There is always that one thing that helps you know you are back in Kenya. Last time it was seeing a family of baboons in the front yard. This time was a little different.

I have a 1992 Toyota that needed some work, and I took it to the dealership in Nairobi. There is a supermarket next door, and so JT and I wandered over to kill some time. There was a bakery, so we decided to get some breakfast. Behind the counter, there was a sink that held the message that let me know that I was back in Kenya:

If you looked at me before I left, you might have known that I spent a considerable amount of time in American doing research at Krispy Kreme, and I never saw THAT on the sink.

My Kenyan friends have welcomed me back with their observations about my eating in America:

Kenyan Friend 1: You have gotten so FAT!
Me: It is good to see you also.
KF2: You ate too many meals!
Me: Yes, I am glad to be back.
KF3: You look like Dempsey! (Legendary missionary who had also done research at Krispy Kreme)

The kids are all thrilled to be back. The second day back, Ben asked me if he could go to the school playground. I told him yes, and then he asked me an interesting question: When do you want me back? That was an interesting question because A: He doesn’t have a watch and B: He can’t tell time. They love the freedom of Africa.

We are not in a dorm this year. It took a year for my nose hairs to grow back after three years of junior high boy gas, so we are going to concentrate on college counseling and the library this year. The next computer center is almost ready to go, and the headmasters have asked us to begin the lunches in January, when the school year starts in Kenya. We will use all monies collected until November 30 to help us determine how many schools we will be able to support this year. I’m anxious to get back to it.

Coming back to Kenya involved facing down some tough things this year. It was much harder to say goodbye to friends this time. And it was brought painfully home when a friend from junior high died two days before we left America, and we didn’t hear until we were back in Africa. I still hurt, and it bothers me that I didn’t get to go to the funeral. Don was such a great guy.

But there were two things in Kenya that I needed to stare down. The first was driving. The leading cause of death of missionaries in Kenya is driving, and being away from it a year caused my fears to grow, and I was really panicked the first day I had to drive in Nairobi.

There are wonderful parts of driving in Kenya called roundabouts, which consists of driving in a circle with many other people in many lanes who all share different views of what is legal. I was scared to death to do it again.

And I drove the first one with ease. I backed down a bus the next time. It all came back, and I know I can do it. It still scares me, but it is a wise fear, not a paralyzing one.

The other fear was a greater concern. It’s so easy to get callused here; there is so much need and so many sad stories that your heart can get hard. I’m gifted at being cynical; I didn’t want to be that way here.

A headmaster came to see me when the first computer center went live last year. He had traveled so far to see me and asked if we could build his school a center. I told him I was committed to the 25 schools we were working with, but if we were able to build those, we would consider his school next.

He traveled several hours to see me and ask me if we could build his school a center. I told him that we were going to be able to build many more centers, but there would be many more to be built before we could get to his school.

He put his head in his hands and tears came.

It still hurts. When you harden your heart, you don’t get hurt, but you grow callused to those around you.

Pain can be a gift. It lets you know that your heart is still vulnerable to others.

It still hurts.

Your pal

Steve