I dearly love the movie "You've Got Mail." I don't know what it is, but I can watch that movie over and over and over again and never get tired of it. Drives my mother crazy that I do that with movies. There's one scene in particular that was brought to mind today, though. If you don't know the movie, Meg Ryan plays a bookstore owner named Kathleen Kelly. She comes up against Joe Fox (Tom Hanks) who is a rival bookstore owner and he eventually runs her little shop into the ground. She's heartbroken, but she decides to sell the shop, the only thing she's ever known. She sits down to have lunch with her now former employees but loyal friends and they chat about her decision to sell. Birdie is her accountant, a slightly eclectic older woman who has been a mentor to Kathleen. She attempts to give Kathleen a little pep talk:
"You are daring to imagine that you could have a different life. Oh, I know it doesn't feel like that. You feel like a big fat failure now. But you're not. You are marching into the unknown armed with... [pauses, hands Kathleen a plate of sandwiches] Nothing. Have a sandwich."
That's kinda how I feel. Daring to imagine a different life. Marching into the unknown with [next to] nothing.
Why?
Because I went out on a limb and quit my job to spend more time in Kenya. The decision was for a variety of reasons, not confined solely to Kenya. It was about risk. It was about "divine discontent." It was about change. It was about surrendering. It was about doors closing and doors opening. It was about God nudging and me shoving back. It was about a lot of things which cannot be fully contained here.
It wasn't an easy decision by any stretch of the imagination. And even now the doubts creep in and I wonder if I've lost my mind all together. That's so like our enemy, Satan. Always the accuser and the discourager. But then I tell myself that people make decisions like this every day, in some way, shape or form. There's nothing exceptional about what I am doing. This is simply how I know to live my life. Fears and failures and all that comes along with taking risks.
So, when you feel like you're marching into the unknown armed with nothing, just remember - have a sandwich. And maybe some Cheez-its.
7.30.2012
7.25.2012
The Faces of Redemption
They had names like "Stepping Stones," "Annex," and "Nursery," the names of places where they were abandoned by their mothers, left with the hope that someone else would care for them. Police found them wandering the streets or living with grandparents already burdened by too many mouths to feed.
They had mothers who had died of tuberculosis, were raped by strangers, were murdered by fathers, were displaced by political unrest and turmoil, with other family members unable to pick up the pieces of what seemed some very broken little lives.
They had been forgotten by a world that seemingly didn't want or need them, a world that didn't care.
Had. Past tense.
Those same children now have names like Esther, Abel, Blessed, Grace, Elijah, Lilian, Enoch, Michael, Rose.
Those same children now have "mothers" who give so sacrificially, relying on a strength that is not their own, with nearly 100 children they now call sons and daughters and raise as their own blood.
Have. Present tense.
The children I encounter every day are living proof - living proof that there is a God who redeems, a God who restores, a God who takes the brokenness of this world and sets it aright. These children are not victims. They may have a heritage of darkness. They may wake up in the middle of the night screaming from the nightmares, reliving some of the atrocities they have witnessed with their own eyes. The sadness may overwhelm them some days. But that past will not define them.
Because redemption never leaves us where we were.
These children have been redeemed from situations many of us cannot fathom. But God in his infinite mercy and grace has given them beauty for ashes, a garment of praise for their heaviness.
Lilian is one of those faces of redemption. She is the little girl I sponsor here in Kenya. She was born a twin, but they were separated at birth. Her mother abandoned her to an aunt, but her aunt would die herself just a few short months later. Lilian was found alone in the home, severely malnourished. She survived under the care of a few people in the local village, but she eventually found her way home to the Rafiki Village Kenya. When I was here two years ago, she had just arrived a few weeks before. I think she barely said two words to me, or anyone, for that matter. She toddled around, the new village plaything.
And now - present tense - she doesn't stop singing. Even if no one is listening or paying attention, it seems I always find her singing. Just tonight I went for a walk and I caught up with her and some of the other girls from her cottage. I think she asked a question for every stride she took. She is healthy, smart, and clever.
And redeemed.
"Don't be afraid, I've redeemed you. I've called your name. You're mine. When you're in over your head, I'll be there with you. When you're in rough waters, you will not go down. When you're between a rock and a hard place, it won't be a dead end— Because I am God, your personal God, The Holy of Israel, your Savior. I paid a huge price for you: all of Egypt, with rich Cush and Seba thrown in! That's how much you mean to me! That's how much I love you! I'd sell off the whole world to get you back, trade the creation just for you." Isaiah 43:1-4 (MSG)
They had mothers who had died of tuberculosis, were raped by strangers, were murdered by fathers, were displaced by political unrest and turmoil, with other family members unable to pick up the pieces of what seemed some very broken little lives.
They had been forgotten by a world that seemingly didn't want or need them, a world that didn't care.
Had. Past tense.
Those same children now have names like Esther, Abel, Blessed, Grace, Elijah, Lilian, Enoch, Michael, Rose.
Those same children now have "mothers" who give so sacrificially, relying on a strength that is not their own, with nearly 100 children they now call sons and daughters and raise as their own blood.
Those same children have not been forgotten by the world. They are wanted. They are needed.
Have. Present tense.
The children I encounter every day are living proof - living proof that there is a God who redeems, a God who restores, a God who takes the brokenness of this world and sets it aright. These children are not victims. They may have a heritage of darkness. They may wake up in the middle of the night screaming from the nightmares, reliving some of the atrocities they have witnessed with their own eyes. The sadness may overwhelm them some days. But that past will not define them.
Because redemption never leaves us where we were.
These children have been redeemed from situations many of us cannot fathom. But God in his infinite mercy and grace has given them beauty for ashes, a garment of praise for their heaviness. And now - present tense - she doesn't stop singing. Even if no one is listening or paying attention, it seems I always find her singing. Just tonight I went for a walk and I caught up with her and some of the other girls from her cottage. I think she asked a question for every stride she took. She is healthy, smart, and clever.
And redeemed.
"Don't be afraid, I've redeemed you. I've called your name. You're mine. When you're in over your head, I'll be there with you. When you're in rough waters, you will not go down. When you're between a rock and a hard place, it won't be a dead end— Because I am God, your personal God, The Holy of Israel, your Savior. I paid a huge price for you: all of Egypt, with rich Cush and Seba thrown in! That's how much you mean to me! That's how much I love you! I'd sell off the whole world to get you back, trade the creation just for you." Isaiah 43:1-4 (MSG)
7.22.2012
From One Buckeye to Another
As soon as I walked into the Maasai market, there was an onslaught of warm bodies and an abundance of items for sale. It seemed there was a never-ending stream of people pushing in close, urging me to buy their products, trying to convince me that I was their best customer of the morning. Shopping in the Maasai market in downtown Nairobi is not for the faint of heart - and certainly not for anyone who has no willpower. If you can't stand your ground and give a rather forceful "no" or a very direct wave of the hand, then you'll get eaten alive. By the time you leave, you're on sensory overload and exhausted from the mental marathon you just experienced by haggling your way through the morning, dealing with persistent and incessant vendors.
I equate the Maasai market to buying anything Amish back home. You put the name Maasai on it and it sells. It's rather annoying. And what's even more annoying is walking into the market and having everyone think you're loaded just because you're an American. What's also really annoying is when they say it's handmade or unique or that they spent all morning working on it. I want to be like "Dude, there are ten more of this exact same item in just about every booth I walk past. And I'm pretty sure you didn't spend all morning making it. Actually, I'm pretty sure YOU didn't make it at all." I always want to ask them if I have "stupid" written across my forehead.
As I meandered my way through, I kept my eyes open for a few items I had regretted not buying last time. I came upon one gentleman's booth (if you can call it that - they basically lay out tarps on the ground and claim an area to lay out all of their goods) and spotted some jewelry that came somewhat close to what I was looking for. As soon as they recognize they have something you want, the vendors can be relentless about making sure you walk away with. He saw me glance at a few bracelets with an admiring eye and he pounced.
"Very nice, yes. I give you good price. You are a good customer, I give good price. First customer of the morning, I give you good price."
I looked at him like he's crazy. "First customer of the morning, really? It's after 11 - I know you've been here awhile. I'm fairly confident I'm not your first customer."
"No, no, you are my first customer." Again, they must think I have stupid written across my forehead. I try really hard not to be THAT American.
So, we started negotiating. His first offer? Fourteen hundred shillings for each bracelet I had picked up, which equals about $15, depending on your exchange rate. I had six bracelets in my hand. I said absolutely not, handed them back to him and walked away. Because now I was annoyed. I know some poor soul somewhere along the way probably thought that was a great offer and actually gave him the money.
He followed me around the market, determined that I should buy his bracelets. I ignored him. You don't want to give me my price, I'm not going to give you my money. It's a simple concept.
I look at other jewelry and trinkets along the way. He's still following me. I'm still ignoring him. I made another purchase along the way of a woodcarving I had regretted not buying last time. (Took awhile to negotiate that one, too. By the time I was done, we were down to 25% of what he had originally offered.) I used to feel bad about ignoring them or waving them off or being really forceful, but they can be so dang aggressive about it that I just start to get mad. They have brokers, too, which are even more irritating. One snagged me as soon as I walked in and he wouldn't leave me alone. I finally clapped my hands together and said rather directly, "Thank you, but I do not need your help!" He left in a huff. I didn't feel sorry this time around.
So, my bracelet friend is still following me. He said with a reluctant smile on his face, which was a complete charade, "Okay, okay, I come down on my offer." He gives me a new price. Still too high. I know he can go lower. They always write the prices down on their hands or pull you in close to whisper the price, as if they are telling you some deep dark secret, afraid to say it out loud for fear of the other vendors hearing. His price was no secret and I'm still not stupid.
My time is running out. I kept looking, not finding better jewelry from the other vendors. My bracelet friend had what I wanted, just not at the price I wanted. I made my way back to him and his booth. He sees me coming. I stooped down to look at the selection some more. I handed him the bracelets I wanted, tell him the price I wanted them at and then added that I'm leaving the market in a few minutes, hoping to pressure him, knowing this is my last chance.
And then I noticed his hat.
Up until this point, I had just noticed his faded shirt and jeans and crooked yellow teeth. I hadn't even glanced at the hat. And what do I see on his hat?
A big block "O."
Turns out, I've got a Buckeye on my hands.
I tap his hat, smile at him and say I am from Ohio. He says, "Oh yes, yes, good country." Yes, I know. Now give me the price I want so I can go back to my good country a happy woman. He writes down one final price, the ink in his pen running out.
I said, "I'll give you this many shillings for all of these bracelets - and I'll throw in my pen, as well." He finally succumbed. I get my bracelets, he gets my money and my trusty pen. We shake hands and I walk away. We Buckeyes like to win.
Just don't make a liar out of me, Urban Meyer. There is a man in Kenya wearing your hat. We don't want to damage his reputation in the Maasai market. ;)
I equate the Maasai market to buying anything Amish back home. You put the name Maasai on it and it sells. It's rather annoying. And what's even more annoying is walking into the market and having everyone think you're loaded just because you're an American. What's also really annoying is when they say it's handmade or unique or that they spent all morning working on it. I want to be like "Dude, there are ten more of this exact same item in just about every booth I walk past. And I'm pretty sure you didn't spend all morning making it. Actually, I'm pretty sure YOU didn't make it at all." I always want to ask them if I have "stupid" written across my forehead.
As I meandered my way through, I kept my eyes open for a few items I had regretted not buying last time. I came upon one gentleman's booth (if you can call it that - they basically lay out tarps on the ground and claim an area to lay out all of their goods) and spotted some jewelry that came somewhat close to what I was looking for. As soon as they recognize they have something you want, the vendors can be relentless about making sure you walk away with. He saw me glance at a few bracelets with an admiring eye and he pounced.
"Very nice, yes. I give you good price. You are a good customer, I give good price. First customer of the morning, I give you good price."
I looked at him like he's crazy. "First customer of the morning, really? It's after 11 - I know you've been here awhile. I'm fairly confident I'm not your first customer."
"No, no, you are my first customer." Again, they must think I have stupid written across my forehead. I try really hard not to be THAT American.
So, we started negotiating. His first offer? Fourteen hundred shillings for each bracelet I had picked up, which equals about $15, depending on your exchange rate. I had six bracelets in my hand. I said absolutely not, handed them back to him and walked away. Because now I was annoyed. I know some poor soul somewhere along the way probably thought that was a great offer and actually gave him the money.
He followed me around the market, determined that I should buy his bracelets. I ignored him. You don't want to give me my price, I'm not going to give you my money. It's a simple concept.
I look at other jewelry and trinkets along the way. He's still following me. I'm still ignoring him. I made another purchase along the way of a woodcarving I had regretted not buying last time. (Took awhile to negotiate that one, too. By the time I was done, we were down to 25% of what he had originally offered.) I used to feel bad about ignoring them or waving them off or being really forceful, but they can be so dang aggressive about it that I just start to get mad. They have brokers, too, which are even more irritating. One snagged me as soon as I walked in and he wouldn't leave me alone. I finally clapped my hands together and said rather directly, "Thank you, but I do not need your help!" He left in a huff. I didn't feel sorry this time around.
So, my bracelet friend is still following me. He said with a reluctant smile on his face, which was a complete charade, "Okay, okay, I come down on my offer." He gives me a new price. Still too high. I know he can go lower. They always write the prices down on their hands or pull you in close to whisper the price, as if they are telling you some deep dark secret, afraid to say it out loud for fear of the other vendors hearing. His price was no secret and I'm still not stupid.
My time is running out. I kept looking, not finding better jewelry from the other vendors. My bracelet friend had what I wanted, just not at the price I wanted. I made my way back to him and his booth. He sees me coming. I stooped down to look at the selection some more. I handed him the bracelets I wanted, tell him the price I wanted them at and then added that I'm leaving the market in a few minutes, hoping to pressure him, knowing this is my last chance.
And then I noticed his hat.
Up until this point, I had just noticed his faded shirt and jeans and crooked yellow teeth. I hadn't even glanced at the hat. And what do I see on his hat?
A big block "O."
Turns out, I've got a Buckeye on my hands.
I tap his hat, smile at him and say I am from Ohio. He says, "Oh yes, yes, good country." Yes, I know. Now give me the price I want so I can go back to my good country a happy woman. He writes down one final price, the ink in his pen running out.
I said, "I'll give you this many shillings for all of these bracelets - and I'll throw in my pen, as well." He finally succumbed. I get my bracelets, he gets my money and my trusty pen. We shake hands and I walk away. We Buckeyes like to win.
Just don't make a liar out of me, Urban Meyer. There is a man in Kenya wearing your hat. We don't want to damage his reputation in the Maasai market. ;)
7.18.2012
Maybe Johnson Was Right...
Remember this little episode from the last trip? Turns out there is some legitimacy to Johnson's fear of caterpillars.
You know, some people come to Kenya and get mauled by lions. Or they get bitten by a mosquito and get malaria. Or they get run over by a stampede of elephants or rhinos.
I come to Kenya and get a rash. From a caterpillar. In my pants.
Well, quasi-rash. It probably will be gone by tomorrow. But after taking strips of packing tape to my knee in an attempt to rip out the little tiny spikes of hair it implanted, I think I created an even bigger red spot. I now feel this overwhelming need to turn every piece of clothing I have inside out, beat it, wash it, dry it, inspect it again and repeat the whole process all over again. It will take me an extra ten minutes every morning and evening now just to make sure I don't have some unexpected creature taking up residence in my clothing. Mi casa is not su casa - pants, shirts or otherwise. If I could say that in Kiswahili, I would be sure to tell my little neighbors in that language as well.
So now I'll add that time to my daily schedule of usual tasks.
After having been here almost two weeks, the days have settled into a routine. The day typically goes as follows:
6:30 a.m. - First alarm goes off. Try not to hit snooze. Usually not successful.
6:45 a.m. - Second alarm goes off. Seriously considering getting out of bed. It usually takes me awhile to physically get out of bed. I try not to make any sudden movements before 8 a.m. And I generally don't like talking to anyone before that hour either.
7:00 a.m. - Roll out of bed finally, throw on some clothes (only after now checking for woolly caterpillars or other unwelcome members of the animal kingdom), scramble to eat breakfast.
7:15 a.m. - Rush to get to morning staff devotions, which the Village Director leads. Me singing hymns at 7:30 in the morning is not always a pleasant sound. Well, me singing at any hour probably isn't pleasant.
8:00 a.m. - Work my way up to the ChildCare Director's office to begin working my way through individual sponsor reports for the children. For every child that is in a Rafiki Village, they have sponsors. These sponsors receive quarterly updates via email or mail, letting them know how their child is doing. (I encourage you to sponsor a child if you can!) I know it doesn't sound like much, but it's a time-consuming task and it's one I can do in order to free up the ChildCare Director to do what she needs to do - working with the Mamas and the children!
10:30 a.m. - Wish I could curl up underneath the desk and take a nap. My body is still thrown off occasionally by the time changes. I instead resort to having a Cheez-it snack break occasionally as my means of waking myself up.
11:30 - 12ish - Lunch, which does not consist of ugali, beans, rice or other Kenyan dish of choice. I usually try to grab something light. It's my only hope of being so hungry for dinner that I'm willing to eat anything by that time.
1:00 p.m. - Cut off all grazing of food. Again, to make room for whatever is for dinner. Keep plugging away on sponsor reports.
2:30 p.m. - Wish I could curl up underneath the desk and take a nap. More typing/editing/proofing of sponsor reports.
3:00 p.m. - Go cross-eyed from staring at the computer for so long. Do a few stretches and wish Dr. Jay was near so I could get an adjustment.
4:00 p.m. - Close up shop for the day.
4:01 p.m. - Take a legitimate nap.
4:30 p.m. - Catch up on emails, reading, cleaning, etc. Mentally psyche myself up for dinner.
5:15 p.m. - Dinner with the kids. They ask me random questions and I tell them about the caterpillar in my pants. Quality conversations.
6:00 p.m. - Do some more reading, Bible study, etc.
7:30 p.m. - Devotions with the kids on Tuesday and Friday nights. This is probably the highlight of my week. I love hearing these kids sing and pray.
8:00 p.m. - Catch up on more emails from work and such, shower, check my PJs for caterpillars.
10ish - Pull down my mosquito net and enjoy a blissful night of sleep.
(3 a.m. - Blissful night of sleep interrupted when the crazy hyrax starts squawking or making whatever noise it makes. I usually want to march outside and throw a rock up in the tree or bush to shut it up.)
6:30 a.m. next morning - get up and do some variation of it all over again. Pretty simple day, but I promise there are a lot more details packed into the day than what is fully contained here.
If you ever have the desire to join me in keeping such a schedule here in Kenya, you let me know. We can figure out a way to get you here and give you a long to-do list. ;) Just watch out for those crazy caterpillars...
You know, some people come to Kenya and get mauled by lions. Or they get bitten by a mosquito and get malaria. Or they get run over by a stampede of elephants or rhinos.
I come to Kenya and get a rash. From a caterpillar. In my pants.
Well, quasi-rash. It probably will be gone by tomorrow. But after taking strips of packing tape to my knee in an attempt to rip out the little tiny spikes of hair it implanted, I think I created an even bigger red spot. I now feel this overwhelming need to turn every piece of clothing I have inside out, beat it, wash it, dry it, inspect it again and repeat the whole process all over again. It will take me an extra ten minutes every morning and evening now just to make sure I don't have some unexpected creature taking up residence in my clothing. Mi casa is not su casa - pants, shirts or otherwise. If I could say that in Kiswahili, I would be sure to tell my little neighbors in that language as well.
So now I'll add that time to my daily schedule of usual tasks.
After having been here almost two weeks, the days have settled into a routine. The day typically goes as follows:
6:30 a.m. - First alarm goes off. Try not to hit snooze. Usually not successful.
6:45 a.m. - Second alarm goes off. Seriously considering getting out of bed. It usually takes me awhile to physically get out of bed. I try not to make any sudden movements before 8 a.m. And I generally don't like talking to anyone before that hour either.
7:00 a.m. - Roll out of bed finally, throw on some clothes (only after now checking for woolly caterpillars or other unwelcome members of the animal kingdom), scramble to eat breakfast.
7:15 a.m. - Rush to get to morning staff devotions, which the Village Director leads. Me singing hymns at 7:30 in the morning is not always a pleasant sound. Well, me singing at any hour probably isn't pleasant.
8:00 a.m. - Work my way up to the ChildCare Director's office to begin working my way through individual sponsor reports for the children. For every child that is in a Rafiki Village, they have sponsors. These sponsors receive quarterly updates via email or mail, letting them know how their child is doing. (I encourage you to sponsor a child if you can!) I know it doesn't sound like much, but it's a time-consuming task and it's one I can do in order to free up the ChildCare Director to do what she needs to do - working with the Mamas and the children!
10:30 a.m. - Wish I could curl up underneath the desk and take a nap. My body is still thrown off occasionally by the time changes. I instead resort to having a Cheez-it snack break occasionally as my means of waking myself up.
11:30 - 12ish - Lunch, which does not consist of ugali, beans, rice or other Kenyan dish of choice. I usually try to grab something light. It's my only hope of being so hungry for dinner that I'm willing to eat anything by that time.
1:00 p.m. - Cut off all grazing of food. Again, to make room for whatever is for dinner. Keep plugging away on sponsor reports.
2:30 p.m. - Wish I could curl up underneath the desk and take a nap. More typing/editing/proofing of sponsor reports.
3:00 p.m. - Go cross-eyed from staring at the computer for so long. Do a few stretches and wish Dr. Jay was near so I could get an adjustment.
4:00 p.m. - Close up shop for the day.
4:01 p.m. - Take a legitimate nap.
4:30 p.m. - Catch up on emails, reading, cleaning, etc. Mentally psyche myself up for dinner.
5:15 p.m. - Dinner with the kids. They ask me random questions and I tell them about the caterpillar in my pants. Quality conversations.
6:00 p.m. - Do some more reading, Bible study, etc.
7:30 p.m. - Devotions with the kids on Tuesday and Friday nights. This is probably the highlight of my week. I love hearing these kids sing and pray.
8:00 p.m. - Catch up on more emails from work and such, shower, check my PJs for caterpillars.
10ish - Pull down my mosquito net and enjoy a blissful night of sleep.
(3 a.m. - Blissful night of sleep interrupted when the crazy hyrax starts squawking or making whatever noise it makes. I usually want to march outside and throw a rock up in the tree or bush to shut it up.)
6:30 a.m. next morning - get up and do some variation of it all over again. Pretty simple day, but I promise there are a lot more details packed into the day than what is fully contained here.
If you ever have the desire to join me in keeping such a schedule here in Kenya, you let me know. We can figure out a way to get you here and give you a long to-do list. ;) Just watch out for those crazy caterpillars...
7.14.2012
From Another Era
He spoke slowly, with his Kikuyu-like accent. And he promised he knew his way out of the forest we were about to enter. I had no problems trusting him.
Kiambethu Tea Farm is one of those places where you stop and you tell yourself, "I could live here forever." It was a little slice of heaven on earth. Tranquil. Serene. Quaint. We met Fiona, the farm's owner and after being in her presence for just a few moments, I found myself wanting to use words like "bloody" and "corker" an awful lot. (I refrained.) She's this petite, soft-spoken woman with a lovely British accent and an even lovelier farm to boot. She grew up in Kenya - or Keen-ya - as they say, having come from a heritage of tea farmers. She spent some time explaining the process of growing tea, harvesting it, selling it and so on. Then we wandered through the forest with Kimani, along with the farms' dogs, who seemed well-acquainted with every stop along the way, as they would stop and sit quietly while Kimani gave his speech, knowing when it was time to move on.
After the forest walk, we wandered back to the main house and had lunch (mashed potatoes and roast beef - my stomach wasn't sure what to do!) with 3 Austrians who had just climbed Mt. Kenya, one man who had worked with NGOs all over the world, claiming Afghanistan surprisingly enough as his favorite place, a woman from Zimbabwe who was a classically trained singer, an elderly neighbor of Fiona's and Fiona herself. So many stories, so many lives intersecting on this small plot of land in the hills of Kenya.
I loved my time at the tea farm and would love to go back soon. Oddly enough, though, I had a cup of coffee. I know, shame on me for drinking coffee at a Kenyan tea farm.
7.13.2012
Unforced Rhythms of Grace
Back and forth, back and forth.
"See, you do it like dis, like you are swimming, on top of d'water."
I watch her hands as she rolls the rolling pin back and forth across the dough, first one way, then another. I watch her hands, hands that have seen so much life, raised so many babies, seen so many years. And I marvel at the strength of these Kenyan women, who upon first impressions seem so timid, so shy. And then you enter their domain, you enter the kitchen, and you see them shine. You see their smiles, you hear their laughter, you listen to their stories, their language and words flowing like a liquid wave, washing over your soul. And you find out that this is what grace is about.
I spent the morning in tears and the afternoon in laughter with these women. The tears mainly from the onions, the laughter mainly from a riotous game of musical chairs and other events. Today was the Employee Olympics, where all 50+ employees share a meal and then participate in a series of games. It's an opportunity for the Kenyan staff to step back from work and fellowship with one another. But with these games comes a lot of preparation, so off I went this morning to the kitchen to assist.
It turns out I'm not very domesticated. Actually, I should say it turns out I have no idea how to slice cabbage or peel carrots correctly and I can't slice an onion without looking like I've just come from a funeral. I also am not very good at rolling dough into a perfect circle, most of the time. For hours, I labored alongside these beautiful Kenyan women, who have deep laughs and unhurried ways. Thio, the woman in charge of the kitchen, happens to have a splendid sense of humor. As she's demonstrating how to make chapati (think fried pita bread), she's holding up some rolled out dough, "The shape does not matter. We do not eat the shape, we eat what we bake. So do not worry about the shape." I don't think she realized who she was dealing with. I gave it a valiant effort - and several hours later, we had all of the chapati dough rolled out. There might have been more flour on our aprons than there was on the chapati, but the task was done nonetheless.
They laughed at me as tears streamed down my cheeks from cutting up the onions. No one else seemed to be bothered by them, so I just looked like the only fool crying her way through the ordeal. Thio comes over again, "Surely you are crying as you consider the wonder of the cross and how our Savior had to die on it," she said with a sarcastic smile. Oh, yes, Thio, that surely is it. I adored her all the more for her sense of humor in that moment because I couldn't wipe the tears fast enough. Everybody else is still laughing at me. I quickly finished the onions so I could dry my eyes and move on to the next task.
For the afternoon, I laughed along with the children and other Kenyan employees as they made their way through musical chairs, tug-of-war and a host of other field games. To see the staff in something other than their uniforms, to see them let their guards down, to see them revel in these precious moments of life - it was a gift. The children roared with laughter as adults fell over themselves in order to get to the coveted seat in musical chairs. They laughed as the adults tried to eat a carrot tied to suspended string, with their hands behind their backs. They laughed as they carried a boiled egg on a spoon, using their mouth. All of this, too, qualified as unforced rhythms of grace, even amidst hilarity and laughter.
These are the days when you fall into a heap at night, exhausted, but satisfied.
Back and forth, back and forth. These are the unforced rhythms of grace.
"Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you'll recover your life. I'll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you'll learn to live freely and lightly." Matthew 11:28-30 (MSG)
"See, you do it like dis, like you are swimming, on top of d'water."
I watch her hands as she rolls the rolling pin back and forth across the dough, first one way, then another. I watch her hands, hands that have seen so much life, raised so many babies, seen so many years. And I marvel at the strength of these Kenyan women, who upon first impressions seem so timid, so shy. And then you enter their domain, you enter the kitchen, and you see them shine. You see their smiles, you hear their laughter, you listen to their stories, their language and words flowing like a liquid wave, washing over your soul. And you find out that this is what grace is about.
I spent the morning in tears and the afternoon in laughter with these women. The tears mainly from the onions, the laughter mainly from a riotous game of musical chairs and other events. Today was the Employee Olympics, where all 50+ employees share a meal and then participate in a series of games. It's an opportunity for the Kenyan staff to step back from work and fellowship with one another. But with these games comes a lot of preparation, so off I went this morning to the kitchen to assist.
It turns out I'm not very domesticated. Actually, I should say it turns out I have no idea how to slice cabbage or peel carrots correctly and I can't slice an onion without looking like I've just come from a funeral. I also am not very good at rolling dough into a perfect circle, most of the time. For hours, I labored alongside these beautiful Kenyan women, who have deep laughs and unhurried ways. Thio, the woman in charge of the kitchen, happens to have a splendid sense of humor. As she's demonstrating how to make chapati (think fried pita bread), she's holding up some rolled out dough, "The shape does not matter. We do not eat the shape, we eat what we bake. So do not worry about the shape." I don't think she realized who she was dealing with. I gave it a valiant effort - and several hours later, we had all of the chapati dough rolled out. There might have been more flour on our aprons than there was on the chapati, but the task was done nonetheless.
They laughed at me as tears streamed down my cheeks from cutting up the onions. No one else seemed to be bothered by them, so I just looked like the only fool crying her way through the ordeal. Thio comes over again, "Surely you are crying as you consider the wonder of the cross and how our Savior had to die on it," she said with a sarcastic smile. Oh, yes, Thio, that surely is it. I adored her all the more for her sense of humor in that moment because I couldn't wipe the tears fast enough. Everybody else is still laughing at me. I quickly finished the onions so I could dry my eyes and move on to the next task.
These are the days when you fall into a heap at night, exhausted, but satisfied.
Back and forth, back and forth. These are the unforced rhythms of grace.
"Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you'll recover your life. I'll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you'll learn to live freely and lightly." Matthew 11:28-30 (MSG)
7.11.2012
Always Questions
"Miss Courtney, please, Miss Courtney, do you have snow where you come from?"
"Please, please, Miss, do you have any brothers?"
"Auntie Courtney, please, where do you live?"
"Miss Courtney, how many planes did you take to get here?"
"Auntie, please, what is your favorite food?"
Always questions.
Always their little faces pressed close to mine so I can hear their soft voices over the din of the dinner crowd. I have to watch their mouths move so I can better connect what I'm hearing with what I'm seeing because I struggle to understand their accents. I sometimes have to ask them to repeat themselves multiple times before it registers what they are saying. Or I look to another child to interpret for me. We eventually understand one another and I can give an answer.
"Miss Courtney, what do you want to be when you grow up?"
But it is here - it is here that I have no answer.
Several children have asked me that question and I genuinely don't have an answer. I have no idea what to tell them. I stare at them for what seems an eternity, trying to conjure up some really brilliant, noble answer that sounds acceptable - and normal - and rational - as if I need to impress a group of 4-year olds in Kenya.
I have wrestled with a sense of purpose here lately - or lack thereof. The sentiment seems most prevalent in my job but it bleeds over to other parts of my life, even in my time here in Kenya. What am I doing here? What am I doing there? Do I belong here? If not here, then where? If not there, then where? It's this no-man's land, this demilitarized zone that nobody seems to know what to do with and you're afraid to walk out into it for fear of being shot by some unknown enemy.
But the theme keeps showing up, this idea of purpose. I watched the movie Hugo not too long ago. I was struck by one of the quotes from Hugo, the main character:
But maybe we're asking the wrong question. Maybe it's like Pastor Brad said, maybe the better question to ask is not WHAT do you want to be when you grow up, but WHO do you want to be when you grow up.
Because I can answer that question.
I want to be someone who lived with Jesus as her one magnificent obsession. I want to be someone who put her "yes" on the table and walked away with no regrets. Mind you, not someone who was perfect, not someone who always got it right. Just someone who lived a purposeful life.
I just wish I knew exactly what that looked like in the flesh and in the day-to-day living.
Author Francis Chan wrote
These children will grow up knowing they have one purpose: to glorify God and to enjoy Him forever. And maybe in the years to come, I will come back to this village, back to these children and I will whisper to them, "I know my purpose."
"Please, please, Miss, do you have any brothers?"
"Auntie Courtney, please, where do you live?"
"Miss Courtney, how many planes did you take to get here?"
"Auntie, please, what is your favorite food?"
Always questions.
Always their little faces pressed close to mine so I can hear their soft voices over the din of the dinner crowd. I have to watch their mouths move so I can better connect what I'm hearing with what I'm seeing because I struggle to understand their accents. I sometimes have to ask them to repeat themselves multiple times before it registers what they are saying. Or I look to another child to interpret for me. We eventually understand one another and I can give an answer.
"Miss Courtney, what do you want to be when you grow up?"
But it is here - it is here that I have no answer.
Several children have asked me that question and I genuinely don't have an answer. I have no idea what to tell them. I stare at them for what seems an eternity, trying to conjure up some really brilliant, noble answer that sounds acceptable - and normal - and rational - as if I need to impress a group of 4-year olds in Kenya.
I have wrestled with a sense of purpose here lately - or lack thereof. The sentiment seems most prevalent in my job but it bleeds over to other parts of my life, even in my time here in Kenya. What am I doing here? What am I doing there? Do I belong here? If not here, then where? If not there, then where? It's this no-man's land, this demilitarized zone that nobody seems to know what to do with and you're afraid to walk out into it for fear of being shot by some unknown enemy.
But the theme keeps showing up, this idea of purpose. I watched the movie Hugo not too long ago. I was struck by one of the quotes from Hugo, the main character:
I'd imagine the whole world was one big machine. Machines never come with any extra parts, you know. They always come with the exact amount they need. So I figured, if the entire world was one big machine, I couldn't be an extra part. I had to be here for some reason.I figure if the entire world is one big machine, then I have to be here for some reason.
But maybe we're asking the wrong question. Maybe it's like Pastor Brad said, maybe the better question to ask is not WHAT do you want to be when you grow up, but WHO do you want to be when you grow up.
Because I can answer that question.
I want to be someone who lived with Jesus as her one magnificent obsession. I want to be someone who put her "yes" on the table and walked away with no regrets. Mind you, not someone who was perfect, not someone who always got it right. Just someone who lived a purposeful life.
I just wish I knew exactly what that looked like in the flesh and in the day-to-day living.
Author Francis Chan wrote
"It is true that God may have called you to be exactly where you are. But it's absolutely vital to grasp that He didn't call you there so you could settle in and live out your life in comfort and superficial peace. His purposes are not random or arbitrary. If you are still alive on this planet, it's because He has something for you to do. He placed us on this earth for purposes that He orchestrated long before we were born (Eph. 2:8-10). Do you believe you exist not for your own pleasure but to help people know the love of Jesus and to come fully alive in Him? If so, then that will shape how you live your life in the place where you are."I want that truth to shape how I live my life in the place that I am. Here in Kenya. Back home at my job. With my family. With my church. Wherever life takes me.
These children will grow up knowing they have one purpose: to glorify God and to enjoy Him forever. And maybe in the years to come, I will come back to this village, back to these children and I will whisper to them, "I know my purpose."
7.09.2012
Pep Talks
"You can do this, Courtney. You've done this before, you can do it again. Just like last time. You didn't die from it the first time around, you won't die this time. Just keep going, just keep going, just keep going..."
I think I should hit the motivational speakers' circuit after this trip because I am becoming the master at pep talks. They usually last about an hour - the thirty minutes leading up to dinner and the thirty minutes during dinner.
I know, I know. I'm beating a dead horse. Anybody who was with me on my last trip is well aware of my intense dislike for some of the meal options here - particularly anything involving beans. It is no exaggeration when I speak of how much I dislike them. I nearly want to break out in a sweat or in hives whenever I find out beans is on the menu for the next meal. But because I am in Kenya, I try my best to make the most of these life experiences. Allow me to impart a few words of wisdom to any of you who wish to come to strike out on your own adventure to Kenya some day:
1) Don't breathe while you eat. That may not sound like a good plan, but I assure you it is. Because if you don't breathe, you don't allow your brain to register the fact that what you're eating is something you wouldn't be having otherwise. And if you just keep shoveling, then you don't give your brain a chance to catch up with your stomach. So, by the time you're physically done eating, your brain finally decides to kick in and bring things to a halt. Magic!
2) Ration all parts accordingly. If you have ugali (think grits in a fairly hard play-doh form. I know, right? I've made the same facial expression you probably just made countless times), sukuma wiki (think boiled kale) and roasted chicken, then you must eat them all in equal parts. One bite equals one part ugali, one part sukuma wiki, one part chicken. Think of it like milk and cereal in the morning - you have to end up with the same amount of milk as cereal. If you have too much milk, add cereal. Too much cereal, add milk. Same concept. Only in this instance, you get really desperate to have them all come out equally because you do NOT want to be left with just ugali and sukuma. That chicken is the only thing holding you back from losing your dinner all together. You better be scraping that meat off the bones.
3) Don't overthink it. Don't consider what you're eating. This part is hardest for me. And it's usually where the pep talk comes in.
4) Pack 4 boxes of Cheez-Its, one for each week you're here, 2 boxes of granola bars and 4 small snack bags of trail mix to compensate. You think I'm joking. But I'm not.
So, while I'm busy raking in the money from the speakers' circuit on how to survive and thrive in Kenya, I'll be sure to offer cans of beans as parting gifts to all of my attendees. Just my way of saying "good luck." Shoot, I'll even wrap it and put a bow on it. No returns, exchanges or refunds accepted. ;)
I think I should hit the motivational speakers' circuit after this trip because I am becoming the master at pep talks. They usually last about an hour - the thirty minutes leading up to dinner and the thirty minutes during dinner.
I know, I know. I'm beating a dead horse. Anybody who was with me on my last trip is well aware of my intense dislike for some of the meal options here - particularly anything involving beans. It is no exaggeration when I speak of how much I dislike them. I nearly want to break out in a sweat or in hives whenever I find out beans is on the menu for the next meal. But because I am in Kenya, I try my best to make the most of these life experiences. Allow me to impart a few words of wisdom to any of you who wish to come to strike out on your own adventure to Kenya some day:
1) Don't breathe while you eat. That may not sound like a good plan, but I assure you it is. Because if you don't breathe, you don't allow your brain to register the fact that what you're eating is something you wouldn't be having otherwise. And if you just keep shoveling, then you don't give your brain a chance to catch up with your stomach. So, by the time you're physically done eating, your brain finally decides to kick in and bring things to a halt. Magic!
2) Ration all parts accordingly. If you have ugali (think grits in a fairly hard play-doh form. I know, right? I've made the same facial expression you probably just made countless times), sukuma wiki (think boiled kale) and roasted chicken, then you must eat them all in equal parts. One bite equals one part ugali, one part sukuma wiki, one part chicken. Think of it like milk and cereal in the morning - you have to end up with the same amount of milk as cereal. If you have too much milk, add cereal. Too much cereal, add milk. Same concept. Only in this instance, you get really desperate to have them all come out equally because you do NOT want to be left with just ugali and sukuma. That chicken is the only thing holding you back from losing your dinner all together. You better be scraping that meat off the bones.
3) Don't overthink it. Don't consider what you're eating. This part is hardest for me. And it's usually where the pep talk comes in.
4) Pack 4 boxes of Cheez-Its, one for each week you're here, 2 boxes of granola bars and 4 small snack bags of trail mix to compensate. You think I'm joking. But I'm not.
So, while I'm busy raking in the money from the speakers' circuit on how to survive and thrive in Kenya, I'll be sure to offer cans of beans as parting gifts to all of my attendees. Just my way of saying "good luck." Shoot, I'll even wrap it and put a bow on it. No returns, exchanges or refunds accepted. ;)
7.08.2012
Welcome Back!
I just can't seem to escape it. No matter where I go. Missouri. Ohio. Russia. Kenya. The tradition always follows me. It's like the world is conspiring against me.
The blasted meet-and-greet time at church.
What is with this tradition and why do I have such an aversion to it? And why do churches everywhere seem so intent on making me experience it, no matter where I go? My friends Jill and Alex make fun of me at Lifepoint because there is usually an audible groan that comes from the depths whenever they announce "turn and shake somebody's hand this morning." That groan usually comes from my direction and I never seem to filter it very well.
I sat through church this morning in Nairobi, so jet-lagged and so exhausted that I was literally holding my eyelids open at one point for fear I was going to fall right out of my seat if I closed them. As the pastor is praying, I'm praying for more prayer time, (sound like something Jon Acuff would write on "Stuff Christians Like," right?) just so I could give the impression that I was actually praying instead of desperately wishing I could fall asleep right there on the church floor. And then those magical words come out of the pastor's mouth and I muster up all the energy I can to turn and shake the guy's hand next to me. Oh, and, of course, they find it necessary to not only have you shake someone's hand, this church feels the need to make all visitors stand. Awesome. They then invited all guests to join other members of the church for coffee and tea after the service. Yes, please, let's have more awkward moments together. Can.not.wait.
I go to the little get-together afterwards and the lady serving the coffee asked me what I wanted, and I said just half a cup of coffee (since I don't really care for coffee and knew I wouldn't drink the whole thing). She hands me a full cup. "This is considered half a cup in Kenya." Although, it is at this point I was slightly rejoicing because I knew I needed some type of jolt of energy if I was going to make it through the next couple of hours in something other than a comatose state. It kinda worked. Being drugged up on Dramamine probably didn't help the situation, however.
Much of Kenya and what I remember here is the same - but much is different. The world is moving at a frenetic pace it seems. In the two years since I've been gone, entirely new highway systems have been built. New buildings. New malls. New apartment complexes. But still those same dark eyes, still those same dusty feet, still those same feelings of uncertainty.
I have yet to see the children, but hopefully that time will come soon. I'm anxious to hold their hands again, to see their faces. I've always been so fearful that they will have forgotten me, that they will view me as a complete stranger. I know they see countless faces every year, as short-term staff come and go. I know I am one among many, so I can't take it too personally if they don't remember. But I so desperately want them to. I want to know that I mattered enough to stand out in their minds, to stand out enough to not get lost in the shuffle of all the other faces they see. But I know my identity doesn't rest in their remembrance of me - it rests only in the one those same little ones call Jesus Christ.
As I find their faces again, I'll do my best to avoid the monkey that is apparently loose in the village and the snake that decided to make an appearance not too long ago in the backyard and the gecko who will likely show up soon in my shower. Welcome back to Kenya, my friends. :)
The blasted meet-and-greet time at church.
What is with this tradition and why do I have such an aversion to it? And why do churches everywhere seem so intent on making me experience it, no matter where I go? My friends Jill and Alex make fun of me at Lifepoint because there is usually an audible groan that comes from the depths whenever they announce "turn and shake somebody's hand this morning." That groan usually comes from my direction and I never seem to filter it very well.
I sat through church this morning in Nairobi, so jet-lagged and so exhausted that I was literally holding my eyelids open at one point for fear I was going to fall right out of my seat if I closed them. As the pastor is praying, I'm praying for more prayer time, (sound like something Jon Acuff would write on "Stuff Christians Like," right?) just so I could give the impression that I was actually praying instead of desperately wishing I could fall asleep right there on the church floor. And then those magical words come out of the pastor's mouth and I muster up all the energy I can to turn and shake the guy's hand next to me. Oh, and, of course, they find it necessary to not only have you shake someone's hand, this church feels the need to make all visitors stand. Awesome. They then invited all guests to join other members of the church for coffee and tea after the service. Yes, please, let's have more awkward moments together. Can.not.wait.
I go to the little get-together afterwards and the lady serving the coffee asked me what I wanted, and I said just half a cup of coffee (since I don't really care for coffee and knew I wouldn't drink the whole thing). She hands me a full cup. "This is considered half a cup in Kenya." Although, it is at this point I was slightly rejoicing because I knew I needed some type of jolt of energy if I was going to make it through the next couple of hours in something other than a comatose state. It kinda worked. Being drugged up on Dramamine probably didn't help the situation, however.
Much of Kenya and what I remember here is the same - but much is different. The world is moving at a frenetic pace it seems. In the two years since I've been gone, entirely new highway systems have been built. New buildings. New malls. New apartment complexes. But still those same dark eyes, still those same dusty feet, still those same feelings of uncertainty.
I have yet to see the children, but hopefully that time will come soon. I'm anxious to hold their hands again, to see their faces. I've always been so fearful that they will have forgotten me, that they will view me as a complete stranger. I know they see countless faces every year, as short-term staff come and go. I know I am one among many, so I can't take it too personally if they don't remember. But I so desperately want them to. I want to know that I mattered enough to stand out in their minds, to stand out enough to not get lost in the shuffle of all the other faces they see. But I know my identity doesn't rest in their remembrance of me - it rests only in the one those same little ones call Jesus Christ.
As I find their faces again, I'll do my best to avoid the monkey that is apparently loose in the village and the snake that decided to make an appearance not too long ago in the backyard and the gecko who will likely show up soon in my shower. Welcome back to Kenya, my friends. :)
7.05.2012
The Edge of All I Know
“When you have come to the edge of all light that you know and are about to drop off into the darkness of the unknown, faith is knowing one of two things will happen: There will be something solid to stand on or you will be taught to fly.” - Patrick Overton
Mmm. Such a good reminder. I think I'm just about on that edge. So many nerves. So many fears. So many what-ifs and uncertainties and not enough space for all of my snacks. I keep thinking of Susan Sarandon in the movie Elizabethtown (one of my all-time favorite movies - see it as soon as you can): "All forward motion counts."
All forward motion counts at this point. Pack. Get to the airport. Get on the plane. Find your seat. Make your connections. Get to Nairobi. Get to the village. Find those smiling faces. Hold on tight. And find life on the other side of the world. Forward motion counts.
My bags are nearly by the door. Few last items to pack. Weigh them to make sure they are under 50 pounds. Get some sleep. Wake up and find out if there's something solid to stand on or if I'm going to find out what it means to fly.
Mmm. Such a good reminder. I think I'm just about on that edge. So many nerves. So many fears. So many what-ifs and uncertainties and not enough space for all of my snacks. I keep thinking of Susan Sarandon in the movie Elizabethtown (one of my all-time favorite movies - see it as soon as you can): "All forward motion counts."
All forward motion counts at this point. Pack. Get to the airport. Get on the plane. Find your seat. Make your connections. Get to Nairobi. Get to the village. Find those smiling faces. Hold on tight. And find life on the other side of the world. Forward motion counts.
My bags are nearly by the door. Few last items to pack. Weigh them to make sure they are under 50 pounds. Get some sleep. Wake up and find out if there's something solid to stand on or if I'm going to find out what it means to fly.
7.02.2012
The Company You Keep
I am swimming in a sea of suitcases, ziploc baggies, piles of clothes, paperwork, unchecked emails, flight confirmations and fears. It's been a long week. After being in Indianapolis for 5 days for Convention and working about 60 hours and then coming home to no power (at home or the office), it's been a disjointed few days, to say the least. But I'm trying to roll with it as best I can. Right now, all I can see past is making sure my Cheez-its fit somewhere in my suitcase without getting smashed to crumbs. Priorities, people, priorities.
I've debated for awhile on what literature to take with me to Kenya. Thirty hours on a flight or in an airport equals a lot of time to read. The last trip included the final installment of Lord of the Rings. I'm thinking Tolkien will be coming along again on this trip. Maybe a new tradition? Maybe some Tozer, maybe some Vanauken, too. I'm not particularly looking forward to this flight, either coming or going. I generally love traveling by myself, but this time around, I actually rather dread it. It's a lot of time alone and some things are just better shared with others. But you know, I did it once, I guess I'll do it again, right?
They say you are known by the company you keep. I'd say Tozer, Tolkien and Vanauken count as pretty good company. Any other company I should consider packing?
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