"Typical"...with Accents.

Day 22 –

   A “typical” day at school. The Lord gave me words and a story to tell the youngest students at the school for the morning devotion. The school day was full, and the evenings were restful and full of joy.

   I will never forget a conversation I had with Madame Purity. She is always quick to encourage (or rebuke, depending). She told me that if you speak the word of God, you are allowing Him to use you. We are a vessel. You should not worry about whether you did well or not, He will speak through you. It is conversations like that which slam me back to reality and a better perspective on my weaknesses.

   I will never forget the teachers in general.  There is Mark getting himself into arguments with his fellow teachers and stirring up trouble. His arguing will never cease. There is Fred, who made me giggle with his sudden sighs that turned into outbursts as he entered the room…”Oh! I have to grade papers!” Agnes and Winnie were quiet unless you talked to them one on one. Phoebe and Purity were the playful and passionate ones. Babu (Gregory) who’s smile was contagious and who spoke with impeccable English. Martha, who had a stern face, but would show her fun, joyful side sometimes. I was attached.

   When I helped in Winnie’s classroom, I was able to hear her story that also sticks in my mind. Her father is an alcoholic and has been ever since he was young; he is not a born-again Christian. Yet, this teacher has hope – she didn’t look discouraged at all while sharing. She has hope and she prays for him constantly. “God has protected him and has kept him alive for a reason. Soon he will be saved.” If that doesn’t blow you away…
    While I visited the school this last summer, the first question I asked Winnie was regarding her father. She didn’t hesitate to smile and say, “He is still not saved.” She then proceeded to tell me that it will happen in December when he has to walk into a church for her wedding. Even though we laughed about it, I will be praying that he does.

    I walked into the house at the end of the day with red earth caked, yet again, to my legs and feet.     Playing tag with the older girls was such an enjoyable time.
We went through our usual routine at home. Laughter.
   I remember Bea and me giggling over a Kenyan rapper showed on the TV (they are the same there as they are in the States), and that set the whole mood for the night. Pastor was an absolute joy and got very silly during dinner. He constantly urged us to take more food, “We won’t have to eat in heaven so we should eat enough now!”    Then, we started discussing the difference in English and Kenyan accents. I wrote the word “bowl” on a piece of paper and had Pastor read it. In his accent, it sounded like “bowel”. Bea and I laughed ridiculously hard for at least 5 minutes until we could explain to a slightly confused pastor how the differences changed the meaning to us. We proceeded and even tried to speak in each other’s accents.  That is finding joy in the differences.

Far from a Preacher

I will not give up on this blog. Haha! Only halfway through and I’ve already been back to that beloved country and home again. Keep up with me if you still can!

Day 21 –

“I preached today. I am so glad it is over.”

     Looking back, I cannot believe how nervous I was to preach at Mwangaza Pentecostal Church (in the same compound as the school) that Sunday. Nerves were present as I was getting up, eating my breakfast of arrowroot, and nerves riding with our boda-boda, Abdala, to church. These days, if I can be prepared, I don’t mind speaking in front of people as much as I did two summers ago.
      I was prepared. I read my notes over and over again; they occupied my thoughts as we sat in the prayer meeting, worshiped and danced with the children in Sunday school, and as we waited for the service to start. Pastor looked at me expectantly from the pulpit as he invited me and Teacher Mark to come up for the sermon. “Ahhhh! I can’t do this. I can’t do this. Okay, I have to do this. I have to do this. Lord, speak for me or it will be a disaster!” My feet dragged as I stood up and walked over to meet Mark, who was a calming comfort as he translated my shaky English.
      I don’t remember much. I don’t remember what I even preached on. All I remember was that it was short and that I knew, without a shadow of doubt, I was not gifted as a preacher.
That was OK with me! It was great, though, that I had that opportunity anyway because God used it to help me grow regardless of the results. I am continually reminded that being comfortable doesn’t help you grow as a believer in Christ, or even as a person in general.
      Mama and Pastor were so encouraging anyway despite my unsatisfactory (according to me) attempt at a sermon. I love them for that. Mama especially pointed out everything she liked about what I said, but also didn't leave out the fact that it was clear and concise. How blessed I was/am to have their unconditional love!  
       Among the faces of the usual congregation (mostly women) was a boy that we had prayed for during house visits just the day before. He was ailing of symptoms Bea and I couldn’t piece together. The point is that he was well enough to walk to church that morning if not healed all the way. Praise God! It was wonderful to “finally” see the fruit of our obedience to Jesus as we worked for the good of the Kingdom. That was just enough encouragement to carry us to the end of our assignment. It was coming soon. My journal was already full of, “I will miss…” this, thats, and this person. That was it. A part of my heart will be in Kwale district forever. To be able to describe why…well, just read the rest of my blog and maybe the answer will be there; in between each word, each sentence.

      The rest of our Sunday was spent resting, reflecting, and washing our clothes by hand. The latter activity also included chasing after Blessings when she grabbed a soaked garment to finish “cleaning” it herself. She wanted to do what we were doing. What would I have done without that child? She honestly would have been missed dearly.

    Lastly, as I reflected on my time with my wonderful new family, this is what came out of my pen:

     Since I’ve been in Kwale, God has made it clear to me how much pride gets in the way. My pride is cracked when everyone sees me as a delicate American girl. I’ve always wanted to prove to others that I was strong physically and emotionally – I don’t know why. I truly think that it is one thing I have done my whole life, for so long, that I haven’t recognized this sin. It’s a habit. My lovely friend Grace was quick to remind me that the women I come across in Kenya do more (physically) in a day than I do in a week. Fact. They are stronger, and I am weaker. I don’t fully accept that I am weak and Christ is the only thing strong in my life most days, but I know now how wrong that is. "...[His] power is made perfect in weakness." 
I want to bring that home with me. That and the joyful, slow-paced, relationship-focused lifestyle that I have come to love.
    God was changing me and shaping me as I learned to sit at His feet and listen - not proving to those around me how strong I was. My nature is to be a “Martha” and busy myself with tasks, and He was gently leading me to realize that being a “Mary” is more important (from Luke 10:38-42).
    The beginning of our adventure brought one question that still hadn’t been answered: Why did God choose to allow me to be in Kenya, on this trip, with this host-family, with this team, this summer of 2011? Maybe the answer won’t be clear now or in the near future…
But we will see, won’t we?

 
On a less serious note:
     I’ve realized, in my experience so far, that I dream (and remember my dreams) more in Kenya than in my bed in Colorado. The dreams are always set at home with friends and family who are close to me, or sometimes people I haven’t seen in years, and I wake up having to reorient myself back with the East African sunrise.
    The dreams I’ve had also never make any sense. One in particular made Bea laugh too hard for the early morning. The dream started with me at my church looking at reptiles in cases, and it ended with me running for my life from an old woman chasing after me. She had a bag containing a substance I won’t name that she intended to dump in the backpack on my shoulders… What?! I know. I know. I have no idea where that one came from.

G.O.S.P.E.L

Day 20 -

“Today was a challenge. We got ready for a long trek around Mwangaza to visit the families of the students.”

Saturday had approached us again, yet this week we were committed to doing ministry to the families around Mwangaza. Most of the families had children going to the school, but there also was a mix of families who were/had been attending the church. Pastor readied himself as we donned our sunscreen and bug spray and we headed out of Matuga village toward the school.

This day is a permanent memory in my mind because I reached a high point of discomfort…not of the physical (even though it was a hot day), but of internal struggle and interaction with strangers with a language barrier. And, of course, we never knew what to expect or what we were specifically expected to do or say. There’s nothing like being unprepared.

Our first stop was to the woman who cooks for the school - a tiny, old woman with bone-thin arms that I would see carrying a ten-gallon bucket of water on her head. I admired her dedication. We entered her mud hut with a roof of tin, and it was cool and cramped. The children around smiled or stared as we were warmly welcomed. Pastor asked us to pray for her and her household, and from that point on, Bea and I came to an unspoken agreement to take turns praying from house to house. Pastor had to translate the whole time, the whole duration of our tour because many only knew Kiswahili. The rest of the houses picked out by Pastor were a little ways away from the school itself. He kept turning around to make sure we were keeping up and that we were doing okay with the distance (which we were, coming from two states with mountains and hiking galore). “Are you still there?” he would call to us over his shoulder.

I loved walking through the beautiful, lush land dotted with mud houses. The countryside was breathtaking. We visited about 6 houses that day and prayed for every household. There were a couple sick boys we prayed over, a family we encouraged to return to church that Sunday, and we visited the Sunday school teacher. Priscilla, a 7^th grade student, walked with us toward the end helping us carry the gifts (on her head) we received from the families (maze and mangos). The most challenging was a family who was Muslim. I don’t know if they were devout or culturally religious, but they weren’t as friendly. Pastor talked to them for a while and then turned toward Bea and me to ask us to share the Gospel with them. Not unlike Moses in the Bible, I am not the best person to “throw” into a situation like that because I have a difficult time expressing with thoughts through the spoken word. Sure, I prepared for a moment like this, but it didn’t seem to help much. Yet I used the outline I’ve had in my head from a conference I went to several times in High School:
         God created us to be with Him
         Our sins separate us from God
         Sins cannot be removed by good deeds
         Paying the price for sin, Jesus died and rose again
        Everyone who trusts in Him alone has eternal life
        Life that’s eternal means we will be with Jesus forever

Even then, I felt inadequate and unsuccessful, but we moved on and eventually ended up back at the school. The amount of exercise felt great after almost three weeks of insufficient walking coupled with the large amount of food we had to clear on our plates. For fun, I tried to copy Priscilla’s way of carrying our bag of gifts and failed. It takes quite a bit of strength in the neck to carry much on your head apparently…

Back at home, Blessings was being both annoying and really fun. She loved to copy Bea and me especially with writing. She wasn’t satisfied unless she had some paper and a pencil. Pastor was okay with her desire, but I think deep down he wished we hadn’t introduced it to her at the age of 2. Also, I taught her the phrase, “what’s up, dude!” while giving a thumbs-up. Her response gave me a fit of giggles as she stuck an index finger to her chubby cheek and said, “dudie!” Oh, what joy she was (sometimes)!

I ended the day with a nap and preparing my sermon for the next day. I felt significantly unprepared, but I knew God would give me strength – He had shown me His faithfulness countless during the trip already. Bea and I also had a good talk before bed. We didn’t get many times to talk out of the earshot of someone and it felt so good to discuss what our struggles were. Sharing la la salama’s (goodnight), we fell asleep yet again.  

Bread, Butter, and Jam

Days 18 – 19

"God provides me with words to speak every day and He provides me with love for the people here. I want to stay. I want to stay."

There were a lot of questions, thoughts, and I learned a lot just within these two days. I had one month left in Kenya and the reality of leaving was hitting me a little harder with each passing day.

This was the last day I was teaching devotions for the older kids in the morning, for I would provide the teaching to the little ones until the end of my stay. As I was speaking (too short and very simple like always) on the parable of the Lost Son found in Luke, God literally broke my heart for every pair of eyes staring at me.  I found myself begging them to hear the words of God. It all sank in and my desire was for them to accept Jesus’ grace and find joy in Him. Powerful stuff. The whole time Bea and I were responsible for the student’s devotions, I/we could never figure out what to speak about until the night before and sometimes 30 minutes before. Jesus gave us words at the right time and I was learning to trust Him more each day with that task – He always came through to guide my words. It was then that I learned how God can use a quiet, timid girl and anyone (really) to fulfill His purpose in this world. 

Helping Mama Nora with kindergarten was the next step. Whenever she stepped out of the room, the children would flock around me as I worked; touched my hair, giggled, and smiled at me. I wanted every touch to communicate the love they deserve. Who knows what their home situations were like? My thoughts and prayers continue to be with them.

Apart from the usual happenings of a day at Mwangaza there came a bus full of Europeans. Now, being the only white people at the school this event took Beatrice and me off guard. My subconscious was saying, “White people? This is weird…”, but my brain was prodding, “What’s so weird? You are white too…if you haven’t forgotten.” Being a girl with hidden competitiveness, the feelings I experienced at that moment were self-righteous at the least. I mean, I had been at the school for a week and a half, I knew the teachers pretty well and how the school was run, I had taken time to learn the culture and I dressed like the natives. I was superior to these visitors, and I had a right to be, correct? Oh! So very wrong I was to think those thoughts. This attitude continued as I stood back while the visitors were greeted and the students gathered to appease their curiosity – some with looks of disdain and some with excited glee. Bread, butter, and jam were brought out along with some tables; a gift for the students from the new visitors. I quickly made myself useful making sandwiches with the other teachers as Pastor played “paparazzi” (I teased him about his sneaking photo taking often) with his camera. As we tore the sandwiches into smaller and smaller pieces to accommodate the large amount of students, my self-righteous attitude continued, “What difference is a tiny piece of sandwich going to do for these children?” As shameful as I feel for those moments of internal  unrighteousness, I think it was an important lesson in two ways: 1)it answered the question about why we took so much time to learn the language and culture, why we dressed the way we dressed, and why we were trying our hardest to be respectful of the people around us. 2) It also reminded me of how broken and wicked I can be, especially internally. Sure, I might not make huge mistakes that everyone can see, but internally I can be as wild as a storm and as impure as a sewage drain. Pastor stated, “[they] did such a good thing” during dinner that night. A punch in my gut could only describe the shame that quiet rebuke gave me, yet God was still quick to remind me of the grace and forgiveness He had already given. He can use anyone - even a khaki clad tourist.Who am I to say what makes a difference?

Our day at the school ended with a dear girl, Lois, inviting me to play some games with the older girls. Kicking off my sandals and play tag until my face turned red (which was a new topic for the girls – I was asked why my face was red at least a dozen times). It was a joy, a way I could let my hair down and connect with the girls. I was so filthy that I had to shower as soon as I got home.

This particular evening was a joyful one. It was Friday, and I had such an uplifting day. My spirits were high and it was great that Bea was feeling similar. Pastor had an old guitar that needed restrung, and after I fixed it, he played a couple songs for us. Blessings was ecstatic as she danced and shimmied her way around the room to the beat of the music. It never ceases to amaze me how music brings a quiet understanding between people no matter who they are. These moments in life should never be forgotten. We laughed our way through dinner just listening to Mama and Pastors words of encouragement. “Don’t aim to please others, aim to please God and God will work through any and every situation. We have to do our part regardless of whether we think we are making a difference or not. We just do.” Pastor continued telling stories of God’s faithfulness to him personally and it was so good to hear his wisdom. 

Rolling Chapatti

Day 17 – 

"God broke my heart for them."

The days were quickly passing and I would feel a sense of urgency with each sunrise. My relationships with the teachers were growing stronger and with it came more of an ease to interact with the students. Grace started working as the administrative assistant at the school and Bea and I continued to help teachers grade exams. On occasion, I would be appointed to sit and watch a class while the students took their exam. How affective it was for the kids (watoto), I’m not entirely sure. I heard whispers and giggles while I was writing in my journal at the head desk. The afternoon was spent in the staff room; it was a wonderful way to observe the way the staff communicated with each other and an opportunity to learn more about culture. It would often leave me giggling especially when one of the young teachers purposefully provoked the older adults. I continued to teach some guitar to Teacher Mark that day before heading back home with Mama Nora.
Matatu rides are always interesting from the American perspective. I would get many looks. One man asked Nora why she brought a mzungu on a bus, why I was not in Mombasa (the touristy city), and why I didn’t use a fancy car. If you learn one thing from reading this, remember that what you assume isn’t always the truth; particularly when talking about people from another culture. It goes both ways. At home, I helped Mama roll out chapatti (a tortilla like bread), and Tatu and I danced with the music, giggled freely, and said each other’s name playfully.  We then joined Mama and Pastor for a “family” Bible study reading Ezra before bedtime. Being open and honest with them was one of the biggest reliefs of my trip. They were so generous, caring, and truly made an effort to understand us as we were trying to understand them.