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. :)