alwaysmercy

[alwaysmercy]

Welcome Home

A few days ago, I visited a family who recently welcomed their third child into the world.

This family had sat vigil for several days waiting for baby Ryan to be born. Their time of waiting ended in great rejoicing. And as I cradled this newborn in my arms, I could feel my harried-ness of the previous weeks seep away. He nestled in my arms, sleeping, his breathing rhythmic and steady; Me holding him, peaceful, my heart full of wonder. I was content to sit there in that kitchen, the winter sun streaming in, with the proud parents and grandparents around me, soaking in the love and joy that surrounded us all.

Eventually (and reluctantly), I handed baby Ryan over to his grandmother so I could have a devotion and prayer, including these words:

Behold this tiny, precious new life,

“Make a joyful noise to the LORD, all the earth!...It is he who made us, and we are his;   Psalm 100:1,3

Once again, I  was reminded of the mystery of new life and the sanctity of all life.

Pamela and Ryan

Refreshed, I drove a few miles to check out a memory care facility for a friend of mine in need of such specialized care. In the parking lot, I discovered a WhatsApp message from my dear Kenyan friend and colleague, Pastor David Chuchu, “The Lord has called my mom peaceful.”  I realized that as I was cradling a new life in my arms moments earlier in that kitchen, and a continent away, another life was ebbing into the arms of our Lord. This family too, had sat vigil, but this time preparing to let go of a loved one. I held a child peacefully breathing in my arms, as David’s mother, Caren, whose breathing, once rhythmic and steady, changed and finally ceased. This vigil ended in sorrow and also great joy. There is sorrow in losing a loved one; joy in knowing that although this life has ended, it is not the end of Caren’s story. Caren now lies in the protecting arms of Christ with angels and archangels and all the company of heaven.

Caren, January 2022

As my eyes pooled with tears, I pondered the both-sided-ness of life and death. I thought about paradoxes. Baby Ryan’s thoughts still unformed, yet before he was born, God knew him and loved him. Ryan came into this world a helpless little baby, vulnerable and in need of care and nurture.  For my friend David, his mom’s mind had been “slipping away” for years due to the ravages of dementia. She, in her old age, had become vulnerable and in need of care, just like a newborn. And yet, she was (and is)  known and loved by God. Both lives are sacred, not because of what they could do, but because they are created in the image of God.

Mary, David, Caren and Raphael Chuchu (January 2022)

The day before Caren’s death, I had received a message from David,

“We request prayers for mom. We are with her at the hospital. I think she is having some pain and feeling unease. More reason why we need a place to care for people in her situation.”

David is right. We need to continue our journey of mercy toward the creation of Rehema Open Door for vulnerable people who suffer like Caren.  And, so, we will.  We need that refuge for the weary.  We need that sanctuary where life is sacred, and death comes in the midst of compassionate care.  

Again,

“Make a joyful noise to the LORD, all the earth!...It is he who made us, and we are his;   Psalm 100:1,3

Thank you for journeying with us.

Always Mercy,

Pamela

[alwaysmercy]

Sitting Vigil

Some dates are embedded in our memory, sharp and crisp, while others catch us unawares. This morning, the signs were there ~ an uneasy night’s sleep, the daffodils with their sunny faces catching the early February sun, my morning devotions with the reminder that today is the death date of Martin Luther, who died in 1546. Then it dawned on me. Today is the anniversary of my father’s death. It’s been twelve years.

I wrote something about my father’s last hours many years ago and am reposting it here.

In the still, inky hours between midnight and dawn, my father lay dying.  Unable to speak or move, struggling for breath, his vital organs shutting down, he lay there succumbing to the ravages of a severe stroke and pneumonia.

It is difficult to reconcile this image with the one that is before me now. I am looking at a framed photo of the two of us taken some time before my first trip to Africa in 2006. We are sitting side-by-side, leaning into each other with smiles of contentment, not knowing what the years to come would bring each of us. As it turned out, I would venture out making treks across the continents, while he moved across two state lines. I would witness suffering beyond suffering in Kenya and Sudan. He would begin that slow decline that comes with age and debilitating diseases--a decline that brings suffering of body and soul.

A much younger Pamela and her father, Louis “Spike” Boehle, 2005

It was our shared suffering that brought us closer. We journeyed along suffering’s way absorbing her lessons of brokenness, leading us to the places of vulnerability and compassion. In this shared space, we spoke of essential things: Love, Christ, joys, sorrows, fears, and desires.

On that February night when he lay dying, I lay sleeping, almost a thousand miles away. But he was not alone. Throughout the dark hours of that winter night, a hospice volunteer was sitting by his side. I think of it as sitting vigil, standing guard, being present, offering the gift of presence in the most tangible, concrete way possible.  And it was this same volunteer who held the phone to my father’s ear so I could speak to him as he took his last breaths. In this sacred space, I spoke of essential things: Love, Christ, and my father’s imminent journey home. We prayed The Our Father, The Apostles’ Creed, the Psalms ~ familiar words of faith that had shaped us along the way.

I cannot tell you the name of the hospice, nor the name of the hospice volunteer who so lovingly gave of himself to be present with my father in that betwixt and between time ~ that time from life to death to life again in Christ. But I can tell you this ~ I am forever grateful. This gratitude has gently nudged me over the past few years to the place where I find myself today. It is a place of stories, passions, and dreams.

We all have stories ~ stories of life, of suffering and of death. These stories connect us at an essential level. Our shared stories often move us to a place of compassion and mercy, and the desire to “do something”. Once such conversation took place in 2013 with a dear friend and colleague in Kenya, Pastor David Chuchu. Our desire to be present with those in their suffering, and especially in those last hours of life, has given birth to a dream to build a hospice house in rural Kenya. I have begun to speak of this dream in some of the various presentations given on the mercy work in Kenya and people have shared their stories with me ~ stories of suffering, dying and the beauty of hospice in such a vulnerable and intimate time.

Pastor David Chuchu and Pamela, 2014

Thanks to many of you, our stories are intertwining to create Rehema Open Door, the hospice and palliative care center in Kenya. Rehema Open Door now has a foundation, walls, and a roof!  Within her walls and out in the community, Rehema Open Door will sit vigil with those who are suffering and/or dying.

See our stories and visit our website, alwaysmercy.org

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A Deluge of Mercy

When the rains fall in western Kenya, it’s often as if the heavens suddenly burst open and dump an ocean of water–all at once. I remember my first experience with Kenyan rains in 2006.  I had come to Kenya from Khartoum, Sudan, where the heat was unrelenting–nighttime temperature in Khartoum might “cool down” to 110 degrees fahrenheit. Needless to say, the heat was stifling, even for this California girl.

Unlike Sudan, Kisumu, Kenya, was hot, but not suffocating. One late afternoon, my travel partners and I ventured to the Nakumatt, the town’s supermarket, after a day of teaching. I was in need of something sweet and was perusing the candy selection when startled by what sounded like a freight train coming down the market aisle straight at me. I jumped.

“What is that?!” I shouted above the din.

“Oh, that’s just the rain.” smiled Pastor David Chuchu.

“The rain???” (I must have looked incredulous).

“It reverberates off the metal roof,” Pastor Chuchu explained.

“Oh,” I squeaked with embarrassment.

Throughout my years in Kenya, I’ve experienced lots of rain storms.They've interrupted many a teaching session and there is nothing to do but wait it out–the din on a tin roof simply drowns out my voice. These rains can come and go within minutes. People run for cover, duck under overhangs or into small shacks or whatever else might give temporary shelter. Interestingly, women typically carry an extra layer of protection– plastic shower caps to keep their latest hairdo dry.  I’ve even been a passenger on dirt roads when the rains come with fury. Within minutes, the deluge fills gullies and creeks, spilling over roadways and threatening to swallow up bridges.

Taking shelter from the rains, Nairobi, 2011

Rehema Open Door, the upcoming hospice and palliative care center, sits on the red soil of Homa Bay County in western Kenya. The land is fertile and rich, thanks mostly to the rains which nourish it.  I like to think of Rehema as both a deluge of mercy and a refuge from the floods of suffering caused by chronic or terminal illnesses.

Palliative as in ‘palliative care’, comes from the Latin word, pall, which means to cover or cloak. Just as Christ covers us with His love and mercy, Rehema extends this same Christ-given mercy to cover those in need. Together, we provide this cloak of mercy.

Rural home in western Kenya

You are a deluge of mercy to those suffering in Kenya. You allow us to move forward. And as of today, we’ve been flooded with your gracious generosity.  The metal roof sheets and rain gutters have been delivered! Soon, they will provide rain-proof protection for our first building, the initial phase of our hospice construction project. There are even hopes of Rehema, once covered, hosting a medical team from Texas in April.

Thanks to you all, there is Always Mercy.

Pamela

Visit our YouTube channel to see our latest video on this “Deluge of Mercy”

https://youtu.be/aF8QDwXkH4Y

Our website: alwaysmercy.org (donations are easy to make!)

Or, if you wish to donate by check, please make it out to Always Mercy

Our mailing address: (Where our wonderful treasurer lives!)

                   576 Foothills Plaza Drive #209

                   Maryville, TN 37801

[alwaysmercy]

Filling My Well~A Guest Post by Kathy Barger

This post is written by a good friend of mine, Kathy Barger, writer, poet and musician. She has captured the beauty of the Epiphany benefit concert and I hope you are as touched by it as I am.   Pamela

The word GRACE has been in my vocabulary for several weeks now and my brain has grasped for a meaning while reassuring me there was no need to define it.  John Newton called grace amazing and named it as a sound and Bono of U2 admitted this was profound to know grace as percussive rhythms like the sea that fills and feeds the tide pools.

           I was fed on the evening of January 6th like the starfish and anemones, not with food-rich waters, but with grace-filled sound. I sat in the third pew in an aisle seat in the beautiful Holy Cross Lutheran church in Rocklin still decorated with evergreens and poinsettias and a lovely Christmas tree. I had come to see and hear a Brass Ensemble Concert celebrating Epiphany and raising funds for the two charities Rehema Open Door and Always Mercy which are changing lives and bringing hope to people in Kenya.

           The talented musicians stood before me holding their polished horns tenderly as a parent holds their child. They played hymns, sonatas, a march, and other pieces by famous composers and modern artists too. There were selections played along with the piano or the organ that were rich and satisfying. I especially enjoyed it when two young men played a trombone duet, the harmonized notes coming out of the bell of their instruments as they slided back and forth with ease and confidence. I closed my eyes and imagined this wave of music floating out to those listening.

           I knew then what is meant that grace is a sound. It came to me sweetly and entered in and filled my well.

           And thank you to Deaconess Pamela for inviting me to this very wonderful evening.

           Kathy Barger

You can watch and listen to the concert on our YouTube channel

https://youtu.be/sO7nW2OFu4Y

Kent Giese and Matthew Yee

Musicians from Left to Right back row: Kent & Kelly Giese, James Linder     Front row: Allison, Gary & Matthew Yee, Ellen Linder, Marian Metson

A heartfelt thanks to these talented musicians who generously gave of their time and talent. And to all who volunteered to make this event so wonderful! Together we raised over $6,400 for Always Mercy and Rehema Open Door.

[alwaysmercy]

Don’t Crack Your Head

“Don’t crack your head.”        

                         “Put it in the parking lot.”

These phrases, which I picked up during my November trip to Kenya, have become part of my lexicon.

“Don’t crack your head”....means, “Don’t get stressed out about it”.  I discovered this after Caren, one of the palliative care nurses, announced to our class that she was passing out pretests and panic ensued. “Don’t crack your heads!” she cried, trying to restore calm. I chuckled and promptly scribbled the phrase in my notebook.  Later, Caren would say to me when I was perplexed about something, “Pamela, don’t crack your head” and we’d laugh and laugh. Another phrase, “Put it in the parking lot”....means “Let’s move along, because we’ve already spent waaaay too much time on this topic”. This came from one of the students in our training, who, after listening to his fellow community health volunteers, grew tired of their ongoing circular debates.

Kenyan Nurse Caren

Don’t crack your head....Those words were not yet part of my vocabulary when, in the dawning hours of November 4, I landed at Charles De Gaulle Airport in Paris for a layover before flying to Nairobi.  The overnight flight from Seattle and the multiple time zones left me fatigued and slightly disoriented. Imagine my surprise when I stumbled through the duty free shops to be greeted by a lovely display of lights, a trio of Christmas trees, a red velvet chair and a glittery gold Eiffel Tower. Initially, my cynicism flared, and truth be told, I get a wee-bit self-righteous about NOT celebrating Christmas before Advent. In fact, normally, I “crack my head” around Labor Day when stores begin to market Christmas stuff. (Although I’m wondering if Halloween decorations have deflated some early Christmas sales, even relegating Thanksgiving to a blip on the holiday calendar and a day of overeating and already decorating for Christmas). But there I was, in early November, oddly comforted by the sight–lights, shiny bulbs, greenery and ribbons. They all softened the harshness of a sterile airport, even one as posh as Paris with her high end shops: Chanel, Burberry, Dior, Prada. Even at that early hour, they were filled with Parisian black-clad salespersons with not a hair out of place.

Paris!

In Nairobi itself, I didn’t notice if there were Christmas decorations in that airport, but perhaps it was because I was too worried about getting through customs once again. However, in the city of Kisumu, my landing place near Lake Victoria in western Kenya, the shopping centers and parking lots were lit up with the Christmas Spirit.  

On my return home,19 days later, I flew through Amsterdam. Again, I was greeted by Christmas trees-Chanel trees no less!-glittering towers of lights and glass, all tastefully decorated. Sipping a cappuccino, chatting with a pre-med student from Canada and checking my emails, I succumbed to it all, putting my normal “It’s too early to decorate” response in the parking lot.

The Glitz in Amsterdam airport

Landing in the United States, this time at the Salt Lake Airport, has its own challenges and usually I have to gear up for “reentry” into the frenzy and culture shock–typically loud Americans and noise. Instead, this time, I was entranced by the escalators trimmed with thousands of shiny, glittery Christmas bulbs. Commercial and too early for me to celebrate Christmas?? It didn’t matter. I was grateful for the beauty of it all.  I wondered how many wearied and harried travelers were uplifted by the decorations. Did it help ease their long flights, layovers, and missed connections? Did it soften the missing of loved ones? And most importantly, did it create wonder about Christmas and the true meaning of the Holy Day?

This year, I received another gift. It was an ordinary clear plastic box with a dusty red lid. Nestled inside, were ornaments carefully wrapped in tissue–the Kleenex kind–by my mama. There were ornaments I remembered from my childhood, and newer ones which she had handcrafted years ago. As I hung each ornament, I was grateful for the gift of my mama. Grateful for the gift of family, both near and far. Grateful for the season of joy and for putting my somewhat rigid stance on NOT decorating too early in the parking lot.

My most favorite ornament, THE Reindeer, missing an antler a back leg taped and all made of plastic. This was the gem I was searching for. Note the beautiful beaded ornament, made my my mama

Another childhood favorite

And then there’s my own childhood creations. A true sign of my mother’s love was saving these. Obviously the beaded ornament was not my creation 

My creativity has expanded since my early days of styrofoam snowmen and bells

A Christmas tree of joy and memories

No matter when you choose to decorate, may the season of Advent prepare your hearts for the celebration of the coming of the Christ-child on Christmas Day.

Always Mercy and Joy,

Pamela

[alwaysmercy]

Coming Home: Heart Brimming and Head Swimming.

“How was your trip to Kenya?” is the inquiry I get most days since I arrived home from Kenya late on November 22.

“Great!” I reply, leaving both ends of the conversation sparse, vague, and unsatisfying.

But how carefully I gathered what I could while in Kenya, like a mother hen gathers her chicks under the safety of her wings. Memories—a snapshot at a time-- flood my mind waiting for the captions to unfold.

And so, I leave you with few words, and lots of photos, hoping to fill your heart to the brim with all Kenya has to offer.

Maternity room at Atemo Health Centre, rural western Kenya. This is the site of our first week of palliative care training for nurses, clinical health officers and community health volunteers

Extra exam bed in Atemo Health Centre

Unsuspecting infant sound asleep on scale. Soon will get life-saving malaria vaccine!!

Where sputum specimens are gathered! Atemo Health Centre

Part of the palliative care teaching team: Dr. Denny Hong, Nurses Lynette, Caren and Pamela

Rehema Open Door, Hospice and Palliative care center, from the road, before roof trusses up

Rehema a few days later! Roof trusses going up. Rehema will serve 5 counties and over 5 million people

Pastor David Chuchu at Rehema site. He is the best project manager!

Community Health Volunteers on a field trip to Rehema Open Door during our second week of training. These folks are our link to the communities surrounding Rehema

Deaconess Pamela and our youngest participant at the palliative care training. Note the Rehema Open Door sign!

Streams are a source of drinking water and a place to wash motorbikes

....and for washing clothes

Your gifts helped purchase water filters for 50 people! All palliative care training participants received a Sawyer Point One Water filter

School girls carrying bundle of sticks as a donation for a funeral

Some things are universal

Some things are new--like introducing hotel cooks, Millie and Phillip to the delicacy of a grilled cheese sandwich, cooked by me!

You can learn more about Rehema Open Door, our project of mercy, by going to our website Always Mercy 

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All Saints’ Day 2022

The weather is finally changing here in Northern California. It’s November and the long, hot days of summer have given way to cold nights and mornings, and the rains have arrived! I’ve bundled myself up in layers– turtleneck, sweater and scarf, while my suitcase is packed with breathable lightweight clothes, sandals for the heat and DEET to ward off malaria-carrying mosquitos of Kenya. It’s an odd juxtaposition.  Sort of like the feast day that the Church celebrates on November 1–All Saints’ Day. It is a day of joy mingled with sorrow. Joy for those who have gone before us and now stand with all the other saints before Christ. Sorrow for those of us who miss them.

In her Southern Gothic sort of way, Flannery O’Connor captures the oddity of this feast day. A devout Catholic, O’Connor had the gift of creating grotesque and “out there” characters who, nonetheless, are as redeemable as the rest of us. In Revelation, one such character, Ruby Turpin, prides herself as someone who has done everything right and deserves to be first in everything. In the end, her self-deception is revealed as she has a vision of the line of saints on their way to heaven. In her mind, she and “her kind” would be first in line–her good deeds and righteous way of living gives her that. However, what she sees are the misfits of the world–those who she looked down on during her life–being first in line while  “her kind” are trailing far behind.*

“Thus, the last will be first, and the first will be last.”-Matthew 20:16

My numerous trips to Kenya over these past sixteen years have certainly helped me see my own pride and self-righteousness. Confronted with the immense suffering due to poverty and illness, my teachers became those who were considered “less than”. In the world’s eyes, they had nothing to offer me, but in the eyes of Christ, they gave me everything. They gifted me with their presence and allowed me to see their joy and their sorrow.

Deaconess Pamela, on the left, January 2022. I’ve known her since 2006. She has been one of my mentors during my Kenya journeys.

Deaconess Pamela, October 2022, days before she died. She is now with the saints in heaven. I hope to attend her funeral while I’m in Kenya.

As I prepare to depart for Kenya this week, I pray that I might be ever mindful of the ultimate gift of mercy–Christ Himself.  I pray that whatever I am called to do, I do with mercy and compassion. That whatever words I speak are ones of love, especially as I care for those suffering in body and soul.

The focus of this trip will be palliative care–comfort care for those with chronic or terminal illnesses.  I will spend part of my time teaching palliative care alongside a Kenyan team. Together, we will train nurses, community health offices, deaconesses and a few volunteers.

This will open the door to home based palliative and hospice care in the community surrounding our up and coming palliative care and hospice center, Rehema Open Door.

You can learn more about this project of mercy by going to our website Always Mercy 

*  https://catholicreads.com/2017/07/06/revelation-by-flannery-oconnor/  provides a great synopsis of Revelation.

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If Walls Could Talk

Please be sure to watch our new video at the end!

Way back in time (2006) Pamela and Deaconess Mary building a mud wall.

Back in the day when I first traveled to Kenya in 2006, cell phones with the capability to make cheap calls home were not an option. The iPhone had yet to launch and WhatsApp wasn’t a thing.  In order to email or call home, I went to an internet cafe. The one I frequented was in Kisumu, western Kenya, in the “mall” where the Nakumatt supermarket was located. This internet cafe was a small room with a bank of old computers. There were also three “phone booths”, each fashioned out of thin plywood, giving only the illusion of privacy. Just because you couldn’t be seen, didn’t mean you couldn’t be heard–by EVERYONE.  Each conversation bounced around the room and was fodder for all who heard, even if one-sided. Oh, if walls could talk, flimsy as they were, what stories they would tell!  Now cell phone towers dot the Kenyan landscape and smartphones are as ubiquitous as afternoon downpours in the rainy season. WhatsApp and Zoom allow for instant connections around the globe. 

A denim wall for a dressing room in an outdoor market where I could be both seen and heard!

A classroom with walls made of corrugated steel-common in Kenya.

Staying connected is vital to the work of Always Mercy, especially as we partner with Rehema Open Door, the hospice and palliative care center we are building in Kenya.  Conversations flow easily between the U.S. and Kenya–conversations about building plans and construction. Conversations about suffering and compassion, despair and hope. Conversations about mercy. These conversations are for all to hear–eavesdropping is welcome! You are a part of these conversations, simply by reading this post. You enter into these conversations by your prayers, your encouraging words and your donations.

Phase one of Rehema’s building project is well underway. The foundation has been laid and we are ready to build the walls!  These will be solid concrete walls, ready to hold stories of those who enter in.

We need to raise $13,000 to get these walls up.  Won’t you consider joining us in this endeavor?  No amount is too small.

We hope to have our always mercy website launched soon, but in the meantime, there are several ways to donate:

Online at our secure Zeffy Donation page     https://www.zeffy.com/en-US/donation-form/0576b6e6159-731b-4448-933b-21c59e6552fc

Or mail a check to:

Always Mercy   576 Foothills Plaza Dr. #209. Maryville, TN  37801

or Holy Cross Lutheran Church  4701 Grove St. Rocklin, CA 95677 (earmark for Kenya)

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The Heart of Mercy

 Mercy comes from a compassionate heart.  Henri Nouwen

Three years ago, on August 3, my mama’s compassionate heart stopped beating. And still, it is impossible for the world to contain the mercy she embodied and dispensed. If she were alive, she would scoff at this. She’d see it as an undeserved compliment, and shake her head in disbelief. But those of us who knew her, know the truth of who she was.  She encircled us with her compassionate heart. She gave and she gave generously of her love, her time and always a big laugh. My own heart brims with gratitude (albeit tinged with sweet sorrow) as I remember my mama on this third anniversary.

I often imagine mama close beside me, especially when I am traveling through Kenya making home visits. I imagine her crossing the threshold with me into some small mud hut, her eyes adjusting from brilliant sunshine to the dim, windowless space inside. She hesitates only for a moment, taking it all in – mud walls, dirt floor, a chair or two, a pallet bed on the floor against a far wall and a few cooking utensils and a water container piled in a corner. I see her hesitating for just a second, a little overwhelmed, and unsure, and then she smiles, pulls up a chair, leans in close and listens attentively. She would do what she could to alleviate any suffering. She would be the embodiment of Christ’s love and mercy–a healing balm to hurting and weary bodies and souls.

I don’t know what my mama really remembered about my dream of building a hospice in Kenya. We certainly talked about it as she began her slow descent into dementia. But this I do know–she would marvel at what we’ve accomplished, especially over these past few months. She would smile and bless it, this endeavor. She would bless it with the mercy that comes from a compassionate heart and she’d dazzle us all with her wonderful laugh of joy at seeing things coming together.

This little piece is dedicated to beautiful mamas all over the world, and the strong beautiful women of Kenya.

Our website, is coming soon! Stay tuned. Until then, help us build the dream, one rock, one dollar at a time.

The old fashioned way~

Write a check to Holy Cross Lutheran Church, earmarked for Kenya Hospice and mail to 4701 Grove St. Rocklin, CA 95677

or online at www.curatiomundi.org     Click on Kenya Hospice, scroll down to the bottom of the page and make a donation.

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Chesed~Always Mercy

Remember your mercy, O LORD, and your chesed, for they have been from of old. Psalm 25:6

Recently, on two separate occasions, I’ve come across the Hebrew word, Chesed (pronounced: hess-Ed). Chesed–it is a difficult word to encapsulate. It’s big and roomy with lots of space. It’s often translated as “unfailing love, steadfast love, mercy, loving-kindness, faithfulness, goodness, graciousness”.

One author, Chad Bird, describes Chesed as untranslatable love. I like that–it’s a love so vast and big, it’s beyond comprehension.This untranslatable love is God. Chesed is God’s essence and what God bestows. I might translate Chesed as “always mercy”--never ending, unexplainable mercy embodied in Christ and lavished upon us.

This Chesed is the foundation of the mercy work in Kenya that many of you have supported through your prayers, your gifts of kindness, encouragement and donations. And that work continues!

It’s been awhile since I’ve written, but rest assured, there has been much going on behind the scenes here in Northern California and in rural Western Kenya. We are working diligently to give a face to mercy both here and across the miles.

In Kenya~

Rehema Open Door. (Rehema is Swahili for mercy). We like to think of it as opening the door to mercy for those who suffer in body and soul. Rehema Open Door is registered in Kenya as a limited liability company (LLC) recognized by the Kenyan government for the purpose of providing palliative and hospice care for those suffering from chronic or terminal illness. Rehema Open Door has a bank account, an accountant and a full international board of directors!   We are registered with and recognized by Kenya Hospices and Palliative Care Association (KEHPCA).

The open gates to Rehema Open Door land

Rehema Open Door is currently being built (literally brick by brick as funds are raised and become available). We have a water tower and the foundation is being poured for the initial phase of our project!  While our facility is under construction, Rehema Open Door is continuing to do important work. In 2022 and 2023, we will train and fund around forty community health workers to assess the medical needs of individuals in the community and connect patients with care at Atemo Health Centre. This portion of the work is being funded by a generous grant from Biblical Charities Continuing Education in St. Louis, MO.

Water tower under construction

Here in America~

Always Mercy is currently being formed as a nonprofit, 501(c)3 in the United States. Always Mercy wants to further the important mercy work by helping fund Rehema Open Door’s building plans and supporting its mission. We are working hard to get everything in place so we can be up and operating soon. Through a generous donation, a new website is also in the works and will be unveiled in the coming months.

Take a look at our video BELOW!

For now, if you want to make a donation to support this mercy work in Kenya, there are a couple of ways to do so:

The old fashioned way:

Mail a check to Holy Cross Lutheran Church

Rocklin, CA 95677

Earmark it for Kenya Hospice

Or online

https://www.curatiomundi.org/

Click on  Kenya Hospice and then Donate at the bottom of the page

Surely goodness and chesed shall follow me all the days of my life, Psalm 23:6a

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The Holder of Sorrows

A friend of mine recently told me that mothers hold the sorrows of their children, even, and perhaps especially, after they’ve grown up and moved away. We may not even know the particular sorrow, but we sense it and embrace it nonetheless; Perhaps we offer it up in prayer. After my mother died, I discovered the truth of this in her prayer journal. My brothers and I were listed on those pages, along with our spouses and children. She carried our sorrows as if they were her own.

And so, it is fitting, on this Friday we call Good Friday, to ponder the Pietá. Mary, the mother of Christ, whose soul was destined to be pierced by a sword (Luke 2:35), is pictured holding her crucified, bloodied, lifeless son in her lap. Her face is bereft as she cradles the One who bears all our sorrows.

He was...a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief;

and as one from whom men hide their faces

he was despised, and we esteemed him not.

Surely he has borne our griefs

and carried our sorrows;

yet we esteemed him stricken,

smitten by God, and afflicted.

But he was pierced for our transgressions;

he was crushed for our iniquities;

upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace,

and with his wounds we are healed.  (Isaiah 53:3-5)

This is the paradox of Good Friday. How can anything good come out of the humiliating and brutal death of the One who was the Messiah, the Anointed One? How can it be that His death gives us life and His wounds heal us? 

Poet Scott Cairns writes:

How It Was

The earth trembled; its foundations

shook like silt; the sun chagrined,

fled the scene, and every mundane

element scattered in retreat.  The day

became the night: for light could not endure

the image of the Master hanging on a tree.

All creation was astonished, perplexed

and stammering, What new mystery is this?

The judge is judged, and yet He holds his peace;

The Invisible One is utterly exposed, and yet

is not ashamed; the Incomprehensible is grasped,

and will not turn indignant; The Immensity

is circumscribed, and acquiesces; the absolutely

Unattainable suffers, and yet does not avenge;

the Immortal dies, and utters not a word;

the Celestial is pressed into the earthen grave,

and He endures! What new mystery is this?

The whole creation, I say, was astonished;

but, when our Lord stood up in Hades—

trampling death underfoot, subduing

the strong one, setting every captive free—

then all creation saw clearly that for its sake

the Judge was condemned, et cetera.

For our Lord, even when He deigned

to be born, was condemned in order

that He might show mercy, was bound

that He might loose, was seized

that He might release, suffered

that He might show compassion, died

that He might give life, was laid in the grave

that He might rise, might raise.

                       Scott Cairns after Saint Melito of Sardis (190 AD)

                       Love’s Immensity. Mystics on the Endless Life

A blessed Good Friday and Holy Saturday as we await the resurrection and Easter joy.

Always Mercy,

Pamela

[alwaysmercy]

Terra Firma

I’d like to say the moment I stepped off the plane in Nairobi on Tuesday, January 11, 2022, at 10 P.M., I was on solid ground--normally when I land in Kenya, that’s how I feel.  However, traveling internationally during the pandemic adds a layer of insecurity to each step. And the steps are many: extra forms to be filled out, proof of a negative COVID test—timed just right, QR code for Kenya downloaded (what’s a QR code anyway???), proof of vaccination. All these steps before even boarding the plane to leave California!  And now, with each leg of the flight there are more papers to fill out--frankly, I don’t even think anyone looks at them.  Once in Kenya, the QR code is scanned again, and temperatures taken. The lines for Visa and Passport control seem longer. Everything seems to be extra stressful, especially after wearing a mask for 30 hours and getting little to no sleep. Thankfully, I had a travel partner, Anne, with me this trip.

We follow the hordes of people heading to baggage claim, hoping to get lost in the crowd and make a quick exit out of the airport to a waiting shuttle to our hotel. We snag our luggage off the baggage carousel and notice the yellow Xs marked on our bags. “Hmmm,” I pondered. “What is going on?” These yellow Xs were new to me. When we reached the last security check before exiting, our bags were put on the conveyor belt to be X-rayed. Then they were pulled off and set aside. In the past when I’ve gone through the checkpoint to leave the airport, my bags are scanned and occasionally opened.  Negotiations happen right then and there. Perhaps I “gift” someone with a water filter or some other little thing. This time, I had to hand over my passport which was taken to the custom agent’s office, and we had to wait our turn to see her. An hour ticked by as other passengers negotiated their customs fees.  I was exhausted, irritated, worried about Anne, my new travel companion. Finally, it was my turn, I sat in the hard plastic chair across from the at the custom agent’s desk weighing my options.  I negotiated a $100 “customs fee”, receiving no receipt. By now it was past midnight. I feared our shuttle to the hotel had left figuring we hadn’t made it.  I tried to call the hotel via WhatsApp, but wouldn’t connect. A kind airline worker took pity on us and called the hotel, arranging for the shuttle to come get us.

I was on shaky ground.

The next morning, we flew to Kisumu, a city at the Western edge of Kenya on Lake Victoria. We were greeted by my longtime friend, Pastor David Chuchu.  As we embraced, I began to breathe a little easier, knowing we were in good hands.  However, the 4 hours of sleep I’d had in the past 48 hours left me barely able to function. My attempts to insert a new Safari Com SIM card into my phone were hilarious and I locked my key in my hotel room at least 3 times that day.

We took a few trips in those first days to get us acclimated to Kenyan time and to show Anne around.

Our feet straddled the equator.

We walked the campus of Point of Grace Academy. Once the site of a small groundnut farm, now home to 753 students. Rev. Dennis Meeker and Deaconess Lorna Meeker have created a sanctuary for students, staff, and the surrounding community.  

We drove to old haunts I’d known since my first trip in 2006. A familiar hotel has fallen into even more disrepair than I remembered. The swimming pool lay as dry and empty as a whitewashed tomb. I didn’t recognize any of the staff except one maintenance man. Nashun. He actually remembered me, and said, “We got stuck in the elevator together, remember?” I laughed at the memory-and the familiar refrain that the elevator “is going to be fixed soon!” I have a vivid vision of Nashun, a strapping African, carrying a tiny elderly woman from Japan up the 4 flights of stairs on his back because the elevator was broken, and she couldn’t climb the stairs to reach her room. Understandably, her Japanese tour guide was not happy with the accommodations and complained mightily. At the time, I just chuckled. I’d gotten used to things not being up to “brochure standards”.

From the hotel, we wound our way through familiar streets. I was expecting to hit the familiar rutted red dirt road leading to Kiboko Bay—one of my favorite restaurants on Lake Victoria. Instead, the road has been straightened and smoothed over with asphalt. Apartments and condos have sprung up dwarfing the tiny concrete structures that used to dot the landscape in their simplicity. The difference between the haves and the have-nots seemed greater. We pulled into the parking lot only to find the restaurant and resort shuttered and closed.

These changes left me feeling oddly bereft, like I’d lost my way.

There was no solid ground.

Sunday was church. A familiar place. The light blue plastic chairs were lined up just right, scuffing along the concrete floor as folks got up or kids moved them. The lilting voices of the church choir filled the space as the twang of the electric keyboard sprung out over the loudspeakers. The flow and rhythm of the liturgy, even if in Swahili, lulled me. The sermon, in English, was about Jesus’ first recorded miracle in John’s Gospel, where he turned water into wine. Pastor Chuchu preached about how often our own cups are empty. We are empty: fearful, sad, worried, and yet it is Christ who fills our cups with Himself in the bread and wine.

I began to feel something in me loosen.

I was sitting next to a good Kenyan friend, Grace, whose mother died in December 2021 from COVID complications. We knelt at the altar to receive the Body and Blood of Christ, tears streaming down our faces as we grieved the loss of our mothers, and others close to us.  I was shaky, but the ground beneath me was sacred and solid. I was finding my way home.

I felt better after those tears. Over the years, I’ve learned that grief is sacred.  While it often leaves us feeling unsteady and insecure, it is the place where sorrow and joy intertwine.  It is the holy place where Christ enters in and brings balm for our weary souls.  It is a place of grace.

Truth be told, I shed many tears on this trip. I cried when my feet stepped on the new land for the hospice project, walking its breadth and length.  It’s a beautiful, peaceful piece of property, solid and flat, surrounded by farmland. I cried when the borehole was being drilled, and water began to saturate the land. I cried when our project was named, accepted, and registered with the Kenyan government. (More to come!)

It hardly seems real, this dream of opening a hospice. I’ve waited so long. (and you have waited alongside me). God’s timing certainly does not run on my hurried timetable. I’ve learned to be patient and wait. To hope. To trust.

This terra firma is already a sanctuary for my weary soul, and I pray that it will be a refuge for whoever God brings through the doors.

Always Mercy,

Pamela

As always, there are two ways to donate:

Send a check to Holy Cross Lutheran Church, earmarked for Kenya Hospice

4701 Grove St.

Rocklin, CA. 95677

Or online at curatiomundi.org

Select Kenya Hospice and donate there.

[alwaysmercy]

Icons of Mercy

Medallions attached to my backpack for traveling to Kenya

Besides the gift of all of you, I carry a few icons of hope with me to Kenya to remind me of who I am.

Crucifix–the source of all mercy, always

Mother Teresa--the model of humility, spiced with courage and perseverance

Camino shell–points me to The Way. It is often by losing my way that I find my way back home, one step at a time

Virgin Mary–”I am the handmaiden of the Lord. Let it be unto me according to Thy will.”  The ultimate surrender

Of course, I’ve safely packed the Hot Tamales and Sweetarts. I can’t leave home without them!

Thank you to all of you who support the mercy work in Kenya.  Besides my medallions, I carry you–icons of mercy and hope–with me to Kenya.

Always Mercy,

Pamela

[alwaysmercy]

Kenya 2022 or Bust

Proud owners of water filters!

Mama Caren and Pamela

Love and Always Mercy,  Pamela

[alwaysmercy]

Longings and Hospice Hopes

For those of you who travel with me through the words on this blog, you’re probably aware of my longing to open a hospice house in rural western Kenya.

Longing creates a sense of anticipation and hope. Longing also involves a sense of loss as what was once imagined morphs into something new.  Longing also requires patience, and even more patience. Perhaps you are wondering along with me, “Is this project ever going to get off the ground?”

When Kenyan Pastor David Chuchu, director of Diakona Compassionate Ministry (DCM), and I first began talking about the hospice project back in 2012, we envisioned a cozy little cottage with a few beds where the suffering and dying could lay their weary heads and receive mercy care.  Over several years, we made visits to a few hospices in Kenya. One hospice is housed inside a hospital run by the Sisters of Mercy in western Kenya. (In fact, a few years ago David’s mother-in-law, Rose, received end-of-life care there.)  Another hospice near Kip Karen in northwestern Kenya showed us we need much more than a little cottage and a few staff to provide proper care.  We need to have a clinic, lab, physical therapy, medical offices, an incinerator for medical waste, and a cafeteria. And we eventually will need housing for staff and visitors. We will also need a morgue (more about this in another post). Some of these will be income generating, (clinic and morgue), helping us reach a goal of a self-sustaining palliative care center. And of course, central to our mission, will be the need for a chapel where folks can come and receive the gifts of Christ and rest for their weary souls.

I continue to learn the shape of dreams must change and grow, even as plans on paper change.

Originally, the land on a gorgeously verdant slope near a river that a rural community had donated-- land which held my footprints and renewed visions for this hospice house—had to be left behind.  While we had the support of the community for this project, the government was slow to act. We were not getting the government stamp of approval which would allow us to proceed.

So, we have new land!  Purchased and ready to go.  It’s a beautiful acre parcel nestled next to trees and farmland in the same rural area as our previous site and now we own it!  Also, we are in negotiations to purchase an additional acre of land, giving us room to expand as needed. The geography of the new land is flat which will make construction easier and less expensive. However, there is no river access, so we need to drill a borehole for water.  Right now, the architect is fine-tuning the original renderings to fit this new parcel.

New land--rich and fertile

Here is where we are currently:

First, we need to get the land officially transferred to DCM and get a water survey done to determine the depth of drilling needed for water. Right now, the estimated cost for drilling a borehole and adding a water pump is between $15,000-$20,000 (I’m trying not to gasp!) Second, we need to register a name for the hospice and clinic, one that carries our mission and vision of mercy to the suffering and dying.  Once registered, then we can break ground.

New parcel of land, awaiting addition of another acre

Pastor Chuchu is working hard on all these steps.

David has the experience and background to get things done.  I’ve known him since 2006 when I first stepped foot on Kenyan soil. He has become a trusted mentor, a colleague in Christ and a dear friend. In addition to being an ordained minister, he has several degrees: a diploma in journalism, bachelor’s and master’s degrees in project planning and management, and of course a master’s of divinity in religious studies.

David and Pamela 2012-- Colleagues and Friends

David’s credentials are obvious, his skills impeccable, but most of all, he is a man of mercy who doesn’t give up. He manages many projects. He directs successful non-profit organizations through DCM. He is a construction project manager and has built a resort and even his own hotel—both income generating to support DCM projects. We are fortunate to have his expertise and steadfastness.

David and his lovely wife, Mary, 2016

I’m also pleased to announce that the launch of this hospice project is under the care of Diakonia Compassionate Ministries (Bringing Hope to the Hopeless) in Kenya and Curatio Mundi (Healing the World) out of Texas.  This partnership opens doors for more folks to be involved in this project and makes donations easy!  Tax deductible donations to the hospice project can be made directly through the Curatio Mundi website curatiomundi.org -- simply click on Kenya Hospice.  (Project updates will be posted there as well).

Of course, you may also mail your donations to Curatio Mundi at P.O. Box 4101 Longview, TX 75606

Or Holy Cross Lutheran Church, 4701 Grove St. Rocklin, CA 95677.

Earmark checks for “Kenya Hospice”.

Always Mercy,

Pamela

[alwaysmercy]

Turning Point

Beatrice and Christine in the kitchen, Kenya, 2006

A turning point is a time at which an important change takes place which affects the future of a person or thing.  (College English Dictionary).

Fifteen years ago, (this very month!),  I was seven days into my first mercy trip to Africa. Truthfully, since day one, I had been marking time till I could return home. I missed my family.  I missed my familiar and ordinary routine. I missed my bed. I was struggling to adapt to the eleven hour time difference, the intense heat, and the various odors and sounds that surrounded me each day. My senses were overloaded. My nerves were standing on end. I longed for home—the place were I belonged.  

And then, almost imperceptibly, something shifted.

My journal entry for June 13, 2006, reads:

A turning point for me as I finally relaxed and got in the groove of Africa.  My anxiety is dissipated and I no longer have an intense longing to go home. While I still miss my family, I am content here and will be sad to leave….

The deaconesses are incredible women who just give and give from a heart infused with the love of Christ. They are quite inspiring.

I am particularly fond of the women in the kitchen--Christine, Margaret and Beatrice. (They are not deaconesses, but women hired to feed about forty of us gathered for a conference on HIV/AIDS and mercy). They lovingly prepare tea and our meals in a very hot, tiny kitchen over wood burning little BBQs. They have a sweetness about them that is infectious. Some of my most joyous times have been connecting with them! I learned how to make chai tea: boil water; add milk and bring to a boil; add tea (finely ground ginger tea), then sugar to taste…

(pretty amazing taste for the girl who at home drank her tea with skim milk, sans sugar).

Beatrice and chai, 2006

June 13, 2006, is when I was welcomed into this circle of love and hospitality and found a home away from home. I snuck away from the conference to go to the kitchen where Beatrice, Margaret, and Christine were getting ready to prepare ugali. (A staple in Kenya—like very thick polenta). A gigantic metal pot of water had been placed over the red hot charcoal and was coming to a boil. Christine poured the bag of ground maize into the boiling water, while petite Beatrice  (with a face of an angel), used a paddle to stir to mix the maize with the boiling water. She wasn’t fooling around because this paddle was no small tool—it was big enough to command a canoe on a river.

As the mixture thickened, it got more and more difficult to stir, but Beatrice made it look easy.   “Hey, may I give it a try?” I asked.  The women were a little surprised that a muzungu (white person) would want to help, but they handed me the paddle and I was poised to stir away. Except when I tried to stir, the paddle barely moved.  I tried again and it moved an inch or so. “This is ridiculous.” I thought. “I am in good shape”. I gave it another try, this time bracing my legs and putting my weight into it. I made some small strides and actually got it going—for about a minute when the strength in my arms gave out!  My antics delighted the ladies to no end and we all began to laugh.  Beatrice graciously took the paddle and her position of ugali queen and finished up the job. This was a turning point. These women welcomed me into their sisterhood of love, encircling me with their joy.  Their kitchen became a refuge and a place of delight. It became home.

Beatrice and ugali, 2006

It amazed me what came out of that tiny Kitchen—food made with loving hands and hearts to nourish both body and soul.  Margaret certainly had command of that space. For morning tea rose the intoxicating smell of chai and mandazi, a Kenyan doughnut of fried sweet bread. Chipati came to be my favorite bread staple. Rice, sumuwiki (kale or collard greens sautéed with onion, peppers and tomatoes), chicken, fish, potatoes, and always ugali. As wonderful as the food was, even more wonderful was the friendship these women extended to me. 

It’s the women in Kenya that keep me anchored. They embrace their femininity and are eager to share their gifts of nurturing and compassion. They don’t shy away from hard work—it is a part of their lives, yet they go about their work with joy and gratitude. Over the years, we have remained friends. I am often blessed to be able to see them when I return to Kenya.

Beatrice--now a deaconess!! and married to a pastor, standing next to another dear friend, Deaconess Lorna Meeker. Point of Grace Academy, Kenya, 2019

Update on Hospice Project.

Yes, we are still working towards getting this hospice project off the ground!!  Slowly, slowly, slowly. We are waiting for the Kenyan government to move forward with the paperwork that shows the community gifting the land to this project.  Patience has never been one of my virtues, but I am learning.

Thank you for your ongoing support.

Always Mercy,

Pamela

[alwaysmercy]

Indelible Memories

Me and my mama, 2016

I was out for a bike ride enjoying the cool of mid-morning, letting my mind wander as my legs pedaled.  As I was coming around a bend on the bike trail, something to the left caught the corner of my eye. “A snake!” my brain registered as my heart raced and my fingers gripped the handlebars. “No way, “ I countered, “it’s too early in the morning for snakes to be out on the trail”. (Where did I get that bit of misinformation?) In the split second of this inner conversation, I had time to reflect that it was an interesting snake with pale tan segments contrasting with orange bands. Kinda like a black and yellow King snake but with different colors. “You should turn around and take a photo so your husband can see it. He could probably identify it and his first graders would think it was cool,” my brain said. However, my racing heart countered with the more reasonable, ”Are you kidding???!! No way are you turning around, just keep pedaling.”

Perhaps you’ve intuited that I am not fond of snakes. Truth be told, I hate snakes and am snake-a-phobic. (I am sure there is a scientific name for this fear).  But it wasn’t always so. When I was about five or six years old, I used to play in a field across from our house on Blue View Street in Redding, California.  Oh, the adventures I had in that vast expanse of wonder!  One day, with an empty coffee can in hand, I went hunting and guess what I found?  Massive amounts of Red Racers--tiny, cute, wriggling snakes. I proudly gathered them up in the can and brought them into the house to show my mother, who happened to be talking on the phone with one of her friends.  “Mama, look, what I found!” I nearly shouted with excitement. Well, she took one look at the contents of the can and yelled, “GET THOSE SNAKES OUT OF HERE!!!  “What?! What is the matter with her,” I wondered. “Why is she so upset? They are so cute.” But I did as I was told.

I’m not sure what happened to change my adoration of snakes into fear and loathing. I suspect it had something to do with the older brothers of my best friend, Kellene. They took great delight in torturing us with cruel pranks involving unsuspecting things like toads and katydids.

Years later, when I was in my thirties, my mom and step-father came for a visit. By this time, I was a mother of two. We were hiking on Stevens Trail in Colfax, admiring the wildflowers and all of a sudden I thought I saw a snake. I sucked in my breath and jumped back towards my mom.  Which in turn, made her scream and clutch me.  When Dennis looked more closely, he declared, “It’s only a stick.” Mama and I laughed shakily, which soon gave way to adrenaline-releasing, hysterical laughter.  We walked more gingerly for the rest of the hike, giving the boys the lead.

So, when I was asked to travel to Sudan and Kenya in 2006, one of the questions I posed to my travel companion was, “Are there snakes there?”. His calm reply, “I’ve never seen any.” “Whew, I can go then!” I convinced myself.  At some point during that first trip, he brought out his snake bite kit.  A bit confused, I  said, “I thought you said there were no snakes in Kenya.”  His tongue-in-cheek reply, “No, I said, I’d never SEEN any snakes in Kenya.”  This is when I discovered that snakes liked to hang out in the corn fields (a place I’d used to relieve myself more than once) and tea fields (another place I loved to wander). And in case you are wondering, I’ve only seen one snake in Africa and that was on my first trip. It was tiny and rather insignificant, on a dirt path in a zoo in Nairobi. No snake bite kit needed.

“Picking” tea leaves in Kenya, 2006

What does this all have to do with Mother’s Day, you might ask?  Well, it certainly wasn’t what I had envisioned writing. Honestly, I intended to write about the beautiful qualities of my mama--her kindness, generosity, brilliance, gift of hospitality and her laughter--and how much I miss her.  All those things are true, but this story slithered out of me.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Always Mercy,

Pamela

Farm with tea and corn, rural Kenya

Snakes like it here!