Happy Two-Month Anniversary!

Patti and I celebrating our two-month anniversary hours after my surgery.

Three days after returning home from our seven-week globetrotting honeymoon the right side of my neck is swollen like a softball, and I find myself, for the first time, lying in a hospital bed. An elusive infection in my lymph nodes has caused severe inflammation extending from my right ear down to my windpipe and from my cheek over to my shoulder. I'm barraged by daily blood tests, CT scans and ultrasounds, antibiotics that irritate my veins, IVs swapped every other day, and pain medication that makes me loopy and fatigued. Uncertain of the specific diagnosis, the conscious me sits on the sidelines of my own battlefield, watching patiently for the size of my neck to shrink or grow, tipping the scales in favor of my body or an unseen enemy. But one thing is certain: when reciting our vows, Patti and I never thought the "sickness" part of "in sickness and in health" would be played out so early in our marriage.

Sure, the circumstances seem pretty gloomy for a newlywed couple, but in some ways the hospital has been more restful than our honeymoon, gallivanting throughout Southeast Asia in search of beaches, diving, and cultural excursions. Compared to some of the AirBnBs we stayed at, the hospital is definitely cleaner, my sheets are changed daily, and there is hot water and a working thermostat, not to mention breakfast, lunch, and dinner are included! To our surprise, the service is actually on par with the resort we stayed at in the Maldives; the staff addresses me by name and knows I would prefer the honey-glazed chicken over the Asian cod. Dare I say, with my window view, I might even be getting a hospital tan.

Yet our "extended honeymoon" has a much more profound meaning to me in the sense that it has defined and shaped the beginnings of our marriage in a way that no resort or beach ever could. Despite the sleepless nights and my growing inability to perform daily tasks, like changing my gown or eating solid food, Patti has patiently been at my side, never complaining and never worrying. She's grown a sense for what I need, a glass of water or a blanket for my feet, before I even know I need it, and she cheerfully takes the initiative to help. Sometimes, she even sneaks into my hospital bed so we can play games and watch Netflix together, never mind the nurse saying something about a hospital policy and the bed's weight limit. Other times we just sit in silence, tapping away on our cell phones, contently side by side. She walks with me the same 4th floor figure-eight loop hallway to which I am restricted, over and over, until I reach my daily step goal. Suffice to say, I have grown to deeply appreciate and cherish my wife, just as she has grown to love and care for me, as a result of our unintentional honeymoon extension.

It is Friday afternoon, the day of our two-month anniversary, and my fifth day in the hospital. There are still no signs that the swelling is subsiding. The ENT surgeon walks into my room after viewing my CT scan from a half hour ago. The scan reveals a large abscess filled with liquefied tissue forming in my neck, which is preventing the antibiotics from reaching the bacteria. He wants to perform surgery immediately to drain the abscess. Waiting could risk the infection spreading to my heart or brain. Surgery poses its own risks of course. The carotid artery, windpipe, vocal chords, and a bundle of nerves are all near the abscess. This is our hardest moment, when uncertainties and realities begin to merge. And while the choice is clear, the repercussions are not. Tissues in hand, we go ahead with the surgery that evening. Before I'm put under, Patti and I read Psalm 138 together, finding comfort in the last verses:

"Your love, Lord, endures forever - do not abandon the works of your hands."       

- Psalm 138:8

A praise, a reassurance, and an imperative, all rolled up in one.

I woke up, slowly. Groggily, I recall Patti leaning over the gurney with a big grin. The surgery went well, the doctors were able to drain more than anticipated, and within hours my pain had nearly vanished. Now, as I finish writing this a week later, I am told I could be discharged within a day or two. The swelling has diminished but it will still take another couple of weeks of rest and antibiotics until the infection is completely cleared up. But alas, an end to our honeymoon is in sight.

This may sound strange to some, but I recall during my first week in the hospital, while resting with my eyes closed, a vision of a large wooden door, made from strong thick timbers, and built into a stone archway. I step back and look above the door to discover our names, "Kyle and Patti Gaiser" engraved in the mossy stone. The archway is built into an even thicker layer of rock, which is built into the side of a mountain. The image confers an overwhelming sense of encouragement and peace, affirming that through these events God is laying the groundwork for our marriage - a solid foundation, built on a rock that cannot be easily toppled.

Sell Everything

Jesus looked at him and loved him. “One thing you lack,” he said. “Go, sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.”
- Mark 10:21

Difficult words.

This morning's sermon was based on this passage, and it reminded me of an old bucket list I had started in high school and happened upon the other day when cleaning my room. On that list, scribbled with my messy high school penmanship, was written, "live poor." Depending on whose standards you use, you could say I accomplished this when I was living in Rwanda: lacking clean water, electricity, food variety, and common accessories or luxuries. In fact, many people naturally compliment and even admire my work or any other volunteer's work based upon this reason alone. "It must have been difficult."

Today the two most provoking words in this verse, sell everything, took on a different spin for me. I did not sell everything. I sacrificed time, energy, even money for the poor, but the whole time that I was "living poor" I had another home awaiting my return, a room with a bed, a closet full of clothes, belongings gathering dust, a budget for travel and another for resettling back in America. In my attempts to live like the locals and understand life from their perspective, I soon realized that I would only be able to view from a distance. Even if they were my neighbors, even if I lived life with them day in and day out, I could never fully grasp what it was like not to have the money to pay for a bus fare or watch your kids go hungry, the fear of not having anything to fall back on, the emptiness of losing your family to war and genocide, the lack of opportunity to go to school or use your degree after you've earned it.

I wonder if this is why Jesus says to sell everything: not just because a rich man cannot serve two masters, but because he knows that as long as we have another option to fall back on, we aren't fully trusting him. And as long as we aren't fully trusting him, we will never be able to fully understand and experience life. Perhaps this is Jesus' definition of "faith." Faith is not so much about belief, but more to do with trusting Him because we choose to abandon all other options in pursuit of Christ. Just as I could sell everything in order to truly understand what it means to "live poor", Christ calls us to abandon all other options to living our life and follow him in order to truly understand what it means to "live rich."

Lint

As I recall, one of my first surprises when returning stateside was lint. Yep, those little fuzzy balls that get stuck in your belly button or the stringy remnant of socks that stick between your toes, lint was one of the first wake up calls that I was indeed back in America, the land of washing machines and tumble dryers.

As I have come to realize, my experience with lint is a fitting analogy for what people usually define as "reverse culture shock." It's the little things that you don't expect, and it isn't about the American culture itself as it is about the effects of our culture on our lifestyle. So, coming back to America isn't so much about culture shock to me as it is about lifestyle readjustment.

For example, hot showers, driving a car, using a washing machine, the attitudes of people, the way Americans think and interact with each other - these are aspects of our culture to which I adjusted rather quickly and soon accepted as normal because it is what I've grown up with. However, while taking a shower every morning feels completely normal, I am surprised and even appalled by how much perfectly clean water I use - and waste. As a conservative estimate, the amount of water I used to shower this morning (assuming 6 liters per minute for a very low flow showerhead) was about the equivalent of five day's worth of water for bathing, drinking, washing dishes, and cooking in Rwanda. Factor in the water pouring from our faucets, flushing our toilets, and flowing in our dish washers and washing machines and you'll have an idea of how big of an adjustment this is to me.

Another readjustment is how having a car at my disposal increases how sedentary I am. The most I need to walk anymore is from the house to the car and from the car to the store. Before, I was used to walking everywhere, even kilometers, to run an errand. It seems so crystal clear to me why Americans are overweight, why we are prone to more diseases, why we make exercise a sport. I'm recalling Back to the Future III right now, where Doc , in 1885, is laughed at for saying that people in the future "run for fun." At first I enjoyed the freedom of having a car again, but now I'm starting to feel the urge to walk or bike places. I just can't stand taking a car everywhere.

As the honeymoon phase of being back in America settles, I'm starting to see these differences and wrestle with the changes in lifestyle. I'll try to post more "lint" ideas as they come, and I would like to hear what you think of the differences and how we should respond to these differences, if at all.

Belonging

May 26

Before I came to Africa I remember struggling with finding my place, as many new graduate do, in that strange period between the comforts of college and the security of settling - the vastness of an unknown life ahead of me. I had a strong hold on who I was, but a slippery grasp of who i was to the rest of the world.

Now, in Rwanda, finding my place looks very different from when I was in America. In some sense it's easier.  A clearly defined role as a volunteer, as an American, as a voluntary outsider (by color and culture at least), the new friendships in my community, and the comradeship of other volunteers in the same position all help define my place in Rwanda, making it feel at home. But in a different way, a more subtle way, home is difficult to establish. With all the new surroundings, it's not hard to detach or distance myself from this new home, to be distracted from my work here, or to sort of turn the autopilot on: going through the motions of teaching, building friendships, and working around cultural barriers.

A friend from home recently sent me a prayer (as she does every month - thanks!!) on this subject. Here's part of it: 
   "Do not let it sit in. Teach him to embrace it, knowing and constantly thanking you for the world you placed him in and the knowledge you have given him to pass to others. Bring back a childlike faith in him to relearn everything in the new surroundings... Let him find your presence in every piece of the surroundings. How can one yearn for anything more than your presence?"          

A couple days before I left Cleveland for Jamestown to begin packing for Rwanda, I heard a worship song that said, "I finally found where I belong, in Your presence." I'm finding it's true, in any situation. I can travel the world, alone or with life long friends, and I know where I belong. I always have a place. 

Warm sun on my back, cool breeze on my face. Smell of freshly cut grass. Hum of birds' wings around me... a world of open doors... 

The First Day

Today I started the first day of my job, and with that, I realized that I haven't posted on here for quite some time due to the craziness of finishing my last semester of school. But don't fret! With the 9-5 job comes free evenings and weekends, which means I intend on posting more frequently than I have been. In the meantime, I want to give you a quick run down of what's happened and how I got to where I am now!

Last semester I started looking for jobs with the expectation of being out of Cleveland. Thus, I went to the Case Career Fair not expecting much either. Low and behold, I stumbled upon a fantastic company called Contained Energy that does renewable fuel cell research, which is right up my alley. Moreover, they are a small, very hands-on (everything from design, fabrication, and testing), and cutting-edge technology group. It was a perfect fit, so I couldn't turn it down... which puts me here in Cleveland.

The second really cool thing is that I needed a new apartment, off campus, but I didn't want to come home alone, bum around, and give up on my heart for ministry to the needy and to young adults. So, I started praying and asking others to pray for a guy roommate who had the same idea as me. A week and half later, I met Drew, a guy who just came back from Africa and was in the same situation as me. This past Monday we moved into a place near downtown, and we can't wait to get settled in and keep doing outreach to the people in Cleveland and on college campuses!

Well, that's my update; I tried to keep it brief. More to come later... so check back now and then and don't be shy to post a reply!

later gaters... kg

Awe

I remember a speaker last year say that there are something like a dozen emotions that humans experience, and the one least experienced is awe. Awe. I don't quite know where I'm going with this post because it's hard to describe, but I think 'Awe' sums it up. This past week, I've been overwhelmed by a sense of awe, mainly through my classes as we study nature.

Unlike previous semesters where we just took notes and regurgitated formulas, we're delving into topics that don't have known solutions; they still fluster scientists and engineers. I look back in history at how scientists encountered and solved problems that today seem trivial, yet here we are with a plethora of our own questions, the answers somehow all linked together beautifully to describe the universe. I am in awe at how amazingly intricate, complex, and yet simple nature is. I am in awe by the depth of nature.

By my senior year, we've practically run out of variables to use. We've called upon the English and Greek alphabet, using capital and lower case letters, subscripts and superscripts, and still we joke in class that we'll need to switch to the Hebrew alphabet soon. This is especially true in my Flight Dynamics class. Every day he introduces new variables, new quantities that detail a requirement that must be met for flight. I paused yesterday after class and realized what a miracle it is that an airplane can even fly. Moreover, nature goes about its course - birds fly, gravity keeps us planted, we breath in and out - without ever knowing all the details.

Naturally, more questions come to mind. How trustworthy are our instincts? Is the pursuit of knowledge the only way to understand truth? I'll leave the philosophy open to discussion :-P

Go East Young Man, Go East

On Saturday I was driving home from Cleveland and saw something I normally don't see: the sunset... in my review mirror.

I've always dreamt of just going, following the sun as it sets. I started this summer as a rafting guide on the intrepid white water of Colorado. With a backpack, duffel bag, bike, and greyhound ticket in hand, I headed West to new terrain and new adventures. But for some reasons that were clear, and for others that I have yet to understand, I found myself going East, going home.

Home. Family. Friends. Rolling green hills with an early morning mist that fills the valley, hovers above the water, and, when the golden sun shines through, looks like a painting of heaven's gates. There is a season for everything; sometimes it is boundless exploration. Sometimes plans change. Sometimes, it is home.