The tiny flashlight waves up and down in the Nairobi predawn darkness, just a speck of light, but it’s there. Traffic inches along as the vehicles cautiously merge from the onramp into the foreboding highway traffic. Busses, matatus and cars anxiously try to avoid crunching metal to metal as the slow commute into the city marches on. Police officers stand tall with their reflective yellow vests, trying to keep sleepy drivers from gridlock, their bright flashlights motioning when cars should stop and when they should proceed. Behind them, maybe just 20 meters, a little dot of light keeps motioning up and down, encouraging the drivers to move along.

I have seen this little light many times on my morning commute to Wilson airport.

I have seen this little light many times on my morning commute to Wilson airport. As I idle along in traffic, I see the little light’s owner standing on the curb enduring belches of black diesel fumes as busses painfully attempt to accelerate up the highway’s incline. He seems impervious to the thick exhaust which engulfs his whole body, continuing to wave his light in a flurry, mimicking the policemen standing nearby.

I have seen this thin, thirty-something man many times before as he stands on the curb directing the traffic, as I plod along at a snail’s pace. I have tried numerous times to get his attention by waving or giving him a big thumbs up in thanks for being out there every day. He wakes up so early each morning to bring out his little light. But I am unable to distract him from his work as he stares blankly down the road into the oncoming traffic. He offers me no acknowledgement, for he is not really standing on that curb in his worn, dirty clothes. No, he is somewhere far away, perhaps right in the heart of Nairobi’s Central Business District, wearing his shiny blue police uniform with brass buttons running down his chest.

He wakes up so early each morning to bring out his little light.

I am so thankful for the police who let him stay in the background shining his small speck of light. For they could run him off, telling him it is too dangerous for him to be on that curb. And they would be right. It isn’t the safest place for him. The safest place for him would be at an institution, mindlessly staring at a TV for 12 hours a day. For on that busy highway curb, where drivers are focused on not getting squashed by merging busses, the thought of pedestrians is far from their minds.

But the police patrolling that area see something perhaps more important than his safety in this situation. For they know that the thin man, whose tiny flashlight doesn’t even have a lens, but only a pathetically dim bulb protruding from a makeshift light, will never really get to be a policeman. He will never really get to walk the beat wearing his shiny uniform with brass buttons. He will never really get to raise his hand to officially tell people to stop or motion the cars to go. The police patrolling that section of highway see something more in that man than just a disabled person. They see a man who has purpose. Purpose in wanting to direct traffic and help us on our way each morning. Purpose in wanting to have a job and to be depended upon. Purpose in having value and making a difference to others. And the police, morning by morning, give him that respect, ensuring he has that purpose. Purpose is powerful.

Purpose is powerful.

Time has passed since I last saw him on that curb. My commute has changed in that time to an alternate route, but I think of him often. I wonder if something has happened to him. Did his family move him somewhere far away? Or perhaps he has found a better curb on which to direct traffic, perhaps one in the heart of the city. An intersection that needed him even more, I hope. I may never know.

But I do know how he has encouraged me. I remember his dim little ray of light and how early he would get up each morning to shine it, maybe 4:00 or 4:30am. Dressing in his dingy clothes that would make Goodwill cringe, he hustled to his curb to help with the morning Nairobi jam. How powerful the littlest light can be, for I can still see it waving frantically up and down in the dark morning hours saying, “I am here to help you, if you will only notice me.”

I can still see it waving frantically up and down in the dark morning hours saying, “I am here to help you, if you will only notice me.”

Jesus said, “…let your light shine before men that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in Heaven.” Father, I praise you for this man and his desire to go and help others each morning. Thank you for letting me be a part of his life. He has brought so much encouragement to me!

~Dan

Most of the time, ministry work here in East Africa focuses on what is often unseen: the spiritual transformation occurring in the hearts and souls of people encountering Christ and his transformative redemption. Freedom from the bondage of witchcraft or the fear of impending judgment are the very real deliverances people experience through Christ. Our work focuses on spiritual matters such as helping Bible translators with their logistic needs, transporting rural pastors to a safe place to receive Biblical training, or perhaps moving supplies and church planters to the remote parts of South Sudan. All of this Kingdom building work is vitally important, as Christ calls us to be faithful in sowing and reaping the Harvest He is bringing into His Kingdom. But as we know, this Kingdom work is often without immediate visible results.

This last week I had the joy of seeing immediate change in people’s lives through physical healing. AIM AIR partnered with Samaritan’s Purse in their Cleft Lip Program based out of Juba, South Sudan. Thirty Samaritan’s Purse medical personnel were on hand to perform surgeries over a 5-day period.  As one of the pilots, my job was to fly into the remote areas of the country and pick up patients and their chaperones bringing them back to the capital city. Forty-eight hours later, the patients would be flown back to their villages with radically transformed faces and lives.

While cleft lips are quickly taken care of in Western countries, impoverished areas do not have the resources to perform such cosmetic surgeries. People with cleft lips are often shunned resulting in isolation and separation from their community. One patient who went for surgery was an older grandmother. In her community she was known as the ‘monster woman’. She went for the surgery as she only wanted to be able to hold her grandchildren without them being afraid of her.

Flying to the remote villages proved challenging in some locations as the Nile River flooding prevented people from being able to even get to the remote airfields. In one location, a dyke had broken causing flooding right up to the runway, but thankfully I was still able to safely land.

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Many of the people that I was picking up have never been in a vehicle, let alone an airplane before. Each person had to be buckled into their seats. All the things we take for granted when buckling into a seat since we’ve been riding in vehicles all our lives are not intuitive if you have never done it before. With hands placed firmly in their laps, you needed individually to lift each hand to bring the buckle around the waist, and often you had to even help them get seated straight in the seat so the seatbelt could be buckled. Thankfully, there were often coordinators on the ground who could speak the many local languages (64 tribes in South Sudan), who also helped with buckling and showing them the basics like how to use a sick sack.

As you can imagine, the flights were filled with electrifying excitement flying the patients to Juba as they flew over towns that they had heard about but were way too far to travel to. One older lady was not too excited about the window though. She refused to sit by it fearing that it might open while in the air.

I flew 28 sorties with 36 hours of flying over the 8 days. The landscape varied from wetlands flooded by the Nile River to arid dusty areas that hadn’t seen rain in weeks.

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One of my favorite flights was transporting this woman and her daughter back to their village.  She kept cheering throughout the flight so excited to return home. You see, her life was radically changed by her daughter’s surgery as well. She will no longer be the mother of the “shunned one” or the “disabled one.”

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It was overwhelming to see the reception that the community gave to the returning patients and families. During one reception my heart burst with joy to see a mother quietly kneeling down to present her one-year-old daughter to the women of the community. I wish my camera could have captured the moment adequately, but it will just have to remain in my memory as a gift from God to see such a joyous reunion.

Samaritan’s Purse has been performing these surgeries in South Sudan for 10 years. They have another surgery team scheduled to come in April. One thing that I did not get to see, but they told me about is the renaming ceremonies that will take place in some communities. For years these people have been called the “ugly one” or the “disabled one” by the community. With the radical change of their facial appearance a new name is given to the person. What a powerful expression of the physical transformation in their lives.

One evening the local missionary where I had flown to that day sent me a message saying that while the group I had brought in was being driven back to their village, one of them was overheard saying they would “never go back to the witch doctor now, after the amazing thing God has done for their children”.  Praise God that He is the one receiving the glory for their healing.

…one of them was overheard saying they would “never go back to the witch doctor now, after the amazing thing God has done for their children.”

The water surrounded this remote airstrip that is built up in the swamp land, giving it protection from the flooding. This runway, built with 5000 feet of murrum soil, is located in a swampy area with no buildings or infrastructure around it except a water-filled road leading to a town 3 kilometers away. After I landed, I could see the passengers struggling to get out to the runway, trudging through the swampy water to make it to the plane. My heart was filled with compassion to see them struggle, wondering how far they had come to make it to the airplane for this opportunity to have the needed surgery. Thoughts also flooded my soul about the abundance of material things I enjoy and the endless opportunities that abound in my life. I have so much, while some have so little. Upon their arrival to the airplane, I welcomed them through the help of an interpreter, giving them instructions about the flight and then we all prayed together, thanking God for this opportunity and asking for Him to watch over us on the journey to Juba.

Thank you, teammates, for being a special part of this work that Samaritan’s Purse is doing to minister to the physical and spiritual needs of those in need of cleft lip surgery. Throughout the week, 120 surgeries were completed bringing immediate physical transformation to the lives of these patients and families. AIM AIR was only a small part of this huge effort to minister to those in need, yet God used each one of you to make this huge team-effort possible. Thank you for your continued partnership as we work together to bring eternal transformation in the name of Jesus to those in need of Christ, like the woman who said they “would never go back to the witch doctor now, after the amazing thing God has done for their children.”

~Dan

It’s one of the unusual sounds you can hear each night around 6pm in many neighborhoods around Nairobi, ours included. The sound approaches and then passes by our house and travels on down the street, getting quieter as it goes. Often, you’ll hear it again at around 6am, heading in the opposite direction up the street, if you’re up early enough to listen for it. It’s certainly something I’ve never heard or seen in the US, and I doubt you have either.

What is this unusual sound, you might ask? It’s the sound of barking dogs. Well, you might say, barking dogs aren’t unusual. But these aren’t our next-door neighbor’s dogs, nor are they someone’s dogs out for a walk with their owners from a nearby neighborhood. This isn’t the woeful baying of our Beagle, Pickles, nor the higher pitched barking of our neighbor’s sweet little Dachshund, Maple. This unusual sound that travels by our house twice each day is that of security dogs, usually German Shepherds or other fierce dogs with deep throated barks, being delivered to, or picked up from, their 12-hour guard shift each night. They are trained by security companies to become night-watch guard dogs, working the night shift at various homes and businesses all around Nairobi, protecting, along with a night watchman, the property to which they are delivered.

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If you happen to be out for a run or walk at the time of delivery, you might even witness the security company’s dog handlers open one of the 15-20 side doors on the dog delivery truck to let out the dog chosen for duty that night. And if you also happen to be running with your Beagle, experience says I should warn you to not be too close when the dog handler releases said guard dog, just in case that dog, in all his ferocity, should get away from his handler and come after your sweet pup. And if he does come after your pup, you best be ready to keep your pup from him and hope the handler has a good enough command to retrieve said guard dog before your pup is injured in the process.

The experience from which I speak was a night when Dan and Lydia were out for an evening run through the neighborhood. When the dog delivery truck stopped about 100 meters from them, Jason the guard dog broke free from the handler and made a beeline to eat Pickles for an evening snack. Thankfully, Dan had the presence of mind to act quickly, yanking on Pickles’ leash and flinging him in a perilous arc just out of the reach of Jason’s snapping jaws. The dog trainer finally caught up with the 100 pounds of pure muscle that wanted to consume our little Pickles. Let’s just say, that if Pickles had been wearing pants that evening, they would have been soiled for sure.

Yes, sunset and sunrise here at the equator is an interesting time as these hounds clock in and out for their 12 hour night shifts around the city. It’s a good idea to give them a wide berth during delivery time, just in case they’re feeling a bit cranky about showing up for work that evening!

~Lesli

On June 10, 2021, our eldest son, Jon Michael Halvorson, graduated with a Bachelor of Arts in Environmental Studies from the School on the Environment at the University of Washington. Because of Washington state Covid restrictions at the time of his graduation, Jon Michael did not get to ‘walk’ to receive his diploma, but he ordered a cap and gown anyway for the time of celebration. On Saturday, June 12th, we had a great day walking around the U of W campus on a perfectly sunny day as Jon Michael, wearing his hard earned cap and gown, showed us where he did so much of his hard work.

To start off the fun week of festivities, we had a big family party at Dan’s parents’ house on the evening of June 10th (the day after we arrived in the US from Kenya). So fun to gather with 30 people in celebration of Jon Michael’s big accomplishment!

We also enjoyed a couple of days up in the Seattle area as a family, during which time we took the Seattle Light Rail into the city to walk around and enjoy the University of Washington campus for photos of the new grad. That afternoon we enjoyed an early dinner together at a nice Mexican restaurant.

After our couple of days spent in Seattle, we packed up and headed to Lake Pearrygin near Winthrop, WA to camp as a family at a place we had camped together many times when the kids were young. We enjoyed being back camping at the lake that holds so many fond family memories for each of us as we continued the celebration of Jon Michael’s graduation.

One morning we rented bikes to bicycle around the Methow Valley together, and spent another afternoon in the town of Winthrop enjoying some delicious ice cream at Sherri’s followed by some great putt-putt golf at the ‘Winthrop Country Club’. We even got a photo of the kids (minus Sarah who had already returned to Jackson Hole, WY where she’s working for the summer) on the saddles in front of the ice cream shop where we have taken so many pictures of them when they were young!

Jon Michael, we are so proud of the hard work and determination you put into accomplishing this great goal! We love you and are so glad we got to celebrate this achievement with you! CONGRATULATIONS!!

~Lesli

The weather radar gave its ominous red warnings showing thunderstorms impeding my approach. The angry crescent shaped band of T-storms blocked the mission station like a well-fortified army hunkered down to protect against an advancing enemy. My confidence in the weather report from an hour and half prior reporting clear skies was falling apart. I called our base, located 700 miles away, on the HF radio in an attempt to gain a current weather report. I could hear their weak and intermittent response eerily echoing through my headset, much like communication fading in and out from some distant planet. I yelled louder into my microphone, hoping that by raising my voice, I could make the atmospheric interference disappear. But like vainly yelling at a deaf man, it made no difference. I needed to know if the storms were pounding the mission station as well, or if this was just a band of thunderstorms between me and my destination. 

I had one hour and 45 mins of fuel left on board and needed to make some quick decisions for possible places to land, if needed. Heading back to a suitable dirt field 50 miles behind me would be possible as it was located around clear skies, but the aircraft would be stuck without fuel in this remote location. Maneuvering northwest to my preferred alternate 80 miles away would be impossible, due to the advancing storm. The only viable option would be proceeding 90 miles East, into Ethiopia where the nearest airfield with an instrument approach and fuel was located. This would be fraught with problems though, as I did not have permission to enter Ethiopian airspace. Many questions, most of them unpleasant, would be asked of me by the airport officials, if I just happened to pop into their country and airport.

Descending through the black curtain of rain, I changed course to the East, keeping the wall of thunderstorms off my left wing. Ethiopia would be my back up plan, as I continued maneuvering around the lightning and rain. I had just reviewed the approach into the Ethiopian airfield yesterday, so I knew it was possible. The turbulence continued to buffet my tiny aircraft as I descended to 10,000…8,000…6,000 feet, finally leveling off at 5000 feet. I was glad that I did not have passengers on board during the bumpy descent. They would be sick for sure and the added distraction of people losing their lunch was not needed today. The weather radar relentlessly painted a nasty picture of the thunderstorms in my desired path, continuing to alter my course. Aware of the mountains dotting the Ethiopian border, I kept a watchful lookout for the high mountains with our onboard terrain map, as I continued to fly through the clouds.

Meanwhile, back at the Nairobi hangar, my request for another weather update was taking a circuitous route. In an effort to get a report to Dan and facing communication difficulties, the mission station coordinator in South Sudan had called missionaries at one of our AIM housing compounds in Nairobi, instead of our base operations at the hangar. She had an urgent message to relay, as the weather had dramatically changed from the clear skies report she had relayed earlier in the flight. Now the report was black skies and rain. Thunderstorms were rolling through area. The missionaries on the AIM compound relayed the report to our base operations and then did the most important thing. One of them said, “We need to pray for Dan right now.” So, in the quietness of their home on that Friday afternoon, they prayed for my safety to our loving Father.

The missionaries on the AIM compound relayed the report to our base operations and then did the most important thing. One of them said, “We need to pray for Dan right now.”

I was oblivious to all of this, as I continued my slow descent trying to avoid overstressing the airplane with the wind gusts buffeting me back and forth. I checked my Garmin app for messages, hoping to receive a weather update as the HF radio only crackled with static. No incoming messages. I would continue my circuitous approach toward my destination, avoiding the thunderstorms, all the while hoping the mission station was not being battered by rain as well.

During periods of high stress, all aviators from Charles Lindbergh to Chuck Yeager to those flying the 777 around the world, pull back to one adage that has kept us safe through the years. It simply goes, Aviate, Navigate, and Communicate. When the stress level is high, those three statements keep you focused on the order of priorities. As I continued to evaluate and reevaluate my options through my risk management lens, those three priorities kept burning through my mind. I prayed, “Lord, help me to keep focused on what I need to and guide me through this” as I continued prioritizing my work. 

Aviate, navigate, communicate…As I continued to evaluate and reevaluate my options through my risk management lens, those three priorities kept burning through my mind.

Aviate: I would keep flying the airplane, focusing on airspeed and rate of descent, while ensuring checklists were complete, keeping the airplane safely configured and within safe parameters. 

Navigate: I would stick with my plan to fly along the Sudan/Ethiopian border, not taking chances near the T-storms, giving them healthy distance, while being aware of where my aircraft and the high terrain were at all times. 

Communicate: this part would be a little more difficult, as the HF radio was producing heavy static making it unusable and the Garmin InReach satellite messages were not giving timely information due to transmission lag. But I could keep transmitting in the blind on the local VHF radio, in case anyone at the airfield could hear me.

The simple adage: Aviate, Navigate, and Communicate grounds us aviators to be focused on the main things in order of priority and not let the little things distract us from the critical tasks at hand. The weather radar confirmed my plan was working as I continued along the border. The red and yellow bands on the display warning of hail, lightning, and turbulence were now to the South of me. If I proceeded directly toward the airfield, now just 20 miles away, I would be traversing through moderate rain, but not in danger of penetrating a thunderstorm. 

Still in the clouds and referencing the weather radar scope, I directed the aircraft straight into the green display band showing steady rain. I would maintain a direct course through the rain for 10 miles, not turning to the left or right. The rain pounded steadily on the windscreen as the aircraft pitched intermittently due to turbulence. It was not getting worse or better, just continued steady rain. “Stay the course,” I told myself. Over the years I had come to trust this piece of equipment, “Follow the green band on the display and eventually I will be through it,” I thought to myself. 

Sure enough, I continued my course and came through the hard rain while avoiding the rising terrain further to the East. Continuing my descent in the clouds and now light rain, I leveled off 1000 feet above the ground, as I selected the airfield on my flight path indicator. The airfield does not have a published approach, currently none are available in South Sudan, but by using the GPS coordinates and the runway heading, I could draw a line with my instruments to fly directly to the airfield. My horizontal visibility in front of the nose was very limited, but I could now see the ground through the low-level clouds and light rain. I would continue toward the airfield and hope to see the runway; if not, I was headed to Ethiopia.

Wondering if I would be landing in a few minutes at the mission station, or eating injera and tibs with lots of explaining to do for the Ethiopian officials, I pressed on toward the airfield in hopes of it somehow appearing. Within a mile and half of my destination, the airfield slowly came into view, as lingering clouds reluctantly revealed their hidden treasure. The runway was fully visible, and the murram soil looked dry enough to land. I quickly readied the aircraft for landing and pulled back the power. Soon enough I was enjoying the comfort of the soil beneath my feet.

Wondering if I would be landing in a few minutes at the mission station, or eating injera and tibs with lots of explaining to do for the Ethiopian officials, I pressed on toward the airfield in hopes of it somehow appearing.

With a hearty thanksgiving, I greeted the missionaries on the ground as we unloaded the tents and blankets that I was transporting for the churches to distribute to the displaced people. It was then that I learned how the weather had quickly changed from the initial weather report they had given me to the thunderstorms blowing into the area. Just 5 minutes before my arrival, the weather abated opening up a brief window for my approach and landing. As we talked, lightning continued to thunder in the area, and we delayed our fueling for an hour because of yet another storm blowing through. God had answered those prayers from a mission house 700 miles away and probably prayers from around the world that day, as a brief window in the storm opened up for my safe arrival!

Days and days go by with easy-going flights, but then a day like today reminds me how dangerous mission flying can be. With limited information and available alternatives in the remote places we often operate, problems can quickly stack up, making mission flying unpredictable and suddenly dangerous. I am thankful for the good instruction I’ve received from all those who trained me at JAARS, AIM AIR, MATA, and the U.S. Navy. So many have poured into me over the years, and I relied upon their many years of experience. I am thankful to those who constantly lift our family up in prayer from around the world and those who stopped to pray for me that Friday afternoon. And I am thankful to God for being a God who hears and answers prayer!

~Dan

The New Testament Bible Translation continues for the Jumjum people located in Sudan and South Sudan. Bible translators with Development and Literacy Partners International (DPLI), located at a mission station near the Sudan, South Sudan and Ethiopian borders have been working on the New Testament translation while discipling the Jumjum people. The translation work is time intensive, tough work, but God has enabled gifted men and women to take on this critical task. A 441-page Jumjum language and grammar book, produced by a committee of translators in 2020, shows the complexity of translating the oral language into written form. 

Translating the Word of God into a people group’s mother tongue opens a whole new method of communicating the Word of God. Even if individuals within the group speak multiple languages, they feel the closest connection to their mother tongue or heart language. My Kenyan pastor describes it very well.  Growing up as a boy, he read the Bible in his Kikuyu language. The Kikuyu tribe is the largest in Kenya and thus, the Bible was translated early on into this language. As he read the Bible in Kikuyu as a boy, he believed God must be Kikuyu, since God was talking to him in his own language. He felt an immediate affinity to God and His Word, instead of a distant connection when reading the Scripture written in a second language. This is why Bible translators are working all around the world to translate the remaining languages, so that all can hear God’s Word in their mother tongues without foreign barriers.

It has been a joy to fly for the DPLI Bible translators over the last 8 years that our family has been on the mission field. They depend on our logistical support for supplies and personnel movements. Sadly, they also depend on our ability to get them out of harm’s way as fighting frequently erupts in the area. On occasion, we have had to evacuate them out for short periods over the years.

The Jumjum are a mostly Islamic people group living amongst frequent fighting. The Good News of a loving Father who has sent his Son to bear their sins and restore their relationship to their Heavenly Father is greatly needed.

Thank you, Brothers and Sisters, for helping the Jumjum people receive and learn the Word of God in their own mother tongue. As Revelation 7:9 reminds us, God is calling people from every tribe, tongue and nation into His Kingdom. We will see Jumjum people worshiping Christ for all eternity. Praise God!!!

~Dan

“You told them WHAT? Keep their big dog for 6 months while they are on home assignment?” I responded as we were getting ready for bed that night back in early April 2015. “I told them I would need to talk to you first, to make sure you were okay with it, but I really think you’ll love her. She is a very sweet dog,” he patiently replied. This was the gist of the conversation Dan and I had one night after his return from Loiyangalani in northern Kenya, where he had just delivered supplies and stayed the night with the Woodworths who serve there. It was not the first time I had heard about Maya, their dog, but it was the first I heard of us volunteering to keep her for 6 months while they were away in the US on home assignment. He told me that he simply offered it for ‘one day…in the future’ and was completely surprised to hear them say they really needed someone to take her as they were leaving in 2 weeks. Having no idea their home assignment was upcoming when he made the offer, once it was made and they asked if he was serious, he told them yes, as long as his wife agreed.

Dan had flown to Loiyangalani several times before, bringing supplies to the Woodworths who were working there with The Master’s Mission. And he had told me many times about their big dog, Maya, who was ever so friendly. He would often stay the night when bringing in supplies to this very hot location near Lake Turkana and had told me how Maya would often come into his room at night and breathe her hot breath right in his face while he was sleeping. He appreciated her desire to greet him and her genuine friendliness, but the hot breath was a bit much in that extreme heat.

I think my biggest concern was that we had recently moved into the home we were in and we had a 7-month-old Beagle, Pickles, to consider. And he was a LOT of work as I managed the home, homeschooled our two youngest children and continually let him in and out, in what seemed like every 15 minutes of the day. It was also the beginning of rainy season which with a dog means one thing: MUDDY PAWS! Muddy paws from the dark red dirt turned mud here in Kenya. Muddy paws that need to be cleaned in a basin of water each time said dog goes outside and immediately wants to come back in to stay dry. And now my husband was suggesting that for the next 6 months we add another dog, a very large dog, to the muddy paw fray. There was also the problem of keeping her for 6 months, growing attached and then having to give her back to the Woodworths. How would I bring this dog into our home, only to fall in love with her (after all he kept repeating how sweet she was) and then give her back to them! I wasn’t sure I had it in me, even with his repeated reference to her sweetness, but I could tell by how he talked about her with that look in his eyes, that we were likely going to have a new addition to our family very soon. Now I just needed to mentally prepare for this big change…and help the children prepare as well!

After discussions together and then with the children, we finally decided it would be good to have her come and stay, and she arrived just about 2 weeks later, just before Sarah’s 16^th birthday. Dan met the Woodworths in a grocery store parking lot to pick her up. He was concerned she might hesitate getting into the car with him, a near stranger, for the drive across town to our home, but much to his surprise, she said her goodbyes to her family and happily hopped up into the Land Cruiser. When he arrived home, I was not there. I’ll never forget driving up to our home that evening and having this HUGE dog come bounding down the driveway to greet me. Her head came up to my stomach, and her paws were huge. She had the droopy eyes and jowls of a St. Bernard but was reddish in coloring. And Dan was certainly right, she was friendly! Very BIG, and very friendly.

Upon her arrival, Pickles went into instant protest. He barked almost constantly at this HUGE dog that was now in the home with all of us, as if to say, “Hello…does anyone see that there is an intruder dog here in our home…a dog that is NOT part of this family! Hello…will somebody please make her leave!” After 10-15 minutes of him barking at her lying peacefully on the tile, she would reply with a HUGE, DEEP, heart-stopping bark. This would make each of our hearts practically stop, and temporarily stop Pickles from barking for possibly 5 minutes. After we had all recovered from the shock of her huge bark, Pickles would start in barking again to repeat the cycle. After almost a week of this I really thought we had made a mistake taking her. Would he continue to bark at her for the next 6 months? It was mayhem! And then, just as I had been concerned, there were the muddy paws.

About one week after her arrival, we decided to bring in topsoil to our yard to help the grass grow better. And then it started raining. And you can only imagine how muddy the paws of this 100 pound St. Bernard/Rottweiler mix dog got. You know when you bread chicken, dipping it in flour, then eggs, and then breadcrumbs, and you get those giant clumps of breading on your fingers? THIS was what Maya’s paws were like after just a couple of minutes walking outside. So, I would fill a basin with water, take each paw and put it in the water, rub the paw with my hand to remove the large clods of red dirt that had adhered to it, and remove it to the towel for drying. After all 4 paws were done individually, she could once again come inside, and hopefully I had removed all the red Kenyan dirt so as to not have it tracked throughout the house. Then, after changing the water in the basin, I would proceed with washing Pickles’ paws in the same fashion. This would be fine if they went out for most of the day and returned only in the evening, but they were in and out all day long! It wasn’t long after the topsoil arrived to our yard that I really regretted getting it.

Somehow, we made it through that rainy, muddy season though, and day by day, Maya worked her way into each of our hearts, including Pickles’. He finally stopped barking at her after a few weeks. It was then he realized that Maya was a lot of fun to play with. She would flip him onto his back, put her mouth gingerly on his neck, gently grab his leg with her mouth and pull him down, causing him to squeal every so often, but never once really hurting him. He was like a kid in the candy store, going back for more just minutes after she let him know she was done playing with her huge, deep bark. And even though she was usually the one to tell him play time was over, you could see that she liked playing with him as much as he liked playing with her. It brought out the ‘young dog’ in her.

It wasn’t only Pickles who loved being around Maya. She was sweet. Just as Dan had described her when he would return from a trip to the mission station. I often said that Maya was born with the demeanor and approach to life of “How can I make you happy?’ That’s how she lived her life. She was always delighted to see us when we came home or simply walked into the room where she was resting. She would often do what we called her ‘blocking maneuvers’ to get between Pickles and us when she wanted ‘some loves’ and felt Pickles was getting more than she. She loved to be petted and always wanted to be as close to us as possible for attention. This was great, except on Sunday mornings when we were all dressed up for church. We would come out one by one to go to the car and each one dance our way around her trying to avoid getting her wet St. Bernard jowls on our clean church clothes. She really meant no harm, but just wanted to be close for some lovin’. And then, sometimes when she got a bit too close it would happen. Her huge paw, with the 100+ lbs. of weight pressing down from her body, would come crunching down onto your bare sandaled toe. And boy did it hurt. But the minute you made any expression of pain from her stepping on you, she would feel so bad and try to make you feel better by coming close again for more lovin’, her whole-body wiggling sheepishly toward you. Even as she aged and found it really hard to get that big body up, when we would drive into the driveway, she would make the huge effort needed to get up from her resting spot nestled in the cool flower bed and amble over to see us.

After the allotted 6 months, we didn’t hear from the Woodworths. We were concerned, as they were planning to return to Kenya in October, but no word came from them. And while we were concerned, we were not sad for any extra days we got with her. We had told them before they left that we would keep her as long as they needed, but we wondered why they weren’t getting in touch with us. And honestly, by this point, I, and really the whole family, were so connected to her that we could not imagine giving her back to them. She had definitely worked her way into my heart, as well as the hearts of each of us in the family. It wasn’t long after the 6 months that Dan finally got word from her family. Jon explained that he had lost all of his contacts in his phone, and it had taken him a while to get our contact info again. He also shared that with changes in their mission organization, they had made the decision to stay in the states for a longer period than expected. They were honestly not even sure they would be coming back to Kenya at all. At this point, we offered to keep Maya indefinitely, to which Jon and their family agreed. We were delighted! The dreaded day of giving her back to them would now never come!!

When Maya came to us in April 2015, she was somewhere around 6 or 8 years old…they weren’t exactly sure. I guess that’s kind of how it goes with missionary dogs. We got to keep her as ours until her death September 23, 2019. Over those five and a half years, Maya brought our whole family a lot of love, as well as great protection! Her bark would scare anyone who didn’t know her away. In our old neighborhood, the kids from our Weekly Kids’ Bible Club got to know her and quickly realized how sweet she was despite her large size and impressive bark, but their parents were always quite cautious around her, and even concerned when the kids wanted to come over to visit her and pet her. And whenever the water or electric company sent an employee to come and read our meter, they would enter our yard with trepidation. No stranger would ever dare come into our yard with Maya there to protect us.

Maya had a zest for life! Whatever she did, she did it with everything she had. If we brought her a bone from the butcher, she ate it with joy and vigor, often devouring it in just a few mighty crunches of her jaws…and she especially loved it if we stayed by her side while she gobbled it up. At Christmas, when we brought home a goat to roast, she was right in there with Dan and Jon Michael as they did the slaughtering, waiting patiently in hopes of getting a bit of meat to enjoy. When she did, she ate it with joy!

She also loved to go out for walks, or perhaps they are better called strolls.  She would proudly walk down the street on her leash with her head held high as the neighborhood dogs howled behind their gates. We always said that those dogs were her subjects, and she the Queen, sauntering on parade. Pickles, our Beagle LOVES to go running, and he will run as many miles as you set out for, never stopping until we are back at the house. He’s even wise to the tactic of taking him for part of the run and then going for another part without him. He just won’t have that as he will bark in protest throwing himself at the gate until you return! Maya, on the other hand, always started out super excited for the first few minutes of her stroll, trying to run like Pickles and setting out at a brisk trot…almost a canter. But then, after a short bit of light jogging with that hefty body of hers, she would slow to a walk and then quickly become ‘barn sour’, pulling us toward home! As the years went on, she still liked to go out for her strolls, and still always headed out briskly at first with a light jogging pace, but often she couldn’t make it farther than the end of the road before she was tired and ready to go home. Sometimes she might not even make it all the way home before lying down in the road in protest to anymore walking. Somehow, we would get her big body up and coax her to go though, and she’d make it back to the house, happy to have been out on parade with her people.

As Maya got older and less mobile, she spent more and more time sleeping in and amongst the flowers in the cool dirt of the flower beds. One of those places was right in front of our neighbors’ (with whom we share a home and yard) front stairs. Prior to Maya’s arrival, they had beautiful flowers blooming there, but the more she laid there, those flowers got uprooted from the weight of her large stature. But she loved the feel of the cool dirt on her hot fur in the Nairobi sun, so there she would happily lie. After her death, our neighbors, the Sharmas, bought a huge ceramic pot in which to plant some lotus flowers. The lotus flower grows in murky water, almost like a lily pad, blooming with beautiful purple flowers. They wanted something beautiful there where Maya often lay. They told me that in India, they say of the lotus flower that ‘out of the muck comes beauty’. So, even as Maya was no longer part of our lives, out of the ‘muck’ of her death, they wanted to have something grow there that was a beautiful reminder of sweet Maya. Such a thoughtful gesture by them.

Maya came to us unexpectedly and with some initial concerns, and though at first, I was doubtful, she quickly worked her way into my heart and the hearts of most who met her. She was so big with a heart stopping bark, she loved to go out with us for her strolls and light jogs, occasionally she’d crush my bare sandaled toe with her big paw, but mostly she was our sweet Maya Girl who taught us so much with her abounding unconditional love. She was always ready to give love, never expecting anything in return. She didn’t wait for you to love her first, she always wanted to give love to anyone who came nearby. Even when she could barely walk in her last days, her face would light up when we came to spend time with her, and her whole countenance would calm in the midst of her pain as she enjoyed time with us near her side. It was so hard to say goodbye to her that afternoon of September 23, 2019, with tears streaming down my face, but I’m so thankful for the opportunity to have her as our own for the five and a half years God blessed us with our sweet Maya Girl.

~Lesli

Through my passenger window, I can see green palms dot the road, sunken into the reddish-brown soil. Intermixed amongst them, the beautiful jacaranda tree branches are heavily weighted down in full violet bloom. Their petals fall to the ground, making the streets look like a royal carriageway. Feeling hot, I crack my window and take in the smell of fresh diesel fumes mixed with the earthy African soil.  It is strange calling diesel “fresh,” I know, but it is a smell my family and I have come to love. Diesel and soil mixed together in an earthy concoction provides a fragrant reminder of Africa as our home. I am enjoying the view and a break from driving in the ‘Nairobi jam’, as my Uber driver navigates the way. My route is taking me into the city to renew my driving license. I spy with my little eye out my window, a lady strolling confidently along the sidewalk with a huge basket of mini yellow bananas on her head. I wonder where she is going and marvel at her balancing skill that she makes look so easy. “How long would it take for me to learn to do that…could I even do that?” I ponder to myself.

Then one day, in the solitude of my college apartment, the Holy Spirit spoke to me in the quietness of my despair, saying, “Either you are going to follow Jesus or not, but you can’t go on pretending. You need to make a choice if you are going to serve Me or not.” In deep repentance and brokenness, with tears flowing down my cheeks, I called upon Jesus to save me. I told the Lord that day in 1992 that I would serve Him no matter what. I can now look back on that day as a clear fork in the road of my life. From that moment on, I wanted to serve the Lord with every part of my life. I was no longer comfortable with my sin. Yes, I would still sin, but now my attitude toward it was completely different. I would repent of my sin as it emerged in my life and turn away from it, seeking now to be obedient to my Savior. Following Christ’s teachings and total surrender to Him became my hope, my desire, my joy.

In deep repentance and brokenness, with tears flowing down my cheeks, I called upon Jesus to save me.

I urge my Uber driver, reminding him that attending church is not what counts (although Christ calls us to do so), what Christ requires from us is love and obedience (and trust in what He did for us on the Cross). He requires total allegiance. Following His teachings as we walk in love with our Savior is what He requires of us.

My driver listens attentively and reacts in agreement. We talk about how many people attend church, but aren’t really living a life of transformation in Christ and how this has affected society. As we talk, I wonder what he is thinking. It is hard for me to gauge his thoughts even though he remains talkative and receptive. Eventually our conversation turns from spiritual matters to something else. I hope I have been an encouragement to him. I pray silently to myself that our conversation would be used by the Holy Spirit as needed in his life.

We arrive outside the licensing office and I thank my Uber driver for getting me here safely. Our paths in life have crossed for only an hour, but it has been an important hour, one that will be used by God in both of our lives.

I look forward to the next hour God will give me in talking with someone. May I use it wisely for your Kingdom, dear Father! 

~Dan

Here in Kenya, people are often called Mama and Baba followed by one of their children’s first names. For instance, I am called Mama Abraham, or Mama Lydia, depending on which child of mine the person addressing me knows. Often at our kids’ school, Rosslyn Academy, the security guard staff will refer to me as one of those two names, as Lydia and Abraham are the children who most recently attended there. But a few weeks before Christmas this year, I was walking onto campus and the head of the transportation department greeted me saying, “Habari, Mama Mbuzi?” At first, I was a bit taken aback at this salutation, because as I quickly shuffled through my “Kiswahili dictionary”, the one inside my brain, I recalled that mbuzi means goats. I wondered, “Why would he call me Mama Goats?” Then, after a moment of thought, I realized the reason for such a name. With Christmas just around the corner, he was referring to a tradition our family started 3 years ago, that of celebrating Christmas with all the security guards and police officers at our kids’ school with Nyama Choma – otherwise known as a goat roast. He was calling me Mama Mbuzi as a term of endearment as he remembered the goat roasts of the previous two years, and in a way indicating his excitement and hopeful anticipation of the upcoming roast this Christmas. I of course responded with a smile and a laugh at my newly given name, telling him how excited we all were to celebrate with them again this year.

Let me share with you a bit about goats here in Kenya. The first Christmas we were here in 2013, I remember going for a run through our neighborhood the week leading up to Christmas and being struck with a new sound to my ears that hadn’t been there in previous weeks: the bleating of goats. At first, I didn’t think much of it, but as Christmas day approached, not only was I hearing the goats bleating, I started seeing them as well, being walked on leads by young children to graze on the common area grass. And it wasn’t just one goat, NO, there were many! Thinking it a bit strange, I didn’t give it too much thought, but just carried on with my run. Until I went running again, this time after Christmas. After completing my run, I realized the sound of bleating had been strangely absent. That’s when it all came together. The goats were for Christmas…not as new pets for these families, as I had previously thought, but for Christmas dinner.

Another story about goats is from our third Christmas in Kenya. It was sometime around Christmas and this year as a family, we had purchased a goat to celebrate like the Kenyans. Learning that the price of goats goes up each day closer it gets to Christmas, we purchased our goat three days before Christmas. Bringing it home, we tied it to our fence and let it graze in our yard, and let me tell you, it ate ANYTHING and EVERYTHING within its reach! On Christmas Eve, Dan and Jon Michael slaughtered the goat and we roasted it over the fire in our yard, enjoying a delicious Christmas Eve meal, Kenyan style. One day around that time, our mechanic Denis was over working on our car. Dan must have been thinking about the slaughtering of the goat because he asked Denis, “Have you ever slaughtered a goat?” To which Denis exclaimed in response, “I wouldn’t be Kenyan if I hadn’t slaughtered a goat!”

From these stories you can probably tell goats are an important part of the culture here in Kenya. They are a symbol of celebration and are often roasted and eaten for special events such as Christmas, graduations, weddings, and other important gatherings. We’ve learned that each tribe has their own unique way of slaughtering them, and even their own way of cooking and eating them. And every part of the goat is eaten, even the intestines and head.

A few weeks before Christmas, the goat shepherds will transport their goats to Nairobi for sale. That first Christmas that we got one, Dan asked a Kenyan friend from work to accompany him for the purchase. They drove the Land Cruiser to the area where goats are sold and bought the goat right alongside the road. Dan brought the goat home to live in our yard for a few days before Christmas. Now, after getting goats each Christmas since, Dan usually takes one of our kids with him to make the purchase…and now we usually buy them the day we plan to slaughter them, as we learned those first two years just how destructive they can be on the yard. They really do eat anything and everything!

This year, with Covid restrictions placed on the school by the government, we weren’t sure we would be able to have the traditional goat roast together with the Rosslyn guards. But Dan contacted the school officials early so we could confirm it was still possible and set the date. We were delighted to hear that we could proceed with the celebration, even with Covid restrictions. It is something we and the guards look forward to each year.

So on December 23^rd, with all of our children home for Christmas, we had our third annual Christmas goat roast with the Rosslyn Academy security guards and police officers. Dan, Jon Michael, and his girlfriend, Anna, went early in the morning to buy the goats alongside the road.

After purchasing them, they loaded them up in the Land Cruiser and brought them back to the school.

After arriving back at Rosslyn, they and the guards proceeded to slaughter the goats, skin them and prepare them for the roasting.

The other kids and I showed up at school a little later in the morning with all the other food supplies: the kale for the sukumawiki, the maize meal for the ugali, the tomatoes, onions, peppers, lemons and salt for the kachumbari and sodas to drink.

We spent the morning roasting and boiling the goats, cooking the ugali and sukumawiki, and chopping mountains of onions, peppers and tomatoes for the kachumbari.

We gathered at around 1pm when all the food was prepared. Dan shared with the guards how much we appreciate their sacrifice of working hard to keep the school safe each day of the year. Then, after praying together we sat down to enjoy a lovely Nyama Choma meal with our friends who are so dedicated to our school.

With satisfied stomachs and content hearts from a nice time spent together eating, fellowshiping, and celebrating Christmas, Dan and I stood, addressing all of the guards and police officers with a ‘Vote of Thanks’, again conveying how thankful we are for the work they do for our school and how they represent the school so well in their dedication and hard work. The head of security in turn gave us a ‘Vote of Thanks’ for the meal we had just enjoyed together. It was a wonderful day of Christmas celebrations with these precious friends of ours.

A few days after the New Year, Dan was surprised to receive a text from William, the head of security. He told Dan that the guards had something for him at the school, and that he could pass by the main gate whenever was convenient to get it. When the text arrived, Lydia, Dan and I were the only ones home preparing dinner, so while the chili was simmering on the stove, we walked up to the school. We greeted our friend Julius, one of the guards, who was happy to see us. After chatting for a bit, we told him that William had instructed us to come by. A big smile quickly covered his face…shielded by his mask, of course…and directing us into the security room, he pointed to the other side of the counter where two beautifully carved animals sat. He explained that they were a gift the guards had organized to thank us for the Christmas celebration together. The larger carving was a rhino, the smaller one an elephant, both carved with great detail. On the back of the Rhino was tacked a laminated paper saying, “APPRECIATION FROM ROSSLYN SECURITY/D.P.U. OFFICERS TO DAN HALVORSON FAMILY”. To say that we were surprised and overwhelmed with this beautiful gift is an understatement! We could not believe they had these made for us, beautifully carved by a gardener who works at Rosslyn. We thanked them over and over, took a few photos with the guards on duty and then paraded our way down the road to our house, proudly carrying these beautiful gifts with us!

What a precious time we had with these brothers in Christ, celebrating Christmas together! If the Lord allows, this Mama Mbuzi and the whole family excitedly anticipates celebrating Christmas with nyama choma again with them next year.

~Lesli