Days Without My Partner

Note: It has been a year, and I'm still not done... Hopefully, I will use my new-found free time to write more and finish the tale of this adventure.

 

Days 15 & 16 -  

Monday morning brought sickness upon my ministry partner. Bea decided to stay home from school to rest and get some water in her for the next couple of days. Her symptoms told me that she didn’t have Malaria...at this point anyway. As for me, my stomach was not happy and nausea was a common occurrence during these two days. Mama Nora made strong tea with ginger (chai without milk) for us before and after our evening meal. There was always the possibility of getting sick and we were on our guard for Malaria in general. Thankfully, after days of rest, Bea felt much better and both of us adjusted the time in which we took our “Malaria prevention” medication. The result was an absence of nausea and a cheery disposition. Honestly, it was difficult as well as frustrating to explain to my host parents that Bea and I would be fine. There is a very good reason for this; just like everything else in the culture I’ve learned about. People get sick (Malaria or not) so often and it usually requires going to the hospital, so naturally my host parents would be very concerned. Know this: Malaria is easily treated in African countries, but quite a few people don’t have the money to pay for it and die. It is a big deal.
Monday was the beginning of my first full week at Mwangaza school and I had so many things I wanted to accomplish during my fleeting time in Kwale – a checklist in my head. Bea’s absence planted worries in my head and Mama would update me on her condition when Tatu called from home. Yet, it was good that we were apart – we couldn’t hide behind one another. Teacher Fred would ask me how she was and Teacher Mark would tease me about our “American stomachs” being weak. It took all I had not to respond with some sass – respect came first. Mama would generally defend us as quickly as the remarks were shot our way before I could decide if I was offended or not.

In general, I began to feel more at ease with the teachers as I continued to get to know them and the students flocked around me more. The connections were becoming more deep and meaningful. I still felt their (teachers and students) watchful eyes on me constantly, but I was learning not to focus on that and focus on them as individuals. The students would point and laugh (about what? I still have no idea). There is no denying that I was treated differently and it was a lesson that has stuck with me since.

It was exam week, so both days I was asked to grade the exams (something I definitely knew how to do) and take the students through reviews while the teachers had some rest. My throat throbbed at the end of reviewing because I was yelling so the students could understand me through my accent. That was my first “teaching” experience in front of a classroom, ever. Devotions were taught for the upper grades and teachers also during this time. Being a daunting task, God provided my topics and I was learning more and more how to listen to the Spirit’s promptings. He was speaking through me and I was submitting to Him. It wasn’t about my ability to teach, it was His power. The churches in the States and the people in them expect theology and profound thoughts when others teach from the Bible. In Kenya, the people just wanted God’s Word; no fancy words or profound thoughts, nor interesting stories. They wanted God’s words no matter who it came from, no matter what schooling they had. This concept isn’t thought about much here.

In addition to reviewing, I helped Nora in her classroom. When she left the room, the kindergarten students swarmed me, touching my hair and pushing to get as close to me as they possibly could. They couldn’t understand a word I said, but I didn’t let that stop me from giving them high5’s and playing ring-around-the-rosy with them. My heart wanted to make a difference and let each of the school’s 300 students know they are loved. I quickly felt overwhelmed. 300 is a big number.

School came to an end. Teacher Mark had come to me earlier and asked for guitar lessons, so he tracked me down, grabbed my guitar and we sat outside the church. Instantly, we were crowded by curious students. Generally, I’ve never felt worthy to play the guitar in front of people nonetheless teach someone how to play it. Timidly, I taught him a few cords and showed him a strumming pattern under the watchful eyes of students. Lessons for Teacher Mark only happened a few times after school. Once, he left me with the crowd of little ones to find some music he wanted to play. The kiddos touched the guitar with their small fingers exploring the instrument. Smiling, I started playing random chords and it became a game right away. They would dance until the music stopped, they would giggle abundantly and resume dancing with the music. My heart sung with joy and I couldn’t help giggling myself. Then Mama Nora came to find me. It was time to go home and I was anxious to see how my partner was feeling.

We took a matatu home that day. I cannot remember if I have described what it is like to take a matatu, so I’ll do my best to relay the experience to you now. A matatu is one of the common forms of transportation in Kenya. Imagine a 15 passenger van stuffed with 20 people stopping to pick up more people. At 10 ksh, you get to sit very close to strangers in a hot vehicle. Needless to say, it was a very memorable experience every time I was in one. Crowded is an understatement. Complaining doesn’t feel right, though, because I had Mama or Tatu there to lead and protect me from prying eyes.

At home, I was greeted by Blessings’ squeals and Tatu’s smiles. We helped Grace move to a small apartment across the main street in our village of Matuga with joy. She was quickly becoming a wonderful friend. Finally, before showers and bedtime, we laughed with Pastor at a Hispanic soap opera dubbed in Swahili (very popular in Kenya), and we had a family Bible study on the book of Ezra. My heart was full and I couldn’t have been more blessed at the end of the day.

Sunday Lessons

Day 14 – 

"God provides. It has been very convicting to me seeing the faith of those here, even of the children who have had less time in their relationship with God than I have. I love how these people give all the glory to Him whenever they are praised. It's been "back to basics" since I've been here in my faith and I cannot wait to share my discoveries about the faith and life in Kenya."

        Sunday morning. Church. I was anxious to meet the congregation at the service and see what it is like. We rode boda-bodas to the school/church and sat in an empty classroom until it was time for the prayer meeting when pastor came to get us. Teacher Mark was leading the few people in the room in a song accompanied by clapping and leading into prayer. He would give us a topic, we’d sing, and then pray out loud raising voices to heaven. This rural church didn’t have instruments except for a drum. It was raw and real and probably one of the most beautiful things I’ve experienced. This was one of my favorite memories; worship and prayer at church. Next, we left the chapel and walked to an empty classroom for Sunday school. Out of the small amount of children in the classroom, I recognized a few of them from school,some I did not know. We stepped into the classroom after Mama Nora and Blessings and Sunday school began. Priscilla, a girl who was in grade 7 (class 7), led worship (more upbeat and with dancing) and the Sunday school teacher began her lesson.
         Back to the chapel we went for the service and the singing had already started. Bea and I went to sit on the back seats just as we have been taught by our culture when being tardy for a meeting/conference. Yet, the oldest man in the room came to us and ushered us straight to the front saying with a grin, “Do not sit there. Come sit in the seats of honor.” Both of us didn’t like attention and certainly didn’t like being up at the front and in seats of honor - another moment that made me feel uncomfortable, unworthy, and it humbled me greatly. Standing, I clapped and danced along with the worship choir, occasionally catching on to the lyrics with a smile. It was my faithful partner’s turn to “give a word” and I could feel her tension as she stood next to me and as she walked up to the podium to preach. Pastor gave an introduction and Teacher Mark came up to translate. Most of the congregation was women and most only spoke Kiswahili (with the exception of the elderly gentleman mentioned above). Bea’s sermon was short and concise. I couldn’t tell you what she said, but I thought she did a great job. We decided that we both were not gifted in preaching from the pulpit, so we would do our best to prepare as best as we could and let God use us however He wanted. Sometimes, I realize how much my faith frees me in life. There is freedom from worry and assurance in my steps. What a great gift I have received. Being dependent upon Jesus actually makes me so much more independent and free to live life to the fullest. Why wouldn’t anyone else want that? Bwana asifiwe (praise God)!
            After greeting and meeting the congregation, we headed home. I loved talking to Mama as we walked to the village from the main road, and I also loved how she interacted with the people we passed. She called out greetings and answered with salama (peace/well) - I listened carefully. We rested with the family the rest of the day. Mama finally allowed me to help a little with the cooking. She had made chapatti (bread, like tortillas) and taught me how to roll it out. It hurt my pride a bit that she didn’t think I knew how to cook, but that wasn’t a bad thing as you will see. We were constantly learning from them and they were constantly learning from us. All the while Caleb and Blessings were running around doing what they did best; laughing, screaming, and quibbling. I allowed Caleb to draw in my journal with a smile. Blessings and Caleb was a constant for me that allowed comfort  – they didn’t care about the cultural mistakes we made, they were just content to be around us.
           I was also able to process more in my journal that evening. More of my experiences were becoming clearer and the lessons from them were becoming more apparent as we rested. I had room to think. Thinking also led to thoughts of home in the U.S.A. That day, Bea and I realized that it was Father's Day and I longed to talk to my dad. I wasn’t homesick, but I wished that I could communicate everything I was experiencing and learning to my family. Faces from friends and family would pop up in my head when there was room for my thoughts to stray there. After dinner, Pastor spoke with us a bit. Even now, I am so blown away with all this man did for us and how he took up the role of an earthly father so quickly. He encouraged us and reminded us that it is not about us; God will use us no matter how inadequate we feel because He is in control of our uncontrollable circumstances. 

       My journal entry that night flushed out my feelings and thoughts from that conversation – I wanted to keep taking leaps of faith knowing that God will catch me and overshadow me with His power. I was determined not to worry about what people thought of me. Easier said than done when I wanted to fit in so badly, for the teachers seemed resistant at having me there. My desires were becoming strong as I thought about the students. Their eyes telling stories that would fill your eyes with tears and I wanted to embrace them, radiating my love over them. Even with a touch of my finger, will they soak up the love from my heart? Do they know they are loved?
The next day we were expected to give devotions to the students and Bea and I had no idea what to speak about. There was my task oriented mind panicking again – I had to get something prepared before I went to sleep. Even after Pastor gave us that encouragement…? Oy. I’m a slow learner but fast to go back to my erroneous ways. I finally picked my topic and sleep overcame me. The next thing I knew I was waking up to the sounds of the Coast once again.

One Fine Saturday

Day 13 – 

            Bleating of goats, humid heat, and noise from the television aroused me around 8 AM on Saturday morning which is late for the household. My senses still remember the sounds and taste the world held around me. We were now used to getting up around 5:45 AM for school when the temperature was cooler and the sun was just showing its face. I felt a little guilty when I walked out into the living room where the breakfast was sitting on the table covered. It was likely prepared two hours beforehand. Bea and I ate breakfast while thanking Mama that she let us sleep past six. We had nothing scheduled and Pastor gave us permission to rest the whole day which I hadn’t done in a very long time. My mind instantly thought of things for me to do to occupy my time. Playing with Belssings was on the list and writing in my journal, but I also was focused on preparing sermons and devotions for the next school week. Tasks again. That was where my Americanized mind rushed to first. Those characteristics were soon to be challenged by my Kenyan family at home and at school.
            Laundry came after chai. Hand washing wasn’t the difficult part; it was trying to actually have clean clothes as a result. I began to feel inadequate next to Kenyan women who have done hard labor day by day since they were old enough to talk. Also, I was starting to feel like I was a bother to my host family. Mama did everything for us, got up early and cooked, prepared chai and lunch for me while at school, and prepared dinner, a bath, and chai after getting home from a long day at school. I was the one wanting to be the servant and serve them. One thing about me you should know: I have loved doing hard physical labor, working with horses, and being strong and athletic. I have taken pride in my physical strength and independence; Kenya was quickly putting me right back in my place. This was the day that I truly recognized this part of my character that I could not ignore.
            After laundry, Caleb (Madame Phoebe’s son from next door) came over and played with Blessings. Those two were hilarious to watch. Typical brother and sister. She was bossy and he was being…a boy. Caleb loved my camera and I allowed him to take it around the house and shoot photos while Bea and I wrote sermons and devotions. She was preparing for her sermon she would give the next day and I was feeling the nerves for her. While we were working, Evans and Grace came by to visit. My heart felt glad to have our friends with us. I was pleased to know that Grace was moving across the street from "our" house so we would get to see her more. She was quickly becoming a good friend.
            This Saturday was rejuvenating as we were able to process and refocus our eyes on Jesus instead of the differences around us. God was the constant and our refuge.

More notes on Kenyan culture:
            Kenyans usually speak in circular patterns and they don’t get to the point very quickly. Example: sermons are circular - there is no direct point until the end. Yet, they are very blunt and straight forward. Not wishy-washy. I really admire that in them. 

Who is it all about? Not me.

Day 12 – I have a lot of catching up to do on this blog because I’m on day 12 out of 49…

“He is worthy to be praised. We prayed ‘the Kenyan way’ where everyone prays all at once. Voices raised in prayer. It is a beautiful sound.”

    The day was Friday; our second day in Kwale and at Mwangaza Visionary School. Overall, the day held less culture shock and after some of the day passed, I was learning to not worry about interpreting the swirls of Kiswahili circling around me. It still made me feel uncomfortable when the teachers would talk in the staff room without acknowledging Bea and me. They were such expressive and intense conversationalists. This was the day I made more of an effort to eat as much as possible and ask more questions when I started to feel overwhelmed. My determination continued to crescendo throughout the day.
     After a big breakfast, we rode to school on motorbikes again which was my new favorite thing. Boda-bodas aren’t the safest taxis to take in Kenya, but the thrill captivated me while I took in every piece of scenery. People would point and stare, children would call out “mzungu” and run alongside us – I was convinced that I wouldn’t be a good celebrity…I didn’t like all the attention.
     We got to the school and split up so we could watch how the teachers did devotions with the students and then I was swept up to help Madame Purity with her KG2 class. As I walked down the side of the building along the classroom windows, I heard the stirring of curious students whispering at me in excited anticipation. Little heads peaked out of the doorway and shy, but eager, eyes gaped at my person approaching. Then I stepped into the second to last classroom where my heart melted as I gazed on the precious miracles before me making my way to sit at the desk with Madame. She taught a lesson then gave the learners some work to do in their small karatasi (paper) books while we talked. Madame Purity asked me many questions about America and how schools worked, how different it is, and allowed me to contradict her misconceptions about the States. She was so good humored and I enjoyed talking with her. I asked her about more Kiswahili words and she wrote them down in my notebook with a satisfied acceptance. I knew she would be a wonderful friend.
     At 10 am, we broke for chai and the students grabbed the bowls they brought from home to get their porridge. “They are so skinny.” Mama Nora, again, brought Bea and me a “snack” and would do everything for us. I almost felt like a baby as she prepared our chai and poured the water for us to wash our hands and my whole being reluctantly held back my independent urges. Bea and I shared our individual experiences, findings, and feelings as we packed our tummies before going back to the classrooms. M. Purity and I graded more of the student’s work and shared more of our lives. I learned a lot about her and her life.
     Lunch came too soon as far as my appetite was concerned. I made more of an effort to intermingle with the teachers and longed to interact with the students I observed out the doorway playing their games. Mama Nora asked me to help her in her KG1 classroom after eating and I gladly agreed. It was so wonderful to be around her and Pastor all day; to have that security and constancy. Mama put a stack of books in front of me after I greeted the students with a high-five. They loved it and I wanted so badly to transfer the love in my heart from my hands onto theirs. Being a teacher in Kenya makes for more work in some ways because I hand-wrote worksheets and graphic organizers into each and every karatasi book so Mama could assess her students. Their supplies are limited and so precious. My attention was instantly drawn to the pencils which were used until they became stubs unfit for the tiniest fingers. The students sharpened them with a small razor which not only consumed time, but it was dangerous.
     I loved watching Mama teach the little ones. She had a difficult job because most of the students know their mother tongue, which may or may not be Kiswahili, and required more effort on her part (hand motions, showing, etc.) to help them understand. The education system here would call her an equivalent of an “English as a Second Language (ESL)” teacher.
     While Mama and I watched her students nap on the classroom floor, she asked me to prepare "a word" for the Friday afternoon staff devotions. The whole group of wazungu on my team was warned that we would be asked to “share a word” anytime and anywhere, so don’t be surprised. Well, I was surprised anyway and instantly got nervous. It was an intimidating idea to entertain when I wasn’t even sure the rest of the staff accepted me as an observer and, not to mention, a teacher of God’s Word. Mama allowed me to sit in the staff room to prepare something for an hour – this was not the first time I would encounter Mama Nora’s understanding and it blew me away leaving gratitude behind. The bench in the staffroom creaked as I tried not to wiggle from my uneasy concentration while I flipped pages in my Bible back and forth praying that God would reveal to me the passage I would use. God’s timing and provision, though hard to submit to, is always a matter of surrendering the anxiety and control.
     I sent prayers up asking for guidance. Mark 10 (starting in verse 16) caught my attention: the sower and the seeds. After reading it, I realized how important the teachers at Mwangaza really were in the lives of their students and even though this passage takes on a different interpretation most of the time, it was still true in this instance. The teachers were planting seeds in the lives of students. Some may not be affected by it and some may allow their lives to be fully swept up into the arms of God and thus multiplied.
     Bea and I timidly walked into the chapel and waited for the other staff members. But as soon as everyone was present, they started lifting up praises with their voices in the echoing emptiness. The raw harmonies and blend of intricate melodies captured my heart. Watching the teachers worship in Kiswahili was one of my favorite memories that I will remember for the rest of my life. Clapping hands, swaying steps, and faces raised to heaven are images of genuine worship. I sang along when I could, when I remembered that I shouldn’t be entranced in the scene before me and entranced in the God around me. Then I was called up to share my devotional noticing two female students joining us in the church. I spoke as well as I could. The five minute presentation was all I had to give to the blank stares I was receiving. It was hard to read the expressions and I didn’t know what they thought until we prayed together at the end. They thanked the Lord for the message that reminded them what their purpose was. It hit me. It wasn’t about me and how well prepared I was. He used me. He spoke to the teachers with encouragement through me. It was about Him. Mama Nora led us out as we shook hands in farewell with everyone. As soon as the church was emptied, I heard the two girls singing at the top of their lungs as the echo reached those outside. I found they had come to receive Christ, but they haven’t shared that with their devout Islamic family and friends. Seeing that first hand touched me and broke my heart – they are risking everything at such a young age.
     Boda-bodas took us back to Matuga village where Blessings greeted us with a smile and screech of delight. I greeted her and Josephine (we now called her Tatu) pointed me to the food on the table. Chai time. Always.
     The evening ended like it always did during our time there: Chai, Pastor turning the television from music videos to the news, dinner in front of the TV, sharing our days, and bedtime where Bea usually ran back into the room after finding cockroaches in the bathroom.  

Sasa! Culture Shock.

Sasa means "hey", an informal greeting you can use for peers.
Day 11 - part 2

        As I sat talking with Madame about my country and hers, the students all starred at me periodically, whispered about the mzungu with red hair, flashed me smiles, and crowded around me to grade their work when called upon to do so. Big, beautiful eyes, they were. Precious. All of them were very well behaved, really. And when they were asked a question that they got right, they would chant, “Well done, well done! [Name of student] is a very, very good [boy/girl]. Tippy ta, tippy ta, up, up, up! And a little kiss, mwah!” They would also start the day with a call-and-response:
              Caller – God is good!
              Students – All the time!
              Caller – All the time!
              Students – God is good!
             All – Because that is His nature!
Those made me smile and I will always remember their chants.
       Their uniforms were baggy on their skinny bodies and their wrists and ankles were boney. I learned that many of them don’t go home to dinner every night, and there is one student that walks many miles a day starting at 4am to get to school around 7am. The school provides porridge for the students that contain a lot of nutrients and fat in the mornings, and rice and beans for their lunch. That was part of the appeal to their families – the students are being fed. This school, even though I was verging on culture shock, was a light to the students and the community in their darkness. Think about it: children from Muslim homes being immersed in a Christian culture every day as they are being fed physically and spiritually. Wow. It still blows my mind. This ministry started as a medical mission and after years of growing opposition from the Muslims in Kwale district, it is now a school that is reaching the children and eventually the parents for Christ. I definitely saw the Lord’s hand in this school. After watching Madame Purity's class for a half hour, all the kindergarteners went outside for their exercise with the teachers. Bea and I had a blast jumping and running with them. They also played a game that had something to do with sending a letter and it was similar to our duck-duck-goose. I wish I wrote it down...
          The next part of our day was one of the hardest for me. We walked to the staff room around 10am for a chai break with the rest of the teachers while the students collected their porridge. I entered the room and smiled at the inhabitants but I wondered what they thought of having two American girls among them as they reluctantly smiled back. Mama Nora sat us down (she went out of her way to get us a bench inside to sit on), put two bowls of mandazi (like a flat, triangular donut but not as sweet) in front of us, and prepared two cups of chai while we waited and I surpassed the urge to help her. I knew in my head that we were supposed to eat all of the food put in front of us, but it was the most difficult thing I had experienced in Kenya so far. I really appreciated their hospitality and they treated us so well. However, I kept looking outside at the children who didn’t always have three meals a day and the delicious food almost choked me as I tried to chew and swallow. I did the best I could, but felt terrible when Mama looked at us in disappointment and heard the other teachers talking around us rapidly in Kiswahili.  Hello, culture shock. I don’t think we have been formally introduced before. I don't like you very much. Lord, make it go away!
         Bea felt the same way and we shared knowing glances as we waited for chai break to be over. Teachers came in and out, students stopped by the open door to satisfy their curious eyes, and I was silently praying that whole morning - 7:30 to 10:30. The emotions I went through that morning were overwhelming. There was a desire to escape somewhere to recollect my thoughts and make them clear so I could understand the part of that culture I couldn’t grasp. What I knew I should have done and what I did was a reflection of the conflict inside me. And it was strong, that feeling. My words seem to leave out most of the emotion, but culture shock isn’t something you can describe - it is something that has to be experienced.
          By God’s mercy, our friend Evans came to the school to take us and Pastor to a mission in Banga (west of Kwale). With him was Mama Nora’s sister, Sally; a youth pastor; and Grace, a new administrator for Mwangaza who was closer to my age. As soon as Bea and I greeted the others and got into the van, I could feel her relax and I took a deep breath. This was the "escape" I needed to break from the confusion. We went down Kwale road for a while and I listened to the conversation around me, occasionally contributing while my eyes gazed at the landscape passing by the window. The road went from asphalt to dirt as we went through the actual town of Kwale and into a national park (Shimba Hills Elephant Sanctuary). Our senses heightened as Bea and I watched baboons stare back at the van while we hoped to see the magnificent African elephants. My giggles came out during this 2 hour ride as we experienced the bumpiest dirt road I have ever been on in my life and Sally’s reaction to it was were most of my giggles were directed. Sally reminded me of my grandmother when she plays video games. 
         The ride was eye opening as we saw the scenery change from humid, luscious green to dry brown. Pastor explained that many people west of Kwale don’t have enough clean water and have to resort to the dirty stream water for survival. This was an area affect by the East African drought. Our eyes witnessed skinny children gathering brown water in a small river and skinny cows grazing on short grasses. Finally, we arrived at the mission in Banga - a house, a church, and a water well. We met the pastor and his family who immediately showed us their property and the new well that had been dug where many people gather to receive clean water for their families. Grace and Evans asked us questions as we walked; I was so thankful for their immediate friendship. They were approachable and I related to them better than the others. It is a blessing that may seem small to you, but it meant so much to me to have those friends among us.
           After being welcomed to Banga with a meal of Kuku (chicken) and chapatti (flat bread, like a tortilla) that implied that we were honored guests, we started the long, bumpy ride back to Matuga village. After having missed the elephants earlier, Pastor and the elders in the van were so intent on finding one for us to see. My heart jumped as the big, grey ears of an African elephant emerged through the foliage. "YES! So much more amazing than at the zoo, and even the ones at the zoo don't have the big ears!!" Mama Nora had dinner ready when we arrived back home and little Blessings greeted us with a smile. She finally started to break away from her shyness and I started to realize how much of a literal blessing she would be to me during my time there. Children her age are practically the same around the world as they are just beginning to learn their own cultural norms, and that was a relief to have that stability in a culture that had differences from my own.
         After the van left for Mombasa, taking our new friends and acquaintances with it, Mama and Pastor sat with us as we had chai while Josephine cleaned up. I knew Bea was as tired as I was and we were in need of our own private conversation to debrief our day. Then Pastor asked us how our day was, how we were feeling. My whole being was instantly full of gratitude as I answered honestly about getting used to the culture and briefly spoke of the culture shock. That instant confirmed that my host family was special and they truly cared for us no matter how many cultural mistakes we had made and would make. We prayed as a “family” and were dismissed for bed. As we prepared, Bea and I whispered about our feelings and then feel asleep under our mosquito net after I wrote in my journal and prayed. The Muslim call to prayer from a near by mosque rang in my ears and my eyelids fluttered to close.

Mwangaza Visionary School

Day 11 - part 1

”We got in at night as the moon shone, but we couldn’t take in all the beauty that was Kwale. I feel like I need to spend time learning Kiswahili or working on sermons. Here we go, Lord.”

         Yes, I was nervous about sermons and I wanted to learn Kiswahili to be somewhat of an overachiever; a characteristic of mine that only shows up in some areas of my life when I want it to. “Doing” is my specialty and it immediately showed itself in my head: “What should I be doing right now? What am I expected to do? What can I do to be accepted?”  Weaknesses, I was told, show up strong and hard when you are put into certain situations like living in another culture, for example.  I was quick to understand (subconsciously) that fact, but not really accept it until later.
            My sleepy ministry partner and I were woken up by Mama Nora early that morning. Usually, you call the woman of the house “Mama” and then the name of her first child. However, “Mama Blessings” was too much of a mouthful, so we called her “Mama Nora”. Looking back, we probably should have asked her if it was alright to call her that…. Anyway, our morning began by taking warm showers (a bucket of water and a ladle or cup) and then we would head to the school to observe what goes on there and to be introduced. I ate my big breakfast, brushed my teeth outside (it was fun to practice my spitting skills), and waited for Mama and Pastor to tell us what was next.
          Josephine (also called Tatu; it means “three” in Kiswahili) would stay home with Blessings while all of us went to the school every day. The two year-old was still warming up to me and would hide behind her family when I tried to interact with her. Pastor approached me and asked if taking a motorbike to school would be fine. "Um...yes. Wait, what? " My heart dropped a little because my mind immediately had an image of myself trying to drive a motorbike and ending up tasting the dirt of the Coast before I actually got to experience it. Thankfully, two guys on a motorbike (boda-boda, taxi) showed up and all Bea and I had to do was ride in the back while Mama and Pastor followed us on their own. The school was about 3 kilometers away from the house in Matuga so walking early in the mornings wasn’t an option, really. The ride was wonderful, though, and I embraced the thrill of it all. The cool humid air struck my face and whipped my hair as my eyes darted side to side. It was green and lush with mud huts dotting the rolling hills and the people on the side of the road stared or pointed and shouted, “Mzungu! Mzungu!” And there went another piece of my heart - I saw it plant itself into the red earth.
          The boda-boda took me right up to the school. I was thankful it wasn’t too long of a ride because I was awkwardly carrying my guitar the whole way. For safety reasons it would be stored in the Headmaster’s office and would be locked in every night. Everyone stared at Bea and me as we got off the taxis and followed Mama through the entrance way onto the grounds of Mwangaza Visionary School. There were covered areas used for the kitchen, two bathrooms separated by gender, and then the classrooms for grades K-8 set in an “L” shaped around the open courtyard. Immediately, we met the Headmaster and head teacher who were very welcoming and friendly, and then we were suddenly put in front of all the students at assembly to greet them and be introduced. It all seemed like a blur and I didn’t know quite what to say.
      To this day, I have no idea what I said in my individual greeting to the mixture of excited (the young ones) and cynical (generally they were the older ones) students. It was a good, though rushed, introduction. Then we walked into the staff room that held four desks covered in paperwork to greet the whole staff team. They weren’t smiling. At that time it was intimidating to me, but after a couple weeks I understood their skepticism toward two Americans interrupting their routine to “help” and having a fear of possible changes. Each teacher was introduced with what they taught: as soon as the names were said, I forgot them. My brain was wheeling at a crazy speed trying to observe everything as I held a friendly smile. Wherever we traveled on school grounds, I felt like I was clinging to my host parents the whole time like a child who has never been in the middle of a crowd, and that didn’t change when we were brought to the chapel to observe how the teachers gave devotionals; first to the upper grades and then to the lower grades. In Kenya, they call grades “classes” or “standards”, and the kindergarten classes were in three levels labeled KG1, KG2, and KG3. Bea and I would take over devotionals in the mornings before school started. She would have the lower classes the first week and I would take the upper until we switched the next week. ”What will I teach on for devotionals? Um…I’ll think about that later. First, I have a whole lot of observing to do.”
          Our “job” that day and the day after (Thursday and Friday, I believe) was to just observe what goes on at Mwangaza school and how things are run. I found that, even though I was schooled at home until college, there were differences in the teaching and school culture that took me aback. Meanwhile, I asked Pastor if Bea and I could help some of the teachers. He raised his eyebrows with a bit of surprise, an expression I welcomed (I hope I wasn’t too forward) from him during our stay, and he led us to rooms (KG2, KG3). Bea went with Madame Phoebe and I was welcomed by Madame Purity whose smile made me smile every time I encountered it. She taught a lesson on math and set the students to work while she insisted that I sit in her comfy chair. I have never been that comfortable with people giving up their comforts for me or letting me rest while they do all the work so I reluctantly sat in the chair offered. That was one of my biggest struggles for me in Kwale – being served, receiving gifts, and being the guest of honor. I walked into a culture who’s people are extremely hospitable and who would be offended if I rejected it. I had a lot of “letting go” to do.