“Would your family like to go to Africa with us?” my dad and Dee asked.

It had been my dad’s dream for my family to see the Big Five in Kenya. With the opportunity of a lifetime set before us, Jim and I had big decisions to make. Could we take a child with bipolar disorder to a third-world country and get out of Africa safely? Some extended family members would be making this trip with us, and they were not aware of Grace’s disorder. Might we make the trip without an incident? What if she got too tired due to the eight-hour time difference and shoplifted something or made some other consequential decision? We were asking more questions out of fear than planning with anticipation for a trip to an exotic destination. Appointments were made with Kate and Dr. Davis to get their input on our dilemma.

The professionals’ consensus: our family could make the trip as long as everyone understood that if Grace were exhausted, Jim or I would not go on Safari that day. One of us would stay back at a lodge and let her rest. Dr. Davis would make sure we had more than enough medicine with us in case we were stranded. Grace’s medications would not be available in Africa.

The first bump in the ride came when we boarded the plane and realized we had left Grace's security blanket at home. I was frustrated that my middle-schooler still needed her pink blankie but wondered if it was possible to make a nine-hour trip to Amsterdam without it. Her tears flowed, but they were quiet tears. Our relief that Grace was not making a disturbance with other passengers on the plane was mixed with concern over how we would handle the two week vacation without her blanket.

After de-boarding the aircraft in Amsterdam, we caught a train to our Botel. The permanently docked boat converted into a hotel fascinated Grace. Her eyes brightened with delight upon seeing a duck family swimming around the entrance ramp. She grabbed a camera to take pictures not only of the ducks, but of a curled-up lazy cat sleeping in a chair. All anxieties of leaving the blanket at home disappeared.

While Jim was checking us in, he said, “Ellen, go stand in front of that rack of brochures.”

“Why?”

“Because prostitution is legal in the Netherlands and they are promoting naked women just like the sights to see.”

After a nice outdoor lunch, we began to explore the city known for tolerance of diversity. Bicycles were everywhere. If the fit citizens weren’t riding a bike, they were walking. The outdoor shops were bright with inviting colors. We snapped pictures of Grace standing among gorgeous flowers at a street market.

The beauty of God’s natural glory was tempered with man’s inhumanity as we walked silently through Anne Frank’s house. Many editions of Anne Frank’s diary were on display.

“Grace, have you read this book in school yet?” I asked.

“No and I’m not going to. I know that crocked X, the swastika, means something bad happened.”

Leaving the sad reminders of one of the world’s greatest tragedies, our family took a ride through the canals then walked back to the Botel. After dinner, the rocking of the Botel put everyone to sleep.

The following morning, our flight from Amsterdam to Nairobi was much easier. Each seat came with its own movie screen. Grace was thrilled she had control to pick and choose what she wanted to watch. She put on the headphones and gave me a “thumbs up.”

We touched down in Nairobi late at night. When we exited the jet-way, it was obvious we were in a different world. The walls needed fresh paint. Travelers dragging suitcases had worn out the floor. A clean toilet was a welcome surprise.

“Do you take American money?” I asked the teenager stationed in the restroom.

“Yes,” she said with a smile.

I handed her a dollar.

“Oh, thank you. Thank you so much,” she said with a wider grin.

My dad waited for me outside the ladies room.

“I didn’t have any change so I gave the restroom attendant one dollar. I think I made her day.”

“You sure did,” Dad said. “That was about a week’s salary.”

Armed guards were posted at the customs counter. Grace and I made it through the gate of a tall fence that separated those in the terminal from those in Nairobi. Jim handed the official his passport but kept his eyes locked with mine. I held my breath until all family members crossed over into the capital city of Kenya.

Our tour guides, Frank and Ray greeted us warmly outside the airport with a hardy, “Jambo.” Their hospitality made my muscles relax. They eluded an air of confidence in a crowd of people, some of which were surely pickpockets. Bodyguards could not have provided a greater sense of more security.

Frank and Ray escorted us to the tour vans through a well-lit parking lot. By Kenya’s standards, these were nice automobiles. Our luggage was thrown into the back of the van, and Grace asked if she could sit in the front row. I nodded.

I peered out of my window to take in all of Nairobi as we bounced down the pothole-filled road at break-neck speed. This was a massive city. At a stoplight, a barefoot woman ran by our van while carrying her purse and high-heeled shoes.

Ray said, “Her car must have broken down. In Nairobi you better high-tail it for safety if your car has a flat or won’t run.”

After check-in, we had a brief conference with the tour group leader, Walter. He presented us all with fresh juice, a safari hat and an African necklace. The gifts made us feel officially on safari but Walter issued a warning. “Don’t venture out of the hotel during the day without me or Ray and Frank. Never leave the hotel on foot after dark.”