The fragility of life

Devastating news yesterday – via Facebook, which does have its uses in times like this.  One of our oldest friends, a year younger than us, has died in a tragic accident - a fatal fall - while visiting his daughter Lauren and family in Thailand.

That is all we know at this time. Do the details matter? Not at all. The shock of the loss is not mitigated by knowing how it happened.

Untimely is too mild a word for his passing.

We have known Stan and his wife Tami for 35 years. They were our very first ‘couple’ friends after we had married; members of our first tiny Bible study group; godparents to our twins; dear, dear friends who were long-lasting, inspirational by word and example.

We first met Stan when he was a businessman  in Kenya, where we all lived at the time. He was a ‘missionary kid’ who had grown up in Pakistan, seeking to work as a ‘tentmaker’, in a self-supporting business involving Persian rugs. At that time, Stan and Tami lived near us in Nakuru before moving to Nairobi and then, back to the USA to prepare for missionary work in Central Asia. Their son, Mark, was just 2 years old but a few years later, daughter Lauren was born, completing their family.

Our friendship spanned 35 years yet, once they left Kenya, we rarely saw them. There was a meeting in Terminal 3 at Heathrow Airport, while they were in transit to Istanbul prior to commencing work in a Central Asian country: we, on a visit to the UK. Another  meeting, 20 plus years later, when they visited us in our new home in Guernsey – a wonderful 24 hours of reconnecting and reminiscing.  Communication became limited to the occasional email, or Christmas catch-ups.

Yet we still felt deeply connected to them, receiving their regular newsletters and prayer updates to help us follow their progress and, a little, understand their work and the challenges they faced in both work situations and living conditions.

Stan Brown: what a well-lived life. Others will write of all his work with farmers in Central Asia, toiling tirelessly to improve the lives of an impoverished minority in a country in Central Asia. We just remember the dedication he brought to this mission: he and Tami left their beloved Kenya to return to the U.S.A. to prepare, their family still young. Stan went to theological college by day, while working long and odd, hours at UPS to provide for the family, frequently rising at 3am for his shift. He must have been permanently exhausted during those years but bore it all cheerfully, the goal clearly in mind.

Our primary memory of him, from the very beginning, was his completely wonderful smile. It lit up his face and appeared at all sorts of times: whether coming out with some wonderful Bible truth during our meetings, or when I was panicking with the responsibility of holding newborn Lauren on my lap, which he found quite amusing. That smile just seemed to get broader over the years, especially when it appeared in Lauren’s instagram feed, showing Stan surrounded by his grandchildren.

Another memory is inextricably linked with the Bible verse in Romans 8:38 – 39: “For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons,^[k] neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” We were studying the book of Romans in our little group: when we reached this verse, Stan broke out in song, singing the words with his trademark smile. I never knew what the song was... he sang only a few words – but how it made us smile and I never forgot it. I never found the song, either...

That group was formed at Stan’s suggestion: he wanted a ‘serendipitous’ group, one that could meet by ‘happy chance’. However, we soon became very intentional about meeting: for us, in particular, it became a lifeline of support. We were joined by another young missionary couple, Byron and Lisa: our group of 6 met in each others’ homes, went out for lunch and enjoyed camping safaris as we got to know one another deeply. Far more experienced and knowledgeable about the Bible than we, it was a complete education. The more time I spent with them, the more I realised how little I knew of the Bible or, indeed, how to live a Christian life well. Younger than us, Stan, Tami, Byron and Lisa became our examples and our mentors.

We moved away, a couple of hours’ drive, but still kept in touch, visiting each other often. When our twins were born a few years later, Tami – by then mother of Lauren as well – insisted on coming up to stay with me for a week to help out, leaving Stan to hold the fort at home with six year old Mark. Stan did this willingly, of course: it was not in his nature to be mean or ungenerous in any way.

One of my most treasured possessions is a photograph of Stan and Tami with Byron, Lisa and us, and as many children as we all had at the time, grouped together on the steps of our verandah in Nyeri. It has been in the same photo frame for nearly 30 years and has had pride of place in every house we have lived in. Another photo, taken on the same visit, shows Stan and Richard in a paper plane throwing competition. Recent photos show that Stan had barely changed since that time: his hair greyer – and a little shorter; his face a little more wrinkled; but his smile is as broad as ever.

We knew that Stan had faithfully prayed for our children, on his knees, for years. His prayers were, we are sure, instrumental in their spiritual growth and in becoming all that God meant them to be. (And we know, not because he said anything  – he was far too humble a man to ‘show off’ about his prayer life – but because his wife Tami told us.)

Yet another photo shows Stan, arms stretched upwards, to catch Mark aged, two, flying through the air. Out for a walk on a camping weekend in a remote game reserve, we had come to a stream too wide for the toddler to get across. The guys – Stan and my husband Richard – decided, in typical male fashion, that chucking the baby across the stream was the simplest solution. Mark had no fear: he knew his dad would catch him. Many years later, when Mark was grown and a qualified helicopter pilot, we joked that this event was responsible for starting him on his flying career.

There was so much laughter. Our little group met often: we went camping; went out to lunch; met in town for coffee.  Stayed in each others’ homes. Church, of course. Christmas together, where we exchanged ridiculous Secret Santa gifts. Stan had found intriguing trinkets in a ‘hole in the wall’ shop in town: I seem to remember that he ended up with a ridiculous, rather disreputable, straw hat which he refused to give up in exchange for anything else.

Then there was the famous ‘CIA’ incident. Stan had gone on a business trip to Nigeria, unfortunately contracting malaria while he was there. The treatment, Larium, had an unfortunate effect on him. It caused him to hallucinate...and started to proclaim that he was not, in reality, a businessman but a representative of the CIA, the US intelligence agency. It wasn’t long before he was being interrogated by the authorities... Tami, of course, knows the detail which now escapes me, but I do remember that it took quite a lot of effort and diplomacy to get him released and put on the next plane back to Nairobi. Stan, in typical understated fashion, downplayed the incident, retelling just the few salient points with a somewhat rueful smile...

Spending time with Stan and Tami during our sojourn in Nakuru was a special time in our lives. That little group became the model for every other small group we joined or initiated. The level of love and honesty we enjoyed with Stan and Tami was a benchmark, a minimum standard we aspired to with others.

I started this reminiscence with a title: The Fragility of Life. I could have titled it The Uncertainty of Life. I have interrupted this writing with a long WhatsApp conversation with Lisa, as we have shared our news of the circumstances of Stan’s death. It now seems it was as a result of a fall...and just a day after the murder of Stan’s sister-in-law’s nephew. A double blow for his brother Ed. How much sorrow in our ‘safe’ world can we bear?

I read and reread what I have written. I barely scratch the surface in trying to show who Stan was and how much he has meant to us and our family. “Stan had barely changed ...” In that sentence, initially I unwittingly wrote ‘has’ instead of ‘had’. In my WhatsApp conversation with Lisa, we exchange ‘broken heart’ emojis. It is unbelievable that Stan is no longer with us somewhere on the globe.

I finish with a link to one of his sister Marilyn’s wonderful blog articles, where she also mentions an equally wonderful piece by Rachel Pieh Jones. Marilyn writes at https://communicatingacrossboundariesblog.com/2020/02/10/a-life-overseas-on-safety-sanity/

She quotes Rachel: “Safety is a Western illusion crafted into an idol...”

I think of Stan. I think of him as a loving husband, father, father-in-law, son, brother and friend. I think of how he refused to bow to idols of any kind, whether emotional, mental, physical or spiritual. (I put them in that order, for I think that most of my own – Western – idols are indeed emotional or mental.) I think of how he lived his life with purpose, as a man of God, dedicated to serving Him.

I remember Stan’s kindness and gentleness; his unfailing good humour, even when circumstances were difficult; his love for and interest in others.

And I am thankful to have known him. As I remember Stan and recall so many wonderful memories, I find my heart, surprisingly, healing. For those memories are patching the brokenness, healing the wounds of loss and bringing with them unwitting, unexpected joy.

Joy. That was Stan.

So many have written about him. His sister Marilyn has written a wonderful tribute here:

And here is a useful blog post on grief. and how we all grieve differently. Finally, here is Dallas Willard to encourage with the eternal perspective.

Christmas!!

The days here in the tropics have blurred together. For me, Northern Hemisphere born and bred, despite many, many warm Christmases, Christmas in my mind and heart is cold and crisp.

Yet Christmas comes. Our Christ-birth celebration comes regardless.

So our day is filled with love and laughter. We cook and clean up, organise and arrange. Byron carefully prepared a suckling pig, roasting it on a spit for Christmas dinner.

Presents under the tree; gin and tonics are the drink of the day; friends come. We feast and celebrate, singing carols and our own version of The Twelve Days of Christmas:
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love sent to Me: 
Twelve sisal ornaments
Eleven presents opened
Ten carols a-playing
Nine teas are brewing
Eight beers are chilling
Seven gin and tonics
Six guests arrivi ng
Five kind Bordens
Four Pollards here
Three sleeping dogs
Two string guitars and 
One pig roasting merrily on a spit!

The day is warm and gentle. Time to sit, relax, chat.

And keep turning and turning the spit.

Christmas peace

Dawn scrambles rapidly into the sky. The southern hemisphere sunset the previous night had arrived with astonishing rapidity, a fiscal shrike shrieking a defiant rebuke as darkness fell. Sunrise, too, accelerated its arrival. By 7am the sun was already high, as if it was midday already.

Christmas Eve. No dark days or cold weather. This is Christmas in Africa.

This is not the first time we have celebrated Christmas together. In Loita, certainly, more than once.

We prepare gently. Lisa and I drive to the shop - just 40 minutes, on a dirt track so worn away by the rains, that in places it is in danger of disappearing. An augur buzzard soars overhead, awaiting our return perched on a fence post beside the road. We catch up with each other, relishing the chance to have this uninterrupted time.

At home, we all hang out together: playing Monopoly Deal, snoozing in the shade, sharing washing up - seemingly endless, with 9 of us; a walk through the coffee plantation and up in to the forest .

Christmas conversations.

A shared meal, a Czechoslovakian tradition of eating crackers with honey for the sweetness of the year, walnuts for the bitter. Reflecting with enormous gratitude on the tremendous goodness of God. We laugh, remembering Christmases past, shared memories bubbling into conversation. Many years of lives shared.

The evening winds gently into a star-studded night, Orion soaring across the sky, a herald of the season. The moon clambers up, until the night is bright as day.

Christmas calm.

Usa River. Arusha. Monduli.

December 19^th – 20^th.

Finally – our departure date had arrived. Our petsitters – Sherri and Gerri Gallant, from Prince Edward Island, Canada – had arrived safely, been introduced to Pickle and our lovely neighbour Nicky  and were safely established at home.

I had rushed off to school in the early morning, seeing my class off into assembly and the end of term house music competition before jumping into Nicky’s car to get to the airport. All rather a rush, but, thankfully, not panicked as sometimes it has been. I had been assembling our packing for a couple of months and, in the end, it was just a matter of carefully putting everything into a suitcase and a couple of bags – all meticulously weighed and measured to comply with airline rules.

We were off to Gatwick, resigned to a coach trip to Heathrow after our Gatwick flight had been cancelled and changed to Heathrow. That change, which had been a minor annoyance, proved to be a major blessing after Gatwick airport was closed shortly after we left. A drone had invaded the airspace and caused major disruption to flights, many of which were cancelled.  We would not have been where we are now....

...in Usa River, Tanzania! Our Qatar Airline flight took us first to Doha (Airbus 330, good entertainment and food, relatively comfortable seats) and then, after a short transit time in the large, state of the art terminal, on to Kilimanjaro Airport outside Arusha (Airbus 320, no entertainment, less good food and more uncomfortable seating – we were tired by that time).

A relief to get out of the plane, successfully obtain our tourist visas and endure immigration (passports checked, photos and fingerprints taken – I wasn’t very good at the latter so Tanzania now has 3 sets of my left hand) to then find Jonny waiting for us outside.

Back in Africa. Familiar yet unfamiliar – it had been nearly four decades since either of us had travelled the road from the airport towards Arusha. Tiny shops and ‘hotellis’ lining the highway, the bright orangey-red of the flamboyant trees – yes, their name IS flamboyant, or Delonix Regia officially and, in Tanzania, the ‘Christmas tree’. Other names include flame tree and royal Poinciana.

Over Kenya, looking north towards the Highlands.

Descending over Arusha

Another wonderfully red tree is the Erythrina family. Erythrina Lysistemon, Erythrina abyssinica, often referred to, vaguely, as the Lucky Bean tree. Over 100 varieties around the world...It is the trees and plants which fascinate, along with the bird life.

In their little garden surrounding their house on the school compound, Jonny has created a beautiful space filled with flowers and trees. In less than eighteen months, pawpaw trees are several feet tall, bananas towering up to the roof. The veranda is surrounded with bird of paradise, canna lilies, protea; the flowerbeds full of bright  blooms, most familiar; a lemon geranium in a large clay pot scents the air.

Mount Meru towering above the house.

Mount Kilimanjaro in the distant haze.

We sit, rediscovering birds with delight. A vulture soars high above us, Mount Meru peeping hazily out of the clouds – it is the short rainy season and it has recently rained. A pair of Wahlberg’s eagles sit in the tall silky oak – Grevillea robusta, we remember – calling a distinctive chittering to each other. Reichenhow’s weavers flit busily in and out of their complicated nests. A small sunbird dives in and out of the bougainvillea; a white-browed coucal flaps lazily over the hedge. We hear a boo-boo shrike’s echoing call; the red-chested cuckoo calls, “It will rain! It will rain!” Von Der Dekkens hornbill; lilac-breasted roller; fiscal shrike; speckled mousebirds, surprisingly large... so many dry-country species dear to our hearts, every one with an associated memory....

Arrow Marked Babblers

Wahlberg's Eagles

The school is lovely: well-built brick buildings with a huge amount of space for the children to play. Simple classrooms. A  wonderful, wooden-floored library, with nooks for reading in. A soft play room full of bean bags for romping on. Tree house, jungle gym, ropes and slide. A good-sized swimming pool, warm in the hot sun.

We sing along with George Ezra...”I am riding shotgun, underneath the hot sun...”

It is good to be here.

We had a day at Jonny and Adele's house, then it was time to make our way to Byron and Lisa's house for Christmas.

Leaving Usa River to drive through Arusha, making our way through the sea of vehicles which Jonny navigates with calm efficiency as motorbikes pass us on all sides, weaving in and out of traffic with inches to spare, we head out for a few days with the Bordens.

Monduli Mountain

The start of the coffee farm

Arriving at Byron and Lisa's home on Monduli Estate outside Arusha is like coming home. Wherever she lives, Lisa creates beauty. African artefacts nestle next to hand-created azure pottery, David Shepherd animal prints with local art.

Her Christmas tree is a sisal branch, adorned with beaded ornaments, made by a bead project in the Loita Hills in Kenya. Also once the Bordens' home.

Nativity sets and a Swedish Christmas star reminds of Christmas. Adele and I contribute pepparkakor, traditional Swedish spicy biscuits, my own Christmas tradition.

This home is an African oasis. Perched on the side of a hill, the garden is filled with bougainvillea and hisbiscus, sisal and all manner of lilies. Lavender lines the paths, scenting the air along with the purple, mauve and white blossoms of the yesterday, today and tomorrow bush. All so, so familiar.

We rejoice in decades of deep and valued friendship; of shared experiences, memories bubbling up one after the other. Lives joined despite years and thousand miles of separation.

We talk, too, of this: of the disconnect between who we were, and are, and of how the places we live affect our identity. Of the feeling of desperately wanting to feel at home in close community, to feel at peace with who we are, where we are. Of how, at the deepest level, this craving stems from God and can only be truly satisfied in relationship with God.

Complicated.

Meanwhile, we enjoy the peace of this place, the beauty of the physical and the emotional reconnection with such dear friends.

Birds delight. Flycatchers perch on a branch in front of us. Yellow-vented bulbuls fly between bushes. At a sudden sound, a flock of speckled mousebirds skeeter from a bush to swoop across the lawn. Reichenhows weavers come to the bird table.

We walk through the coffee plantation, bushes just over flowering, the faint scent of the blossoms still lingering on the air. An African black kite soars overhead, wheeling and diving the thermals with precision as it journeys beside our path.

Sundowner drives up the hill give us views across the Rift Valley - Lake Manyara, Serengeti lie beyond the folded hills. Mount Meru hides in clouds; terraced fields stretch out; acacia thorn trees are dotted wherever we look.

Monduli on the left and Mount Meru behind the tree.

Contentment.