Loss

I went running tonight. Ed goes running in the mornings. Probably a better idea. I guess I wasn't a mood to entertain good ideas. So I went running in rural Africa at 10pm. At first I stuck to the main roads, but after a while, I decided to head down the darker, unpaved alleyways, looking for trouble. I sprinted for 100 or 150 yards to test and see if I could evade any assailants. I'm still pretty fast. But I'm not sure I would have run from them tonight, and I'm pretty sure that I'm in good enough shape to have a fighting chance against two of them. After all, the likelihood of them being well-fed isn't very high. I didn't really expect to be attacked, but then again, white people do carry money. I carried only my room key. If anyone could best me in hand-to-hand combat (or weapon-to-hand combat), and could figure out the hotel and the room to which the key belonged, great riches would be theirs. I walked past several of the places where I remember seeing armed guards, but they weren't there. If I was interested in robbing a bank in Ruhengeri, Rwanda, I'd definitely do it at night. I didn't trespass on any property that I know of (I'm dumb, but not that dumb), but in a way, I am trespassing. Certainly they'd rather I didn't take so many pictures. There was also the risk of coming across some sort of wild animal, but that good fortune evaded me as well. Much to my dismay, the moon was full enough to provide decent light all the time, and many still-lit storefronts provided a bit of extra light once in a while. Still, all I saw were silhouettes. I heard much more. Of course, the natives have better natural camouflage for the night than I, so I was bound to hear them before I saw them anyway. A cough. A grunt. Footsteps. Countless motorcycles passed me on the road (most of their taxis are motorcycles). Headlights - as ominous as predators when approaching from behind, as indistinguishable as the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel when approaching from ahead. Only one person spoke to me - a boy who couldn't have been older than 12, judging only by his relatively small silhouette. "Hello." "Hello," I replied. "How are you?" "Good, thank you, how are you?" "I am good." I know that the brevity of our conversation was due to the lateness of the hour, the calling of our destinations, and the language barrier. Still I couldn't help but feel as though this familiar superficial exchange of lies is true even in Africa - at least as long as a white person is present. I ran past what must have been a full deck of playing cards all torn in two. I didn't stop to see if there were 104 pieces, but I suspect that if I had, I may have only been able to find 102, minus the ace of spades. Perhaps someone had lost more than the poker game.

And I ran past people sleeping on the streets. In the US, I might chalk this up to mental illness, physical illness, or poor work ethic. I know that in Rwanda, it is because everyone here has lost much more than a few hands of cards. It's amazing that the entire country isn't sleeping in the streets. In Rwanda, loss has a name. Genocide.

Perhaps I've been remiss in not mentioning the genocide earlier, but they don't. This is probably due to a mixture of having moved on, and not having moved on. On the one hand, they are anxious to forget that part of their history and forge ahead towards a better future. On the other hand, something that horrid cannot be forgotten (nor should it be), and the painful memory still unearths caskets of bitterness. At least among the Rwandans that I have been associating with, the attitude and the focus is redemption. Faustin and Salome are not afraid of talking about it with Ed and I, but never in mixed company. If you aren't familiar, a brief history is in order (hopefully my facts will be straight). In 1994, for about 100 days after the April 6 assassination of president Juvenal Habyharimana, hundreds of thousands of people were brutally and systematically killed. Habyharimana was a member of the Hutu ethnic group. When he was killed, the Hutus banded together and staged a political revolution against the opposing ethnic group, the Tutsis. Traditionally, Tutsis were of higher economic status than the Hutus, and when Rwanda was a kingdom, the king was typically Tutsi. A Hutu could marry into Tutsi status, or he could find it through success. When the genocide began in 1994, radicals among the Hutus began murdering Tutsis and, in some cases, more moderate Hutus. When the bloodshed had concluded, nearly a million people had been killed. At the time, Rwanda was only 5 or 6 million strong - so the dead amounted to a huge percentage of the population. Today, Faustin tells us that the estimates are somewhere around 8 million people. All of them have been affected. The loss is so monumental that no one speaks about it 15 years later.

I too, have lost. Of course, my loss does not amount nearly to the magnitude of the loss people have experienced in Rwanda, but neither is it miniscule. Suffice it to say that I am not completely unable to connect with them. Two things are remarkable to me about the people of Rwanda. The first is their joy. That is something I have more trouble connecting to, perhaps because I am American, and we seem to be in the business of killing joy in the pursuit of happiness. The second is their perseverance. Yes, moving on is part of this, but there's something deeper. Rwandans fight. They fight for what has been lost. Perhaps that's where the joy comes from. C.S. Lewis says in Surprised by Joy, "the very nature of Joy makes nonsense of our common distinction between having and wanting." In other words, having Joy is accomplished only by seeking Joy. The road is the destination. The fight is the victory. Of course, Lewis is referring to the pursuit of God, but as he also remarks, "all things, in their way, reflect heavenly truth." So the fervent pursuit of reconciliation and redemption is, I would argue, a primary source of Joy for the people of Rwanda. At least it is for the Rwandans I've met, in whom I have witnessed abundant joy. I've already been surprised by joy here, but the joy that has surprised me has been their joy, not my own. I know I have much more to learn from them than they have to learn from me. Can I learn to move on? Can I learn to fight for what has been lost? What does that even look like?

As I neared the hotel, another risk occurred to me that I hadn't thought of. They may have locked up for the night. Yep. The front gate of the outer fence, and the front door were both locked. Another welcome adventure. I found a secluded place to hop the fence, ensuring that I wasn't seen. I was beginning to savor the notion of scaling the wall to my third story balcony when I happened upon an open side door. Not very reassuring for one staying in the building, but welcome enough for one trying to get in. Hey, it's Africa. At least I didn't get lost.

The Wet Season

Service in Ruhengeri begins at 9:00. Ed and I had breakfast and were ready for our cab ride to the church at about 8:45. About that time, Faustin and Salome came down and began to have their breakfast. Hey, it's Africa. When we arrived at church around 9:30, worship was in full swing. I recognized many melodies, although the words were all in Kinyarwanda (the language of Rwanda). 'Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus. Great is Thy Faithfulness. Nothing but the Blood. It was a huge blessing to be able to sing along in English a few times. Though the tunes were familiar, the style was altogether different. If the "the frozen chosen" (as Ed calls them) could see their familiar songs sung in this style, they'd thaw out pretty quickly. Either that, or they'd melt and evaporate.

Blessings this morning fell like rain. Huge smiles - drip. Warm welcome - drop. Singing along - cats. Watching them dance - dogs. Ed being able to preach in Faustin's church after Faustin had preached at Granada Heights - torrential downpour. I was soaked in Grace. Probably the biggest blessing for me was hanging out with the children all morning. Like mosquitos around a bug zapper, they swarmed around me. Maybe that's a bad analogy, but I was surrounded. Their fascination didn't cease. At first they were fascinated that there was a white man in their presence. Then they were fascinated with my camera (I took pictures all morning). Then they were fascinated with my sunglasses (I took pictures of them wearing my sunglasses for what seemed like all morning). Of course, worship and preaching are going on all the while. Though my attention was primarily on the kids and on my camera, I don't feel like I missed anything. I probably did. That just goes to show you how packed full of meaning and blessings the service was. To be totally preoccupied the whole time, and yet feel like I had just had a month's worth of church was unreal. When Ed began to preach, many parents came over to pull their kids away. I felt like saying "let the little children come to me", but maybe blaspheming isn't such a good idea. Especially in church.

When the worship service concluded, most of the small congregation left. About a quarter stayed behind for a communion service. I wonder if transubstantiation still works when your elements are broken sugar cookies and fruit juice. Pastor Jean-Baptiste presided over communion. I couldn't understand a word he said, but his heart for the Lord was unmistakable. I found out later that he is "one of the famous men in Ruhengeri." He was a great businessman before the genocide, and came to Christ under Faustin's ministry in the refugee camp. Now he assists at the church. He says, "The happiest time in my life was when I was in the refugee camp with nothing but Jesus." What a statement. I can't imagine the depth of understanding he must have of Paul's ability to rejoice even when beaten and imprisoned. Apparently he was afraid to return to Ruhengeri because he didn't know how to reconcile his business life with his new life in Christ. But the Lord has given him back his business, and he is still able to serve the church with great fervor.

When we left church four hours later, I was drenched - and not with sweat (although it was pretty hot). It's amazing to me how frequently what lies beneath is completely contrary to what is on the surface. Though it's the dry season, it's pouring. Though I was famished, I felt completely satisfied. Though the people here are beggars, they are kings. This principle still applies to us. We American kings. We jacuzzi-soaked, satiated, American kings. We have a lot to learn about what it is to be rich. To worship. To feel the rain.

The Dry Season

Ruhengeri has one major attraction for foreigners. It is the city nearest Volcanoes National Park. For $500, you can take a day hike to see the Silverback Gorillas. Our hotel is currently populated with two, maybe three large groups of Aussies, Kiwis, and Brits on safari. (Personally, I think they have a secret motive for being here: I think they're still bitter that the French got to Rwanda first, and they're trying to lay claim to it somehow.) Ed and I could afford to spend neither a day, nor $500, so we hoped to just walk a little ways into the park in hopes of seeing some kind of wildlife. It's our only free day here in Ruhengeri, and we would be remiss if we didn't at least try. We got to the park office to find it closed, and too late to attempt any sort of hike, so we got back into our cab for the day. At least it was a pleasant drive.

Our taxi driver, Jonathan, spoke only French. Ed tried to use the remainders of the French he had learned in school, but communication was difficult. Despite our inability to converse with any depth, I did find one thing remarkable, somewhat at Jonathan's expense. He was unfamiliar with the French words for the seasons. Technically, it's winter here, because we're below the equator (another first for me). When Ed tried to verify the fact with Jonathan, "winter" didn't compute. Upon further investigation, we found him unfamiliar with any of the seasons, because the season we're in is not a season. It's the dry season. There's the dry season, and there's the wet season - that's all. It's not that Jonathan was uneducated. For all I could tell (what with my vast knowledge of French), he was perfectly articulate. It's just that he learned his language in a place that had no use for season-related terms. We were unable to communicate even the concepts of spring, summer, autumn, and winter. And that makes sense. I now wonder, being from California, how it is that I have learned and comprehended the seasons. After all, in California, there's only the hot season, and the not-so-hot season.

Seeing as how it is the dry season, the relative abundant presence of mosquitos puzzles me a bit. I thought mosquitos were supposed to like humidity. It's dry. Why don't they all die. No, that wasn't a question. I think they should all die. I'm sure there's a very important reason they exist - they're probably a foundational organism in the ecosystem, or a major link in the food chain - but I don't know what that exact reason is, so I don't care. Not sure I'd care if I did. (Dad, maybe you can educate me when I get back.) Fortunately, both places we've stayed so far have had very nice rooms which have been kept mostly free of those annoying little suckers (*ba doomp, chhhh*). Sleeping under a mosquito net is actually pretty fun. I'm reminded of the days when I used to build forts in the living room by suspending sheets over chairs and pillows (college was so much fun...). The big dilemma is the light switch. Sight comes in handy when you're trying to climb into bed without stringing yourself up like a whale in a mosquito net. So leaving the light on while you get in bed is pretty necessary. If only turning the light off while you're trying to fall asleep wasn't. Having long arms isn't really my strong suit, and the switch is 4 feet away (please ignore the human proportion fallacy). Like a puppy beckoned by two masters, I don't know which way to go. But I'm cool and clever (why else would I be writing a blog?), and I came up with a ninja solution. The hotel room came equipped with a pair of foam flip-flops positioned conveniently next to the bed. I've only got two shots at this. If I miss, it's back out into the mosquito-infested jungle. Reaching down, I flip the first flop underhanded towards the switch. Just left. Last chance. I flip the second flop. Instantaneous darkness. I forfeit my consciousness feeling very proud of myself. The following morning, I awake to find another light switch just over the head-board of the bed. So much for being cool and clever.

Time for my first African church service. We'll see if it really is the dry season. My guess is that it's pouring. Looking around, I see many cups running over. I'm sure mine will be filled too.

Passing

Concentrating on keeping your food down is never fun. I try not to do it very often, yet, when we landed in Kigali, Rwanda, that's exactly what I was doing. I'm attributing it to the porridge (although I'm sure it had more to do with taking my malaria pill on an empty stomach the night before). Fortunately, my sickness passed with a good dose of fresh air on the ground. We were greeted by Kwema, a youth pastor in the area and part of Faustin's core team of leaders for TLAfrica. Kwema is one of the warmest, most winning people I have met thus far, and that's saying quite a lot, because everyone here is warm and winning. We took a taxi into Kigali, where we were planning to spend the night before our long bus ride to Ruhengeri. But this is Africa. When we got out of the taxi, we weren't at a hotel, we were at the bus depot. So we sat down to wait for the bus. But this is Africa. Kwema took off for a moment, and when he came back, he had another taxi waiting for us. I was a bit disappointed. I was looking forward to three hours of chaos on a serpentine mountain road with pigs at my feet, chickens in my lap, and 34 local travelers all shouting at the top of their lungs in other languages. Though less interesting, the taxi ride was much more comfortable.

Driving in Rwanda is an adventure in itself. In the city, the roads are about three lanes wide, although you can't tell exactly, because there are no markings. The center area of the road is apparently fair game for passing in either direction. Passing in general is a dangerous, but exciting proposition. I'd be praising God for seat belts, except ours didn't work. Everyone honks at everyone else, but no one is upset. Once in the mountains, we passed countless travelers walking. They walk for miles (and no one is overweight - go figure). Some of them ride bikes with huge loads strapped behind the seat. Lots of people combine the two alternatives, and walk their bikes. They probably just couldn't decide. Kids under 10 frequently travel in small groups without adults, and sometimes all by themselves. Everyone is carrying something - a large sack, a yellow 5 gallon container, a jar, a basket of fruit. The coolest part is that my ill-formed presupposition was strangely accurate. Most of them transport their cargo on their heads. Furthermore, the older the traveler, the more likely they are to be doing this without hands. Every person I saw over 50 was balancing something. That's not to say that the kids don't. I saw one boy, no older than 7, balancing a sack of potatoes on his head as big as he was. Many of the women have the tell-tale lump. No, not pregnancy. The lump is on the other side, but it is a baby. They sling their children over their backs in beautifully ornate fabric. We pass remarkably close to them at 50 miles per hour. Equally remarkable is the fact that no one seems to mind that we're within inches of killing them and their children.

Fortunately, we didn't hit any people, but we did hit some enormous potholes. Once, we hit a particularly large one, and something fell off the car (hey, it's Africa). When we stopped to figure out what it was, a couple of teenagers passed by and stopped to investigate with us. One of them laughed and pointed at the layer of dirt caked onto our spare tire cover. He and I both began to draw in the dirt. He drew a heart. I drew a smiley face. Then we exchanged names. I couldn't make out what he said his name was, and I could tell by his face that he was having the same trouble. Unfortunately, we didn't have time to attempt further conversation, but in our passing we exchanged something more profound than our names. We exchanged hearts and smiles. That's what I would have remembered anyway. Two hours and 200 km after our ride began, we arrived at the Centre Pastoral Notre Dame de Fatima in Ruhengeri. You would expect our cab fare to have been pretty heavy, and 10,000 francs sounds so, but it's not. It's about 18 dollars. I'm sure we would have had to pay more if Kwema had not been with us. Our fare was a testament to his warmth and winning nature.

Halfway through dinner our first evening here in Ruhengeri, Faustin, the director of TLAfrica, paused to thank the other group of American pastors who had been ministering the week prior. He invited each of them to say a word as they were all leaving the next day. When everyone had had an opportunity to speak, Faustin thanked them all and turned to Pastor John, who is the TLAfrica representative whenever Faustin is in the US. "Pastor John, would you like to say a few words?" Pastor John thought for a moment. "Yes... I would like to share something," he began in a very patient, disciplined tone, "in my culture... my mother taught me... to wait until you have finished eating before you begin talking." Dinner ended as light-hearted as it had began. As they were leaving the following day, we had only this meal to connect with the group that had been serving before us (Faustin called it "our last supper"). And the connection was genuine. We exchanged hearts and smiles. We may be passing each other like travelers on the road, but we are united by our mission and our faith. Passing in general is a dangerous and exciting proposition, but I find that the excitement far outweighs the danger.

Citizenship

"Luke's patience was tested." The farcical euphemism is one of Ed's favorite methods of expression. Alan, the cab driver chuckles. His patience was tested too. And Ed's. I'm here to serve Jesus, so I don't get to be outwardly bitter, and this is my outlet. Bear with me. After landing in Nairobi, we had to stand in line to obtain our visas. We were off the plane pretty quickly, and most everyone else had to stop and fill out the veritable cornicopia (oh I will) of paperwork that we had already filled out on the plane, so we were near the front. To our left were several other shorter, faster-moving lines for passengers who qualified for other types of entry. One line was for Kenyan citizens only, another for citizens of other East African nations. Citizenship indeed has its privileges. Ed breezed through first. Expecting the same ease, I stepped up to discover that there was one small item of paperwork missing [cue sad Charlie Brown music].

I filled out the missing form and stepped to the back of the now prodigious line. Apparently I unwittingly merged into the middle of a group of Indian kinsfolk (the kind from India). An hour later, as we neared the front, the woman from their party directly in front of me realized she was missing paperwork too, and asked me if I would allow her to return to her place. Meanwhile the rest of them were filling out all of their paperwork while in line. She returned and I let her in. At this point, they begin to slide their carry-on luggage into my calves, then next to me, then in front of me. Then the nudged in beside me, and one asked "Are you in the queue?" I replied with a nod, "Yes, I'm in line." Except it was a nod that said "Oh, you mean you haven't noticed that I've been in front of you this whole time? Or you haven't noticed that I let your friend return to her spot after having the same issue that sent me to the back of the line? Or you haven't noticed my feet occupying the floor-space into which you're trying to slide your bags? Or you haven't realized that just because the thirteen of you know each other doesn't permit you to uproot anyone between you and your kinsfolk? Yes, I'm in LINE, thankyouverymuch." (I can say a lot with a nod; I'm quite gifted.) Unfortunately, I don't think they spoke nod, and they continued to edge in front of me.

By the time they reached the front, the 6 of them that had been behind me were now in front, and I waited an extra 20 minutes. I should have purchased Kenyan citizenship an hour earlier. Finally, I stepped up, and the visa official looks up and pronounces, as if he was irritated, "I tell you come right back." Salt. Wounds. As he is reviewing my paperwork and stamping my passport, he continues to tell me - at least four more times - flipping the words around a little, just so it would sound new and fresh. "Come here straight, I say." More salt. "Why you don't come back?" Lemon juice. "I say you come straight." Vinegar and alcohol. "You come back, I tell you before." Hydrochloric acid. After the second time, I just stopped answering him. As I look back on the situation, I can see that God was in control. God obviously prevented me from being in possession of some sort of bludgeoning instrument at the time. Had I been toting a baseball bat, or a pipe wrench, or one of those nifty two-by-fours with a few nails through it, there would have been many bludgeonings.

We were picked up by our trusty chauffeur, Alan, the aforementioned cabbie who waited all that time with Ed's name on a sign (VIP status). He took us to the Anglican Guest House, where the accommodations were excellent. The following morning, we had a breakfast of cooked carrots with zucchini, whole fried baby potatoes, some sort of cross between pastrami and bacon, and porridge that was painfully bland, but "rich in iron" or so we were told. It reminded me of the stuff they eat in the Matrix. I salted the porridge and it tasted like salt. I'm not one to eat just salt. One of my rules. (Side note: why couldn't we have been "the cilantro of the earth?" Or "the juniper of the earth?" Or "the saffron of the earth?" Even "the pepper of the earth" is cooler. Salt isn't that awesome.) After breakfast, we had an engrossing conversation with three young Dutch guys. Japeth, Coen, and Burt (people from not-USA have sweet names) are from just outside Rotterdam, where there is apparently a revival of real Christianity among university students. They were excited about the elder-led model their church had implemented, noted several times that Christianity is a relationship and not a religion, and were intensely curious to learn what they could from us while at the same time being truly and humbly knowledgeable about scripture. Sitting at a continental breakfast in Nairobi with Ed and three Dutch guys I discovered what I had been missing the night before. Citizenship. To have an instant and genuine connection with someone from a foreign culture with foreign customs in a place that is foreign to both parties is citizenship of a higher quality. When we left, I felt refreshed, and I'm sure it had little to do with breakfast.

Expanse

I am looking out the window at the Sahara Desert. Weird and awesome. The flight from Amsterdam to Nairobi takes us over Sudan and Libya - essentially the heart of the largest, hottest, and most famous desert in the world. I'm a little surprised that the Sahara isn't made entirely of rolling yellow sand dunes as far as the eye can see. Sometimes the sand is more salmon in color. Sometimes it's white. Sometimes the dunes don't really seem to be rolling so much as rippling. Sometimes there are no dunes - just sand. Scattered here and there in some of the flat areas are large networks of rock formations. There is even a handful of roads. All in all, I'd say that the scenery down below is a - brace yourself for this one - taupe kaleidoscope. If you couldn't tell, this is all derision. When I look out the window, basically it's blue on the top and yellow on the bottom. Still, I wanted to stay awake for this part of the flight so I could say that I've seen the Sahara Desert.

It's fascinating to me that there are more people cooped up in this giant flying tin can than can be found in thousands of square miles of earth directly below us. It's such an immeasurably vast expanse that it can only truly be described with repetitive redundancy. I think about the 20 million sardines - I mean people - in Mexico City and I kinda wonder why half of them don't just move to the Sahara. Seeing an expanse like this from the air makes me want to defenistrate anyone who complains about how over-populated the Earth is. We have plenty of space. We just like to assert our right to personal space over that of others. You can't demand your space if there's no one around from whom to demand it. So we all go to LA, NY, Tokyo, and (for who knows what reason) Mexico City to complain about it.

On the other hand, have you ever tried to envision just how many people there are in the world? Doesn't it just make your heart break? I've literally seen tens of thousands of people today that I will never see again, and each one of them has their own great need in the midst of their own brokenness. Most of them don't know it, and most of those that do don't know how to find it. I can't possibly have given each one of them a hug, and even if I did, most of them would have been offended at the invasion of their personal space. Furthermore, how am I supposed to make a difference in their lives when I'm so preoccupied with my own? Knowing the answer to this question and being able to effectively live that way are two very different things. Fortunately, I'm on a collision course with growth in this very area, and somewhere on this plane is a man who does it very very well. Ed knows, whether by God-given understanding, life-nurtured wisdom, innate ability, or lots and lots of practice just how to do this. He has already had one soul-nurturing conversation with a seat companion on a previous flight, and he is engaged in another right now. I am excited to see how God will use him to awaken more hearts this trip. Funny how seeing a huge, un-populated mass of desert has awakened my heart to the needs of hearts around me. I only hope I can get out of the way.

Departure

I'm en route to Africa. If ever there was an excuse to subject my friends and family to mindless dribble about the endless minutia of my life (i.e. start a blog), I figure this is it. I was contemplating a preliminary post explaining my long-term intentions for this blog, but I figured it would be more interesting to just get started as if you had been reading it for months (in other words, I procrastinated, and now, here we are). I should say that, eventually, I hope there will be an abundance of photos here, so if you're not really a reader, then stay tuned if you can, and I'll provide lots of pretty little pictures. Without further ado, let's unleash the dribble.

I'm wearing mismatched socks. (This is exactly the kind of detail I know you don't care about, because I wouldn't care about it if I were in your position. But I'm not in your position. I'm the one writing. This is also exactly the kind of detail that makes life interesting to the person living it, and again, that's me. So quit complaining.) This is noteworthy because I have never once in my life worn mismatched socks without having specifically intended to do so. I set out a rolled-up pair last night, and when I unrolled them, the adidas logo that appeared on only one of them reached out and slapped me in the face. I didn't have time to find a matching pair, so I'll have to just deal with it. It's not that I mind how mismatched socks look (how often do you really notice a person's socks?), it's how they feel. One is significantly thicker than the other, and I'll have to deal with a dichotomy of foot temperature for an insufferable amount of time (it's a very long day of travel). Bollocks.

"Dude, it's weird that you're going to Africa." Normally, Zach is much more eloquent and much less like Keanu Reeves in the Bill and Ted movies. (Zach is my best friend and a recurring character in the annals of my life - get used to his presence here.) However, this statement somehow adequately encapsulates how I'm feeling at the moment. It is weird that I'm going to Africa. I don't know what else to say about it. To serve the Lord through photography all around the world has been a dream of mine for some time. Dreams are typically characterized by their weirdness. Why should this be any different? I doubt it will sink in for quite some time.

I think Ed (Pastor, traveling companion, brother in ministry, and friend) and I may have set a new record for most consecutive airpunts. An airpunt is the maneuver by which you propel your carry-on bag forward towards the gate with your foot because it's annoying to pick it up, walk two steps, and then put it down again 500 times in the course of an hour. LAX must have waxed their floors recently, because I was getting considerable distance out of my backpack, which weighs at least 25 pounds. Once through the gate, we sat down and I bought a breakfast sandwich from CPK which really was almost worth the $8 I paid for it. Returning to the waiting area, I noted Cholo's Cantina. I'll bypass the absurdity of its name and proceed to its claim. Cholo's boasts of having the best margarita in LA. I couldn't help but comprise a Master Card ad for the LA native who wants to hit up his favorite margarita joint, which just happens to be in terminal 5 at LAX.

Boarding Pass to anywhere: at least $200

Checked luggage: $15

Waiting in line for an hour and a half: $13.13 @ minimum wage

Enjoying the best margarita in LA: NOT NEARLY WORTH IT

When you're headed for an encounter with God in Africa, things seem more miraculous on your way there. Flight is just stupid meaningful. Think about it. (If you're not awed, the you're not really thinking about it.) How do we get these twenty-ton heaps of scrap metal off the ground? To presume, as human beings, that we could engineer flight is beyond imaginative. It's arrogant. Yet I am 30,000 feet in the air, and God has not yet struck me dead. Climbing out of the thickest marine layer I can remember having seen, with the clouds below like a blanket of snow, I'd swear I was flying over the North Pole. The white carpet stretches as far as I can see, and curls around the foothills like the sea around an archipelago. Grace. Confronted by the beauty of this creation and the blessing it is to be who I am, where I am, "Grace" is all I can say. Grace propels me towards I know not what, although I know untold riches await when I arrive. Not at all unlike a jet engine. Only by the Spirit and by Grace does this twenty-ton heap of scrap flesh have the power of lift-off. And though this body moves awkwardly on the ground, I find that in the air, propelled by Grace, I am as I was created to be. We land in Detroit and Amsterdam before finally reaching Nairobi, Kenya. I hope that even as I return to the earth, this deeper flight will continue. Your prayers are coveted.