Mission Journal Day 2

We ended up arriving in Zurich only fifteen minutes late. We must have had a powerful tail wind all the way across the Atlantic. Fortunately for us, our departing flight was only two gates over from our arrival gate. We had about an hour to take a bathroom brake and stroll through the terminal. To my surprise, we had to pass through another security checkpoint inside the terminal even though we arrived and would depart without going outside of the concourse. I began worrying about time again when I saw the row of metal detectors. But, the security people didn’t make me take off my shoes or make me take the camera out of the case. We passed through quickly and found our gate with twenty minutes to spare.

Twenty minutes to take in the sights of Switzerland. Well, I was unimpressed with what I could see through the glass walls of the terminal. I expected Zurich to be a large European city surrounded by snow-capped mountains. From where I stood I didn’t see a city. The mountains that surrounded the airfield were more like hills, instead of proud members of the Alps. The view reminded me of what I would see if I was standing at the gate at Asheville Regional Airport back home. I was disappointed I didn’t see fluffy white snow, settled into jagged rock cliffs. Only in the movies right?

We had a good flight into Kenya. It lasted seven hours and was pretty much uneventful. I did have to switch seats with a young mother and her baby. The three of us were together in the center isle. A two-year-old boy sitting in the row in front of us kept turning around in his seat and teasing the baby while the mother was desperately trying to put the baby to sleep. The boy’s father did absolutely nothing to keep the kid from reaching over the seat and tapping the mother on her head. So I gave her my seat and I sat behind the out of control two year old. I must not have been a good target for the boy because he didn’t turn around and try to tap me on the head while I was reading.

We landed in Nairobi at about seven o’clock in the evening. This was the end of our two-day trip. But I still felt like I was having one very long day. The overnight flight from JFK to Zurich seemed short because it was only dark for about six hours. When you are flying east you are flying toward the sun essentially speeding up time. I caught a nap or two on the ride but was never able to sleep longer than thirty minutes. So I had not gone to bed in twenty-four hours. A very long day indeed.



Stepping off the plane felt like da-ja-vu. Once you have been to a third world country you know it when you come back. While Jomo Kenyatta airport didn’t have various military planes performing touch and goes on the runway, the buildings and the character of the place was the same. I felt like I had stepped back in time. Everything looked old and extremely worn. The chairs in the terminal had that retro sixties look. When we got to baggage claim I saw men in various different military uniforms. Some wore green while others had a blue uniform. They were carrying old rifles similar to the ones the Germans carried in old war movies. No American made M-16s here. It felt and looked like the middle east but different.

Grace asked me if I thought everyone looked the same when we walked through the crowd. She was referring to the fact that there is very little diversity in Africa. “No,” I replied. “When everyone is wearing the same clothes and the same cloth on their heads, that’s when they all look the same.” I was talking about the Arabs in the Middle East.

We grabbed a Smartcard and found an unoccupied spot beside the conveyer belt to wait for our luggage. On the opposite end of the baggage claim area from where we stood was a wall of windows with a crowd of people pressing up against the glass. I felt like an animal at a zoo being watched by all those who stood at the windows. Grace said that security keeps everyone out of the entire airport except ticketed passengers. The people pressed up to the glass were family and friends waiting for arriving travelers. Unlike in the U.S., they were not permitted to roam freely in the baggage claim area. “We have very tight security here,” Grace said watching me look at the mob outside.

I strained to see Fr. Lawrence, Grace’s husband and mission trip coordinator, in the crowd but could not see him. As I looked, Grace’s question about everybody looking the same came back to me. Even though everybody was dressed in the Western style I was used to, I noticed just how much everyone did look alike. I didn’t see all the different skin tones and eye colors you find in America.

The bell on the conveyer belt rang letting us know that the luggage was about to come out from behind the wall. I was curious to see if all our bags had made the trip. Since the layover in Switzerland was so short, I wouldn’t have been surprised if our bag were still en-route to Nairobi. I shouldn’t have worried. Grace’s monstrous duffle bags full of medical supplies came rolling out with all the other luggage. But, as it came toward us on the belt, I noticed that one of the duffle bags was ripped open on one end. When I pulled the bag off the conveyor and set it on the cart, clear liquid began running out of the hole onto the floor.

“Oh God,” Grace whispered when I pointed out the puddle on the floor under the damaged bag. She said she had packed a couple of one-gallon jugs of hydrogen peroxide in that bag. “I wrapped them in garbage bags just in case they started leaking.”

I guess we were lucky enough to have that gorilla from the old Sampsonite TV commercial handling our bags on this flight. Grace opened the bag and tried to rearrange the medical supplies to stop the leaking peroxide while I got our other bags together. “We better get this out of here before the customs officer sees this,” Grace whispered as she wiped her wet hands on her pants. I piled all our stuff on the cart and rushed out the door to meet up with Fr. Lawrence.

We took a short drive through Nairobi to the guesthouse where we would be staying the night. It was dark so I really didn’t get to see much of the city. They didn’t have a lot of streetlights and the buildings were not lit up like the one’s here in Charlotte. I did notice we were driving on the left side of the road. I also noticed that they didn’t use stoplights at intersections. They also used those horrible roundabouts like the ones I became so familiar with in Kuwait. I was very thankful someone else was driving instead of me.

In the parking lot of the guesthouse the leaky duffle bag caught our attention again as the driver lifted it out of the trunk of the car. It left a puddle on the floor of the trunk.



We were staying at the International Bible Society Guesthouse. On the outside it looked like a hotel. But when I saw the inside I was reminded of a college dormitory. The first room I walked into was the dining area. It had four large tables where groups of folks sat enjoying tea and watching television. A staircase off to one side lead up to the second floor and to our rooms. My room was small and the bed consisted of a three-inch thick foam pad. No box springs and no headboard or footboard. A mosquito net hung from the ceiling. There was a closet but I didn’t see any other doors in the room. Where was the bathroom? The single bathroom for the entire floor was at the end of the hall. Did I mention this place reminded me of a college dorm? I dropped my bags on the floor and rushed back down to the dining room for my first Kenyan dinner.



The chef brought out three plates piled high with meat, rice, pasta, and a variety of vegetables. I recognized the vegetables to be carrots, cabbage, and spinach greens. The meat I wasn’t so sure about. I popped a piece of meat in my mouth but didn’t recognize the taste.

“How do you like the Gizzard,” Grace asked watching me chew with a puzzled look on my face. So that’s what it was. I liked it. It was tastier than chicken and wasn’t dry or chewy like the bird I’m used to eating at home. Once I had wild duck prepared for me by a friend who was an avid hunter. The gizzard was very similar to the duck meat. In any case, after two days of eating prepackaged airplane food, I would have devoured pretty much any home cooked meal placed in front of me. I enjoyed every last bite of my first Kenyan meal.

Once my belly was full I was ready for the bed. I can hardly sleep on an airplane so I had been awake for two days. I opened my suitcase to discover the Sampsonite gorilla baggage handler had struck again. Everything in my suitcase was covered in Gold Bond medicated body powder. Nice. I was shocked because my suitcase was a hard plastic shell. The bottled water was intact. The tubes of antibiotic cream and sun block were fine. But somehow the lid of the powder had been knocked off during the flight.



Grace went and got a wet towel, and helped me beat the powder out of my clothes. When we finished the floor was covered in white powder. I didn’t mind, the air in the room was a little stale and the powder made the room smell much better.

I was more than ready to get a shower and hit the sack after all of the excitement of our journey. I took my powdered underwear and walked down the hall to the community bathroom. I got a shock when I saw the shower. There was no showerhead above the tub. Instead, the tub faucet had a hand held shower attachment with a tube coiled around the spout. I was going to have to hold up the showerhead with one hand while I washed with the other. Then I got another shock when I turned on the hot water. There wasn’t any hot water even after I let the water run for several minutes. Oh no, was I going to have to take a cold shower? I decided to try the cold water just in case the two were backwards. Sure enough the water started getting warm after I turned on the cold water knob. Man that was a relief.

I had expected my accommodations to be a little less convenient than what I was used to in America. But I have to admit I was a little baffled with the mixed up shower faucet and the foam mattress bed. Not quite roughing it, but it definitely had the feel of living in a third world country. But, once I lay down on the musty thin mattress I was out until rays of sunshine warmed my face the next morning. As long as you get a good night sleep and wake up feeling refreshed, who cares about anything else?

Journal Day 1, Part 2

By watching my best friend Jeff and his wife having to pack half of their clothes into a cardboard box, I had an idea of how to deal with the situation if Grace’s duffle bags were overweight. She thought maybe the ticket clerk wouldn’t charge her if the bags were just a few pounds over. I knew better. I guess it’s just the cynic in me but if these bags were even a half of a pound over, we would be forking over the extra fifteen bucks they charge for overweight luggage.

In an effort to prevent wasting time at the ticket counter, I decided to be proactive and started weighing the bags at an empty ticket counter. I wrestled the first bag up on to the scale and it weighed in at 52.5 pounds. This was not encouraging so I quickly dragged the second bag up on the scale. I cried out, “its 54 pounds” as I read the digital screen. Grace looked at me with horror on her face. “Don’t shout out the numbers,” she said to me in a hushed tone.

I checked myself knowing my voice gets louder and louder when I get anxious or nervous. But, I had an idea of how to solve this problem before it was our turn at the ticket counter. I had weighted my suitcase last night after packing. It was only 37 pounds. We just need to transfer some stuff from the duffle bags to my suitcase. We were the next in line so we had to move fast. I opened up my bag and told Grace to start moving stuff out of the duffle bags. She still believed the ticket clerk would let the bag pass without charging the overweight fee. I pitched the last duffle bag up on the scale and it read 57 pounds. Now I was worried that there was too much weight even if we used my suitcase.

Sweat popped out on my forehead as we opened up three duffle bags. To my surprise, I found boxes of Band-aids and packs of diapers inside instead of clothes. I had no idea we were taking donated medical supplies with us. I reached into the pile of gauze and boxes of latex gloves to find the heaviest items I could find to remove. After a few minutes of juggling cargo and losing a few places in the growing line of travelers, I had all the bags evened out at 50 pounds each. But, we had a small pile of stuff we needed to find a place for. I quickly packed the leftovers into my backpack, which I was using as a carry-on bag. Crisis averted. We checked in and rushed to the security line.

Navigating JFK Airport in New York turned out to be a bit of a challenge. When we got off the plane, we couldn’t figure out how to go to catch our connecting flight. We were not in a concourse with multiple gates and monitors with departing flight information. It was just a hallway leading away from the plane. I began looking for some kind of airport map while Grace looked for someone to give us directions. Grace found a person before I could find a map.

Once again my anxiety level started creeping skyward when Grace told me we would have to leave the terminal and take a train around the airport to our destination. Leaving the terminal meant we would have to go through another line at a ticket counter. We would also have to go through security again which meant I would have to take off my boots and open up my camera case again. I thought once you got checked out at the first airport you wouldn’t have to do the dog and pony show again. I was wrong.

Of course we got on the wrong train. Turns out that JFK has three different trains moving between ten different terminals. Some helpful fellow travelers set us in the right direction when they saw the panic on my face. As always I was worried about time. It took us two hours to get from our arrival gate to our connecting flight. Hopefully in Zurich we will not have to leave the terminal and go through the ticket line and the security line for a third time. I’m a bit worried that we only have a little over an hour to make our connection and we have been sitting on a runway in New York for the last hour and a half. We are on our way now but I feel our flight out of Zurich may be in jeopardy. But hey, I’m on vacation. I need to chill and enjoy all the in’s and out’s of international travel. We have an eight-hour flight ahead packed with free movies and a gourmet dinner. How could life get any better?

Happy Birthday Bro

Happy 37th Birthday Jeff. Yea, I know, you had to call me to remind me your birthday was today. I bet you thought I was going to let your special day just go by without any congratulations or well wishes. It may have been to late to send a card by snail mail but we live in a modern world with much faster ways of communication. Instead of something on paper that you would just toss in the trash after it sat on your desk for half a year, how about a special blog post in honor of your birthday. I dug into your old wedding photos and found this picture which shows just how I feel about you on your birthday. Now my feelings for you are immortalised on the web so if you ever have any doubts, just come back to this special birthday post.

I love you bro and I hope you have a very happy birthday even though you are spending most of your day driving down that lonesome highway between North Carolina and Florida.

Mission Journal Day 1 Part 1

I just had to get the story of the goat head soup posted first even though it was the last thing to happen to me on the trip. When I got back to the States everyone asked me two questions. How was your trip and did you get sick? Since everybody knows the answer to the first question, I decided to start my stories from Kenya with the answer to the second question. Starting with this post, I going to type in everything I wrote in my journal. In doing this, I will answer the first question beyond a reasonable doubt.

Mission Trip Day 1

Here we are, sitting on a Swiss Air jumbo jet, in New York waiting for our turn to take off. The captain just came over the intercom and said we were twenty-fifth in line to take a ride over the Atlantic. To save fuel, the captain explained, we have parked somewhere back from the gate in a holding area and powered down the massive engines hanging out side the tiny window I can see from my isle seat. The captain assured us that we should only have to stay in the holding area for ten or fifteen minutes and we shouldn’t be late arriving in Zurich. I hoped the captain was right because Grace and I only have about an hour to get off this plane and find the one leaving for Nairobi, Africa. It took us two hours to navigate through the crowded terminals of JFK airport to find the plane we were sitting in now. I really hoped Zurich wasn’t as easy to get lost in as JFK had been. But, I’ll write about getting lost a little later. I need to back up and start this journal entry from when I arrived at Charlotte Douglas. Things got very interesting very quickly.



When I planned for this much anticipated departure day, I figured the best place to meet Grace was at the boarding gate. The gate was the one place that we had to cross paths or come together at the airport. I was certain that we would arrive at different times and there really isn’t a good spot or landmark to meet around the endless rows of ticket counters. So, I believed the easiest place to meet would be in the waiting area of our gate.

Well, Grace informed me the Sunday before departure day that she would need me to help her check in her bags. Not only did she need some extra muscle to wrangle her bags to the ticket counter, she also needed me to claim one of them as my own. Wow, I thought, how much stuff was she going to take for two weeks? Her family still lives in Kenya and I wondered if she was taking a bag full of wonderful and exciting American merchandise home to the eagerly waiting family.

So, I wrote down Grace’s cellular phone number knowing that if we just picked a time and place someone would end up coming late or we might miss each other in the crowds of summer travelers. I believed that if I called and checked in with Grace sometime before the time we needed to be at the ticket counter I could get a better feel of the situation and make a smooth meeting.

My cellular phone idea worked. Grace was running about thirty minutes late. We had given ourselves plenty of time so thirty minutes was not a big deal. But, if I had just went to the terminal and sat around waiting for Grace not knowing how late she was going to be, I know I would have had a melt down before she arrived. I do not do very well in situations when I’m dealing with a lack of information. Heather and I sat in the cellular phone parking lot until Grace arrived.

Grace gave me a call when she turned into the entrance to the airport. We pulled out of the cellular phone lot and Heather dropped me at the curb to wait for Grace. A few moments later I saw Grace’s white mini van slide up to the drop-off area. A well executed plan for meeting in a fast moving, congested, airport terminal.

When Grace popped open the tailgate to the van, my anxiety level jumped a few notches. She dragged two large duffle bags and a bulging suitcase out onto the sidewalk. I already had my hands full with my rolling suitcase and the camera case. Before I could even think about grabbing a cart, she hailed the sky captain. Now, I don’t have much love for those uniformed cart pushers who hope to make much more than an hourly wage by carrying a few bags, maybe a hundred feet. I have also noticed that the sky captains are now charging two dollars per bag for check-in at the curb. Gut Grace said she had money so I figured I would let her run the show.

Turns out we were dropped off at the opposite end of the area designated for U.S. Airways. And, our sky captain couldn’t check in an international ticket at the curb. He would have to walk us in. Oh boy, here we go. Let our information deficit start draining our pocket in five, four, three, two, one seconds.

I thought maybe since he didn’t check us in at the curb we wouldn’t have to pay the two dollars per bag. We would just give him a tip and wait in line for the next available ticket clerk. How dumb was that? He dropped the bags and asked for “two dollars a bag”. Grace started counting out dollar bills and discovered she was two dollars short. She started to go digging in her bag for more cash, but in the interest of time, I jumped in and handed the man a twenty.

Uh oh, I must interrupt my story because the captain just came over to the intercom and said, “ladies and gentlemen, it is just one of those days here at JFK that requires a little patience by everyone”. We have been sitting in line to depart for close to an hour now. We have only moved from the twenty-fifth to the fifteenth in line. With only an hour to connect in Zurich I’m getting a sinking feeling that we may be staying in Zurich a little longer than planned. At the very least, our bag may not make it to Nairobi when we do. Ah, the joys of flying. Now back to our regularly scheduled program already in progress.

I handed the man a twenty because I wanted to get through security as soon as possible. In the past it has taken me a little longer to get through security because of the camera equipment. TSA likes to swab everything down to check for explosive residue. Against my better judgment, I tipped the guy because I know they expect it. I know I didn’t have to but for some reason, I care what the dude thinks about me even if I will never see him again. I’m not very thick-skinned am I?

Now we are at the ticket counter waiting in a very short line. I start to think we are going to get through this phase of our journey with some time to spare at the gate. That’s when Grace starts to wonder, out loud, if the massive bags at her feet are over the weight limit. “If they are”, she says to me, “we are going to have to take the stuff out”.

Oh boy, another situation that could eat up a ton of time and cause us to miss our flight. I have seen this happen before. My best friend, Jeff, and his new wife came to visit from Florida last year. They drove up in a rental car, but decided to fly back. I took them to the airport and watched as they had to somehow divide one enormous and overweight bag into something they wouldn’t have to fork over extra cash to get on a plane. The airline gave them a cardboard box and some packing tape.

Thank God, the captain just informed us that we would take off in two minutes. It’s only an hour and a half later than the original departure time so I guess we should consider ourselves lucky to get out of New York in a semi-timely fashion.

I have to say it was quit entertaining to watch my best friend Jeff and his wife dig clothes out of the over-weight bag and pack them into a cardboard box while impatient travelers pushed passed them to get to the ticket counter. I remember thinking to myself, man I’m glad I do not have to deal with a situation like that. Now I stood in the line wondering if I was going to beg the clerk at the counter for a cardboard box.

Tune in next week to see if we made our flight…

GOAT HEAD SOUP

I woke up in the darkest hour of the night shivering so violently the bedsprings sounded like they were squeaking out the Hallelujah chorus. But I was in Kenya, Africa just south of the equator. The temperature outside sat at about seventy-five degrees everyday. All week I have slept in a tee shirt and shorts with just a sheet for a cover. But tonight I’m groping for the wool blanket and coverlet I’ve thrown over to the other side of the bed. Why was I suddenly so cold?

I also noticed I was covered in sweat. Did I have a fever? Had I caught the dreaded Typhoid fever? It was my last night in Kenya and I thought I had caught Typhoid fever. I immediately slapped my hand to my forehead to feel the excessive heat radiating out from my head. Surprisingly, my head felt cool. Well, if my head wasn’t as hot as an oven then I guess I didn’t have Typhoid. But, other parts of my body were warmer than usual or I wouldn’t have been sweating. My joints ached and I felt light headed. This sounded more like the Flu. How could I have the flu when I haven’t worn a coat the entire time I’ve been here?

My gut wretched. It felt like someone was twisting my stomach as if they were trying to ring water out of a washcloth. I clutched my middle with both arms and pulled my knees up to my chest. In that instant I knew why I was sick.

Tonight was the final night of our ten-day mission trip to Kenya. To celebrate the close of our mission, Poppa Gloria purchased a goat head to serve as the main course of our farewell dinner. Now, I have to stop and explain two things here. First I must explain to you Americans why my host had a female name. Get out your notepad. This will be on the test of African customs. Our host’s English name is Walter. But in the village where we were staying, no one calls Walter by his English name. They call him Poppa Gloria. He named his first-born child Gloria. So according to custom, you address the head of the household using “Poppa” and add the name of his first-born child. For example, my first-born child is Nathan. If I lived in this village, the folks here would call me Poppa Nathan. I guess you better think long and hard about what you name your child because you are essentially naming yourself.

Secondly, Kenyan’s consider goat the finest dish you serve to your guests. If you have invited guests to your home to celebrate a special occasion, you serve them goat. If you do not serve goat than you will offend your guest and they may tell others that you are cheap and stingy.

The mission team was invited as guest at several special events. I became quite familiar with many different goat dishes. My taste buds actually accepted goat with open arms. The texture and flavor of the meat reminded me of the lamb meat I experienced in the Middle East. Most of the time hosts would serve us goat ribs, or goat leg. But, gnawing the meat off a rib bone was a lot different than popping a chunk of boiled goat tongue into your mouth. The Kenyan’s don’t waste any part of the animals they eat. Poppa Gloria carved up the goat’s ears, cheeks, and tongue and set the meat out on a large platter. When he had finished carving, he brought the platter over and set it down right in front of me.

“Ken,” he said with a broad smile. “Go ahead and have a piece.”

I have read that you always eat what a host offers you in a foreign country so that you will not offend the gracious host. Like I said, I have already eaten tons of goat meat in the past several days so I figured eating parts of the animal I wouldn’t normally eat wouldn’t bother me. Only two days ago I had devoured grilled goat intestines in front of a group of Kenyan men watching to see if my face would contort in disgust at the taste. But that is a story for another time. My point is that over the week I have tried some pretty exotic foods and none of them have upset my innards.

Without hesitation I plucked a few chunks off of the platter and popped them into my mouth. It tasted just like all of the other pieces of meat I’ve been consuming over the last week. The texture was a bit softer than the muscle meat, but nothing that invoked my gag reflex. I thought I had passed my final exotic foods test. Then Poppa Gloria set a steaming cup of goat head soup on the table in front of me.

Oh man. This was it. The ultimate in gross-out cuisine. If we had already eaten all the meat off the skull, then there was only one edible part of the head left: Goat brain. I stared down at the cup knowing that I was not going to be able to drink the boiled remains of an animal head. Poppa Gloria stood over me smiling as if he had just served me the world’s finest chocolate. I could tell from his expression that he expected me to thoroughly enjoy this local delicacy. He would surly be disappointed if I didn’t even take a sip.

Without reserve, I grabbed the cup and lifted it to my mouth. I took a big gulp hoping that whatever my taste buds decided, they wouldn’t cause me to spit the soup out across the table and onto Poppa Gloria. The fluid filled my mouth and I pushed it down my throat. Words can’t describe the amplified signals my taste buds were sending to my brain. It was as if my taste buds were under attack by an enemy that wanted to destroy all sensations of what was pleasant and enjoyable to my mouth.

When the fluid fell into my belly, I could feel my stomach reach up and grab my brain around the brain steam and say, “If you ever send something that disgusting down here again, I will gather up all the nerves I can find in this body and squeeze them as hard as I can until you cry for mercy.”

I looked up at Poppa Gloria and said, “I’m sorry but I do not like this.”

His smile never wavered. He told me he was happy I had tried as many different parts of the goat as I had. He made me feel as if I had earned his respect in giving the soup an honest try. Thank God I hadn’t offended my host.

Later in the night my digestive tract was totally offended by my willingness to shove everything I was offered into my gullet. I ran to the bathroom and sat on the toilet in the dark for a very long time. The next day all the muscles in my body ached. My stomach refused to accept even a simple piece of toasted bread. My brain felt as if I had caught a computer virus, which slowed down all my bodily functions. I was a wreck.

On this last day of my trip I had planned to go shopping for souvenirs and gifts for the family. The other half of the mission team left early in the morning and we didn’t have to board the plane headed for Europe until late in the evening. This was the only free day of my entire trip and I was barely able to move. I managed to function just enough to find gifts for the family. I could not come home empty handed. Then I slept until our ride came to take us to the airport.

I’m just thankful that the dreaded stomach rebellion came at the end of my trip instead of incapacitating me when I needed to perform my mission from God behind the lenses.

We Are In Kenya

We are here and working hard. I'm at a cyber cafe and paying by the minute so I will keep this short. We have had a good couple of days here. We have prayed for a lot of people. I'm keeping a journal of all our adventures and will post very word I write when I get back into the States.

God bless all that helped me get here!

Check This Out

During my campaign to raise enough money to purchase a plane ticket to Kenya, I met an interesting young man who was a seasoned veteran of the mission field. This fella told me wild stories of traveling to the Gulf Coast seven times since Hurricane Katrina ripped through several states and thousands of human lives. He also recounted his many trips to the Caribbean to plant trees in Haiti. This guy was the real deal with plenty of mission experience under his belt to teach to this young, hungry disciple. When he learned of my calling from the Lord, he quickly drew out his checkbook and fired off a donation to send me on my mission.

Now Dick “Crookedpaw” Carney has a new assignment from the man upstairs and a new blog to help get the word out about this new mission. He writes:

"My current effort centers around an attempt to purchase and outfit an equipment trailer to support our construction teams when they are in the field."

"I formed a group from the five local Presbyterian church's and we have purchased a new 7X12', single axle tag along trailer. Its just your basic trailer but does have an extended height feature that we thought would be helpful. It has bi-fold barn type doors in the rear and a small pedestrian door on the front right side. We have fabricated and installed a heavy duty ladder rack with an access ladder on the right rear. Our plans are to install a propane powered generator similar to those in RV's. This will power the air compressor, table and compound miter saws, lights and other power tools."

Sounds like Dick is planning to make many more trips to the Gulf Coast to help fellow Americans in need. Please visit his web site, Crookedpaw.net or just click on the link under Mission Trip Bloggers to the right, and learn how you can help in his efforts to do God’s will.