I’d had in the past 48 hours left me barely able to function. My attempts to insert a new Safari Com SIM card into my phone were hilarious and I locked my key in my hotel room at least 3 times that day.

We took a few trips in those first days to get us acclimated to Kenyan time and to show Anne around.

Our feet straddled the equator.

We walked the campus of Point of Grace Academy. Once the site of a small groundnut farm, now home to 753 students. Rev. Dennis Meeker and Deaconess Lorna Meeker have created a sanctuary for students, staff, and the surrounding community.

We drove to old haunts I’d known since my first trip in 2006. A familiar hotel has fallen into even more disrepair than I remembered. The swimming pool lay as dry and empty as a whitewashed tomb. I didn’t recognize any of the staff except one maintenance man. Nashun. He actually remembered me, and said, “We got stuck in the elevator together, remember?” I laughed at the memory-and the familiar refrain that the elevator “is going to be fixed soon!” I have a vivid vision of Nashun, a strapping African, carrying a tiny elderly woman from Japan up the 4 flights of stairs on his back because the elevator was broken, and she couldn’t climb the stairs to reach her room. Understandably, her Japanese tour guide was not happy with the accommodations and complained mightily. At the time, I just chuckled. I’d gotten used to things not being up to “brochure standards”.

From the hotel, we wound our way through familiar streets. I was expecting to hit the familiar rutted red dirt road leading to Kiboko Bay—one of my favorite restaurants on Lake Victoria. Instead, the road has been straightened and smoothed over with asphalt. Apartments and condos have sprung up dwarfing the tiny concrete structures that used to dot the landscape in their simplicity. The difference between the haves and the have-nots seemed greater. We pulled into the parking lot only to find the restaurant and resort shuttered and closed.

These changes left me feeling oddly bereft, like I’d lost my way.

There was no solid ground.

Sunday was church. A familiar place. The light blue plastic chairs were lined up just right, scuffing along the concrete floor as folks got up or kids moved them. The lilting voices of the church choir filled the space as the twang of the electric keyboard sprung out over the loudspeakers. The flow and rhythm of the liturgy, even if in Swahili, lulled me. The sermon, in English, was about Jesus’ first recorded miracle in John’s Gospel, where he turned water into wine. Pastor Chuchu preached about how often our own cups are empty. We are empty: fearful, sad, worried, and yet it is Christ who fills our cups with Himself in the bread and wine.

I began to feel something in me loosen.

I was sitting next to a good Kenyan friend, Grace, whose mother died in December 2021 from COVID complications. We knelt at the altar to receive the Body and Blood of Christ, tears streaming down our faces as we grieved the loss of our mothers, and others close to us.  I was shaky, but the ground beneath me was sacred and solid. I was finding my way home.

I felt better after those tears. Over the years, I’ve learned that grief is sacred.  While it often leaves us feeling unsteady and insecure, it is the place where sorrow and joy intertwine.  It is the holy place where Christ enters in and brings balm for our weary souls.  It is a place of grace.

Truth be told, I shed many tears on this trip. I cried when my feet stepped on the new land for the hospice project, walking its breadth and length.  It’s a beautiful, peaceful piece of property, solid and flat, surrounded by farmland. I cried when the borehole was being drilled, and water began to saturate the land. I cried when our project was named, accepted, and registered with the Kenyan government. (More to come!)

It hardly seems real, this dream of opening a hospice. I’ve waited so long. (and you have waited alongside me). God’s timing certainly does not run on my hurried timetable. I’ve learned to be patient and wait. To hope. To trust.

This terra firma is already a sanctuary for my weary soul, and I pray that it will be a refuge for whoever God brings through the doors.

Always Mercy,

Pamela