I could see her through the small cracked pain of the kitchen window as I opened the flimsy wood gate at the end of the footpath, trying as I might not to be noticed. She was bent over a metal tub scrubbing clothes. The line outside already sagging with dripping wet garments swayed in the afternoon breeze. A solitary child sat in a wheelchair on the porch, dozing, perhaps sick He looked up as the gate creaked, and held his silence, though not his smile, as I motioned with a forefinger over my lips. I tiptoed past him, brushing my hand over his short, black, curly hair, he knew what I was up to and could hardly contain himself. A large stalk of bright yellow bananas was balanced over my shoulder, but I managed to enter the house through the narrow door undetected.

Ann (left) and Brittany visit Rose

"Jambo Rose" I said as I stood in the kitchen doorway, grinning at the success of my stealthy entrance. "Oh" she shrieked, dropping the bar of soap from her hands, "Paul, oh I'm so happy to see you. Oh my, when did you arrive?"

She raised her arms with the intent of offering a hug then remembering her wet soapy hands she lifted her apron to dry them first. I lowered the stalk of bananas to the floor and put my arms around her narrow shoulders. "Oh I am so happy to see you" she kept repeating, "how is your family, how is your new grandson, oh my, you surprised me".

Rose is the 'house mother' at Saint Vincent's home for disabled children. She is also one of the most dedicated people I know, single handedly caring for 16 physically disabled kids in the home where they board, twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, as long as school is in session. All for a measly $30 a month.

Greg with Turkana friends

Rose eagerly showed me the improvements that had been made since my last visit a few weeks prior. I had left instructions with a couple of workers to concrete the courtyard at the back of the house and construct ramps where previously steps led to the yard outside. A new masonry platform had been built to support a water tank into which rainwater from the metal roof collects. Rainwater Rose was using to wash clothes with that day. All simple improvements to overcome huge obstacles, when negotiating them from the confines of a wheelchair. I was short on time so my visit was brief by design since I knew the kids would be in class. As I left I slipped a few shillings, secretly, into Rose's hand lest anyone should see, knowing her salary would be deducted if the wrong people were to find out. Even bread is stolen from the home at times. The menacing curse of corruption never rests. I walked back through the same creaking gate from where I had entered and waved goodbye. I think it safe to say her spirits were lifted, if so then the purpose of my visit had been successful, yet if they were elevated to half the level of my own it had already been a great day. Encouragement always returns double measure I think when given away, but how often I miss the chance. It was only the persistent thought in my mind to 'visit Rose' which caused me to make the effort. I had tried the same ploy of surprise on Ann at Brittany's House earlier in the day but I was hopelessly caught out by three-year-old Brittany before I had exited the car.

Rose, top right

"Daddy yangu, daddy yangu" she yelled excitedly as she ran off, braided hair adorned with colorful beads dancing on the back of her yellow dress. Cute is such an inadequate word for an excited three-year-old little girl on a mission to bear news to her mother.  As the afternoon faded to evening, and the sun began to set over Mt. Elgon, I sat down with a newspaper. The headline on the front page asked 'Who's Tank's are These?' and showed a large picture of a ship, bound for Kenya's port of Mombassa, but which had been hi jacked off the coast of Somalia. It carried a cargo of Russian made tanks and heavy artillery claimed by some to be bound for Southern Sudan but by others for the Kenyan military. Earlier this year a train carrying similar cargo happened to be derailed while traveling north towards Sudan. I have seen with my own eyes convoys of heavy trucks carrying tanks, poorly disguised under tarpaulins, as they crawled over the Cherangani Hills and weaved their way north. Are they instruments in a struggle for power or peace? I pray for the latter.

My friend Greg and his wife Mindy stopped to visit and spend the night at Brittany's House on their long trek north to their home in Turkana. They always have great stories and shared some as we sat late into the night beside the log fire in the living room. Now it goes without saying, sometimes you have to improvise when you're in Africa and Greg, being a particularly creative kind of guy, is skilled in this regard. After all, he used to work at Disneyland before he heard his call to Africa. Turkana, where Greg and Mindy work, reminds me of the old west, not exactly lawless, but close. To celebrate July 4th this year he had been saving empty aerosol cans, which, as a substitute for fireworks, he strategically placed beneath the timbers of a rather large campfire he prepared in advance in the bush. Under the blackness of the African night they visited the site with friends where he ignited the firewood and waited. Now your imagination is no doubt racing ahead of the story but bear with me.

Tanks

The conversation had begun with me asking Greg if he ever felt insecurity to be an issue or, in the event of some such problem, would the local Turkana tribesmen who they serve, come to his aid and assistance. My question was well answered by his story because when the inevitable happened that night, and the aerosol cans began to explode, sending burning embers into the night sky, it only took a few minutes for a small army of Turkana warriors to arrive, and surround them. All brandishing AK47 automatic weapons. Unbeknown to them, the warriors had not only been out in the bush nearby protecting their herds from rustlers, but had been watching over the safety of Greg and his friends at the same time and had made their appearance thinking the group were under attack. All the same, it was probably an un-nerving experience and it should be put into that category of things not to attempt at home.

It is my hope to travel north within the next couple of weeks to visit Greg and Mindy and to explore various ways I might assist them with their work and shortly after that I shall be in Tanzania for three weeks, God willing. But first there is much to accomplish with the various endeavors I'm already involved in. At such a time it would be easy to look at a big picture and miss the small things that actually matter most. Perhaps an unexpected visit to Rose and the disabled kids she cares for at Saint Vincent's or a word of encouragement to a single mother like Ann, struggling to raise six kids. What ever it might be I hope that persistent 'voice' in my mind continues to direct. Because it's then I'm reminded, I remain in His grasp.