on marshmallows. . .

When we were back in the States and people asked us what we needed in Kenya, David and I would often simultaneously reply “marshmallows” with a smile. It seemed a ridiculous request from a family a half a world away, but in the three years proceeding, we had found immense comfort from the simple white puffed sugar. . . .

Last week was a two-bags of marshmallows kind of week. Lots of patients, lots of difficult cases, balancing of life inside and outside the hospital, more news of goodbyes, and hard questions with even more difficult answers. And then, out of nowhere, one of my patients from RVA brought me three giant backs of kraft jet puffed marshmallows.

And I smiled at the end of a nonstop day – He sees. He knows.

When we moved into our house in Kenya three years ago this week, there was a random bag of marshmallows at the top of the stairs that the previous family had left, knowing nothing of my marshmallow obsesion. We ate them while we unpacked (the girls love them as much as I do). It seemed a gentle whisper that Kenya was not that far away and a welcome to a new place.

Over the ensuing months, we had a bit of a marshmallow supply train. For 18 months, we did not go more than three days without a bag of marshmallows in the house. It seemed that as soon as we would finish one, another would show up. You can’t get real marshmallows anywhere on the continent, so it was remarkable.

A visitor from the US showing up with a random bag. . .

A care package from friends. . .and then another.

A person leaving who found marshmallows in the back of their freezer.

A Kijabe friend returning from furlough with a suitcase padded with a couple of bags.

A camping trip with an extra bag for smores.

Slowly, the steady supply slowed, but that slowing came with a sense of home in Kijabe – the constant reminder not as necessary. So, two months ago, when the supply chain started again,  I saw God’s grace and gentle whisper to me in the spongy sugar.

Chaos and the number of marshmallows that show up to get me through seem to be directly correlated.

In the midst of election uncertainty, a continuing nursing strike, and our adjustment after being gone a few months, “those white things” as the nurses at the hospital call them have brought a sense of somewhat hilarious peace to the storm.

As I type this, I am munching on my last bag and wondering where the next one one is coming from. . .because it will. As a reminder of friends who love us, and of our God, who cares about the little things – knowing that they can make a disproportionate difference in the day to day.

Sign on our kitchen wall:)