I Bought the Lie

If you're just joining the party, I'd recommend reading my first post as a primer, which includes a few disclaimers and housekeeping items of note.
_____________________

Me and some ornery students in Kenya, 2012

I remember sitting quietly in Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi, Kenya, staring out the window at the tarmac, masses of people swirling around me, and all I could think was, "Just get me within the borders of the US and I will figure it out from there."

I was at the end of a two-and-a-half month stint in Kenya when the attack on US government facilities in Benghazi, Libya, happened on September 11, 2012. Yes, I was thousands of miles away from the actual attack, but a few days later, I ventured into Nairobi with some friends to visit a shopping area we often went to near the US embassy. I hesitated, wondering if it was worth the risk, but still we went. There was no mistaking the tight security. The tension was palpable as we moved about the city and everyone was on high alert, with people constantly looking over their shoulders, wondering if attacks on other US embassies - or other Americans - outside of Libya were yet to come. We made it safely back to the village and the next day I caught a flight home, one that had been scheduled well before Benghazi happened.

As I sat at the airport on September 16, 2012, itching to head home to the States, I could still feel the tension surrounding me, even on the geographic periphery of the attack, like a live wire was connecting Benghazi to all the other nooks and crannies of Africa. I had a live wire of my own running through the trenches in my brain (maybe Flash existed even then??), and I was eager to get on the plane and get home. I kept telling myself that if I could just get home to the soil of my own country, I would somehow be safer than sitting in East Africa. 

Just get me home, I thought.

But as I continued to stare out that airport window, gazing at all the planes and all the people coming and going, I had a startling realization:

Safety is an illusion.

Because you know what else happened while I was on that trip?

A man walked into a movie theater in Aurora, Colorado, on July 20, 2012, set off tear gas grenades and proceeded to shoot and kill 12 people and injure 70 others. 

I was no safer in the borders of the US, a seemingly "safe" place, than I was within the borders of Africa or Kenya, a seemingly "not safe" place. People were dying no matter whose soil I was on. I had adopted a false perception that somehow Africa was more dangerous than the US, but it was all just smoke and mirrors.

Safety was - and is - an illusion. 

I had bought the lie that somehow safety could be defined by specific borders, factors, or variables, and if I could just get everything to line up, then I'd be okay, free from harm. I had traveled overseas prior to that, had even been to Kenya previously in 2010 when they were voting on a new constitution and tensions were high, but it was that specific trip in 2012, book-ended by the shootings in Aurora and the attack in Benghazi, that I was confronted by the truth that I had made an idol out of safety and comfort, made an idol of a life free of risk and harm. 

And like scales falling from my eyes, I realized I had been duped.

I've thought about that moment in the Nairobi airport a lot in the last 24 hours. 

A lot.

Because I'm realizing I fell for the lie all over again, same as I did nearly 12 years ago.

Significant conversations with two different neurosurgeons have transpired in the last two days. The weight of the situation is catching up with me, slamming me emotionally, like waves finally breaking against the shore. I've cried more in the last 24 hours than I have in the last 24 days combined. 

I need to make a decision about whether to pursue surgery to remove part of my tumor, and when doctors start outlining the risks and realities, the possibilities and pitfalls of removing part of your brain, yeah, it all eventually starts to catch up with you.

I'm hearing the words coming out of the doctors' mouths. I'm taking notes. I'm processing. I'm weighing the pros and cons. I'm having hard conversations with my parents. I'm crying and then crying some more. I'm silently mouthing the words "What the hell?" more like 60 times a day here lately, rather than 30. 

But at the end of all those thoughts and all those conversations and all those silent utterances, I still find myself sitting in that airport back in Kenya, realizing afresh:

Safety is an illusion.

We don't live our lives in vacuums, in spaces where we can move through the world without being untouched by the world. Risk and danger are part and parcel of being a human in a world broken by sin, death, and destruction. 

None of us will make out completely unscathed.

This potential surgery carries significant risk if it goes bad and it carries significant benefit if it goes well. 

And no one has a crystal ball to tell me which way this thing is going to go.

I could overanalyze this thing into oblivion. I could let fear consume me. I could let the what ifs pull me under like a rip current, sweeping me out to the depths and sucking the air out of my lungs. 

But what I can't do is entirely eliminate risk from life.

It's not possible.

We in western culture - particularly in America - have propped up safety and comfort as the ultimate prize in life. If I could just have a pain-free, easy existence, we tell ourselves. 

But no matter how hard we try, no matter how carefully we orchestrate our health and our jobs and our kids and our spouses, we just can't seem to make it happen. Because guess what? I've spent my life dotting my i's and crossing my t's and here I am at 39, young and healthy, and cancer still happened.

Safety is an illusion.

And the sooner we come to grips with that truth and release the chokehold we have on our own hides, the sooner we can come to a place of acceptance. 

Amy Carmichael came to that place of acceptance. Carmichael was a missionary to India, rescuing hundreds of children from temple prostitution, but she spent the better part of twenty years bed-ridden from a fall. She would eventually pen these words, a poem titled "In Acceptance Lieth Peace":  

He said, ‘I will forget the dying faces;

The empty places,

They shall be filled again.

O voices moaning deep within me, cease.’

But vain the word; vain, vain:

Not in forgetting lieth peace.

He said, ‘I will crowd action upon action,

The strife of faction

Shall stir me and sustain;

O tears that drown the fire of manhood cease.’

But vain the word; vain, vain:

Not in endeavour lieth peace.

He said, ‘I will withdraw me and be quiet,

Why meddle in life’s riot?

Shut be my door to pain.

Desire, thou dost befool me, thou shalt cease.’

But vain the word; vain, vain:

Not in aloofness lieth peace.

He said, ‘I will submit; I am defeated.

God hath depleted

My life of its rich gain.

O futile murmurings, why will ye not cease?’

But vain the word; vain, vain:

Not in submission lieth peace.

He said, ‘I will accept the breaking sorrow

Which God tomorrow

Will to His son explain.’

Then did the turmoil deep within me cease.

Not vain the word, not vain;

For in acceptance lieth peace. 

I'm not saying I'm to that place of acceptance just yet. 

I still would like to shut the door to risk and pain.

But by the grace of God, may the turmoil within me cease. And by God's grace, may he bring me to a place of acceptance - acceptance of whatever his will may be for my life, come what may - and may his peace that surpasses all understanding be the rock on which I stand, not the illusion of safety. 

As CS Lewis wrote in his classic children's book, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, "Safe?" said Mr. Beaver ... 'Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you.”

Even God himself isn't safe.

But he's good.

He's the King, I tell you.

And that's no illusion.

__________________

Functional updates:

I'll try to carve out space in each post to provide updates on where I am in the process. So, if you're just here for the nuts and bolts, in the future you can slide straight here to the bottom and skip my idle wanderings above.

I'll be honest with you, there's not much I'm going to update you on right now because I'm on emotional overload. I'm at a place where I largely have the knowledge and practical information I need in order to make an informed decision - it's just a matter of making the decisions, both about which institution will be the lead on my care and about whether to pursue surgery. I'm not under the gun to make a decision by a certain deadline, but there's also no point in dilly-dallying around. What I need most of all right now is supernatural wisdom and revelation to make the decisions that are before me. There are no further appointments scheduled at this point unless I find I need to ask clarifying questions of any of the providers. It's now boiling down to simply making decisions and moving forward. I'm still holding on to Jesus but that doesn't mean the storm isn't raging all around me.

Again, I'm so grateful for all the words of encouragement and the text check-ins from friends and family, so thank you to those of you who continue to reach out and leave comments.  💕

_________________

PS: Want to leave a comment? If you select "Anonymous," would you mind including your name directly in the body of your comment? That way I know who you are!

Out of Darkness: Christmas Remix

I originally wrote this blog post in August of 2010.  I was living in Kenya at the time, a small corner of the "Dark Continent," and the concept of darkness was inescapable.  I was pondering this idea anew here at Christmas, so the post below is one part archive, and one part fresh words...

From the time I moved into my office during grad school, I had a map of the world hanging on the wall. But it wasn't your usual map, plotting out roads and towns and landmarks and topography. It was a map of the world at night, a composite image of satellite photos taken over the course of time. I've always had a fascination with maps ever since I was a child, but this one in particular has always captivated me. Maybe because I wondered what it meant for all those lights to be on at night - it meant people were working and living and doing, right?

But what of those places that had few, if any, little yellow dots indicating that electrical currents were flowing freely? Was life happening for them? Were they not able to work or were they merely working under the cover of darkness?

For some time now, I've been haunted by a particular concept in Scripture. It seems I can't escape it and my thoughts often turn to it when I'm studying. I first stumbled across the idea while doing one of Beth Moore's studies. From there it has spawned a hundred different thoughts and caused me to trace the concept across the pages of God's Word, but I'm always left asking the same question: What is the connection between work and darkness?

If you look in Leviticus 16:29-30, it says, "This is to be lasting ordinance for you: On the tenth day of the seventh month you must deny yourselves and not do any work - because on this day atonement will be made for you, to cleanse you." But connect the dots with me over to Luke 23:44 where it says, "It was now about the sixth hour, and darkness came over the whole land until the ninth hour, for the sun stopped shining. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two."

You see, when the sun stopped shining, the Father and the Son went to work. Atonement was being made for the people under the cover of darkness. It's pitch black outside and now no one can work. The only person working was the Son.

And from Genesis to Revelation, from the first page of the Bible to the very last, I think this concept holds true. Now, I'm no Hebrew or Greek scholar, so I'm sure there is a lot to the language that I would need to really dig into to confirm this, but even without such academic understanding, it's still saying the same thing: God goes to work when it's darkest. Out of the darkness, God called forth the light when he formed the earth (Genesis 1:1-5). Out of the darkness, God caused a deep sleep to come over Adam and God went to work forming woman (Genesis 2:21-22). Out of the darkness, God brought a darkness over Abram and made a covenant with him (Genesis 15:12-21).

And of out darkness, he sent a baby boy to burst forth into glorious light.  A baby born under the cover of shadows.  There were no night lights, no flood lights, no street lamps, no flash lights, no headlights, no mega-watt spotlights shining down.  Only a star high in the heavens.  

And darkness. 

While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and [Mary] gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them.  And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night (Luke 2:6-8).

At night.  

Out of darkness, God brings forth light.  

Years later, when darkness reigned yet again, God sent his one and only Son to die on the cross, making the ultimate atonement for his people.

Jesus was born under cover of darkness and he would die under cover of darkness.

But it will be out of the darkness when God says,  "I have no more need for you, night and darkness and shadows and blackness, no more need for you because I have completed the work I set out to do.  So let there be light."  Revelation 22:4-5 says, "They will see his face, and his name will be on their foreheads. There will be no more night. They will not need the light of a lamp or the light of the sun, for the Lord God will give them light." There will come a day when there will no longer be a need for darkness because the work of atonement will be finished.

I know I didn't see the worst of the worst in Africa, but I saw enough to know it was just on the other side. And I wondered sometimes if God was working there. I looked into the faces of the people, and looked into their eyes, and I wondered what hope they had. I looked out over the land where all I saw was desperation and despair at times and I wondered how God was working in the face of it all. I wondered if any work was being done on the Dark Continent.

But then I remembered that map of the world at night. If I looked at the world based only on strength of light, Africa might as well not exist. It's nothing but darkness except for a few small corners of it. And as I pondered that map, I remembered God is a God who does his best work under the cover of darkness. He's out to redeem his people - the orphans, the widows, the sick, the hungry, the poor. Am I saying His work is being done exclusively in Africa and not elsewhere? Of course not. God cannot be so confined and I cannot be so foolish to believe that it is only in darkness that he works.

But whether darkness or light, I know God is working there - and here - and everywhere else in between. It is worth noting that He is not the God of darkness - but he is the God who takes the darkness into something beautiful and bright.  James 1:17 says, "Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows."  He does not change like the shifting shadows, but he sure does use those shadows to his glory, the Father of heavenly lights.

"Into marvelous light I'm running, out of darkness..."

Out of darkness, God sent a baby boy, the Light of the World.  Into the arms of Marvelous Light may we run this Christmas.  

"For God, who said, 'Let light shine out of darkness,' made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of God’s glory displayed in the face of Christ.' " - 2 Corinthians 4:6

Remember My Caterpillar-Hating Friend, Johnson?

This picture does not do Johnson's personality justice.

Remember this kid I saved (I use the term loosely) from a caterpillar?  And the kid who asked if little girls could eat dirt? The kid who did this crazy little dance and often brought me to tears from laughter? The kid who discussed Al-Shabab and bombs with me? The same kid who makes goofy faces and holds a special place in my heart?

It turns out he is growing up and becoming a star.

I happened to be checking Rafiki's blog recently and stumbled across this post about Johnson (click the link if you want to see the video of him performing):

http://rafikifoundation.org/site/latestnews.aspx 

Johnson Waindo is a ten-year-old living at Rafiki Village Kenya. He recently presented at the national level of the Kenya Music Festival in the boys ages 10–14 years soloist competition.

The festival competitions go from sub-county, to county, and then to regional levels. At these first three levels Johnson earned first place. Each region sends its top two ranked students to the national level, so Johnson competed against eighteen other boys aged 10–14, all singing "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning."

Johnson achieved second place in all of Kenya—we are all thrilled! Mr. Samuel Agufa (pictured to the left with Johnson) has done an outstanding job training this young boy to compete with mostly older boys. Mr. Agufa helped Johnson develop his natural talent through hard work, discipline, and determination. Moreover, Mr. Agufa has been an outstanding example for Johnson; he has shown him that talent is from the Lord, but talent alone isn't enough without dedication and hard work.

Johnson’s mother died of an illness ten days after his birth, leaving him abandoned in the hospital. His father is unknown, his elderly grandparents impoverished, and his teenage siblings were unable to care for him. With no relatives to take him in, Social Welfare referred him to Rafiki Village Kenya. Johnson arrived to his new Rafiki family in November 2005. We are so proud of him and look forward to all his future accomplishments. 

Yay for Johnson!  Clearly that day I saved him from that caterpillar set his life on a trajectory to achieve stardom.  You're welcome, friend.

Don't Ever Go To Bed Without Knowing Where This Is

We were gathered around a small coffee table, a gaggle of orphan Kenyan boys and their mama in their little cottage just outside Nairobi.  The kids were all in their pajamas, their little black and brown bare feet sticking out from underneath well-worn fleece pants and hand-me-downs.  Mama Esther waited patiently for each of them to find their own seat.  It was the same routine each night during cottage devotions - every night promptly at 7:00, they gathered around to sing, pray, read the Word of God and be sent off to bed with blessings and hugs.

But tonight was different.  On this night, each of the six-year old boys in the cottage was being presented with his very own Bible.  Most of the older children already had a Bible of their own, their names written in marker on the covers, warned to not misplace them.  The same had been done for these younger boys, their names written neatly in black marker on the inside cover.

Mama Esther had the stack sitting beside her on the table.  Before she handed them out, though, she gave a message that has been seared into my brain forever.  At the time it was a rebuke to my heart, unbeknownst to her.  Now it is a haunting reminder, the memory serving as a gentle nudge so often.  The speech might have been intended for a group of young boys in Kenya, but it was a swift kick to a girl in America.   

She looked very carefully, very intensely at each of the boys and said her in thick Kenyan accent, "Don't ever go to sleep without knowing where this is," holding up the Bible.  She paused, as if gathering steam.  "If you wake up in the middle of the night and don't know where it is, you get out of bed and you go find it.  And you do not rest until you have found it again."  

And like a swift blow to the heart, as those words tumbled out of Mama Esther's mouth, I was humbled and convicted, realizing I was more apt to be concerned about where my phone was rather than where the Word of God was. Dear Jesus, forgive me.

Since that time, I have realized time and again how little I esteem the Word of God.  I treat it so lightly, acting like reading it is a chore rather than the privilege it is, acting like it is an inconvenience rather than a joy.  While I might go to bed each night knowing where it is, how often I go to bed each night not knowing what it says.

  

For whatever reason, one of the disciplines I struggle with most in this journey of following Christ is reading His Word.  I know.  You wouldn't think so.  You would think the girl who loves to read books would have read this thing cover to cover by now and have it memorized forwards and backwards.  Yet I stumble over it in the pursuit of reading anything but that.  I find a million other things to do or accomplish before I sit down to soak it up.  

But Jesus has continually reminded me of this elementary and oh-so-obvious truth:

If the Word of God is ever to make a difference in my life, I have to pick it up for myself.

I've got to physically pick this thing up and actually crack open the pages.  There is no shortcut to reading His Word and knowing His will.  I can't get it by osmosis and I can't get it by listening to a thousand other sermons merely about His Word. I can't get it by merely talking about it and I can't get it by reading other books written about The Book.  I've got to pick it up for myself.  You've got to pick it up for yourself.

As Mama Esther said, may I not rest until I find it.  May I not rest until I find Him.  When I wake up in the middle of the night, would I go in search of it.  When I rise in the morning, may I be scrambling to study its pages.  When I pause in the day, may its verses fill my mind.  Because it's never going to make a difference in my life if I leave it on the shelf and hope by some miracle it leaks into my soul.  It simply will not work that way.  And yet I have fooled myself into thinking I can get bits and pieces of it here and there.  Some on Sundays.  Some on Monday nights when I feel like it.  Some on Wednesdays at small group.  

Pick it up, Courtney. 

Pick.it.up.

Father, forgive me for thinking so little of your breath breathed onto the pages of life.  Forgive me for forgetting that a vast majority of the world doesn't even have a Bible and yet when they do, it it their greatest possession- and yet I have numerous copies and mine gather dust. Forgive me for finding a thousand excuses for not making time to bask in the glory of your holy and perfect Word.  Not a one of those excuses is legitimate.  

May I never go to sleep again without knowing where it is and the power it contains. 

Letter to Lillian

A little over a year ago I was in the Westgate Mall in Nairobi .  I remember eating lunch at the Artcaffe, one of my very favorite cafes in Nairobi.  I went there after church with one of the missionary couples on staff with Rafiki.  I remember being in the Nakumatt grocery store.  I remember thinking this was probably one of the nicest malls I've ever been in - Kenyan, American or otherwise.  I remember thinking what a startling contrast this mall was to the rest of Kenya, all pristine and modern, while you walked out the door and down the road and found tin roof shacks and red clay roads.   

And now it's a war zone, the focal point of the world. 

When I first saw the headlines this past Saturday morning, I was in the middle of a work event I was coordinating.  I was scrolling through the list on my phone when I saw a headline that simply indicated a mall in Nairobi had been attacked.  I began to frantically scroll through the article, searching for which mall, knowing that there were ones frequented by the Rafiki staff, wondering if I knew anybody involved and wondering if they were safe.  It wasn't until I got to the very bottom that it finally said Westgate. 

And it's that striking moment when you realize, "I was right there..."  I can see the stores in my head and I can see the Kenyan people enjoying the bakery and I can see the security at the entrance and I can see the neatly polished floors and I can smell the freshly roasted coffee.

If I were there now I would see shattered windows, blackened walls from grenades exploding, faces hiding, trembling in the shadows and mad men on a mission to destroy.  

I want to grieve and I want to get angry all at the same time.  Because it's just such utter nonsense and pure evil.  

And on the heels of the attack, I get a sweet letter today in the mail from Lillian, the little girl I sponsor in Kenya.  And I found the contrasts overwhelming, just like when I stood in the Westgate Mall and marveled at the disparity of what I was looking at versus what I knew existed just beyond its walls.  And here in light of watching this attack unfold, I get this precious letter from an equally precious little child.  

How do I reconcile that?  How do I reconcile a world so full of hate and outright evil with love notes from a young orphan child who thanks me for sending her a postcard with a polar bear on it?  Because when I put the two side-by-side, I just think, "How? How do we go from arms flung wide and praying blessings over lives to grenades in hand and raining down curses on humanity? How?"

I want to write back to little Lilian.  I want to write her a long letter, one full of things she simply cannot understand at such a tender age.  Full of things even I don't understand.  

I want to tell her that Satan is real and he has an agenda.

I want to tell her that his number one goal is to end her life and the lives of others - spiritually and physically.  Jesus said it himself in John 8:44, "He was a murderer from the beginning."  

I want to tell her that Satan will stop at nothing to destroy lives, destroy homes, destroy governments, destroy creation, destroy marriages, destroy relationships.  It's all fair game and he's playing for keeps.

I want to tell her that we are most certainly waging war, but not against this flesh and not against another country and not against another people group and not against another government.  We are waging war "against the rulers, against the authorities, against the spiritual forces of evil..." (Ephesians 6:12)

But what I really want to tell her is this - 

Don't lose hope, dear one.  Don't lose hope.  

Don't drown in the sadness and don't drown in the depravity of this great big mess called humanity.  Hold tight to Jesus Christ, the one who firmly claims that he will swallow up death forever (Isaiah 25:8).  

He will claim victory. He will defeat Satan.  And this world will be a passing memory.  "You will have trouble in this world.  But take heart! I have overcome the world."  (John 16:33)

Take heart, little Lilian!  Jesus Christ, the Lamb slain before the foundation of the world, has overcome the world.  

Take heart. 

One Year Later

It's hard to believe a year has already passed.  I've been reflecting on a lot of anniversaries in recent months - the passing of a friend, the ending of a dating relationship, the beginning of my walk with Christ - and now I look back on my return trip to Kenya, one year ago tomorrow.

With the passing of time has come an overwhelming sense of confirmation regarding my decision to return to Kenya - and to quit my job here in the States in order to stay longer in Nairobi.  There have been no doubts and there has been no second-guessing that decision.  I would do the exact same thing over again if I had the chance.  I was right where I needed to be, even though none of it made any sense at the time.  I felt like I was living in a cloud of confusion, entirely unsure of which way was up, entirely unsure of my what next steps needed to be.  But with time has come gracious clarity.  God has been faithful to pull back the curtain just a tiny bit and help me understand all that happened in such rapid succession last summer.  And for that I am oh so grateful.

I am reminded of Kenya at various times.  I mince garlic and I think of Kenya.  I eat rice and think of Kenya.  I pull Hannah's note out of my Bible and think of Kenya.  I read Ann Voskamp's blog and I think of Kenya.  I eat kale and I think of Kenya.  I buy supplies for an upcoming trip to Guatemala and I think of Kenya, oddly enough.  So many reminders of it scattered throughout equally scattered moments of my life. 

I don't know what it looks like to return to Kenya someday - or anywhere in Africa for that matter.  I know my heart doesn't ache quite like it used to, burning with a desire to set foot on the red clay of Africa again.  And I don't always know what that means, why that feeling has faded.  I know I'll probably go back some day, in some fashion.  I just don't know when and I don't know the reasons why just yet.

But in the meantime, I look back over this past year and marvel.  Marvel at the goodness of God and a time in a faraway land I will forever cherish.          

"A wise man once said that the problem with visiting Africa is that you feel forever an exile after you have left."   - Mark C. Ross

Merry Christmas from Kenya

Dear Auntie,

God gave His Son Jesus Christ so that we may have eternal life.

You gave sacrificially so that I may be raised on Rafiki Village Kenya.

Thank you for sponsoring me.  I wish you a happy Christmas.   Madam helped to look for a Christmas card with African angels.  Hark the herald angels sing, glory to the newborn King!

I think you have snow.  We have sunshine here.

Happy Christmas again.

Yours sincerely,

Lilian

Yes, indeed, Lilian.  God gave his son Jesus Christ, a baby who grew to be a man and would give his life for the whole wide world.  A man who wrapped his arms around all of humanity and said, "I AM the answer to every question you've ever had.  I AM all that you've been searching for.  I AM all that you've ever longed for.  I AM the great I AM.  Don't miss it."

And yes, we do have snow here.  :)

Nice Try

Forgive me for making this the second post in a row about Cheez-Its, but this one was too funny to pass up. My friend Jenna had asked me awhile ago if I had ever received the letters she sent to me in Kenya.  I told her I hadn't but the Village Director had my forwarding address and would send me any items that came after my departure.

Well, her letters finally arrived today.  About 3 months after she initially sent them.  

And maybe a little worse for the wear.  Apparently Cheez-Its don't hold up very well during international flights. I never would have guessed.  

This is what Cheez-It dust looks like. 

It was a valiant effort, my friend.  It almost worked.  :)

"Never Say Goodbye..."

This is the part where I'm supposed to figure out how to exit gracefully.  I don't know that there is much that I could say that could fully encompass all that these last two months have meant to me.  The one thought that keeps lingering, here at the end of this particular journey to Kenya, comes from C.S. Lewis in the book A Severe Mercy. It is a quote I have often returned to as I pass through so many seasons of life.  It is appropriate now, as well. 

When it came time to part, [C.S. Lewis] insisted that they keep in touch and then said with a cheerful grin, "We'll certainly meet again here or there." The two friends shook hands and Lewis made his way across the busy highway. Then he turned to [Sheldon] Vanauken, raised his voice above the traffic, grinned and shouted, "Besides, Christians never say goodbye."

To my sweet Kenyan friends, we never have to worry about saying goodbye, for if it is not in this lifetime that we should ever cross paths again, it will surely be when we meet our Savior.  

But Our Lives As Well



Thio and I

We were chopping up carrots or tomatoes or some other vegetable that I can't quite remember.  Thio turned to me and asked very quietly, very frankly, "Have you ever prayed to God for something and he has not yet delivered it?"

I don't think I was quite ready for such a profound question so early in the day, let alone while standing over vegetables, doing what seemed to be an all together mindless task.

I nodded and thought about the answer for a moment, slowly rattling off a few things that came to mind.  And I said, "What about you?  What have you been praying for that God has not yet delivered?"

She stopped for a moment and then said in a very humble voice, "A home.  I want a home so that I can serve God with it, so that I can invite people in and give them a place to stay so that they don't have to worry about staying somewhere else.  I want a home so that when my family or my children's friends come over, they can have a room to themselves. I want a home so that when my church hosts conferences, I can invite people to stay with us for the week."

Such a pure and honest a request, from a pure and selfless heart.  A home of her own so that she can give it away to others.  A home of her own, not to enjoy for herself, but so that others might find rest and peace. 

These are the moments I will miss most, moments spent talking about the deep things of life, like unanswered prayers, someday dreams, what it really means to sacrifice your only child and why people in America don't always want to go to church.  And maybe the occasional conversation about how to slaughter a goat, which is what Stephen and I discussed earlier this week.

And these are the people I will miss the most.  When I was here two years ago, the vast majority of my time was spent with the children.  I tried to soak in every moment with them.  The time with them was a gift.  But this time around - the gift has come in the form of friendships formed with the Kenyans who selflessly serve these very same children every day.  I still love the children, but my desire to spend time with them faded more and more over the last two months in light of finding such enjoyment from people like Thio and Stephen, people who love Jesus with their whole heart, people who I look up to and admire a great deal.  These are people I have come to delight in and to enjoy their company so very much.  I have come to love Stephen's laugh and Moses' joking ways.  I have come to love Sophie's attempts at teaching me Kiswahili.  (Turns out I'm not a very good student.)  I have come to love the simple conversations shared over slices of potatoes, kale, tomatoes and spinach.  I have come to love the intense conversations about whether Jephthah actually sacrificed his daughter or not.  (Judges 11 - it has left us perplexed on occasion.) I have come to love the songs that filter through the air as Thio or Sophie sing their way through the morning.  I have come to love the soft greeting of hello that slips from Bevin's mouth, sometimes so quiet I think she's whispering.  Yes, these are but a few of the things I have come to love - and will miss the most.



One thing I have learned - or maybe just been reminded of - while standing in the middle of the hustle and bustle of the village kitchen is this: love is both sacrificial and present.  It not only lays aside its own wants and needs but it shows up.  It makes itself known, it makes itself available, here, now, today.  Love shares its life.  Love does, as Bob Goff says.  I'm sure there are some people who think it's maybe a little bit crazy to spend all this money to buy a plane ticket, quit your job and come halfway around the world just to chop up carrots, tutor some kids and make paper crowns for the latest Resident of the Month.  And that's okay - everybody's entitled to an opinion.  But here's what I figure - there was a man who stepped down from His throne and put on some skin just so He could bandage my wounds.  It's a love that is both sacrificial and present.  Jesus showed up.  He shared not only the gospel, but his life as well.  I am learning to do the same, through the example of these beautiful Kenyan people.


Me, Bevin, Janet, Sophie, Thio, Joyce, and Stephen

I think there are always moments when you come to places like this and you expect to be the blessing to those you meet.  (We're so arrogant, aren't we? We humans always manage to make it about ourselves, don't we?) But the true miracle is when you discover it is you that is blessed by people who have shared with you not only the gospel of God - but their lives as well.     

"Because we loved you so much, we were delighted to share with you not only the gospel of God but our lives as well."  1 Thessalonians 2:8    

His Reflection

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared about returning home in a week and a half.  Don't get me wrong, I am good and ready to come home.  But every day is an act of my discipline to remain fully here - mentally, emotionally, spiritually - because all I think about is being there.  I'm doing my best to not make "to do" lists, writing down all the things I want to do when I get home.  I don't want to miss out on what's here because I'm so busy thinking of home and all that is going on there.

But there are fears nonetheless.

I'm afraid of going back to the routine of who I used to be.

I'm afraid of time having its way with me, forgetting all that I've learned here, of having the memories fade.

I'm afraid of slipping back into old habits, whatever they might be.

I'm afraid of the possible monotony and ordinary.

I'm afraid of people having high expectations of me and then they get disappointed when they realize I'm still the same ol' sinful me.

I'm afraid of not finding a job that doesn't have a strong sense of purpose.

I'm afraid of being silent when I most need to speak up.

I'm afraid of forgetting the value of a dollar and just how much one dollar can change things for someone.

I'm afraid of people asking me questions I don't have answers for.

But do you know what I fear most?

I'm afraid I'll get home and people will still see me instead of seeing Jesus.

A few weeks ago, a man at church here in Nairobi read the following poem and I think it expresses my sentiments better than anything I could ever write to satisfy this moment...

When Jesus looks upon my life,
What picture does He see?
Does He see His own reflection,
Or does He just see me?

Does He see His likeness,
The product of His hand?
Or just another Christian,
Who never took a stand?

Does He see a child of God,
A child that He made free?
Living life to honor Him,
Or does He just see me?

What about the other folks,
I meet along the way?
Do I show them Jesus,
To brighten up their day?

When someone looks into my eyes,
Can they truly see
That calm and gentle peace of God,
That dwells inside of me?

When I reach out and shake a hand,
Is He right there in my grip?
Can they feel that strength from God,
That steadies when I slip?

When folks are in my presence,
Do they know His Spirit's there?
Can they see that He's the one,
Who guides me everywhere?

When other people think of me,
What is on their mind?
Do they think of Jesus Christ,
So gentle and so kind?

I try to be like Jesus
Every single day
Spreading love and kindness,
All along my way.

I'm afraid that I have failed,
I could not pass the test.
Deep inside my heart I know,
I haven't done my best.

I have had to fight my flesh,
Since the day that I was born.
It's always causing trouble,
And being such a thorn.

That's why His Spirit dwells in me,
He's helping me to learn
In every situation
Where I need to turn.

He knew I'd never pass the test,
That's why He took my place.
He gave His life to save my soul,
He suffered my disgrace.

Now I try to be like Him,
I must represent Him well.
So other folks will want His gift,
And turn their backs on hell.

Other folks should see the joy
That Christ has given me.
They should want to have it too,
Especially since it's free.

They should begin to ask me,
What is it they must do,
Just how it is they go about,
Getting Jesus too.

Then I get to tell them,
This wondrous gift is free.
It only takes a humble heart,
A prayer on bended knee.

Someday when I'm face to face,
With the Lord who made me free
Will He see His own reflection,
Or will He just see me?

Week's Recap in Photos

This is Johnson doing his goofy dance. It's really much better live.
Still photos just don't cut it.  I told him to come up with some new dance moves, so
his latest version is basically what amounts to an imitation of Celine Dion.
He'll throw one hand up in the air and then act like he's holding a microphone and singing
his little heart out.  The kid makes me laugh every time.

I got so many cards this past week that the Village Director asked me if I had a birthday she didn't know about  Nope, just lots of mail from people I love!  And as much as I love sending mail (my all-time favorite is when I sent my friend Erica a donkey pinata.  Yes, you can put postage on a pinata and the post office will deliver it as is.), but I love receiving mail even more! 

Movie night! This is all 98 children in the village.  Movies and popcorn are a
special treat for them so everyone was quite excited for it to begin. We watched
Free Willy 3 (I think?) and the children loved it.  It's a bit difficult to hear a movie
when you have 98 children crunching on popcorn and crinkling their bags - but
thank goodness for subtitles!

This is the main gate.  I went for a walk one evening and happened to
catch the sun setting just as it slipped below the wall of the village.
I really should get this picture framed.  Just need to photoshop
those electrical wires out of it.  They don't work in real life
most of the time so cropping them out would probably be an accurate reflection.

Millicent, making a ridiculous face while eating her chipati.
I think that is one of my favorite things to make now in the kitchen.
Stephen says I'm quite good at it.  :)  It takes some practice, though.
I'll be an expert by the time I come home.  I should get the recipe from Thio
so I can make chipati for everybody back home.  I'll spare you the ugali.

Laughter and Quirks

You have to have a sense of humor when you live overseas.  Well, anytime you travel, really.  A vast majority of the time you realize life doesn't go quite like you planned or wanted and so you learn to roll with the punches.  I remember one year in college, as I was preparing to go overseas to Russia for a couple of months, a friend just kept saying, "Remember to tell yourself, 'It's not good, it's not bad, it's just different.'" 

Life is different here in Kenya, full of its own set of quirks and oddities and funny moments. Or at least things that I think are quirks and oddities and funny moments.  Let's take for instance power and electricity.  It's not unusual to have the power go out randomly, at various hours and for various lengths of time.  It is what it is.  You get out your "torch," as they call a flashlight here, if it's dark and you go on your merry way.  Or dig out the candles.  You sometimes experience that in the States, usually due to storms or snow or what have you.  But here in Kenya, sometimes you lose power because a big bird decides to land on your transformer.  Not kidding.  A week ago, some bird landed on one of the village transformers.  The bird got toasted and charred and quickly met his demise.  The transformer went up in flames and because of this bird's arrival and smoky departure on the transformer, it managed to hit a line that went to the local town.  Which also lost all of its power.  Our apologies to all of Mwiki. 

Let's also consider me teaching.  Now, people in the past have suggested to me that I become a teacher, mainly because I have a history degree and no one can seem to come up with a better use for such a degree other than to teach.  Since I have been in Kenya, I have taught a variety of courses here at the school - 9th grade business, 11th grade English, computer courses, etc. (Side note on 11th grade English: I taught it for several days due to a teacher being ill.  The last lesson of the week was supposed to be on how to send a telegram.  Seriously?  People still do that?  I was really hoping she came back before I had to teach that lesson because I'm pretty sure I would have stood up in front of the class and said, "Well, I sure hope you all know how to send a telegram because I sure don't.")  I also tutor a couple of students in reading and math (they call it "tuition," which I think is another quirk). 

But did you know I can teach Kiswahili?  Yeah, I didn't either.  As I mentioned in a previous post, my command of Kiswahili is pretty much nonexistent.  But last week, one of the Kiswahili teachers was sick and guess who was elected to substitute?  Yours truly.  But before you really start to wonder how in the world I pulled off teaching a language I know nothing about, let me explain that me "teaching" Kiswahili really amounted to me being a library monitor.  The students were simply to select a Kiswahili book and read it for the duration of the class.  Had you going there for a minute didn't I?  :) I assure you, I'm no Wonder Woman and I can't magically learn a language.   

Let's also consider the many funny moments that happen when I find myself in the kitchen.  This honestly is the highlight of my day, working in the kitchen.  I love working alongside Thio and Stephen.  I'll have to write an entirely separate post on what these two Kenyans have come to mean to me.  I don't know what it is, there is just something really satisfying to me when it comes to working in the kitchen.  I feel more useful there more so than in any other place I work in the village, for some unexplained reason.  I generally do things that don't require a lot of training - like cutting up carrots and tomatoes or making chipati.  But there have been a couple of occasions when I have given Thio this deer in headlights look.
Such was the case last week when she decided to stick a bunch of chickens in front of me and handed me a knife.  Granted, these were plucked and cleaned chickens, ready to cook, so it's not like I was holding a live chicken in my hands and being asked to behead it.  She was just needing to cut them up for the stew.  I thought, "Alright, Courtney, we can do this.  You grew up around livestock and all that, you can do this."  I hesitantly pulled a wing off to the side and started to cut.  It eventually turned into sawing, which would have turned into hacking if I hadn't given Thio this pleading look that said, "Help!"  Well, actually it was probably a look that said, "You're not going to have much of a bird left if you leave me with this task."  So, then she goes, in her ever sweet way, "I give you french beans to prepare?"  Yes, please.

Oh, and don't be surprised when I come back to the States and you find me using my eyebrows a lot to communicate.  When Kenyans are having a conversation and they want to affirm something, instead of nodding their head, they simply raise their eyebrows and lift their chin slightly in agreement.  I have found myself doing that A LOT.  People will be talking and I'll just raise my eyebrows, not even thinking about this new habit I have picked up.  I just find myself naturally doing it.  So don't look at me funny if I'm talking to you and all I do is speak to you with my eyebrows.

I'm sure there are a host of other things I could mention when it comes to quirks and moments that make me laugh.  There's Johnson who makes this soft hissing noise at me when he wants to get my attention and show me his latest dance moves.  There's the ridiculous Ibis that basically amounts to Kenya's version of a Canadian goose.  I don't like Canadian geese in the States and I definitely can't stand the Ibis and it's ridiculous squawking here in Kenya.  And they say things like "bis-quits," instead of "bis-kits" when they refer to cookies.  The kids ask me what my "best" food is instead of my "favorite" food.  And there are enough malls here to trump Columbus, which is saying a lot especially considering Forbes ranked Columbus fourth on its list of best cities for shopping back in late 2010.  I feel like there's a mall on every corner here in Nairobi.  And instead of anchor department stores, the primary anchor store at the malls here is the grocery store Nakumatt.

So I tell myself often here during my stay in Kenya, "It's not good, it's not bad, it's just different."  I'll remember that next time a bird lands on a transformer and knocks out the power.  One can only hope it's an Ibis. 
 

Always an Adventure

I could hear Karen Blixen's voice via Meryl Streep, "I had a farm in Africa at the foot of the Ngong hills..." as we drove through Nairobi National Park, with the Ngong hills in the distance. 

And I could hear Osa Johnson's camera shutter as she tried to capture wildlife on film, as I was praying a lion would come creeping out of the brush somewhere in the park. 

And I could hear Beryl Markham's plane engines sputter to life, as I sat at the Aero Club of East Africa and watched planes take off. 

And I might have heard Fraulein Maria singing via Julie Andrews, "The hills are alive..." as I sat on the hillside of Uhuru Park and ate lunch with the children. 

This past weekend was an adventure-filled weekend of being out and about in Nairobi with the children, with all of these voices and scenes rolling around in my head in the midst.  Friday was spent going with the third graders to Nairobi National Museum and Snake Park.  I hadn't been to either place yet so I was looking forward to the chance to go with them.  When we arrived, I began to have to doubts.  I had never seen so many children or buses.  I was a little concerned about keeping track of the sixteen students we had when all I could see was a mass of children wearing similar uniforms.  The Kenyan schools are on their winter break so the museum was overflowing with kids.  And I think Cherie, the other short-term volunteer, and I were the only two white people in the entire place.   I don't know Kiswahili very well, but the one word I DO know is "mzungu," which means "white person."  I heard it whispered a lot amongst children from other schools on Friday.  I sometimes wonder if the word "crazy" inadvertently gets linked to the definition of mzungu.

We made our way through the museum and eventually snake park, the children gawking at everything they laid eyes on.  We scampered over to Uhuru Park to enjoy our packed lunches of PB&J, at which point I heard Julie Andrews in my head.  The children had scattered their blankets across the hillside overlooking the park, busy chattering about their day and what they were finding in their lunches.  It's always neat to see Nairobi through the children's eyes, as everything seems so new and fresh to them.  Sometimes when you see it so often the novelty wears off, so it was sweet to encounter the city with them.      

On Saturday we took a small group of 8 students out to the Aero Club of East Africa, where I heard Beryl Markham's planes take off.  I think the Aero Club is now on my list of favorite places to visit.  I loved it.  It was kind of like Kiambethu Tea Farm in that it's from another era.  It's got strong British roots to it and walking into the Club was like stepping back in time.  The Aero Club is located at Wilson Airport, an active airport just outside Nairobi.  We had a table not far from the runway, so the kids had a front row seat to watch planes take off.  This particular group of kids was recently named "Residents of the Month," which is an award given to those residential students who exhibit an obedient and willing heart, ready to serve those in their cottage.  Going to the Aero Club was their treat for this achievement.

And can I just say, the cheeseburgers they served were out-of-this-world good.  I'm not exaggerating when I say that I had polished off my burger AND fries before some of the kids had even finished putting condiments on their burgers.  I know, hard to believe for those who know me and know I don't gulp down anything or eat large portions of much.  I have no idea how I did it, but clearly I was more excited about a cheeseburger and fries than I realized.  My brothers and my dad would be proud and my mother would be asking, "Did you stop long enough to even smell it?"  Nope, clearly not, Mom.  And then I topped it off with an equally amazing piece of apple pie.  Mmm mmm good.

From the Aero Club, we made an impromptu stop at the Nairobi National Park for a game drive and a look at their animal orphanage.  We didn't encounter much game initially and I just kept praying, "God, delight your children. Give us a really lavish display of your creation."

He delivered.  In the form of an ostrich mating ritual. 

Not exactly what I had in mind, Jesus.  I was really hoping for some lions, or maybe even an elephant.  Not an ostrich mating dance.  But you know what, I guess I'll take it and give thanks anyway.

Both trips made for some long days, but I delighted in the chances to spend time with the kids beyond the context of the village and the school.

Oh, and to my family, I leave you with one picture from the museum and two words:

Honey badger

 

Love Notes

Little Hannah leaned over just before dinner and slipped a folded up piece of paper into my hand.  You would have thought she was on a top secret mission the way she made the hand-off, double-checking to see who was looking.  I thanked her and told her I would open it later.  She sat quietly next to me for the rest of dinner.  We wrapped up and I walked back to the guest house.  When I unfolded her note, I read this:

"Daer Cotney, I love you veyy much I am graying (backwards "p") for you I hope you are doing a wonberful lob (backwards "j") you are smart Thank you for your and love care I am your frend." 

Ah, sweet Hannah, you more than made up for my bad day yesterday, misspelled words and all.

Time

Somebody said to me shortly after I arrived back in Africa, "Americans have watches...Kenyans have time."  The concept of time seems to chase after me these days, but especially today.  Today was just one of those days, you know?  One of those days when it seemed everything was out of sorts and you just felt like having a good ol' fashioned pity party.  One of those days when somebody can just so much as look at you sideways and you want to cry. (Okay, maybe the vast majority of you do not have such days, but I do!) My return flight on September 16 seems so far away, but it's hard to believe that I've already been here a month.  How is that possible?  How is it that the past month has flown by but looking ahead to another month makes me want to burst into tears sometimes because it just seems like an eternity? How does this dichotomy exist? Indeed, it seems I keep too close an eye on my watch instead of simply embracing time for what it is.

I sure wish I knew the answers to my own questions because I wrestle every day with this balance of being fully here in Kenya, something I don't normally struggle with, and wanting very much to be back home in Columbus.  I don't want to wish my time away here.  I've done that in the past and walked away with deep regrets.  I don't want to repeat those mistakes, but some days it's hard.  It's hard to not think of all the things I'm missing at home.  It's hard to not think of my family, to not think of Lifepoint, to not think of friends.   

But maybe Sheldon Vanauken and C.S. Lewis phrase it best and ultimately offer perspective I need most in this moment.  In Vanauken's book A Severe Mercy (personal all-time favorite book), the two dialogue about this concept of time:

If, indeed, we all have a kind of appetite for eternity, we have allowed ourselves to be caught up in a society that frustrates our longing at every turn.  Half our inventions are advertised to save time - the washing machine, the fast car, the jet flight - but for what?  Never were people more harried by time: by watches, by buzzers, by time clocks, by precise schedules, by the beginning of the program.  There is, in fact, some truth in the 'good old days': no other civilization of the past was ever so harried by time.

And yet, why not?  Time is our natural environment.  We live in time as we live in the air we breathe.  And we love the air - who has not taken deep breaths of pure, fresh country air, just for the pleasure of it?  How strange that we cannot love time.  It spoils our loveliest moments.  Nothing quite comes up to expectations because of it.  We alone: animals, so far as we can see, are unaware of time, untroubled.  Time is their natural environment.  Why do we sense that it is not ours?

C.S. Lewis, in his second letter to me at Oxford, asked how it was that I, as a product of a materialistic universe, was not at home there. 'Do fish complain of the sea for being wet? Or if they did, would that fact itself not strongly suggest that they had not always been, or would not always be, purely aquatic creatures?' Then, if we can complain of time and take such joy in the seemingly timeless moment, what does that suggest? It suggests that we have not always been or will not always be purely temporal creatures.  It suggests that we were created for eternity.  Not only are we harried by time, we seem unable, despite a thousand generations, even to get used to it.  We are always amazed by it - how fast it goes, how slowly it goes, how much of it is gone.  Where, we cry, has the time gone? We aren't adapted to it, not at home in it.  If that is so, it may appear as proof, or at least a powerful suggestion, that eternity exists and is our home."

Maybe that's the truth for this moment.  That in my frustrations with time and feeling that the coming month is just a gaping void before me, what my heart is ultimately saying is that I was not made for this earth.  If we understand time through the lens of Scripture, then it's only logical that I should feel this way.  Because we are not meant for this world, for this fraction of time that we think lasts for so long, when it really is just a vapor.

"Each one of these people of faith died not yet having in hand what was promised, but still believing. How did they do it? They saw it way off in the distance, waved their greeting, and accepted the fact that they were transients in this world. People who live this way make it plain that they are looking for their true home. If they were homesick for the old country, they could have gone back any time they wanted. But they were after a far better country than that—heaven country." - Hebrews 11:13-16 (MSG)

May we all practice the art of waving our greeting to this world, accepting that we are transients, always longing for another time and another place.

Divine Spaciousness in Tight Places

I feel as though I should have something a little more profound or eventful to write about on the occasion of my 200th blog post.  Alas, I do not.  It's really just a collection of those small things that have come to mean something big in recent weeks, those little saving graces, those things for which I sent a "thank you, Jesus!" up to the heavens on more than one occasion.  They are the things that I could, no doubt, survive without but they make the going a little easier.  Many moons ago, I had a friend pass along this quote to me, from Barbara Brown Taylor's book Leaving Church:

“Many years ago now, when I was invited to speak at a church gathering, my host said, ‘Tell us what is saving your life now.’  It was such a good question that I have made a practice of asking others to answer it even as I continue to answer it myself.  Salvation is so much more than many of its proponents would have us believe.  In the Bible, human beings experience God’s salvation when peace ends war, when food follows famine, when health supplants sickness and freedom trumps oppression.  Salvation is a word for the divine spaciousness that comes to human beings in all the tight places where their lives are at risk, regardless of how they got there or whether they know God’s name.  Sometimes it comes as an extended human hand and sometimes as a bolt from the blue, but either way it opens a door in what looked for all the world like a wall. This is the way of life, and God alone knows how it works." 

So these things are my extended human hands or bolts from the blue, the things that have found me in tight places as of late:

1) My Sseko sandals - oh man, am I glad I have these sandals.  I LOVE these things.  On my last trip, I brought a not-so-great pair of tennis shoes and they wreaked havoc on my feet.  I really wasn't sure what to pack this time around, half-afraid everything was going to just cause pain from all of the walking we do around the village.  So, so, so glad I've got these with me.  Buy your own pair (and support some efforts in Uganda in a practical way!) and see what I mean.

2) My smartphone - I know, I know.  I vowed to loathe this thing for all eternity when I first got it.  Just ask anyone who was within 50 feet of me in the first few days I had it. I ranted and raved about this phone - and not just the phone itself, but the principle of having to pay what I did for it.  My mother was tired of hearing about it. *Swallowing my pride and eating my words* I will concede that it has been a gift, primarily because I've been readily able to check emails on the go when the guest computer is less-than-speedy and because of some of the apps I have.  Actually when it comes to apps, it's mainly Skype and Pandora.  (Howard Shore and Bethel Music are my top two fave stations.)  I'm not saying I won't chuck the thing when I get back to the States and switch back to my dumbphone, but I am glad I have it on this trip.

3) Emails from friends and family - There are some emails that have literally just made my day, even though whomever is sending them might think they are entirely trivial.  And the longer the email the better.  I just love getting personal emails, having that connection to life back home, knowing what's going on in my friends' and family's lives.  Those things matter to me.  I think sometimes people might put up this barrier and think, "Oh, Courtney's in Kenya - she doesn't need to be bothered we these mundane or inconsequential details..." Ahh, but you are mistaken!  I LOVE  knowing the mundane and the simple details of life back home, the stories.  Please keep 'em coming!

4) When kids say the darndest things - In a village of about 100 kids, there are bound to be things that come out of their mouths that make you laugh out loud.  That happened the other day.  I was taking a walk with Johnson (my caterpillar friend) and somehow we got to talking about the biggest states in America, but then the next question out of his mouth, somehow or another, was about bombs.  It took me probably a solid 30 seconds to decipher what in the world he was talking about and to catch up with his end of the conversation, but I finally caught on.  Then he goes, "Please, do you know where the bombs are?' "No, do YOU know where the bombs are?" "No, please.  Al-Shabab has them."  Seriously?  You're like how old? 7? 8? and you know who Al-Shabab is? And I still don't know how we got from Texas, California and Alaska to asking who has bombs?  I have no idea why, but that hit my funny bone hard in that moment and I had to work hard at not laughing hysterically because he said it so seriously and with a such straight face.  I'm still laughing about it.         

5) Cheez-Its - When I still had some.  I ran out last week. :( :(  That warrants a double-sad-face.  Totally a First World problem-kind-of-thing, but nevertheless you can bet I will be putting in a request for a box of Cheez-Its to be waiting for me at the airport upon my return.  Forget kissing American soil.  I'll be hugging that box of Cheez-Its.  (And no, this is not a prompt to give me Cheez-Its for every birthday and Christmas gift for the rest of my life.  I might have a slight love for these things, but that does not mean I want a lifetime supply of them.)

6) Peanut Butter - I think us girls living here for the short-term have eaten our weigh in peanut butter.  We put it on everything.  Bananas.  Crackers.  Toast.  Apples.  Cookies.  Whatever we can get our hands on, we throw some peanut butter on there with it.  When you eat kale, rice, beans and an assortment of other Kenyan staples, peanut butter suddenly looks likes the greatest food ever invented. 

7) Pastor Brad's sermon from July 22 - I needed to hear it.  You probably do, too.  Listen to it.

8) My mom's weekly cards and emails from my dad - Before I left, my mom handed me a stack of cards, one for each week I was originally supposed to be here.  I have exercised self-control and only opened them at the beginning of their appointed week.  Thank you, Mom!  I love them and read them often.  And Dad, your emails mean the world to me.

9) Weekend trips out of the village - It's just nice to get out every now and then.  Granted, it takes like an hour to get any place decent just because of the roads being not-so-great, but load me up on some Dramamine and we can go anywhere.

10) Java House - God bless you, Java House, for your vanilla milkshakes, tasty chicken sandwiches and stellar french fries.  I think those three things speak for themselves.  

So those are the things that have been saving me lately, the small graces that God gives each day, the manna that arrives at just the moment I need it to.