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)

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:

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."

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. ;)

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 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.

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?

Repairer of Broken Walls

A few weeks ago I went to see Snow White and the Huntsman.  (Think what you like about Kristen Stewart - I happen to really like her, especially in this Snow White role.)  As I thought about the movie and the different themes that played out, it dawned on me why I like female characters like this so much - they are healers. Strong women whose presence alone changes the course of situations.  Think of Lucy Pevensie in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.  Or Arwen in The Lord of the Rings.  It's probably why I consistently come back to these movies time and again, because of characters like those.

In one of the scenes in Snow White, the dwarfs rattle off their ailments - aching hips, throbbing legs, pounding headaches.  Then they realize those problems have been alleviated since Snow White entered the picture.  One of the dwarfs says, "She is life itself."  Her mere existence heals parts of who they are and how they view life.  And I find that so stunning for some reason.  Maybe because I want to be like that.

Isn't that who we are called to be as Christ-followers, healers and menders of that which is broken?  Broken systems, broken relationships, broken societies, broken hearts, broken pasts, broken dreams, broken hopes. 

As I had been reflecting on that idea, God, in his usual way, allowed this concept to play out in my own life.  The general idea is that I was faced with a broken relationship in my life and it wasn't getting any better.  I was, in fact, contributing to making it worse it seemed.  And the more and more I thought about it, the more and more I realized that I can't let this go on.  I can't let this disrepair continue.  If I'm to say that I am a follower of Christ, then it means I can't just pay lip service to a set of ideas about restoration and reconciliation.  It means I actually have to do the work of making this relationship right.  As Beth Moore says, "We gotta do the thing, girls!"  So I did the thing and went to work, mending and repairing as best I could, as best I knew how. Stone by stone, you rebuild the wall, repave the streets and bring people to a place of healing.  In our own little corners of the world, we gotta do the work.  I have to do it in my workplace, in my family, in my church, in Kenya, wherever life takes me.  Just like Jesus, his presence alone changes the course of situations.  It should be the same in our lives.  Not in some magical, mystical kind of way.  But in a rubber-meets-the-road kind of way, in a way that makes people take notice, in a way that brings about life.

I love how Isaiah 58:9-12 says it:

“If you do away with the yoke of oppression,
with the pointing finger and malicious talk,
and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry
and satisfy the needs of the oppressed,
then your light will rise in the darkness,
and your night will become like the noonday.
The Lord will guide you always;
he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land
and will strengthen your frame.
You will be like a well-watered garden,
like a spring whose waters never fail.
Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins
and will raise up the age-old foundations;
you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls,
Restorer of Streets with Dwellings."

I want to be a repairer of broken walls and a restorer of streets with dwellings.



   

The Wind and the Waves

I have recently ventured into the land of children's ministry at my church.  I originally volunteered to work with the third and fourth graders.  I figured I would probably do better with slightly older kids because maybe they will actually listen and pay attention.  This is, in fact, a myth, as I soon discovered after several Sundays of trying to stop gaggles of ten-year olds boys in the back rows from sticking their hands in their t-shirts and trying to hit each other.

So, this past Sunday, due to schedules and conflicts, I had the privilege of working with the five- and six-year olds.  I thought to myself, "Alright...we can handle little ones.  They tend to be a little needier and have the attention span of a gnat, but hey, we can make this work."  Our lesson focused on the story of Jesus and the storm that nearly tossed the disciples overboard.  We typically gather all of the children together for a large-group time and then break up into respective age groups for small-group time.  We dance and sing our way through the large-group time and then my little band of about 12 kids makes their way over to our designated area. 

Some of the kids decided our first game was rather dull for their liking and opted to work on their Father's Day paper ties with one of the other teachers.  Okay, cool.  Have at it.  So while they're coloring, I've got my remaining little ones milling around in a circle, waiting for me to give instructions. 

The game was to proceed as follows:

The children were to show me their scary face, the look they get when they are most afraid.  And then they were to run around, making noises, pretending like they were a storm, all loud and crazy.  Once I raised my arms in the air, they were to stop and get quiet.  These results were to be achieved over a series of practice rounds, with the eventual goal of having complete silence and zero motion immediately upon my hands being raised in the air.

So, we give it a whirl.  They run around, making noises and I throw my hands in the air.  They sort of got quiet.

We aim for a second round.  Same thing, they run around, I throw my hands in the air.  Maybe two of the eight stopped.  It was like a game of "Red Light, Green Light."  By the time they are sprinting and you say red light, they've already taken about ten extra steps because they've got too much momentum going. At this point, their range has extended beyond the invisible boundaries I have designated in my head and fewer and fewer were paying attention.

We aim for a third time.  It's at this point that it becomes very evident to me I am not Jesus because the wind and the waves are not obeying. They are, in fact, forgetting that I exist.   Awesome.  So, since I am not Jesus, I decided we just need to drain the sea all together and bring this game to an end.  The wind and the waves just needed to find a seat now.  But even that proves to be an act of God sometimes.

God bless little ones, for reminding me in their own comical little ways that I very much need Someone other than myself to calm the wind and the waves.  And even Someone else to sometimes tell them to take a seat all together. 

Where I'm Safe

Every morning and every evening I gaze at these fields, always wondering how much longer I will get to see them like this.  How many more harvests will I get to be witness to?  And the weird thing is, I don't wonder if it's me who will be the one to change, but rather if it will be the fields that will change.   Are they going to get eaten up in a development some day, a distant memory?  Is there going to come a day when there's no trace of them left?  Maybe it's the nostalgic side of me that comes out when I'm standing there in the mornings, but there's some sense of safety, some sense of "rightness."  I look out over the fields and a small part of my heart whispers, "This is right, this is good, and this is where you belong." Because this is home and it's what I know.  But maybe safety is an illusion...     

(And yes, this is a picture taken with Instagram, because ladies and gentleman, I have finally entered the 21st century and bought a smartphone.  Don't get me started.)

There is No Plan B

As time draws closer to leave for Kenya, the questions and the fears get a little more overwhelming.

"Are you sure you want to go?"

"How long will you be there?"

"Is it safe?"

Yes, I don't know, and probably not.

The doubts from others start to crowd in and their voices get a little louder with each passing day.  You can bet there are days that I have my own doubts, days when I second-guess and wonder.  I'm like Toodles in Hook, wandering around the house, incessantly muttering, "Lost, lost, lost..." "Lost what?"  "I've lost my marbles."

But I always come back to the same conclusion:

There is no Plan B.

This, what I'm living, is Plan A.  And there is no Plan B. 

There is no Plan B when it comes to Kenya.  It never crosses my mind to not go, to not go because of fear.  It never crosses my mind that in the midst of Somali pirates, planes crashing into crowded neighborhoods, and bombs going off in churches, that I wouldn't ever go back to Africa.  Because it's the only thing I know how to do.  I don't know what else to do or who else to be.

In the movie We Bought a Zoo, Matt Damon's character said, "You know, sometimes all you need is twenty seconds of insane courage. Just literally twenty seconds of just embarrassing bravery. And I promise you, something great will come of it."

Maybe life needs to be lived twenty seconds at a time.

Because there is no Plan B.