Dear Jenny - August 26, 1991

August 26, 1991 

Dear Jenny, 

I wanted to write to you as soon as I got home from school. I started 4th grade today. School started a couple weeks ago, so I'm a little behind. My teacher is Miss Greenshields. She is super tall and is from Scotland! I don't think I've ever met anyone from Scotland before. She seems okay – kind of strict but nice. My class is bigger than Mrs. Ferrin's last year, but I don't know how many of us there are. Maybe 20? The desks are wood, and they open up just like the ones you see in movies of those one-room school-houses! People have scratched names and initials in the desk top. There's no one at the desk next to mine. Ruth said that there's a boy supposed to be coming back from furlough soon. His name is Micah, and he's going to sit there. She says I’m lucky because he's cute.  

We had corn flakes for breakfast, but they tasted different from American corn flakes. The milk is the same, though; it's the powdered stuff Mom sometimes made at home. They don't have a lot of cereals here, Ruth said, so I don't know what we're going to eat for breakfast. Oh, and someone gave us some oranges to eat for breakfast, and they were green, not orange – and sour! Ugh. I miss oranges. 

Anyway, Ruth came this morning to get me to come wait for the bus. It sure wasn't like the bus Jon and I rode to school last year! It was just a big van, and it looked like it was falling apart. But I thought it was super cool! Shelley says sometimes the big kids ride to school earlier, but today we all rode together. There was Jenny, Martha, Ryan, Jessica, Seth, Claire, Simon, Jodi, Shelley, Ruth, Ellen, Lisa, Jon, and me, so it was pretty full. Simon gets to sit in front because he's the oldest boy and pretty tall. (He's in 9th grade and has long hair. It's really pretty, but he's a boy, so it's kind of weird. Oh, and he has an Australian flag painted on a whole wall in his room. It's so cool!) There are no seatbelts in the bus, just rows of seats. And something called a jump seat that collapses and is pushed up so people can climb in the back. And Claire sat facing the back of the bus, right behind the driver's seat. I think she's in first grade, and she is just like the Energizer bunny – bouncing and talking all the time. She's really cheerful. I like her. 

It takes about 15 minutes to get to school. (Jon timed it on his new watch.) First we have to drive down to the hospital gate, where Claire says she waves at the guards every time. (There's a metal pole the guards can pull down or let go up to open so cars can go in and out.) She says they don't really speak much English. Oh, and when we were all in the bus, one of the big kids told the driver "let's go" in Hausa. It sounded like "moo tah fee." I guess the driver doesn't speak much English either. 

There are no sidewalks on the way to school, so it would be hard to walk. But there are people walking anyway, just in the mud. I guess it rains a lot here because there are puddles everywhere, and it's rained every day since we came. I feel bad for the people walking in the mud and getting splashed by cars. I wonder why there are no sidewalks. There's only two traffic lights between home and school, but I don't think they work. Or maybe there was no electricity. Shelley says there's no electricity a lot. She says sometimes there's a policeman who stands in the intersection and directs traffic, but there was no one there today. Just a lot of cars. 

Anyway, maybe tomorrow I'll tell you more about that drive. I wasn't really paying attention today. I was too excited to go to school. 

There are two 4th grade classes, and they're right next to each other in a building with the 3rd grade class. It's so weird being at this new school compared to last year! You know how 74th Street was just one big building and a blacktop playground, all surrounded by a fence? My new school is so different!! There are all sorts of little buildings spread out over a big area, with lots of grass and trees. There's a big playground and basketball courts, and even a cement ping pong table with a little roof over it! In my building the 4th grades are on the left, and the 3rd grade is on the right, and there's a computer room. The other 4th grade teacher is Miss Lewan, and she's from Canada. The bathrooms aren't gross like at home – no spit wads and no graffiti. And there's an actual towel to dry your hands on instead of paper towels! 

I don't know most of the kids in my class still, but they seem nice. There's a girl in the other 4th grade who is also in our mission, and Shelley and Ruth introduced me today. Her name is Meaghan. She used to live in Liberia but had to leave because there was a war. Do you know where Liberia is? I didn't, so I had to ask my mom. It's also in Africa, not too far away. Anyway, Meaghan is the youngest in her family like me, and she's from Ohio.  

There isn't a cafeteria at my new school. I found out at lunch. There are some picnic tables and stuff, kinda spread out, but most of the kids just eat on the steps or the sidewalk. There's a little wall thing near the 4th grade building where we ate lunch before we played on the playground. I guess everyone has to bring their own lunch because the school doesn't sell lunches like at home. Shelley gave me a candy to try called a Buttermint. It's really yummy, not like anything in America. I had peanut butter and jelly for lunch, and a banana. I guess bananas grow here, but they're smaller than American bananas. Taste just as good. 

Let's see, what else? Oh, we have P.E.! Last year I think we maybe had P.E. once all year with Mrs. Ferrin. We just went outside and played dodgeball or something. But this year we have an actual P.E. teacher, Mrs. Seabourne, and you have to wear different clothes on P.E. days. I didn't know that, so I was just in my regular clothes. You're supposed to wear a white shirt and red shorts. Shelley says those are the school colors. And we have to actually do sports and stuff. I'm already dreading our next P.E. day. I hate sports. 

There was a big storm after lunch, with lightning and thunder and everything. Miss Greenshields had to be really loud for us to hear her because the roof is tin, and the rain makes a huge banging noise. And the windows aren't like windows in America, so some rain gets in. They're rectangle pieces of glass that overlap a little bit and can be opened or closed. Mom calls them "louvered," but I don't know what that means. Anyway, even when they're closed all the way, they're not really closed, so the rain can come in when the wind blows.  

Anyway, I've got to do my spelling homework before Mom will let me go out and play. Bye for now. 

Love, 
Sara 

Snapshots

I wish I could go back and tell my nine-year-old self to drink it all in.  

"Sara," I would say, "believe it or not, years from now, people will want to know what you saw, what you felt, what you thought about the smells, the sights, the sounds. Open your eyes. Etch these moments, these images, into your brain for the rest of your life, so that until your dying breath, you can remember the first time you came home." 

But I can't. And those memories are gone.  

I started out trying to write this in the same format as my earlier post, a narrative in chronological order. But I honestly remember so little of those first couple days in Nigeria. My memories are mostly snapshots of very specific details rather than a Bigger Picture. I know I should remember in vivid detail my thoughts and impressions from the moment I stepped off the plane, the moment we drove into our new town, the moment I first saw the house I would call home for the next 15 years, the moment I met the girl who would become my best friend. They were such life-changing moments, and yet I have no distinct memories of them. I can't tell you my first impressions or what hit me the most because I just don't remember.  

Thinking back now, I realize how significant this is. I was nine years old, but I was still young enough that the differences between my young childhood home of southern California and my new home were not stark. I'm sure that at the time, things seemed foreign, and I consciously thought about those differences. But they must have been subtle enough to not get filed away into my long-term memory. The important things - my family, going to school, and playing - were consistent enough to simplify the transition. On one hand, I guess it's a testimony to the resilience of children, and I hope that my children are as resilient in the face of all of the life changes they have undergone and will continue to face in their lives. But on the other hand, I grieve the loss of those first impressions. While I can describe for you the experience of returning to Nigeria – with more and more detail depending on my age upon return – and while I can give you details about the road from Kano to Jos, about our new town and compound, I can't go back to the first time. That fills me with sadness. 

So let me give you the snapshots I do remember and try to fill in the gaps as necessary later with descriptions from 35-year-old me. 

*snap* It was hot when we got off the plane in Kano. There was no gangway to the airport terminal; we stepped off onto the tarmac itself and walked to the terminal – not a long walk by any means. We had lots and lots of boxes – 40? 50? I'm not exaggerating. It was a lot. An American missionary who lived in Kano, Terry, came to help us through customs. He was tall and made us laugh. 

*snap* That night at the guest house, we were served pancakes for dinner, and for the first time in two days, I ate. I was just so relieved that our first meal in Nigeria was a familiar food. We drank the water in the dining hall, but my dad had drilled into us kids that we would not be able to drink the tap water in Nigeria, ever. Our minds had been filled with fear of cholera, hepatitis, yellow fever, meningitis, dysentery, typhoid, malaria, and hookworm, all of which came from tap water for all I knew.  

["Guest house" was a new phrase to me, and I learned that it referred to a sort of hotel with blocks of rooms or suites and a central dining hall or meeting area. This guest house was run by our mission in collaboration with the church that the mission had established years and years ago, ECWA (the Evangelical Church of West Africa).] 

*snap* The following day, Saturday, we squished into a large van with as many of our boxes as could fit. There were a few other missionaries riding down with us, an at-least-five-hour drive to cover roughly 200 miles. (In the rainy season, driving times usually increase with the number and severity of potholes.)  

*snap* We stopped and got soda ("minerals") in glass bottles. I discovered Fanta Orange for the first time. (It's not "orange Fanta," peeps; it's "Fanta orange." Come on now.) We also got little plastic baggies of roasted peanuts ("groundnuts"). Yum!  

*snap* We ate at a neighbor's house that night. We had pizza, which tasted different to me because the base was tomato paste instead of tomato sauce, and I feel like we had Kool-Aid, which was a special treat for our hosts, since it had to be brought from the U.S. (I'd never had Kool-Aid before, as I'd grown up on diet soda and Crystal Light.) Our hosts were Australian, a general practitioner and his wife and four kids. Their third child, Shelley, was my age and would be in my class at school. I don't know that I'd ever met an Australian before, and while Shelley didn't have an accent because she'd been born and raised in Nigeria, I loved listening to her parents talk. I've no idea what they said, as I'm sure I wasn't paying a bit of attention; I just liked hearing them. Oh, and they had Chinese-lantern-type lights in their living room, so it was dim but lovely. 

*snap* We ate lunch the next day at another neighbor's house. This family was from Ohio, both parents were doctors, and they had three daughters. Their eldest, Ruth, was my age and would be in my class at school. At some point yet another neighbor family came over to meet us – a general practitioner and his wife and three kids from Georgia. Their eldest, Jessica, was a year ahead of me in school. After we ate, the girls took me rambling through the backyards of our little neighborhood. It was lightly raining, and I remember feeling as though I were trekking through a jungle, pushing aside leaves of banana trees in the pitter-patter of a rain forest. It was surreal. 

That's the end of my distinct memories from those first few days. From this point on, everything just kind of blurs together. My descriptions will be drawn from years of memories rather than specific images. 

Coming up next: Where did you live?

From the beginning

Many people have asked me if I was born in Africa.  

I was not. 

My life began in San Diego, where my dad was partway through medical school. I'm the youngest of three biological children, and I was three when my dad earned his MD. I have few clear memories from those San Diego days, but one of those is flushing a goldfish down the toilet. I believed that the fish had diarrhea (and wonder now if this idea came from my older brother). 

When I was three we moved to Los Angeles for my dad to complete his residency in pediatrics at UCLA. I have several memories from our first apartment that first year, including our first cat Velvet. After one year we moved to student housing, where we lived for three years until I was seven. I started school while we were in that apartment, and my best friends were Monica Smith, a neighbor who was in my first-grade class and attended the local LDS church, and Shane Stafford, who played ice hockey and showed me Beetlejuice. (I don't remember the film but remember getting in trouble for watching it.) 

Things started changing when I was seven. We moved to another apartment while Dad was getting his Master's in Public Health and working at a county clinic. (Much of this may be not quite accurate, as I was too little at the time to pay attention to these details and may have mixed up my timeline.) My brother and I rode the school bus an hour each way to a magnet school, and we spent the ride listened to Weird Al and played Tetris on Brad Warner's Gameboy. Our bus driver, Ms. Lightner, listened to pop, to which we were never exposed at home, so we learned songs from MC Hammer, Whitney Houston, and Michael Jackson. Those two years were my favorite of my childhood in the U.S. I adored my teacher; I had friends at school, church, and in the neighborhood; we had an adorable foster baby; and I was a happy kid. 

But that first year, when I was seven, I also learned that my parents wanted to move overseas and be missionaries. (The word "missionary" can mean so many different things, but here it refers to a Christian who goes to a foreign country to improve the lives of the needy and under-served in a practical way, e.g., as a medical doctor.) I don't remember their sitting us down to tell us, but I think they must have. I'm sure they talked about it a lot, maybe even to us, but I have no memory of any related discussions. I gather that they had always planned to go overseas, even from their earliest days as a married couple, as they had met and fallen in love when they were missionaries in a foreign country. It had just taken a bit longer, perhaps, than they had expected – a bachelor's, two master's, and a doctorate degree and three kids later. 

In any case, that year I found out we were going overseas. In October, we flew to North Carolina, where we lived for a month while my parents went through candidate orientation for our mission. I don't know what all they learned (though, looking back, I can imagine), but we kids spent our mornings doing schoolwork we'd brought with us and our afternoons learning about other cultures. Our teacher, Mrs. Gibbs (whose daughter and son-in-law would one day make a huge impact on my life) taught us songs in French and Spanish. We dressed up in outfits from other countries. We learned about different foods and got to taste them. We went on a couple field trips to local places of interest. And at the end of the month, we were told that our host country would be Nigeria. 

I knew nothing about Nigeria but learned bits and pieces as time went on. My parents prepared presentations to give at churches when we went around to raise support. They called it "deputation" at the time, but now I think they call it "friend-raising." My brother and sister and I learned a couple skits to help my dad demonstrate the importance of rural development and the hilarity of language barriers. We traveled often on weekends to various churches in southern California to speak about Nigeria and meet people who would support us monthly while we were overseas. (Most missionaries rely on the financial support of donors in their country of origin in order to work overseas.) As a kid, it was fun going to different places and meeting new people, especially going to other people's homes for meals or eating out. We wore tie-dyed clothes and felt special. I, after all, was not the one who had to drive, sometimes leaving well before dawn to arrive in time for a morning service. To me, it was an adventure. We spent two years raising support, planning, and eventually packing up our lives. 

But then I began to realize the implications of our moving overseas. It would mean leaving behind our church, our schools, our friends, and our family. It would mean potentially not seeing my grampa and my closest cousins for four years at a stretch. It would mean no pepperoni or M&Ms, no magnet school with my amazing combo-class teacher, no youth group houseboat trips or winter camps, no ice-skating rinks or McDonald's. I was blown away by everything I felt I was being asked to give up. And the most gut-wrenching of all was that we would have to leave behind the foster baby we'd had for two years, whom we'd gotten straight from the hospital after his premature birth, whom we adored. 

And I started to not want to go. It's funny now, looking back, that I was the one who made the most noise about moving. True, as the youngest and the brattiest, I usually made the most noise about everything. But in retrospect, I had the least to lose. My brother and sister were finishing up elementary school and junior high, respectively, and because of the difference in school systems – junior high versus middle school – my 7th grade brother would be starting middle school after all his classmates had been in middle school for a year, and my 10th grade sister would be starting high school after all her classmates had been in high school for a year. They were leaving behind good schools and amazing academic opportunities we would never get in Nigeria. My sister was leaving behind a youth group she loved and many very close friends who were like family.  

But it was I who loudly struggled with the transition. I begged and pleaded with my parents to let me live with my aunt and uncle, to let me stay. I cried. I may have screamed. At nine, I should have been beyond temper tantrums, but I fought the move with all I had in me. 

Ultimately, though, what can a nine-year-old do? 

On the afternoon of August 21, 1991, we boarded a plane at LAX that would take us to Amsterdam, where we would spend a 24-hour layover before heading to Nigeria. It was a long flight to Europe, an overnight flight during which none of us slept well. I refused to eat anything, though at breakfast, just before landing, I was forced to take my anti-malarial medicine with a glass of orange juice. We were exhausted as we deplaned in Amsterdam – not only from the flight but from the weeks of late-night packing and cleaning that led up to our move. I don't remember much from our layover. I remember riding a train through farmland. I remember being responsible for our guitar – feeling like Maria from The Sound of Music. I remember visiting Anne Frank's house (so many stairs!) and passing a man playing the violin in a large, open square, with his open case in front of him to collect money. I remember going for dinner to a corner restaurant near our little hotel called L.A. Bar, which horrified me because I'd always thought bars were essentially evil. (All I had was a glass of water.) That's about all I remember, and the next day we were on the plane to Kano, one of two cities in Nigeria that at the time had an international airport. I had not eaten anything since we'd left Los Angeles, and my dad threatened that if I didn't start eating, he would hook me up with an IV once we got to our new home. I'm pretty sure he was serious. 

Little did I know that stepping off of that plane onto the tarmac in Kano would begin the best days of my life. 

An open letter to Jane Doe

Dear Jane,

As I write this, you are 12 years old and have already been a witness in criminal court. You reported that you had been touched by a family member in a way that made you uncomfortable. I heard your words, and I saw your face as you took the stand. You are just 12 - on the cusp of womanhood yet still a child. I don't know you personally, and I could not speak to you, but I see that you are full of life, filled with curiosity about the world around you. You are energetic and articulate.

I heard everything you said, and I watched the interviews you had given to the police. I heard your words and some of your heart. I want you to know that I believe you. I believe you were the victim of a crime. I believe you were made to feel uncomfortable. I believe it happened more than once. I believe you.

But we failed you. I don't know why, but the others didn't think your word was good enough. They didn't believe as I do. They had reasonable doubt. I can't explain it; I wasn't there. But I wanted to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry we let you down. You were brave enough to come forward about experiences that must have been awkward and embarrassing. You did the right thing in telling adults you trusted, and then in talking to the police and detectives. You did the right thing, and I'm proud of you.

I'm sorry, Jane. I fear that this experience may have a huge impact on your life. It will change how you and your family relate to each other. It may change how you relate to adults you used to trust. It may change your view of police, of lawyers. It may change your view of men. It may have disillusioned you about the pursuit of truth and justice in our community and our country - as it has disillusioned me. This experience will change you in ways we don't yet know or understand.

My heart goes out to you. I ache for your pain, for your confusion, for your tainted childhood. Your story is familiar, but yours is the first I have heard in person. You are a smart, sweet young lady with a bright future. And I will remember you always. At the same time, you now stand - in my mind - for so many others in similar circumstances. When I hear other stories of children and young adults whose abusers go free, I will see your face.

I am sorry. You have been wronged. While I must accept the lawful acquittal of your abuser, I will remember. Always. And I will cling to the hope that you will grow to be a woman of great strength and wisdom - a woman of honesty and integrity - despite this experience. Remember the words from Moana*:

"I know your name.
They have stolen the heart from inside you,
But this does not define you.
This is not who you are.
Yon know who you are."

Remember who you are, Jane.

I remain respectfully yours,
The silent juror
___________

*Shurer, O. (Producer), Clements, R., & Musker, J. (Directors). (2016). Moana [Motion picture]. United States of America: Walt Disney Studios.

I remember

I remember waking up, panicky about the situation in Jos that week - riots in my hometown.
I remember going to the computer to check my email, finding nothing.
I remember going to BBC.com to try to look at world news (required for a class) and being frustrated that the page wouldn't load.
I remember trying another site and seeing a headline about a plane crash.
I remember exiting the browser without even thinking about the plane crash.
I remember racing to class, distraught and frustrated, and taking my seat with others my age who probably had also just woken up and raced to class.
I don't remember the instructor's telling us what had happened in New York, but I think he must have.
I remember someone - the department secretary, maybe? I didn't know her - coming across the hall to our classroom to tell us that a second plane had crashed into the other tower.
I remember the instructor's turning on the TV, watching the towers fall, feeling that awful, heavy rock in the pit of my stomach.
I remember classes being canceled for the morning and a special prayer service being called.
I remember sitting in chapel with Allison and just holding onto each other.
I remember Allison wept, and I was silent.
I don't remember having the energy to grieve for all of those people who lost their lives, for their families.
I remember Allison was wearing her Wonder Woman shirt.
I remember being terrified not only for my parents but also for friends I knew in New York.
I don't remember being afraid for myself, because I wasn't.
I remember Ruth's saying, "If we go to war, I'm going to join the Army."

I remember American flags everywhere I turned.
I remember "God Bless America" always reverberating in my ears.
I remember learning the story of Wheaton alumnus Todd Beamer, who participated in the heroic destruction of United 93.

I remember being repulsed by the wave of nationalism that suddenly overtook the country.
I remember people starting to openly hate anyone who looked even remotely Arab or Middle Eastern.
I remember "United We Stand" meant the country stood united against not only terrorism but foreigners.

I remember feeling less American than I had ever felt.

I remember.

Pinewood derby fail

Let me just begin by saying that we are part of an absolutely amazing Cub Scout pack. It's new, and it has had to overcome many challenges. The leadership is outstanding, the boys are fun, and the parents are very helpful. This post is not in any way intended to impugn the quality or effort of any of the folks involved. We love Cub Scouts and are so glad to be part of the pack!!

***

I discovered recently that pinewood derbies are really popular. This probably seems like non-news to most of you, but as the mom of young kids (and a single mom, to boot), I wasn’t aware of the popularity of this event. But pinewood derby is a Big Deal.

And it can be a lot of fun. I mean, what little kid doesn’t love a race? Especially when his or her own creation is competing for a prize? It’s adrenaline, it’s speed, it’s rapturous.

But I’m going to be a wet blanket and say I don’t like it. Designing is fun. Creating is fun. Decorating is fun. And even racing is fun. I’m not denying any of that. But can we all just agree to admit that it’s not about how much time and work the child puts into the car but about the time and work the parent puts in? At least up until a certain age, the average kid is going to make an average car. Only when the parent steps in to make suggestions, buy accessories, and soup it up will a car actually have a chance of winning.

I admit I didn’t want to be involved in the pinewood derby from the very beginning. I felt overwhelmed, and the way things came together, I felt as though I was just expected to know what to do: where to get the wood, how to saw it, how to add wheels, what paints to use, how to get it a certain weight, how to make it fast. When I tried to talk to other moms around me, they had all done it before and just talked to me as though I was either stupid or crazy for not having a clue. It was weird because these same women were usually friendly and kind, but they obviously just couldn’t fathom my complete ignorance of this activity. It was this condescension—unintended though I know it was—that first gave me a bitter taste in my mouth. I’m not stupid. I’m an intelligent person, have a college degree, have assisted in surgery, and have only not gone on to grad school because I have no interest. I understand the basic laws of physics as much as the next layperson.

But I’ve never worked with my hands, and I know absolutely nothing about speed, aerodynamics, or wood. I have never in my memory used a saw, especially a power saw. I have sanded wood maybe once or twice. I have never painted wood that I recall. And when people say “weights,” I think of dumbbells. I was told to watch YouTube videos, which is all well and fine, but some people don’t learn well from watching videos.

To be fair, our leader planned a few building sessions to help not only my son but also other kids complete their projects. She was magnanimous and helpful. But when you’ve got that many kids and that little time, everything can’t possibly get done. This year I sat entirely in the backseat, only watching while my son picked a design, got the wood cut, sanded it, and borrowed paints to make it pretty. I watched while someone else’s dad put the wheels on and critiqued the car. Someone else did all the work.

But here’s the thing: my son couldn’t have done any of it without another grown-up. (In his case, it took three of four.) People had to pitch in because I was taking the backseat. And they’re busy people who had their own kids’ cars to worry about. The most they could  do is make sure my kid had a car. They couldn’t be bothered about its design or its racing potential. While I’m super grateful to them for making sure my son had a car, I also understand that he can never win unless he has one adult who gives his or her all to make it happen.

The kids who actually won their races (at least in the younger grades) all had huge parent/guardian participation. That’s just the truth. And they had all raced before, so their parents had experience as well. So the competition was really about how great the parents/guardians were rather than about how much work the kids put in. This just doesn’t seem right to me.

Granted, they don’t compete for money, and each car wins some type of prize. That is completely awesome, and I love that. But as far as the actual race goes, I don’t like it. I don’t think it makes sense. What makes sense is the kids making their own vehicles—or group vehicles—completely by themselves and using all the same materials and components. Or not having a race at all, just a fun building experience with maybe a contest for creative design—but all building done together. That way it would be about what the kids are doing rather than what the parents are or aren’t doing.

So unless all work on the cars is done together as a group, with each kid getting equal help and the same suggestions from leaders, I don’t think we’re going to participate in the pinewood derby. My son needs to know that he is not less just because his mom can’t make a race car. He needs affirmation, and if he competes, I want him to compete on his and only his skill.

Heading left

A week ago I attended an LGBTQ affinity group meeting on campus. 

  

Before you ask, let me say for the record that I am unequivocally straight.  

But that doesn't mean I can't support inclusion and equity for my LGBTQ friends and family.  

Some of you will be horrified that I have taken such a simple step in this direction. I know others of you would like to give me a pat on the back. And others would probably respond, "So?" 

To be transparent, I must admit that on a faith level, I am really no longer sure I understand what God's take is on homosexuality. I used to be so absolutely sure that the conservative Christian community was the only group to be correctly interpreting the Bible in its brief discussion of sexuality. I used to be sure about lots of things that I discover I am now examining with much more depth and intensity than ever before. So I'm shelving my understanding of scripture and how it relates to the LGBTQ community. For now.

Regardless, my understanding of Jesus as a compassionate, loving teacher led to my decision to participate in this affinity group. The fact is that the LGBTQ community--especially in a place as right-wing as Bakersfield--is persecuted, and my role as a Jesus-follower is to help end persecution. Prejudice and bigotry toward a particular people group is never right, whether you're against people of color, Muslims, Republicans, Catholics, the homeless, socialists, the intellectually challenged, or those with different gender preferences than you, just to name a few.  

And for the first time last week, I asked myself, "What if it were I? What if I had found myself, growing up in a conservative Christian community, to have feelings for other girls or women? What if?" And I knew that my experience would have been nothing short of miserable. I might not even be alive today. 

My LGBTQ friends deserve to feel safe, included, and supported, just like the rest of the community. They should not stand alone or be made to feel less, and they certainly should never have to fear for their safety.  

Just within the past week since I attended my first group meeting, two amazing young women I know have come out, and when I think about them, the idea that people would make slurs about them or treat them differently because of their gender preferences – it just makes me angry. I love them and want to walk beside them. One of them is a college student, and while I'm too far away to offer in-person support to her, I can offer in-person support here on her behalf. So I'm going to participate in this affinity group, get Safe Zone training, and cooperate to create ways to make our LGBTQ community members feel at home, that they belong. And I will keep on trying to show love. 

On behalf of Chase

I was a senior in high school when I met Bob. He was a junior, and he and his brother Ted were new to our mission community in Jos, Nigeria, where I grew up. They were friendly and cheerful.

And they could sing.

Yes, Bob was smart and kind also, which I noticed over time. But the biggest impression he made from day one was that he could sing. Just wow. We're not talking pop singing like Josh Groban or George Strait. We're going straight to Irish Tenors or King's Singers here. And it was so fun to sing with Bob because I could do whatever harmony I wanted, and he still carried the melody - or, better yet, an alternate harmony. So super cool. (You have to remember that my school was tiny, with a graduating class of 27, so we didn't have a very big pool of musical talent... Although, looking back, considering our size, we did have quite a lot!)

Over time I got to know Bob a bit better. He starred in the spring musical. He took one of my best friends to the junior-senior banquet. He was in AP Biology, and I was a guinea pig in his sleep deprivation study. It was a fun year.

When I was in college, I saw Bob a couple times, as he went to school an hour or so away. I took the train into the city with his cousin (who attended my school) for his junior voice recital, which was of course outstanding.

But we kind of lost touch after that. My parents and his parents were friends (as are most missionaries in our community), so I heard about his marriage to an amazing young lady named Ellie, and I got to see photos of their kids once I got on Facebook.

And then four years ago, I found out that Bob's second son Chase had been diagnosed with aggressive brain cancer. It's one of those things you read about in books or in Facebook posts about other people's kids, but you never expect to know someone personally in that situation. There was a real chance that Chase wouldn't make it to his third birthday.

But he did. He fought hard. Bob, Ellie, and the kids fought for and with him. Chase will turn seven the same day that my Anna turns six this December. The first fight is over, but there are so many other challenges ahead and continuing. While Chase is stable, he faces serious health issues and the overshadowing chance of the cancer's return. Ellie keeps up a blog and recently published a book about their experiences. They are totally my heroes - not because they are super-human but because they are human and real and rooted in Jesus.

Photo courtesy Chase Away Cancer http://www.chaseawaycancer.com/?page_id=3722

I've never met Chase, but through Ellie's posts and book, I've seen glimpses into his life, into their lives, and my heart is burdened for the whole family.

In 2015, Chase was chosen to be one of five St. Baldrick's Foundation "ambassadors," a real live person to raise awareness for childhood cancer. That's how I found out about the foundation and realized I wanted to become involved in supporting Chase by supporting the search for better treatments for childhood cancer. In 2000, a few New York businessmen decided to raise money for childhood cancer by getting sponsored to shave their heads for St. Patrick's Day. The response was huge, and so St. Baldrick's was born. While I haven't yet had a chance to attend a shaving event, I committed over a year ago to shaving my own head in honor of Chase. I finally signed up this past week and am booked for October 29, just in time for me to wear a wig for Halloween!

Call me crazy to shave my head, especially as a woman, but it's just hair. Hair grows back (usually). What Chase has lost in illness and treatment - good eyesight, healthy nerves and brain cells, and much more - can't grow back  I don't have much to give, but if my shaving my head can help even one child like Chase or alleviate the stress for just one mom, it will be so worth losing my hair.

September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month, so I'm asking you to take a few minutes today, tomorrow, this weekend, whenever you get a chance to visit the St. Baldrick's site. Explore the history. Read Chase's story on Ellie's site. See his profile at St. Baldrick's website. And if you feel so led or called, please donate toward my head-shaving on October 29. For Chase. For his family. For every parent whose heart breaks in a doctor's office.

With love and thanks,
Saralynn