The End

This blog took quite a change in context from beginning to end.  Check out my new blog to get more of the story: thestoriesofjoy.blogspot.com

8:42pm

"Checkmate." That word out of my mouth ended an exhilarating game of chess with my 11-year old nephew.  This is not something I'm necessarily proud of. Yes, he is just a kid. No, I was not going to take it easy on him. Truthfully, being that he went to state in two chess competitions, I was a little nervous. I would never live it down if he did beat me. At the end, I merely told him that it was a good game. I put the pieces away, and he went off to watch TV with his siblings. 

I think they were watching iCarly, or some other Disney Channel show. Have you ever seen this show? It's nothing to write home about, but I think it's pretty popular with the pre-teen crowd. It is a show about a girl (Carly) and her friends who make video webcasts of their lives. This show in particular was about their 50th webcast, and they wanted to film it from detention. Well, I don't have to tell you how engaging this episode was. I guess this program option was better than the one prior: The Dumbest World Records. To give you an idea of the show, the first record I caught a glimpse of was a man who could squirt milk out of his eye, which he previously snorted through his nose. Nine feet! Not bad at all. His family was there, standing next to him proudly... or just hoping none of their friends were watching; I couldn't really tell. 

After the chess game, the kids positioned themselves about six inches from the television so as to not miss a single minute of the show, which I'm convinced was making them dumber with every one of those minutes. I stayed at the table with my two uncles, aunt, and brother-in-law's father doing what my family does best: eating.  Each night, someone would bring us food. These people were only a small sample of the love that surrounded us over the past months. Chicken enchiladas, chicken pot pie, BLT sandwiches, orange chicken and rice, green bean casserole, oven potatoes, salads, fruit, sodas, snacks, brownies, ice cream, and the list continues. This night was pasta with herbed parmesan focaccia bread. I had my first helping during the chess match. I now moved on to the bread, dipping it in the remaining marinara sauce. 

Meanwhile, there was a group of family and friends in my mom's room, enjoying what could be their last minutes with her. Chairs were brought in from the sanctuary for additional seating. Although, my mom would come in and out of sleep and was practically unresponsive, she could still hear what was going on around her. I know she appreciated the activity that flowed in and out of her room, even though the nurses did not. Earlier that morning, one of the nurses kindly suggested that we limit the number of people coming to see her. She said it wasn't good for my mom. Seriously?! She obviously didn't grasp the kind of person my mom is. Nothing would have made her more happy than to have a party happen right beside her. I don't think that facility sees so many people that often visiting one person. I really don't know what the problem was. It's not like we had kids and puppies running up and down the hallways, had food taking up every inch of the "shared" refrigerator in the Great Room, were stealing chairs from sacred areas, were using practically every blanket they had to offer and taking more when they stopped offering, were using the ice machine in the "Staff Only" kitchen, were creating our own parking spaces since we had filled all the others, and were getting all around too comfortable in an otherwise public facility. I'm sure they are rewriting the policy on visitors right now. 

Back in the Great Room, we all just sat there around the same table eating, talking, joking, laughing.  At this point I don't really remember what the conversation was about. I do know my uncle made an observation at some point about the idiocracy of us watching idiots on TV (referring now to the record breakers, although iCarly is not the most educationally stimulating show either). Family and friends would come and go as they felt led. There seemed to be a slight influx now of those coming. They just joined right in with the conversation, adding their two cents where appropriate and, more likely, where inappropriate. Nothing was out of sync though. Everything was carrying on the same as it had always been. Except now, instead of a holiday or family reunion bringing us together, it was the terribly unique event of one of our own dying and a part of everyone else dying right along with her. 

With my back to the entrance of the Great Room at the hospice house, in which all of this was happening, I remember being comfortable, even happy. In the context of heartache and pending loss, there would be these moments on occasion. In fact, in a structure built to ease the process of death, there was life being lived to the fullest. New friends were meeting old ones. Family members were reacquainting themselves. Broken relationships were finding new hope. As I sat there appreciating the pleasant familiarity, I heard the anxious steps of my hurried niece. "She's gone." That was all she said as she looked straight into my eyes, red-faced and teary-eyed. My sister followed closely behind and repeated the words of the heart-broken eight-year old. Silence. Like the delay of thunder after a bolt of lighting pierces the sky. Then you hear it. All hearts breaking at once as the crack of thunder in the storm. We all get up and walk straight to the room. The heaviness of death becoming more weighty with every nearing step. She lie there after her last breath at 8:42pm on September 15th, 2011. 

From there, people grieved as only they knew how. Phone calls were made to those who weren't there and needed to be. The reality was setting in each of our hearts one by one. My mom was dead. All hope of God creating another miracle was lost. The finality of her life was heavy to bear. Although God chose not to bring a miracle to room 102, there was a greater miracle happening beyond what we could comprehend. My mom is now dancing on streets of gold with her Savior. She is floating down the river of Living Water and basking in the glory of Christ. Amidst the heartache here on Earth, there is a party that only God could create - a celebration that only He could provoke. Oh, what would the nurses say then?

My mom

The Last Days

This “Year in Africa” has now become merely a Year in Life.  Rather, and more impacting, it has become a Year before Death.


My mom is now on her last days.  Days.  Not months.  Not weeks.  Days.  One visit with her and you won’t need a doctor to tell you that.  She is fragile, weak, helpless, and many times voiceless. The last days... 

People talk of the “last days” often and in many contexts.  I have watched countless movies on humans fighting against their last days due to plague or invasion.  Bucket lists have been made with goals to accomplish before the last days.  Just recently, a man claimed to know the last days of mankind and of this world.  However, all of this is fantasy.  When reality sets in of one’s last days, whether yours or another’s, those fantasies are now valid - each of those depictions, regardless of how dramatized, become eerily familiar.  They can be frightening, provoking of painful memories, ridiculously comedic, or even offensive.  What do you think about when you consider the last days?  If you have had an all too real encounter with the last days, how has your thinking changed?

For her, this could not come soon enough.

My mom is now on her last days.  There is no alien invasion.  There is no viral outbreak.  There is no arrogant prediction.  There is simply a bleak hospital-like room filled with the humming of an air conditioning unit, the rustling of a sleeping ten-year old in a leather recliner, and the occasional gasp for air from a dying child of God.  A survey of the room returns with signs of a life well lived and well loved.  Flowers abound from her own garden and the gardens of others.  Pillows and blankets set out for the family members who just can not bear to leave her.  A basket of snacks from close friends to feed the steady flow of visitors that is heeded only by the limited number of sleeping options in the room.  Empty chairs, too few to match the number of family and friends that day, leave little space for walking.  A DVD in the player from the night before because any night is a good night for a “movie night.”  Random tissues throughout, still damp from the many tears shed.  An iPod docked and on continuous play of her favorite worship songs. Cell phone chargers.  Half-full beverages.  Kids’ homework and backpacks.  Gifts.  Memories.  Prayers.  Love.  The only fantasies here are her dreams.  Dreams of floating down a river with a good book in hand.  Dreams of standing under a cooling, never ending waterfall.  Dreams of dancing.  Dreams of singing.  Dreams of life in the arms of her Father.  However, unlike what is shown in theaters or talked about in social circles, these fantasies, for her, will soon become a reality.

An Early Return

My stay in Rwanda came to a screeching halt when I received word of my mother's health.  Within two weeks from a phone call with my sister, I was on a plane back to Washington.  In fact, I write this post from my hometown of Vancouver.


My mother was diagnosed with stomach cancer back in January.  Prior to leaving, I had a conversation with her about this opportunity to work for IJM in Rwanda.  Knowing her condition, she said, "Stay the course."  Without those words, I would not have taken such a journey.  But now here I am, back home, indefinitely.


This raises a lot of questions.  These questions, similar to as before I left, will remain unanswered... for now.  I'm not sure how long I will be home.  I'm not sure if I will go back.  I'm not sure what I will do next.  Today, though, I am in Vancouver, trying to help out where I can and spending time with my mom.


There is a question of finances as well.  Rightly so.  Money is continuing to be raised.  Whatever financial support is raised while I'm in the States, it will be used to reimburse expenses used in preparation of my leaving.  After all expenses have been reimbursed, which still stands a far way off, then the funds will be held until I return.


Although this Year in Africa was cut short, I do not question the time I spent there.  Although I do not understand God's will, it does not devalue it.  He is still sovereign.  He is still good.  He is still frustrating to me - a frustration rooted in ignorance, but it is a necessary ignorance for without my ignorance in His will, He would fail to be God.


Thank you for reading.

The road home

If You Want Something Done Right...

As you probably know, I have an affinity for baked goods. Actually, it's more of an addiction. That's okay. I can admit it. That's the first step anyways, right? "Hi, my name is Anthony Angelo, and I'm a dessert-aholic."

Let me give you a little background. When I was working for the LAPD, I would normally work the night shift. This night shift would often carry my work "day" into the hours of 4, 5, and even 6am. Most guys would talk about getting off work and grabbing a drink on their way home. One, I don't like beer, and two, I don't like other drinks enough to pay ridiculous prices for them. However, where ever it comes from, I still had that longing to seek out something comfortable with which I can forget about the detriment of man from the night just ended. As with most avenues of escape, mine was not exactly healthy. Sure, I wasn't getting drunk in some bar, shooting the newest mix of narcotics, or seeking out loose women for a good time, but being alone, at home, and with no accountability I turned to what I knew to be the ideal escape: fresh baked cookies. There I was at five in the morning, while the rest of the city slept, making chocolate chips cookies from scratch, accompanied by none other than my Kitchenaid and the soft tunes of Pandora. Baking a healthy three-quarters dozen for my personal consumption before bed, I stored the rest for another night.

Situations like this are not rare in my life. Unfortunately, like the realities of second-hand smoke, my eating habits tend to more drastically affect those around me. On more than one occasion, I have been told that people gain weight while being around me. Although I do not accredit the extremity of such an anomaly to my presence, the rest of the community does not share this same perspective. I guess it does not help to be quoted as saying, "Every good meal deserves a good dessert." In fact, I would go as far as to say that every good meal decreases in goodness if not followed by a good dessert.

Although my awareness of my addiction is far too keen, I did not stop to consider the possibility of Rwanda not being able to propel my cravings.  I thought of course Rwanda would have dessert! Sure, it's a developing country, but at least they would have a decent milkshake. This is not so.

Reader, do not fret. I am surviving. Barely, but I am holding on. In the beginning, I would accept meals without a meaningful ending, telling myself, "Self, just not here, not this menu, not this restaurant." But meals turned into days, days turned into weeks, and I was losing hope. As my hope decreased, my addiction increased. Not even with the strength of a hundred Goliaths could I win this battle. I needed to do something...



If only Mama Rwanda was around to help



On occasion, my boss invites all the interns and fellows to his house for a BBQ. It's a great time had by all. This most recent invitation was my second. The first time, I was unaware of the potluck nature of the gathering, and in the last hour I offered to bring drinks. This second time, with my craving for something sweet and delicious in full force, I quickly chose dessert as my contribution. All week I brainstormed, seeking the balance between my creativity and budget with Rwanda's resources. Then it was decided: apple crisp - easy, delicious, affordable. As I sought out the ingredients in the local grocery store, I came across a couple hiccoughs. First, there were no walnuts. So, the crumble topping will be a little less crumbly. That's okay. I can live with that. Second, their "brown sugar" is not exactly brown sugar. They actually mean brown sugar, as in sugar that is colored brown, as in raw sugar crystals. If I had wanted brown sugar as I am used to calling it, I needed to look for "sugar with added molasses." Unfortunately, I did not become aware of this difference until I was in the thralls of baking. Determined to adapt and overcome, I pressed on. Peeling, coring, slicing, mixing, stirring, melting, kneading... baking. The final product was now only 45 minutes away. Taking it out of the oven, it smelled and looked as expected. I plucked a small cluster off the top: a little sweet. Hopefully, that would be offset by the apples. Now for transport. The cheapest and most efficient way to get around Kigali if you do not own your own vehicle is by moto taxi. This is nothing more than a guy on a motorcycle with an extra helmet. One hand holding on to the crisp, the other one holding on to the bike, and we were off. Everything was going fine until we got to the dirt road and the driver's speed did not change. I just kept thinking, "Whatever happens, save the crisp." By the grace of God I made safely to my destination with the crisp in tact.

The night's food was enjoyable as was the company. My boss' wife brought out the dessert, and everyone dug right in. People were surprised and pleased. I was satisfied. Mission accomplished. Although my first baking experience in Africa was less than ideal, it satisfied my craving... at least a while. However, that satisfaction sparked a lingering craving, which has ran much deeper and for much longer. Only God knows if that craving will ever be satisfied.

Fight or Flight

It was a night like any other night. The dog was asleep, my housemates were busying themselves on their computers, I was turning in for the night in preparation for the next work day. I'm a bit systematic when it comes to bed time in Africa. First, I prepare the room - pack my bag for work, make sure what I'm wearing is ironed and polished, set aside the necessitates (i.e. money, passport, sunglasses, lip balm, key, cell phone), and make the bed. Now, making the bed seems a little counterproductive if I'm getting ready to sleep in it. However, this involves meticulously draping the bed with a mosquito net so as to not be visited by flying foes while one slumbers. Little did I know, as I was making the bed that night, I was preparing for war.



The calm before the storm



I then leave the room to tend to other aspects of my process, such as shaving, brushing my teeth, going to the bathroom, and downing a full glass of water... in that order. Returning to my seemingly peaceful abode, I change into my sleepwear and head to bed. I plan my maneuver, tactfully placing myself away from the entry point. Turning off the light, I lift up the net, ducking under with remarkable haste and agility, and letting it fall to the ground. The hope is that I was followed by none. The hope is for a peaceful night's sleep. The hope that faded away this night as the setting sun fades behind the hills of Kigali.

All is well as I slump down into my mattress, my head gracefully finding its all too familiar spot on the pillow, pulling back the covers, and being thankful for the rest that is now only moments away. With my eyes closed and the gentle breeze entering through the screen clad window, I drift off, signifying the day's end. Then, my eyes fling open, my heart races, blood pumping vigorously through my veins... just as easily as I fell asleep, I'm on high alert. It was THAT sound. The sound that strikes terror into every foreigner in a strange land. The sound that just by hearing it implies it is too late. The buzzing sound of a mosquito.

But how? Why?! I didn't understand. I was careful. I took the necessary precautions. My mind races, thinking of the possibilities. I flung away the sheets, dove under the net, and hit the lights. Nothing. No sign. No sound. Just as quickly as I heard the noise, it disappeared. Was I dreaming? Impossible. I had only lied down for a second. Leaving the lights on, I reentered my violated sanctuary. I lied down again. Eyes open, searching, scanning ever corner, every crevice, looking for any movement at all. At last, the enemy was spotted. No bug was going to keep me from my sleep. Just as surely as I knew he was, I was out for blood. There is no political banter in a war like this. It's a raw, man versus beast battle to the end. One will stand victorious. One will succumb to the strength of the other. As God as my witness, it was not going to be I who failed.

Carefully I tracked the predator that has now become the prey. With great patience and foresight, I waited for an opportunity. Then, it presented itself. SMACK!  My hand came hurling down on top of the bug, leaving only remnants of a life once flown. Peace came once again to my room. Retracing my steps, I laid back down to sleep. But there it was again! Another? How?! Lights on, eyes wide open, I inspected my net of protection. As I inspected every inch, I found a hole. Two words: duct tape. Again, I searched, and again I found a hole. Another, and another. They had been planning this for years! This was no sanctuary. This was an ambush! After the inspection and confident of my newly secured barrier, I entered for another duel. On the corner post, conveniently located near where my head rests, he sits waiting for his opportunity as I have found mine. This one not as easy as the last. Camouflaged by the color of the wooden post, first strike misses. Another, and another. Cornered, I strike yet again, and the beast falls dead. I sit. An eerie silence fills the room. How many more will come? How many more must die before they admit defeat?  A third approaches, this time on the attack. The horrifying buzz comes precariously close to my ears. He lands on my neck, attempting for the jugular no doubt. I swat him away in a moment of panic. My life flashing before my eyes. All of my strength telling me to stay in the fight. I regain my composure and go on the offense. He sits at the bottom of the net. He's sluggish, though. Even… full. It was true, I had been wounded. But I kept fighting. As I swung my hand down with great force, I catch the net, allowing the enemy to escape, and escape he did.

Hours later, the battle was over. I cannot claim that I remained unscathed. I have my share of battle wounds, but they are not in vain. I stood my ground that African summer night. I stood my ground and won. People will talk about this night. Children will aspire to such courage as was shown on this battlefield.  I fear that this night will not be unique in my time here.  Nevertheless, I will be ready.

God’s Love Gives Reason to Celebrate

Today we celebrated!  Two occasions gave rise to such an event.  One of which was the successful conviction of a man who raped a young girl, impregnated her, and then stole her baby.  With IJM’s help, the man was arrested, convicted, and the baby was returned to her new mother.  This case has been in process for quite some time now, long before I came to Rwanda.  Today we celebrated with a pizza lunch and cake.



1 of 1068 plant species in Nyungwe National Forest

I’m not usually the type to celebrate seemingly small occasions amidst the big picture, especially in the work place.  I would rather move on to the next item on the task list, but that is flawed thinking.  We should celebrate.  We must celebrate!  Since God had His hand in it, however small the event, then there is ample reason to celebrate.  Psalms is littered with praises to God in many different ways and for many reasons.  So why not praise Him now?  This is a reason to praise Him, but we also need to be mindful of why we are praising the God of Justice.  Our options are these:  a bad guy in jail, a work completed by IJM, justice rendered by a maturing justice system, revenge satisfied, a step in the process of healing for the victim, or God’s undying love.  Each one is applicable.  Each one is understandable, even encouraged.  In fact, prior to 12:30 this afternoon, my heart lies in whatever reason puts the bad guy in jail.  Why is that reason so close to my heart?  It’s the human thirst for revenge.  Revenge is only motivated by hate.  Hate gives way to evil.  Evil promotes injustice.  How can I fight for justice when my heart fights against it?  My thinking needed to switch drastically and quickly.  So I thought more about why we are celebrating.  A bad guy is in jail, and that’s a good thing because he is not able to do more bad things to other people.  A young girl sees justice take place, but she is still a 14-year old mother in a developing nation having to continue the inner healing process while walking several kilometers with a child strapped to her back to fetch water for the day when she should be in school.  But God is still good, and we should celebrate.  We celebrate not for the exacting of revenge, for who are we to even demand revenge let alone celebrate when it has been exacted?  Nor do we celebrate justice while easily forgetting the continued need for justice to come to the afflicted.  We celebrate because God, in His sovereignty and divine wisdom, chose to administer His love through justice.  Yes, the bad guy is in jail, but only because God decided that that was the best thing for His loved child with the hope of redemption and reconciliation.  Yes, the victim witnesses justice done, but only because God decided that that was the best thing for His loved child with the hope of healing and forgiveness.  God’s undying, perfect, love.  We should celebrate.  We must celebrate!

The other event was the excellent report from third-party auditors from Kenya, brought in to take a look at how IJM-Rwanda was doing with their finances.

I’m proud to be a part of an organization that celebrates God’s love and is responsible about the resources God has given them.  That was my Monday lunch hour.