God is continually reminding me that he has not only called me or Pete to this journey of life in Africa. He has so clearly created our sweet babies to be a part of that plan in an incredible way. Another example of His plan for the four of us happened recently. I am constantly in awe of God’s amazing plan. How are we so blessed to be on this path?
One year ago, Pete wrote wrote his only post to date on what was then our Little Olsen blog. The piece was and is deeply meaningful. It offers a small glimpse into the heart of who he is as a physician. After being submitted to Minnesota Medicine magazine by a colleague, the article was selected for publication in its August 2013 issue, and Pete was later invited to share it at the annual fundraising gala for the hospital at which Pete now works. I could not be more proud to stand beside this man, husband, father, friend, and physician as we prepare to make Africa our home.
Here’s a look back at the post he wrote on a rainy evening near Tenwek Hosptial in Kenya, East Africa…
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I’ve been wondering for months, maybe even years, what my first delivery would be like after we arrived in Africa. Would it be a vaginal delivery? A cesarean section? Would instruments be available? What about assistants? Would I even be in a hospital? You see, I’m used to the very best.
As a 3rd year resident at the Duluth Family Medicine Residency Program, most of the vaginal deliveries I’ve participated in are attended by two or more physicians—an attending, a resident and sometimes even an intern. By the time the patient is ready to give birth, she and the baby have been carefully monitored for hours. We have a good idea of what to expect, and we have everything we need in case something doesn’t happen the way it should.
For those vaginal deliveries that take an unexpected turn, we can change over for a cesarean section in about 10 minutes. By the time we arrive in the pristine operating room with the patient, an array of sterilized, neatly wrapped surgical tools is waiting for us, along with a team of trained surgical technicians who will later hand them to us when requested (often even before–they know each surgery so well!). An anesthesia team is there to provide pain control and to intubate and breathe for a patient in case of a “crash section” (emergency surgery to save mom and/or baby). The Neonatal Intensive Care Unit has a resuscitation team and an incubator ready in addition to all the tubes, lines and cords needed for the most serious of resuscitations. Oh…and our awesome obstetric nurses are there, too.
I could go on, of course. But we’re not there. We’re in Africa. And it’s different here.
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It didn’t start the way I expected it would. I was paged to Casualty (the emergency department) to attend to an 18-year-old who was pregnant with her first child. She hadn’t reported any contractions or vaginal bleeding. I didn’t even have time to ask her if she felt her baby moving.
There wasn’t time for questions. When I arrived in the small room crowded with eight beds and even more patients standing or sitting as they waited for care, the clinical officer (CO, similar to a physician’s assistant) looked at me with panic. He pulled back a curtain to reveal a flurry of activity: The young woman was lying on a bed. A nurse was hurrying to start an IV while humming a hymn. Another nurse had just arrived with an oxygen mask, freshly washed and ready for reuse.
The CO rapidly explained that two girls had dropped the patient off at the door; they couldn’t be found. I felt the young woman’s pedal pulse. It was weak and thready. I glanced up at her face. She looked slightly ashen, and was gasping for air. Her uterus was at or below her belly button, meaning that the baby was either small or at about 20 weeks gestation or less. (A nurse confirmed she was 20 weeks pregnant shortly thereafter.)
Don’t forget the ABCs, I told myself. Airway, Breathing and Circulation. She has a pulse, and she’s breathing (albeit with difficulty), but she’s losing her airway. As I moved to the head of the bed, a dark, liquid began spilling from the patient’s nose and mouth. We suctioned, intubated and started breathing for her. Then we placed a nasogastric tube and suctioned another 200 mL or so of the black substance from her stomach. We still don’t know what it was.
By now the cardiac monitor was on and the patient’s heart rate was in the 130s. One of the nurses looked up and told us the initial blood pressure was 70/50 mmHg, but now she couldn’t get one. I felt the patient’s neck for a carotid pulse; there was none. “Start CPR,” I said.
With the chest compressions we heard intermittent cracks (ribs breaking from the pressure). At two minutes, we checked for a pulse and gave epinephrine to shunt blood back to the heart and encourage cardiac activity. We kept doing CPR and giving her epinephrine every three minutes, checking for a pulse each time. After 40 minutes without a pulse, I called it. “Time of death: 10:24 a.m.,” I said softly.
I helped the nurses clean the patient, remove the lines and apply fresh linens. Then I prepared for the hard part—talking with the family.
I had a room prepared so I could tell them thatthe mother and her baby had died. They were inconsolable, of course. I spent a few moments with them before I left them with the chaplain and returned to the emergency department where another patient needed care.
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Two days later, the family returned with one request: to have the opportunity to bury the mother and baby separately. I spoke with my supervising physicians who agreed this was reasonable.
I led the family to the morgue and had them wait in the office. It was time for my first delivery in Africa, a postmortem cesarean section.
She laid draped in a perfect white sheet on a rusty, steel table. Even though the mother was dead, I used a surgical technique very similar to the one my attendings in Duluth had trained me to do. As I cut, the smell of formalin filled my nostrils. A moment later, I delivered a beautiful, tiny, lifeless little girl. I carefully closed the mother’s tissues, using a subcuticular stitch to close the skin. It wasn’t necessary, but it felt right.
I draped the mother again and then carefully attended to her little girl, who was only slightly larger than my hand. I washed her gently and placed her in a new swaddling blanket, her arms gently folded.
One of the morgue attendants went to get the father and the rest of the family. They arrived, not knowing what to expect, but when dad saw me holding his baby girl, his eyes started tearing. I asked if she had a name. “Fancy…Fancy is her name,” he said, barely audible. “Well, Fancy is a beautiful little girl,” I said, handing the swaddled baby to dad. “I’m sorry that her time with us was so short, but I believe that she is now with Jesus where there is no pain and no suffering…where we’ll all be together again.”
I began to pray, my two fingers on the side of Fancy’s head as we invited God to be with us and bring His peace. Everyone, now in tears, slowly filed out of the room. Dad stayed a moment, took one last look at Fancy, handed her to me, and said, “Asanti” (thank you).
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The rain refreshed us as we walked from the morgue back to the hospital where we parted ways. It was early evening, and I was done for the day. I loosened my tie and draped my white coat over my arm to the let the rain gently wash over me on the way home.
I was greeted by a beautiful little girl who came dashing up to me yelling, “Daddy, Daddy, I have an umbrella for you.” I scooped Ella into my arms and kissed her. I walked toward apartment No. 7 and let my eyes meet Angela’s. She knew instantly. She simply has a way of knowing that no one else does. I kissed and snuggled Sam, our son, before she quickly swept both children into their bedrooms for the night. I let the warm shower wash off the formalin, then I dressed and sat on the living room couch, reflecting on what had happened.
Yes, this young woman losing her life and her baby was tragic. But in the end, I’ve never been able to stop someone from dying. Hester Lynch Piozzi, an 18th century British author, once said, “A physician can sometimes parry the scythe of death, but has no power over the sand in the hourglass.” It’s true.
But I’ve also learned that one of the most compassionate acts we can do for one another is to relieve suffering and pain—to make room for healing. And tonight, when one dad looked back at another, there was a silent understanding that healing had begun, and then a quiet “Asanti.”
Sometimes…okay, many times…I catch myself in awe of the amazing ways that God is creating a path for our family to get to Africa. The desire to work and teach abroad was first placed on my heart when I was really little. Then I met Pete, and he had the same desire. We got married, started dreaming of kids, and at about that same time, we felt like there may be others who would one day join our adventure. We didn’t really know what that would look like, but we prayed and waited.
We’ve met lots of friends along this path of medicine who have a heart to serve in Africa at some point, but it’s not all that common to meet others who have a dream of moving all their earthly belongings and small children halfway around the world for who knows how long. Let’s face it, that’s a pretty big commitment. We knew we couldn’t just ask anyone to go with us. It would definitely have to be something God would need to orchestrate.
And orchestrate he did. Meet the Horns. Eli, Krista, Caleb, and Kai.
Pete first connected with Eli at the residency while Eli was interviewing for the program. I remember Pete coming home and mentioning something about his great guy he hoped would get matched in Duluth (meaning that he’d do his three years of residency here). Early in Eli’s first year in Duluth and Pete’s second, the guys reconnected and we got the families together. It didn’t take long for us to realize that there was something more between our families than a shared interest in Africa. As we prayed and spent more time together, we felt like God was bringing our families together as a team to live and work together over seas.
Ella and Eli were fast friends, just like Eli and Pete, as seen at Apple Fest in the fall of 2011.
Soon after Apple Fest, Krista and I discovered that we were both pregnant! Sam and Caleb were born just a few weeks apart in May 2012.
In the early spring of 2012, we spent a weekend with two of our mentors, Bruce & Kate, at their home in Grand Marais. Bruce & Kate have been living and working in Kenya for more than 20 years. They raised their children there while working at a local hospital. They’ve been instrumental in guiding us to the mission field.
These kids adore each other! Caleb follows Ella wherever she goes, saying her name over and over. And Ella is completely taken with baby Kai (short for Hezekiah). Clearly, so is Sam.
We feel incredibly blessed to be on this path with the Horns. We dream of our kids growing up together, learning Swahili, running in the grass with neighbors a half a world away from here. I will have another mama who understands the challenges of living thousands of miles away from our families and who will challenge me as a wife, mama, and woman after God’s heart. Pete and Eli will work side by side in the hospital, together understanding the challenges of teaching and doing medicine, and will grow together as fathers and husbands. The feelings of loneliness on the mission field, which is completely reasonable while experiencing life in another culture, will be considerably less because we will be together. I can. not. wait.
The really exciting news? This week, after a lot of prayers, emails, phone calls, and chats, we made the decision of which sending organization we would like to work with as we move to Africa. We have begun the application process, which will probably take until early summer. Once we move a little further along on the process, we’ll share which organization it is and what it means for the future.
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My dear friends, I want to thank each of you for your incredible support and kind words following the post I wrote earlier this week. It was not an easy post to write, and I had no idea what would happen as I published it. The response has been astounding. Many of you shared it on Facebook and with friends, and some have sent encouraging comments and emails. Yes, there were hurtful comments about my sensitivity, faith, and even our future plans for Sam, but I understand these were not from regular readers or those who know us and our hearts. On Tuesday night, such comments were eating at me, hurting my heart. Pete was working an overnight then, so I crawled in to cuddle with Ella, needed the comfort of being physically close to one of my babies. Before falling asleep, I spent a while talking with God, asking that he would remove the horrible feelings I was carrying. I asked that, instead, I would be able to focus on the beautiful words of those in similar situations that I wrote of in the post. When I woke in the morning, it felt as if the cloud had been lifted. God clearly heard my prayer and quieted my heart. Since then, more encouraging messages have come in. I am so blessed to be able to share this journey with each of you.
Thank you. Thank you for reading and praying for us and loving our family, even though there are so many of you we have never met. I am humbled to be able to share this journey with such incredible people.
teaching my first high school class – Honduras – Fall 2002
I’ve learned to love driving for the time it allows me to think. It’s pretty rare that I listen to music while I drive, unless it’s the Disney Cinderella CD, which I have memorized through and through. I sometimes listen to public radio, but when I’m alone, as I was this afternoon, I like to let my mind take in my surroundings. Today, my path took me right past one of the city’s high schools. As I passed, I saw kids walking to their cars, buses lined waiting to be filled, couples holding hands and backpacks filled with textbooks that probably won’t even be opened at home. As I watched it all, I felt a longing deep in my heart. I dearly miss teaching. I miss having students bustle into class, hearing the latest gossip (which sometimes has to be scolded, of course), talking about what happened over night, and then quieting things down for an attempt at sharing some life-changing lesson on their vs. there. Okay, maybe not life-changing, but it was something. And a whole quarter full of somethings can make a pretty big difference, especially for the students I used to work with when I was expecting Ella.
My last teaching job had a pretty big impact on me. I was working with at-risk kids, those who seemed to have fallen through the cracks. It was my job, according to the state grant I was hired under, to figure out how to teach these kids to read. Do you know what it’s like to teach 16 and 17 year-olds how to read without making them feel like idiots? Not easy, that’s for sure. I worked with kids in the main high school in the morning and drove over to the alternative high school at lunch to work with an English class. I quickly learned that the most important part of my job was to form a relationship with my students. They had been told by teachers and students and often by their own parents for years that they weren’t smart enough or good enough to accomplish a whole lot. Besides learning to read, they needed to hear a new message. After all, these kids were smart. Really smart. Just not in the way that shows up on mandated standardized tests. They were life smart. I figured that part out pretty fast once they found out I was pregnant. I had multiple young mamas in my classes and a couple dads, too. We bonded over my pregnancy with Ella, something I never imagined would happened. We even picked a book to read aloud as a class about a teenage girl who was pregnant. I remember that their reading scores improved a bit through the semester, but not a lot. I do remember, though, how excited they would get when they learned how to think though their reading and correctly answer a question about it. I can so clearly remember their faces! Oh, my heart misses that.
I sometimes wonder about my teaching. I wonder what it will look like in the future. God put this longing to teach inside me, but what will it look like? Once we move to Africa, I’ll likely be homeschooling our kids. If we were staying here in the States, I don’t know that I would, but I’m excited for the opportunity when we move. Ella will surely keep me on my toes. Being able to hand-pick everything that Sam learns makes me joyful. I know that must be part of the reason I was supposed to go into teaching. I won’t have to sit through frustrating IEP meetings, which I’ve been a part of for my past students. I will have the freedom to choose whatever I think is best for him and do it. Perhaps there will be other Missionary Kids to teach, too. But still, I feel like my heart for teaching was made for something even bigger than all that.
speaking at graduation – Honduras – 2003
I want to teach beyond my own family. After teaching in Honduras, I realized that many of the teachers I worked beside didn’t have many opportunities or resources to further their teaching education. That experience helped me realize I would love to teach teachers. In Kenya last year, there was a teacher training school just ten minutes away. That’s actually why I went after my Masters in the first place. God has something planned, and I can’t wait to find out what it is.
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a small collection of this week’s favorite photos taken on my phone
Have a wonderful weekend, friends!
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| one of the hospitals we visited in Kenya |
Tonight Pete is working the last 24-hour OB shift he’ll have during residency. While I wait for him to come home, I’ve been making meals for the week, cleaning the kitchen, and listening to the BBC online. At this very moment, President Obama is about to arrive in Tanzania on his current tour of Africa. As I listened to the radio, reporters were interviewing people in a cafe in the capital city, sharing thoughts on America’s influence on the culture there and talking about local food, music, and daily life. With all the talk of Africa, my heart wandered there. It doesn’t take a lot these days for my heart to be back in Africa, but listening to the interviews in the very place I want to be made my heart absolutely long for it.
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| Ella with the kids after church |
It’s been four months since we returned from our seven weeks in Kenya. Instead of it fading with each passing week, I feel the memories remaining strong. Ella hasn’t stopped talking about “Acita,” and often draws pictures of what she says are maps from “Duluth, Minnesota to Acita.” Our mantle is decorated with stone elephants, giraffes carved in wood, and a little rag doll purchased at the hospital where we lived. I’ve changed the mantle decorations from time to time, but I always end up putting our far-away memories back up in that central location where we can constantly be reminded of what we have experienced.
 Pete had a following of boy who couldn’t wait to hang out with him |
Thanks to Facebook and blogs, I’m still in contact with numerous missionary friends who are currently working in Kenya. The words they write make me feel like we’re geographically closer to Africa than we really are. Their photos help me remember what we experienced and what we may experience when we return, because YES, we will be returning.
 Daddy’s first day in the hospital at Tenwek |
I’ve mentioned before that my desire has always been to teach abroad. God put that in me when he knit me together. That’s how deep it is. It’s a part of my DNA. And it’s a part of Pete’s. Obviously, it’s no accident that we ended up together. As `a team, we’ve been able to encourage one another to push in our education, the stuff we know we’ll really need when we get to our long-term destination. I’ve completed a two-year biblical studies program and my master’s degree and Pete is just 30 days from finishing residency. Education: check. So what’s next?
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| Pete & Sam with our friend Amy |
First, to answer the question of all questions, yes, being in Kenya confirmed that we want to spend the next chapter of our lives living and serving in Africa. We don’t know just where in Africa yet, though. Perhaps Kenya, maybe Cameroon, possibly Tanzania. It’s an awfully big continent. It will be Africa, but we’re working on narrowing down the actual location. Currently, we’re exploring all kinds of options. It’s amazing how many people God has placed in our lives who have strong connections to hospitals and educational centers in various locations throughout Africa. We’re soaking in everything we can on different options so we can make an informed decision when that time comes.
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| Faith & Ella enjoying their afternoon chai |
That brings up another point. Timing. As mentioned, Pete will be finished with residency at the end of July. It will be the conclusion of seven intense years of training – four years of medical school and three years of residency. He’ll take most of the month of August off so we can spend time as a family, and then he’ll begin working in the emergency room in Cloquet (about 25 minutes from us) on September 1. Pete signed a contract with the Cloquet hospital the night before we left for Kenya. The contract was clearly orchestrated by a God who is mapping a path for us. The contract is for two years and includes a period of four consecutive months for us to travel back to Africa. It is our hope that we will narrow down locations during those four months away and then be prepared to make our long-term move at the conclusion of his contract. We’re planning and praying that we will be able to pay off a large portion, if not all, of Pete’s med school loans during the next two years.
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| hanging clothes with one of her friends |
There’s a whole lot of planning to do when preparing to move to a far away country. That goes without saying. We’ve known all along that chances are good I will need to home school the kids wherever we end up. That’s a big reason why we chose to put Ella into the montessori school this year. We want her to soak up as much as she can while we’re still in Duluth. I’m looking into resources for both Ella and Sam, home school programs that will be appropriate for each of them. Fortunately, I’ve got my strong background in education to help ensure we stay on top of everything. Sam is currently seeing multiple physical and occupational therapists and I am finding great resources to learn what will be best for him in the future. Knowing that we will always be near a hospital helps with our planning, since he may need continued therapies as time progresses.
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| missionary kids at preschool |
There are so many other questions I feel that I could answer, but then this would turn into a short novel. We’ve been preparing for many years, and at last we’re getting closer. We’ve asked countless questions of those who are “in the know” while observing the lives of those we admire who are raising families overseas. We’ve read books. We’ve read blogs. We’ve prayed and prayed and prayed. And in the end, we still feel that moving to Africa so that Pete can teach future doctors and I can teach future teachers is the only thing we can imagine doing with our lives.
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| Daddy & Sam |
When we returned from our trip this winter, a friend asked me how I would describe our time in Kenya in one word. Goodness, one word? Seven weeks in a completely new culture, a place I had been dreaming about for years, with my incredible husband and our babies, and I am asked to sum it up in one word? Crazy enough, it didn’t take long at all to come to me. Complete. From the moment we stepped off the plane, I felt more complete than I had in my entire 31 years. My husband, my Ella & Sam, God so clearly by our side, in Africa. There was no question.
I was complete.
Do you have questions about our plans to move to Africa? I would love to hear them! Leave a comment below and I’ll try to answer in an upcoming post.
Dear friends, my heart is breaking as I write this morning. Yesterday morning, while sitting in the waiting room of the hearing clinic with Sam, I received devastating news from friends in Kenya. A few weeks after we arrived at Tenwek (the hospital where Pete worked for six weeks) the Kelleys arrived from Pennsylvania and moved to the apartment right above ours and began to settle in for their two-year stay. That same afternoon, there were three little boys running around in superhero costumes in the grass out front. A short time later, out came Hannah with her mom and dad, Steph and Aaron. Hannah turned one at the end of January and was one of the most adorable little girls I had ever seen. She had a little sprig of a ponytail on the top of her head and such a sweet smile. I spent numerous mornings sitting in the grass with Steph talking about having a little girl, how much fun it is to dress them, and the struggle of keeping cute ribbons and bows in their hair. When we left, Ella gave little Hannah a couple dresses and a pair of shoes, all of which she had outgrown during our time there.
It pains me to share the news that sweet Hannah is now with Jesus. I was shocked by the sudden news yesterday and immediately paged Pete at the hospital so I could cry with the person I knew would understand. We hadn’t known the Kelleys very long, but when you’re on the mission field together, relationships grow quickly. Just a few weeks ago, we were sitting with them in their kitchen, eating ice cream sundaes on our last night at Tenwek.
Aaron explained on his blog a few days ago that Hannah had been throwing up often enough to be concerned. They began treating for worms or giardia, but her sickness progressed. She was admitted to the hospital where Aaron is an ER physician, and many tests were conducted. She eventually had a CT scan, which revealed an aggressive tumor in her brain. My friend Jen wrote on her blog, “Arrangements were made for her to go to Kijabe Hospital, another mission hospital three hours away where there was a world-renowned pediatric neurosurgeon – yes, in rural Africa! He was able to perform surgery that afternoon and remove most of the tumor.” It was not enough for Hannah’s little body. This is what her dad wrote on his Facebook page:
“My dear friends…God has answered our prayers and Hannah has been fully healed. She no longer has any pain or suffering. I was by her side since 2 am playing music on my phone for her (she loved dancing with daddy). As she passed the lyrics were to Jeremy Camp’s King Jesus “King Jesus, you are victorious, you paid the final debt for all of us. King Jesus, you are victorious.” He is victorious! He lives! And because of this each and every one of us have the opportunity to spend eternity with Him through a simple act of faith and acceptance of Jesus Christ. Please be praying for us today as we have to tell the boys.”
They are leaning heavily on Jesus and his strength right now. I cannot imagine the pain they are experiencing, which is why I am asking you to please, please pray for them. They are in a new country, so far away from family and all things familiar.
Jen also wrote on her blog that Stephanie posted the following on Facebook, which is our hope in a world that is not yet free of pain and suffering:
“God is good. No matter what. God is good.”
About this photo: I was telling Pete last night that one of the very clear memories I have of Hannah is when she was sitting in the grass in front of our apartment shortly after they arrived. Her daddy was lying in the grass in front of her taking pictures. It was an adorable sight. I just found the photo here on Aaron’s blog. And in her little hand was Ella’s wooden ambulance.
If you would like to read about ways you can help the Kelley family, please visit their blog here. There is even an opportunities to give to Hannah Kelley’s Homegoing Fund.
Such precious gifts we are given when God entrusts his children to us.