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.
8.24.2012
8.15.2012
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.
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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
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.
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.
.jpg)
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
8.09.2012
Love Notes
"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.
8.08.2012
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.
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.
8.03.2012
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.
“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.
7.30.2012
Have a Sandwich
I dearly love the movie "You've Got Mail." I don't know what it is, but I can watch that movie over and over and over again and never get tired of it. Drives my mother crazy that I do that with movies. There's one scene in particular that was brought to mind today, though. If you don't know the movie, Meg Ryan plays a bookstore owner named Kathleen Kelly. She comes up against Joe Fox (Tom Hanks) who is a rival bookstore owner and he eventually runs her little shop into the ground. She's heartbroken, but she decides to sell the shop, the only thing she's ever known. She sits down to have lunch with her now former employees but loyal friends and they chat about her decision to sell. Birdie is her accountant, a slightly eclectic older woman who has been a mentor to Kathleen. She attempts to give Kathleen a little pep talk:
"You are daring to imagine that you could have a different life. Oh, I know it doesn't feel like that. You feel like a big fat failure now. But you're not. You are marching into the unknown armed with... [pauses, hands Kathleen a plate of sandwiches] Nothing. Have a sandwich."
That's kinda how I feel. Daring to imagine a different life. Marching into the unknown with [next to] nothing.
Why?
Because I went out on a limb and quit my job to spend more time in Kenya. The decision was for a variety of reasons, not confined solely to Kenya. It was about risk. It was about "divine discontent." It was about change. It was about surrendering. It was about doors closing and doors opening. It was about God nudging and me shoving back. It was about a lot of things which cannot be fully contained here.
It wasn't an easy decision by any stretch of the imagination. And even now the doubts creep in and I wonder if I've lost my mind all together. That's so like our enemy, Satan. Always the accuser and the discourager. But then I tell myself that people make decisions like this every day, in some way, shape or form. There's nothing exceptional about what I am doing. This is simply how I know to live my life. Fears and failures and all that comes along with taking risks.
So, when you feel like you're marching into the unknown armed with nothing, just remember - have a sandwich. And maybe some Cheez-its.
"You are daring to imagine that you could have a different life. Oh, I know it doesn't feel like that. You feel like a big fat failure now. But you're not. You are marching into the unknown armed with... [pauses, hands Kathleen a plate of sandwiches] Nothing. Have a sandwich."
That's kinda how I feel. Daring to imagine a different life. Marching into the unknown with [next to] nothing.
Why?
Because I went out on a limb and quit my job to spend more time in Kenya. The decision was for a variety of reasons, not confined solely to Kenya. It was about risk. It was about "divine discontent." It was about change. It was about surrendering. It was about doors closing and doors opening. It was about God nudging and me shoving back. It was about a lot of things which cannot be fully contained here.
It wasn't an easy decision by any stretch of the imagination. And even now the doubts creep in and I wonder if I've lost my mind all together. That's so like our enemy, Satan. Always the accuser and the discourager. But then I tell myself that people make decisions like this every day, in some way, shape or form. There's nothing exceptional about what I am doing. This is simply how I know to live my life. Fears and failures and all that comes along with taking risks.
So, when you feel like you're marching into the unknown armed with nothing, just remember - have a sandwich. And maybe some Cheez-its.
7.25.2012
The Faces of Redemption
They had names like "Stepping Stones," "Annex," and "Nursery," the names of places where they were abandoned by their mothers, left with the hope that someone else would care for them. Police found them wandering the streets or living with grandparents already burdened by too many mouths to feed.
They had mothers who had died of tuberculosis, were raped by strangers, were murdered by fathers, were displaced by political unrest and turmoil, with other family members unable to pick up the pieces of what seemed some very broken little lives.
They had been forgotten by a world that seemingly didn't want or need them, a world that didn't care.
Had. Past tense.
Those same children now have names like Esther, Abel, Blessed, Grace, Elijah, Lilian, Enoch, Michael, Rose.
Those same children now have "mothers" who give so sacrificially, relying on a strength that is not their own, with nearly 100 children they now call sons and daughters and raise as their own blood.
Have. Present tense.
The children I encounter every day are living proof - living proof that there is a God who redeems, a God who restores, a God who takes the brokenness of this world and sets it aright. These children are not victims. They may have a heritage of darkness. They may wake up in the middle of the night screaming from the nightmares, reliving some of the atrocities they have witnessed with their own eyes. The sadness may overwhelm them some days. But that past will not define them.
Because redemption never leaves us where we were.
These children have been redeemed from situations many of us cannot fathom. But God in his infinite mercy and grace has given them beauty for ashes, a garment of praise for their heaviness.
Lilian is one of those faces of redemption. She is the little girl I sponsor here in Kenya. She was born a twin, but they were separated at birth. Her mother abandoned her to an aunt, but her aunt would die herself just a few short months later. Lilian was found alone in the home, severely malnourished. She survived under the care of a few people in the local village, but she eventually found her way home to the Rafiki Village Kenya. When I was here two years ago, she had just arrived a few weeks before. I think she barely said two words to me, or anyone, for that matter. She toddled around, the new village plaything.
And now - present tense - she doesn't stop singing. Even if no one is listening or paying attention, it seems I always find her singing. Just tonight I went for a walk and I caught up with her and some of the other girls from her cottage. I think she asked a question for every stride she took. She is healthy, smart, and clever.
And redeemed.
"Don't be afraid, I've redeemed you. I've called your name. You're mine. When you're in over your head, I'll be there with you. When you're in rough waters, you will not go down. When you're between a rock and a hard place, it won't be a dead end— Because I am God, your personal God, The Holy of Israel, your Savior. I paid a huge price for you: all of Egypt, with rich Cush and Seba thrown in! That's how much you mean to me! That's how much I love you! I'd sell off the whole world to get you back, trade the creation just for you." Isaiah 43:1-4 (MSG)
They had mothers who had died of tuberculosis, were raped by strangers, were murdered by fathers, were displaced by political unrest and turmoil, with other family members unable to pick up the pieces of what seemed some very broken little lives.
They had been forgotten by a world that seemingly didn't want or need them, a world that didn't care.
Had. Past tense.
Those same children now have names like Esther, Abel, Blessed, Grace, Elijah, Lilian, Enoch, Michael, Rose.
Those same children now have "mothers" who give so sacrificially, relying on a strength that is not their own, with nearly 100 children they now call sons and daughters and raise as their own blood.
Those same children have not been forgotten by the world. They are wanted. They are needed.
Have. Present tense.
The children I encounter every day are living proof - living proof that there is a God who redeems, a God who restores, a God who takes the brokenness of this world and sets it aright. These children are not victims. They may have a heritage of darkness. They may wake up in the middle of the night screaming from the nightmares, reliving some of the atrocities they have witnessed with their own eyes. The sadness may overwhelm them some days. But that past will not define them.
Because redemption never leaves us where we were.
These children have been redeemed from situations many of us cannot fathom. But God in his infinite mercy and grace has given them beauty for ashes, a garment of praise for their heaviness. And now - present tense - she doesn't stop singing. Even if no one is listening or paying attention, it seems I always find her singing. Just tonight I went for a walk and I caught up with her and some of the other girls from her cottage. I think she asked a question for every stride she took. She is healthy, smart, and clever.
And redeemed.
"Don't be afraid, I've redeemed you. I've called your name. You're mine. When you're in over your head, I'll be there with you. When you're in rough waters, you will not go down. When you're between a rock and a hard place, it won't be a dead end— Because I am God, your personal God, The Holy of Israel, your Savior. I paid a huge price for you: all of Egypt, with rich Cush and Seba thrown in! That's how much you mean to me! That's how much I love you! I'd sell off the whole world to get you back, trade the creation just for you." Isaiah 43:1-4 (MSG)
7.22.2012
From One Buckeye to Another
As soon as I walked into the Maasai market, there was an onslaught of warm bodies and an abundance of items for sale. It seemed there was a never-ending stream of people pushing in close, urging me to buy their products, trying to convince me that I was their best customer of the morning. Shopping in the Maasai market in downtown Nairobi is not for the faint of heart - and certainly not for anyone who has no willpower. If you can't stand your ground and give a rather forceful "no" or a very direct wave of the hand, then you'll get eaten alive. By the time you leave, you're on sensory overload and exhausted from the mental marathon you just experienced by haggling your way through the morning, dealing with persistent and incessant vendors.
I equate the Maasai market to buying anything Amish back home. You put the name Maasai on it and it sells. It's rather annoying. And what's even more annoying is walking into the market and having everyone think you're loaded just because you're an American. What's also really annoying is when they say it's handmade or unique or that they spent all morning working on it. I want to be like "Dude, there are ten more of this exact same item in just about every booth I walk past. And I'm pretty sure you didn't spend all morning making it. Actually, I'm pretty sure YOU didn't make it at all." I always want to ask them if I have "stupid" written across my forehead.
As I meandered my way through, I kept my eyes open for a few items I had regretted not buying last time. I came upon one gentleman's booth (if you can call it that - they basically lay out tarps on the ground and claim an area to lay out all of their goods) and spotted some jewelry that came somewhat close to what I was looking for. As soon as they recognize they have something you want, the vendors can be relentless about making sure you walk away with. He saw me glance at a few bracelets with an admiring eye and he pounced.
"Very nice, yes. I give you good price. You are a good customer, I give good price. First customer of the morning, I give you good price."
I looked at him like he's crazy. "First customer of the morning, really? It's after 11 - I know you've been here awhile. I'm fairly confident I'm not your first customer."
"No, no, you are my first customer." Again, they must think I have stupid written across my forehead. I try really hard not to be THAT American.
So, we started negotiating. His first offer? Fourteen hundred shillings for each bracelet I had picked up, which equals about $15, depending on your exchange rate. I had six bracelets in my hand. I said absolutely not, handed them back to him and walked away. Because now I was annoyed. I know some poor soul somewhere along the way probably thought that was a great offer and actually gave him the money.
He followed me around the market, determined that I should buy his bracelets. I ignored him. You don't want to give me my price, I'm not going to give you my money. It's a simple concept.
I look at other jewelry and trinkets along the way. He's still following me. I'm still ignoring him. I made another purchase along the way of a woodcarving I had regretted not buying last time. (Took awhile to negotiate that one, too. By the time I was done, we were down to 25% of what he had originally offered.) I used to feel bad about ignoring them or waving them off or being really forceful, but they can be so dang aggressive about it that I just start to get mad. They have brokers, too, which are even more irritating. One snagged me as soon as I walked in and he wouldn't leave me alone. I finally clapped my hands together and said rather directly, "Thank you, but I do not need your help!" He left in a huff. I didn't feel sorry this time around.
So, my bracelet friend is still following me. He said with a reluctant smile on his face, which was a complete charade, "Okay, okay, I come down on my offer." He gives me a new price. Still too high. I know he can go lower. They always write the prices down on their hands or pull you in close to whisper the price, as if they are telling you some deep dark secret, afraid to say it out loud for fear of the other vendors hearing. His price was no secret and I'm still not stupid.
My time is running out. I kept looking, not finding better jewelry from the other vendors. My bracelet friend had what I wanted, just not at the price I wanted. I made my way back to him and his booth. He sees me coming. I stooped down to look at the selection some more. I handed him the bracelets I wanted, tell him the price I wanted them at and then added that I'm leaving the market in a few minutes, hoping to pressure him, knowing this is my last chance.
And then I noticed his hat.
Up until this point, I had just noticed his faded shirt and jeans and crooked yellow teeth. I hadn't even glanced at the hat. And what do I see on his hat?
A big block "O."
Turns out, I've got a Buckeye on my hands.
I tap his hat, smile at him and say I am from Ohio. He says, "Oh yes, yes, good country." Yes, I know. Now give me the price I want so I can go back to my good country a happy woman. He writes down one final price, the ink in his pen running out.
I said, "I'll give you this many shillings for all of these bracelets - and I'll throw in my pen, as well." He finally succumbed. I get my bracelets, he gets my money and my trusty pen. We shake hands and I walk away. We Buckeyes like to win.
Just don't make a liar out of me, Urban Meyer. There is a man in Kenya wearing your hat. We don't want to damage his reputation in the Maasai market. ;)
I equate the Maasai market to buying anything Amish back home. You put the name Maasai on it and it sells. It's rather annoying. And what's even more annoying is walking into the market and having everyone think you're loaded just because you're an American. What's also really annoying is when they say it's handmade or unique or that they spent all morning working on it. I want to be like "Dude, there are ten more of this exact same item in just about every booth I walk past. And I'm pretty sure you didn't spend all morning making it. Actually, I'm pretty sure YOU didn't make it at all." I always want to ask them if I have "stupid" written across my forehead.
As I meandered my way through, I kept my eyes open for a few items I had regretted not buying last time. I came upon one gentleman's booth (if you can call it that - they basically lay out tarps on the ground and claim an area to lay out all of their goods) and spotted some jewelry that came somewhat close to what I was looking for. As soon as they recognize they have something you want, the vendors can be relentless about making sure you walk away with. He saw me glance at a few bracelets with an admiring eye and he pounced.
"Very nice, yes. I give you good price. You are a good customer, I give good price. First customer of the morning, I give you good price."
I looked at him like he's crazy. "First customer of the morning, really? It's after 11 - I know you've been here awhile. I'm fairly confident I'm not your first customer."
"No, no, you are my first customer." Again, they must think I have stupid written across my forehead. I try really hard not to be THAT American.
So, we started negotiating. His first offer? Fourteen hundred shillings for each bracelet I had picked up, which equals about $15, depending on your exchange rate. I had six bracelets in my hand. I said absolutely not, handed them back to him and walked away. Because now I was annoyed. I know some poor soul somewhere along the way probably thought that was a great offer and actually gave him the money.
He followed me around the market, determined that I should buy his bracelets. I ignored him. You don't want to give me my price, I'm not going to give you my money. It's a simple concept.
I look at other jewelry and trinkets along the way. He's still following me. I'm still ignoring him. I made another purchase along the way of a woodcarving I had regretted not buying last time. (Took awhile to negotiate that one, too. By the time I was done, we were down to 25% of what he had originally offered.) I used to feel bad about ignoring them or waving them off or being really forceful, but they can be so dang aggressive about it that I just start to get mad. They have brokers, too, which are even more irritating. One snagged me as soon as I walked in and he wouldn't leave me alone. I finally clapped my hands together and said rather directly, "Thank you, but I do not need your help!" He left in a huff. I didn't feel sorry this time around.
So, my bracelet friend is still following me. He said with a reluctant smile on his face, which was a complete charade, "Okay, okay, I come down on my offer." He gives me a new price. Still too high. I know he can go lower. They always write the prices down on their hands or pull you in close to whisper the price, as if they are telling you some deep dark secret, afraid to say it out loud for fear of the other vendors hearing. His price was no secret and I'm still not stupid.
My time is running out. I kept looking, not finding better jewelry from the other vendors. My bracelet friend had what I wanted, just not at the price I wanted. I made my way back to him and his booth. He sees me coming. I stooped down to look at the selection some more. I handed him the bracelets I wanted, tell him the price I wanted them at and then added that I'm leaving the market in a few minutes, hoping to pressure him, knowing this is my last chance.
And then I noticed his hat.
Up until this point, I had just noticed his faded shirt and jeans and crooked yellow teeth. I hadn't even glanced at the hat. And what do I see on his hat?
A big block "O."
Turns out, I've got a Buckeye on my hands.
I tap his hat, smile at him and say I am from Ohio. He says, "Oh yes, yes, good country." Yes, I know. Now give me the price I want so I can go back to my good country a happy woman. He writes down one final price, the ink in his pen running out.
I said, "I'll give you this many shillings for all of these bracelets - and I'll throw in my pen, as well." He finally succumbed. I get my bracelets, he gets my money and my trusty pen. We shake hands and I walk away. We Buckeyes like to win.
Just don't make a liar out of me, Urban Meyer. There is a man in Kenya wearing your hat. We don't want to damage his reputation in the Maasai market. ;)
7.18.2012
Maybe Johnson Was Right...
Remember this little episode from the last trip? Turns out there is some legitimacy to Johnson's fear of caterpillars.
You know, some people come to Kenya and get mauled by lions. Or they get bitten by a mosquito and get malaria. Or they get run over by a stampede of elephants or rhinos.
I come to Kenya and get a rash. From a caterpillar. In my pants.
Well, quasi-rash. It probably will be gone by tomorrow. But after taking strips of packing tape to my knee in an attempt to rip out the little tiny spikes of hair it implanted, I think I created an even bigger red spot. I now feel this overwhelming need to turn every piece of clothing I have inside out, beat it, wash it, dry it, inspect it again and repeat the whole process all over again. It will take me an extra ten minutes every morning and evening now just to make sure I don't have some unexpected creature taking up residence in my clothing. Mi casa is not su casa - pants, shirts or otherwise. If I could say that in Kiswahili, I would be sure to tell my little neighbors in that language as well.
So now I'll add that time to my daily schedule of usual tasks.
After having been here almost two weeks, the days have settled into a routine. The day typically goes as follows:
6:30 a.m. - First alarm goes off. Try not to hit snooze. Usually not successful.
6:45 a.m. - Second alarm goes off. Seriously considering getting out of bed. It usually takes me awhile to physically get out of bed. I try not to make any sudden movements before 8 a.m. And I generally don't like talking to anyone before that hour either.
7:00 a.m. - Roll out of bed finally, throw on some clothes (only after now checking for woolly caterpillars or other unwelcome members of the animal kingdom), scramble to eat breakfast.
7:15 a.m. - Rush to get to morning staff devotions, which the Village Director leads. Me singing hymns at 7:30 in the morning is not always a pleasant sound. Well, me singing at any hour probably isn't pleasant.
8:00 a.m. - Work my way up to the ChildCare Director's office to begin working my way through individual sponsor reports for the children. For every child that is in a Rafiki Village, they have sponsors. These sponsors receive quarterly updates via email or mail, letting them know how their child is doing. (I encourage you to sponsor a child if you can!) I know it doesn't sound like much, but it's a time-consuming task and it's one I can do in order to free up the ChildCare Director to do what she needs to do - working with the Mamas and the children!
10:30 a.m. - Wish I could curl up underneath the desk and take a nap. My body is still thrown off occasionally by the time changes. I instead resort to having a Cheez-it snack break occasionally as my means of waking myself up.
11:30 - 12ish - Lunch, which does not consist of ugali, beans, rice or other Kenyan dish of choice. I usually try to grab something light. It's my only hope of being so hungry for dinner that I'm willing to eat anything by that time.
1:00 p.m. - Cut off all grazing of food. Again, to make room for whatever is for dinner. Keep plugging away on sponsor reports.
2:30 p.m. - Wish I could curl up underneath the desk and take a nap. More typing/editing/proofing of sponsor reports.
3:00 p.m. - Go cross-eyed from staring at the computer for so long. Do a few stretches and wish Dr. Jay was near so I could get an adjustment.
4:00 p.m. - Close up shop for the day.
4:01 p.m. - Take a legitimate nap.
4:30 p.m. - Catch up on emails, reading, cleaning, etc. Mentally psyche myself up for dinner.
5:15 p.m. - Dinner with the kids. They ask me random questions and I tell them about the caterpillar in my pants. Quality conversations.
6:00 p.m. - Do some more reading, Bible study, etc.
7:30 p.m. - Devotions with the kids on Tuesday and Friday nights. This is probably the highlight of my week. I love hearing these kids sing and pray.
8:00 p.m. - Catch up on more emails from work and such, shower, check my PJs for caterpillars.
10ish - Pull down my mosquito net and enjoy a blissful night of sleep.
(3 a.m. - Blissful night of sleep interrupted when the crazy hyrax starts squawking or making whatever noise it makes. I usually want to march outside and throw a rock up in the tree or bush to shut it up.)
6:30 a.m. next morning - get up and do some variation of it all over again. Pretty simple day, but I promise there are a lot more details packed into the day than what is fully contained here.
If you ever have the desire to join me in keeping such a schedule here in Kenya, you let me know. We can figure out a way to get you here and give you a long to-do list. ;) Just watch out for those crazy caterpillars...
You know, some people come to Kenya and get mauled by lions. Or they get bitten by a mosquito and get malaria. Or they get run over by a stampede of elephants or rhinos.
I come to Kenya and get a rash. From a caterpillar. In my pants.
Well, quasi-rash. It probably will be gone by tomorrow. But after taking strips of packing tape to my knee in an attempt to rip out the little tiny spikes of hair it implanted, I think I created an even bigger red spot. I now feel this overwhelming need to turn every piece of clothing I have inside out, beat it, wash it, dry it, inspect it again and repeat the whole process all over again. It will take me an extra ten minutes every morning and evening now just to make sure I don't have some unexpected creature taking up residence in my clothing. Mi casa is not su casa - pants, shirts or otherwise. If I could say that in Kiswahili, I would be sure to tell my little neighbors in that language as well.
So now I'll add that time to my daily schedule of usual tasks.
After having been here almost two weeks, the days have settled into a routine. The day typically goes as follows:
6:30 a.m. - First alarm goes off. Try not to hit snooze. Usually not successful.
6:45 a.m. - Second alarm goes off. Seriously considering getting out of bed. It usually takes me awhile to physically get out of bed. I try not to make any sudden movements before 8 a.m. And I generally don't like talking to anyone before that hour either.
7:00 a.m. - Roll out of bed finally, throw on some clothes (only after now checking for woolly caterpillars or other unwelcome members of the animal kingdom), scramble to eat breakfast.
7:15 a.m. - Rush to get to morning staff devotions, which the Village Director leads. Me singing hymns at 7:30 in the morning is not always a pleasant sound. Well, me singing at any hour probably isn't pleasant.
8:00 a.m. - Work my way up to the ChildCare Director's office to begin working my way through individual sponsor reports for the children. For every child that is in a Rafiki Village, they have sponsors. These sponsors receive quarterly updates via email or mail, letting them know how their child is doing. (I encourage you to sponsor a child if you can!) I know it doesn't sound like much, but it's a time-consuming task and it's one I can do in order to free up the ChildCare Director to do what she needs to do - working with the Mamas and the children!
10:30 a.m. - Wish I could curl up underneath the desk and take a nap. My body is still thrown off occasionally by the time changes. I instead resort to having a Cheez-it snack break occasionally as my means of waking myself up.
11:30 - 12ish - Lunch, which does not consist of ugali, beans, rice or other Kenyan dish of choice. I usually try to grab something light. It's my only hope of being so hungry for dinner that I'm willing to eat anything by that time.
1:00 p.m. - Cut off all grazing of food. Again, to make room for whatever is for dinner. Keep plugging away on sponsor reports.
2:30 p.m. - Wish I could curl up underneath the desk and take a nap. More typing/editing/proofing of sponsor reports.
3:00 p.m. - Go cross-eyed from staring at the computer for so long. Do a few stretches and wish Dr. Jay was near so I could get an adjustment.
4:00 p.m. - Close up shop for the day.
4:01 p.m. - Take a legitimate nap.
4:30 p.m. - Catch up on emails, reading, cleaning, etc. Mentally psyche myself up for dinner.
5:15 p.m. - Dinner with the kids. They ask me random questions and I tell them about the caterpillar in my pants. Quality conversations.
6:00 p.m. - Do some more reading, Bible study, etc.
7:30 p.m. - Devotions with the kids on Tuesday and Friday nights. This is probably the highlight of my week. I love hearing these kids sing and pray.
8:00 p.m. - Catch up on more emails from work and such, shower, check my PJs for caterpillars.
10ish - Pull down my mosquito net and enjoy a blissful night of sleep.
(3 a.m. - Blissful night of sleep interrupted when the crazy hyrax starts squawking or making whatever noise it makes. I usually want to march outside and throw a rock up in the tree or bush to shut it up.)
6:30 a.m. next morning - get up and do some variation of it all over again. Pretty simple day, but I promise there are a lot more details packed into the day than what is fully contained here.
If you ever have the desire to join me in keeping such a schedule here in Kenya, you let me know. We can figure out a way to get you here and give you a long to-do list. ;) Just watch out for those crazy caterpillars...
7.14.2012
From Another Era
He spoke slowly, with his Kikuyu-like accent. And he promised he knew his way out of the forest we were about to enter. I had no problems trusting him.
Kiambethu Tea Farm is one of those places where you stop and you tell yourself, "I could live here forever." It was a little slice of heaven on earth. Tranquil. Serene. Quaint. We met Fiona, the farm's owner and after being in her presence for just a few moments, I found myself wanting to use words like "bloody" and "corker" an awful lot. (I refrained.) She's this petite, soft-spoken woman with a lovely British accent and an even lovelier farm to boot. She grew up in Kenya - or Keen-ya - as they say, having come from a heritage of tea farmers. She spent some time explaining the process of growing tea, harvesting it, selling it and so on. Then we wandered through the forest with Kimani, along with the farms' dogs, who seemed well-acquainted with every stop along the way, as they would stop and sit quietly while Kimani gave his speech, knowing when it was time to move on.
After the forest walk, we wandered back to the main house and had lunch (mashed potatoes and roast beef - my stomach wasn't sure what to do!) with 3 Austrians who had just climbed Mt. Kenya, one man who had worked with NGOs all over the world, claiming Afghanistan surprisingly enough as his favorite place, a woman from Zimbabwe who was a classically trained singer, an elderly neighbor of Fiona's and Fiona herself. So many stories, so many lives intersecting on this small plot of land in the hills of Kenya.
I loved my time at the tea farm and would love to go back soon. Oddly enough, though, I had a cup of coffee. I know, shame on me for drinking coffee at a Kenyan tea farm.
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