Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Why I went back there again.

For some reason, I started reading back through some of my old blog posts. My really old ones. I can't believe it is nearly three years since I started this blog. I notice it took me a while to figure it out too, I didn't post as many pictures and I didn't give each post a title. I like to think that I have evolved, or at least this blog has. Then I read a post like this one, and think - well - what matters is what you think.

March 30, 2010

Return to Kenya

When Val and I came back from Africa the first time, in 2006, she knew she wanted to return some day. She left a part of her heart with the orphans from Brydges Orphanage in Nairobi and with the beautiful Maasai and with all the children at Pastor Joseph’s farm. She left part of herself behind on the Masai Mara with the cheetahs and the hippos and the thousands of homely wildebeest, relentlessly cantering across the wide plain. Ok, who am I kidding? I left part of myself behind too.

Last fall seemed so long ago, that day when I was sitting in this exact spot in the living room, when she made her announcement that she was going back to Kenya. She had found an organization on line where she could work with an orphanage for six months. I didn’t think that the day would actually arrive when she would get on that plane and fly into the adventure of a lifetime.

And now she is gone. The time will go quickly, I know that. She will come home changed, aged, like fine wine perhaps. She’ll come home with wonderful ideas for her future life. Maybe even a game plan for her future. Or if she just comes home with lots of pictures, a tan and good health, that would be fine with me too.

In the meantime, all we can do is pray for her, keep her in our thoughts and wait, somewhat impatiently, to hear some of her stories. And since I have been there already myself, I can go back to Africa in my mind, hear the Maasai singing their songs through the night to keep us safe from lions, smell the distinctly sour odors of poverty in Mathari Slums, feel the rough warm fingers of school children who have never touched a Muzungu (white person) before.

Sigh. I need to go back there again, don’t I?

And so I went back.

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