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.