Zambia (Kid Stuff - not really)

Sometimes the process of placing pen to paper, or in this case the depositing of keystrokes to the cloud, is a difficult undertaking.  So it is today.  Just as it has been on so many other days when the words were corked in a bottle so to speak.  Annoyingly, one word keeps popping out of the ol' jug over and over again: misery.  Needless to say but I'll voice it anyway, hardship and suffering are concepts that I don't desire to write about.  

Consequently, I struggle with the words, even as my mind races through any number of vivid impressions that were captured during those five weeks in Zambia.  It was January 2008 and the calendar marked not only the beginning of the Zambian summer but the start of the Central African rainy season as well.  Goodness, those obese drops raced down, each driven with a hell-bent determination to add its voice to the deafening roar before gathering and pooling in any cavity provided by the red earth.....only to be enticed upward moments later by the silent broil of the subtropical sun.  The outbursts of rain were amazing although they play but a minor role in this account.  It is more pressing to disclose that the majority of that five-week sojourn was spent in the capital city of Lusaka - a metropolis with a population of some 3.3 million along with the knowledge that roughly 80% of those souls reside in a komboni.  Often referred to as a compound by those of us for which English is our first language, 37 kombonis form the skeleton of Lusaka although each one might better be labeled "slum" or 'shanty town" as each is dominated by tenement housing, lack of public services, overcrowding, and squalor conditions in general.  The history responsible for this plight is far beyond my superficial understanding. 

Yes, misery is the first word that comes to mind but indeed that term is built upon a dictionary's worth of other words.  Words like:  brownout, walls, corruption, standing water, theft, HIV, orphan, putzi fly, cinderblock, cholera, prosperity doctrine, dust, fear, mud, suppression, subjection, heat, witchcraft, death, caterpillars....OK, enough of that.....it's all leaving a bad taste in my mouth.  There is a struggle to understand if the memories trigger the words or if the words provoke the recollection.  Regardless, there is no doubt that all the words are viewed through a prism from a first-world perspective.  A frame of reference sharpened on the whetstone of first-world problems and honed on the strop of first-world luxuries.

Simply stated, the intent of the journey to Zambia, the mission if you will, was to do good and charitable deeds.  That, and to record the sights of the matter with my little point-and-shoot camera and document whatever events transpired via the written word.  The specifics, the purpose, and dare we say the hope of those stated deeds have faded with the passage of time.  Today, the success, if not the wisdom of that mission can be debated and frequently is within the space between my ears.  But this much is certain - a knowledge persists that I received and brought home far greater blessings than any benevolence I left behind.  As for the camera, misery was never far removed from the lens and then the viewfinder.  From the very first day, photos were infrequent.  Somehow it felt as if the act of photography infringed on the subject's privacy and diminished their dignity.  At some point the means for recording the days events was relegated to my pocket altogether. 

Nonetheless, some pictures do remain and a few touch my heart.  I would like to share them now as I continue my personal journey in trying to understand five weeks in Zambia.    

Kids - the same the world over.  Eager to laugh, quick to run.  Whenever we walked through a Komboni, a group of kids would materialize almost out of nowhere and follow behind.  They loved to have their picture taken and would marvel in awe at their images on the little LCD screen on the back of the camera.   Then with the flash of a huge smile, they were gone.

The orphan without name.  This little guy sought me out and remained close as our group toured an orphanage (one large communal room) overseen by three women.  He was fortunate to have all the necessities - food, shelter, clothing - but craved companionship.  We were only able to stay for about 30 minutes but he sat quietly on my lap for the whole time seemingly content with the moment.  I'd be surprised if he has any recollection of our encounter given his age at the time but I can assure you that he touched my very soul.

This is James Sakala.  James and I visited together briefly maybe a half dozen times during my time in Lusaka.  James was a family man with a wife and three children although he is the only member of the family whom I met.  They lived in a two-room cinderblock home plastered on the inner walls.  Each room was maybe ten feet by ten feet with dirt floors and a tin roof.  Woven grass mats covered the floors.  There was no plumbing in the house but each room was wired with a solitary plug.  The house was rented for a few pennies a week.  A pittance by our standards but nearly a king's ransom for James.  Nonetheless, James told me that he was fortunate and blessed to be in a house with a tin roof.  The majority of his neighbors relied on cardboard and plastic film to protect them from the elements.

James could afford such luxury because of his entrepreneurial prowess.  Each morning James would wake at 2:00 A.M. and build a small open fire below some sort of iron, ovenlike contraption.  He did this in the living room and would bake "donuts" (more bagel-like than donut) while the family slept in the room adjacent.  At some point James would load his "donuts" onto a rack on the back of his bicycle and pedal some 20 miles to a non-komboni section of the city where he would sell his "donuts".  With the days earnings he bought supplies and perhaps some necessities for his family, load up the bike, retrace the route back home, and begin preparations for the next morning's batch.  Razor thin profit margins.  18/7 - no holidays.  The man's smile never wavered and not once did I hear him utter a word that could be construed as complaint or self-pity.  Thirteen years have past and I wonder what has become of James.

Red dirt was everywhere and it seemed to exist in one of two forms - dust or mud.  But this image dominates all other remembrances.  The stark reality of a fallen world in contrast to the comprehension of our Merciful Lord is profound.  Truly humbling.  

The concrete slab.  A godsend at a moment when home felt like a very faraway place.

It's been raining here in the Pacific Northwest for the past few weeks, seemingly uninterrupted.  Not the cloudbursts of Lusaka - just a "good old fashioned soaker" as my Mom used to say.  Neighborhoods not too far away have felt the devastation of flooding.  The standing water reminds me that cholera remains a very real menace in the kombonis of Lusaka and I fear to think about the ravages that Covid-19 has wrought in such a high density environment.  Yet, Covid-19 is prevalent here as well.  Severe disease of many varieties are commonplace and all too close to home.  Indeed, misery, in all of its many flavors, knows no borders.  The fallen world is just that - worldwide.   

Nonetheless, God loves each and every one of us to point that He has the hairs on our heads numbered.  (Matthew 10:30)

On one hand it is easy for me feel guilt for all my good fortune.  Especially, if I allow myself to indulge in the folly of comparing my life with so many of those struggling within the kombonis.  On the other hand, there is a simple leap of "logic" and I imagine that God has blessed me with unfathomable first-world benefits because once upon a time I did something good or noble or righteous.  Or was it my ancestors?  Maybe my government?   No.....No.....And definitely not.  

No.....God has chosen to bless me (and you) not because He is somehow obligated to do so.  Nor for the notion that there are favorites among us.  Indeed, God has blessed us because He is good and loving, merciful and holy.  God is sovereign.  His timing is perfect.  His purposes, His methods, are beyond comprehension.  God's blessings with all their grace are gifts, free and clear.  

I'm slowly beginning to comprehend those blessings that I mentioned earlier - the ones that I brought home after five weeks in Zambia.  There is an understanding that just like misery, blessings rain down in a myriad of flavors.  Blessings extend way beyond the material.  James Sakala was dirt poor by our standards but incredibly rich when it came to faith, hope, and love.  Each of us is on our own unique pathway.  Each life designed by our loving Savior and woven inexplicably with all the rest.  Ultimately, it is all for His glory.

Undoubtedly, life itself is a blessing.  Hold it all as one would a butterfly - in gentle awe.  Quietly, in humility, with palms open and up.    

Matthew 10:30 - "For the very hairs of your head are all numbered."

I Corinthians 13:13 - "And now abide faith, hope, and love, these three: but the greatest of these is        love."

Job 1 - 42

Yellowstone 2021 (Kid Stuff)

My obsession with finding jars and bells recently brought us once again to the majesty of Yellowstone National Park.  Now maybe that's a lie.  Maybe those little bobbles of bronze are simply a rationalization for exploring a small corner of God's creation that never fails to amaze.  Regardless, impressions from the season of Fall will last indefinitely and what the memory betrays, photos captured in the moment will reinforce for the mind.

Unfortunately, photos fail to capture the grandeur of the valleys, the haunting bugle of a bull elk cascading to one's ear from afar, or the caress of warm steam, the byproduct of countless bubbling hot springs, touching the skin in the crisp Autumn air.  Nonetheless, the following images were captured along our path - four days in October. 

Day 1 - Beaver Ponds Trail  

    

Jamie starting out fresh

Mount Everts from Elk Plaza

The first pond - not a beaver in sight

Second Pond - still no beavers

Last Pond - just ducks that were camera shy

Pano - Jamie standing in the gap on left between the trees

Sage

Day 2 - Blacktail Creek Trail

Welcoming Committee - steam rising off their backs

View from Forces of the Northern Range Boardwalk

Glacial Erratic

Blacktail Pond

Deer Creek

Two hams heading on down the road

Swan Lake Flats

Sheepeater Cliffs

Sheepeater Cliffs and the Gardner River

Jamie overlooking Mammoth Hot Springs from the Upper Terraces

Orange Spring Mound

Looking for love in all the wrong places

Day 3 - Lone Star Geyser Trail

The Fountain Group in early morning

Grasses along the Firehole River

Grasses gently swaying in the Firehole River

Somewhere along the trail

Same spot  - Summer to 2000

The seasons have changed in more ways than one

Lone Star Geyser - all quiet on this day

The Summer of 2000 was a different story

 Idyllic

Young Hopeful Geyser

Norris - Porcelain Basin

Day 4 - Hellroaring Trail

Aspen along Blacktail Plateau Drive

View from the top of the trail - Yellowstone River upstream from the gorge

What goes down must come up

A solitary sentry met us at the tree-line

He let us pass but hinted disdain from his wallow

Made it

The high water marks on the canyon face established during Spring runoff

suggested an appropriate title for the trail

Bear track?  What say you?

Provided incentive for the climb back

As for the bronze?  Simply a no-show.  It has been said that crashing should never discourage the would-be air traveler because only the last inch counts.  And so it is with those pesky trinkets.  Even as Winter approaches and the grizzly head to their respective dens for hibernation, so too will the focus of my quest remain dormant until someone understands how to arrive at the last inch.  I believe that this sign is as close as I got.

Smokey's and Tests of Integrity (Kid Stuff)

The streamlet swirled a cobalt black as it bisected the small forest meadow.  Laying calm amongst the green pastures it lingered as if basking in God's presence before resuming its hurried destiny along its rocky pathway a mere stone's throw further downstream.  Mighty Douglas Fir rose from the perimeter straight arrow into the mountain air only to part high above and declare homage to heaven cloaked in purest blue.  Each tree immovable.  Each tree towering at strict attention as though standing guard over this place - a place that only the mind of God could imagine, much less create.  

Now maybe it was the quiet tranquility of the moment or perhaps the hypnotic movement of the water that forced the mind to slow and recall times most cherished.  Possibly the crisp, thin air rejuvenated the mind and triggered thoughts long dormant.  Maybe it was the simple fact that the trout weren't biting.  But for whatever reason, my brother-in-law David interrupted the solitude and an anamnesis of my own:

"I remember my first dinner with your family.  It seemed really strange because in my family everyone talks and nobody listens.  But here I was sitting with all of you and it hit me that in your family everyone listens but nobody talks."

The reminiscence was shared and knowing smiles exchanged.  Then the quiet resumed and the fish upstream were offered the opportunity to mock us.

Dave recollected that dinner revelation with me any number of times over the years.  Even now I can't speak to the accuracy of Dave's comment in regards to his family, but I can say that he was pretty much spot on when it came to mine.  As a very young boy I would climb into the passenger seat of the family Chevy and Dad would turn the key.  No seat belts in those days.  And off we went with nary a word spoken for somewhat of a ritual - the Saturday morning haircut.  Our destination was simply known as Smokey's.  

Smokey was both a man and an institution.  First off, Smokey was called Smokey because the instances were rare when he didn't have a cigarette dangling from his mouth.  I think he had a personal competition with himself to see how long he could get burnt ashes to hang on the end of the cigarette before they all fell on the floor.  Either that or he needed two hands to cut hair and there was too much going on to use an ash tray.  The concept of secondhand smoke had yet to be discovered.  Retired Navy, I feel certain that he had a tattoo on the inside of his left forearm but for the life of me my mind can't see it.  When he adjusted my position or the angle of my head his hands were always firm yet kind, as were his eyes.  Regardless any of that, Dad always said that he was the best barber in town.  

Smokey's two-chair shop resided in a single room on the side of his house residence.  There was a separate entrance for customers.  A gum-ball machine resided on the inside next to the door and the outside of the building was complete with a rotating helix of red, white, and blue stripes.  That barber pole was magical.  How did those stripes continue to move up the canister?  Where did they come from? Where did they go?  Next to the door was a big, bay view window with the words SMOKEY'S Barbershop hand painted on the glass in big red letters.

It was our tradition that I would go first for my haircut and then Dad would get his.  Scrambling off the "booster seat" (a board laid across the two arm rests of the massive, red barber chair), I would usually meet Dad as he was getting up from the waiting bench and ask him for a penny to buy a gum-ball.  Like clockwork, he would dig into a pocket, give me a smile, and hand me the coin.

One time, I went over to the machine, dropped the penny in the slot and turned the chrome plated dial.  The brightly colored gum-balls in the glass container above all shimmied and moved imperceptibly lower as I heard my gum-ball drop to the dispenser below.  I always wondered what color it would be.  But this day, when the metal cap to the dispenser was lifted I was surprised to find not one gum-ball but two.  Well, the innocence of youth is a wonderful thing.  Something instinctive told me that I should take only what I paid for and without a second thought I took the first ball and left the second one in the dispenser.  Back to the bench I went, quite content.  A short time later, another father and son came in for their haircuts, and as fate would have it, that boy put his penny in the gum-ball machine as I had minutes before.  When he found two gum-balls he was quite happy and told his Dad in excited tones for all to hear.  I must say that I may have felt my first twinges of buyer's remorse right then and there when I heard that one of the balls was cherry red.

As I clambered into the Chevy for the ride home, Dad was already seated behind the wheel.  There was a brief instant of bewilderment when he didn't start the car right up.  Instead, he turned and asked:  "There were two gum-balls in the machine when you put your money in, weren't there?"

"Yes." I replied as my mind raced to understand how he could possibly know.

"You did the right thing.  I'm proud of you."  And with that, on we went with nary a word spoken. 

Some four decades thereafter found me firmly in the grip of corporate America.  Having worked for the same company for fourteen years, the grass looked greener at an office just uptown.  Tedium was taking a toll but midnight on-call was the real culprit.  My friend and co-worker Kandy had recently resigned and gone to work at the new concern.  So, I gave Kandy a couple weeks to settle in and then gave her a call to see what she thought of her new employer.  She gave a glowing review filled with terms such as "hiring like crazy", "wonderful benefits", "their new project is a perfect fit", and "great place to work".  But at the end of our conversation as she realized I was hooked, she added almost as an afterthought: "Oh.....right up front in the interview process they'll give you an Integrity Test.  You'll do great.....just don't do too good.  Like telling a lie.  If you say you have never lied, are you lying now?"

A few days later I found myself sitting across the table from a lady in the Human Resources Department.  Her demeanor was beyond cordial and she too used the terms "perfect fit" and "wonderful benefits" as she perused my resume.  Then just as Kandy had promised, she handed me the Integrity Test - two pages of maybe 20 questions related to ethics with multiple choice answers following each.  The first two questions blew right by as one of the options presented was obviously better than the others.  But question #3 struck a cord:

3)    You go to buy a candy bar in a vending machine and find that the one you want is already in the               dispenser.  What would you do?

a) Shake the machine violently to see if more will fall out.

b) Take the candy that is already in the dispenser.

c) Buy a second candy with your money and leave the first.  

d) Call the vending machine company and report a malfunction. 

At the time I was pretty sure that the best answer, the expected answer, was (b).  There is no doubt in my mind about that today.  Nevertheless, perhaps you can understand why I answered (c).  Then came another question regarding the taking of company pencils although one of my many lovable quirks is that I only use pens.  Followed by something about punching in late on the time clock although I had been salaried for the past twenty years.  No - question #3 set the tone if not my fate.  When the Human Resources lady returned from grading my test, her manner had gone stern and I was summarily dispatched out the door......"We'll give you a call if a position opens up."  No doubt the woman feared that she had stumbled across a modern day Flambeau.

Six decades plus have flowed past much too rapidly since those bi-weekly trips to Smokey's.  There have been tests of many flavors during that span but those involving integrity are the most enduring.  I hesitate to report that I've failed my fair share.  Sadly, that moment standing in front of Smokey's gum-ball machine may have been my finest hour.  Nonetheless, lessons have been learned.

The spoken word matters.  Every word possesses consequence which may manifest itself years later.  But only if the words are not merely heard but truly listened upon.  The unspoken word, the implied meaning(s) may be equally consequential but all too often they are negated by the listener's own silent bias resulting in an inference unintended.  Finally, our society has somehow learned to speak and listen within the context of good/bad when issues involving integrity need to be examined within the framework of right/wrong.

Albert and Mary and The Monstrosity (God Moments)

Albert Frans Easton and Maria Alexina Svensson, my paternal grandparents, were married in Tacoma, Washington on March 1, 1906.  How their romance began is anyone's guess but the bond of their love abided for 53 years, 8 months, and eight days when Mary died.  Their mutual devotion bore five children and they witnessed with joy the births of six grandchildren, myself being the youngest.

Regrettably, my memories of Grandad and Grandma are few.  Indeed, I have only a single memory of Mary.  During that very early season of my life, my family would make the journey across Puget Sound to visit my grandparents.  I sense that the trips were usually on a Sunday afternoon.   We were living in Bremerton, Washington while Albert was staying at a "rest home" in Everett, Washington.  Of course, Mary was there as well.  But she was confined to a "nursing unit" within the same facility.  Mary had suffered a series of strokes years before and her condition had deteriorated to point that the family could no longer care for her at home.

Now strictly bedridden, I recall standing next to her bed with my Mother's hand resting gently on my shoulder and then Mary gesturing for me to come closer.  Her mouth was contorted, her speech slurred beyond recognition, and I have a lingering impression of an unpleasant odor.  I'll always be bothered by the fact that I felt uncomfortable in that moment and that discomfort led to hesitation.  Nonetheless, Mom's hand gently pressed me forward.  I hope I mustered a smile.  In the end there was a hug totally lacking in grace but a hug regardless.  Perhaps the best hug of my life if not the most enduring.   

Albert spent much of his days at Mary's bedside.  But his room was in another wing of the facility which provided meals and a temporary refuge from the weight of unwavering commitment.  His living quarters seemed tiny to me even then with most of the space filled by the single bed.  The sense was somewhat stark, even drab, save for one item.  Opposite the door, the outside wall contained a single window with a lamp in front of it.  The lamp was huge and dwarfed the table upon which it rested.  Now the lamp was Grandad's pride and joy.  In fact it was the physical manifestation of his imagination and he built it, ground up, himself.  It seems that with each visit, Albert would proudly point out to my parents new parts that he had added since our last visit.  The lamp was constructed mostly of plastic - plastic being yet somewhat of a novel commodity in the mid 50's.  I recall one translucent plastic cup, deep burgundy.  Then a bright yellow saucer followed by some sort of blue bottle cap and a multitude of other objects with varying shapes, sizes, and gaudy colors which are less vivid in my mind's eye.  Albert had also incorporated glass prisms into his creation.  As the sun moved through the day subtle hues clothed the adjoining wall and ceiling.  Multiple arcs banded together creating ever changing patterns.  That fascinated me.

Mom and Dad would often talk about the lamp when Grandad was out of earshot...."What can we do with that lamp?  It's becoming a monstrosity."  To my young ears, the lamp had obviously become a very special family heirloom.  

On November 9, 1959, Mary died.

Not long after, Albert moved out of the "rest home" and lived out his days in comfort until his sudden death on February 14, 1966.   

The fate of the lamp is unknown.  But this I wonder.....I do not know.  How many nights, in the quiet and dark of that solitary room, did Albert flip the switch to that lamp, gaze at the ceiling, and whisper prayers of thanks and supplication? 

Promises spoken.  Covenants rooted in eternity.  Each moving through time yet established immutable.  Sources of hope.  Foundations of comfort.

Genesis 9:12-13

"This is the sign of the covenant that I make between Me and you and every living creature that is with you, for all future generations: I have set My bow in the cloud, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between Me and the earth."

Walking Along (Kid Stuff)

Some of my fondest memories revolve around the days when the game of golf dominated my free time.  I practiced putting on the living room rug, teed it up on the driving range whenever the opportunity arose, and digested Golf Digest.  All in an effort to straighten a ball flight that forever insisted on fading to the right.  OK....I'll be honest.  That fade was often described as a banana slice by the unbiased onlooker.  

That frustrating little detail aside, Saturday mornings spent with my Dad, Uncle Harmon, Cousin Jim, and Cousin Lonnie were special.  Those times spent chasing after a little white ball produced innumerable memories that never fail to bring a smile to my face.  During that one, all too short season of life, the five of us would often convene for our standing golf date at our favorite rondevu point - Meadow Park Golf Course just south of Tacoma in Lakewood, Washington.

Now the Greens Keepers at Meadow Park loved us because we did so little damage to the fairways.  The majority of our divots were taken in the rough.  Ahhh.....the sixth hole.  I can still see it vividly in my mindseye and feel the anticipation of walking up to the tee.  A par four.  From the tee the fairway was lined with trees on both sides.  The drive was slightly uphill to a blind landing area with the green unseen, slightly dog legged left and beyond.  The contour at the target area of the drive sloped wickedly downhill towards the trees on the right and funneled into a small, shallow gully.  And as you probably guessed, my "fade" inevitably caught that downhill and leaped with one enthusiastic bound towards the rough before disappearing into the remote.  A pained mutter, something about "every time", and then  the conversation continued with me posing questions and myself providing answers as I made the solitary walk to a very small yet distinct area that I came to prize.  Prized because the laws of physics never fail and those foundations afford a glimpse of God's creation.  In turn, the living world teaches of a mind radiant and proclaims the glory of God Almighty.  

All too often, at the spout of the funnel, at the bottom of the gully, at the trunk of the first Douglas Fir rooted immovable just outside the fairway's rough, loomed the largest ant's nest ever imagined by man or beast (slight literary license) - with my golf ball gathered next.  Some of the ants had already begun to muster about the ball but the limitless majority continued about their business.  I always allowed myself a moment of fascination.  Industry, selflessness, and dogged determination in perfect union.  Then in deference to their collective wisdom the ball would be removed so as not to do any damage with my next swing.  The rules of golf are vast and speak to almost every conceivable circumstance....and then some.  Nonetheless, I doubt if any rule addresses "admiration".  But as far as I'm concerned, there should be.  So I confess to never taking a penalty for that "pick up".  Besides, the ball remained so deep in the abyss that anyone with even a mite of compassion would simply offer a charitable smile.  Another hack, a silent tribute to the colony as my tool of vexation was returned to the bag, and on I went.          

That one recollection is unique amongst the countless that echo with camaraderie and laughter.  With regret, that very special season passed many years ago only to leave a lasting awareness of blessings abundant.  My golf swings have been few and far between ever since.  Some memories just shouldn't be diluted.  

Spring arrived here in the Pacific Northwest just a few days ago and it has come to pass that the joy of striking the perfect ball flight has been supplanted by the fascination of working on mysteries without any clues.  That quest led me along a trail within one of my favorite hunting grounds.  Turning a bend, the forest gave way to open fields farther distant, and rays of sunlight became visible as they touched the moisture rising from the shade.  And almost like the proverbial pot of gold at the end of a rainbow lay a black mass nestled deep in the undergrowth.  The warmth had induced an emergence from below.  

My mind raced to seasons past.  Special times of joy surfaced without reservation.  I can see them vividly in my mindseye.  I can feel them. 

March 26, 2021

Western Thatching Ants build large mounds covered by small pieces of plant material.  My nest at Meadow Park was about 18 inches high and maybe four feet in diameter and constructed mostly of dead fir needles.  I read where the nest may burrow as deep as five feet underground.  Thousands of individuals make up the nest and sometimes individual nests are connected by underground tunnel passages forming colonies which can expand the populations into the millions.  Nests have been known to thrive for decades. 

I hope to revisit this nest in late August to see what my friend's efforts have produced.

Proverbs 6:6-8 - "Go to the ant.....Consider her ways....."

August 24, 2021 - I had the opportunity to revisit the nest yesterday.  Sadly, there was nothing there to be found.