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.

Birthdays and Simple Truths

I think there are some moments in life when we fail to communicate just how much certain people mean to us or the impact they've had on our lives.  We assume they know.  We assume they know we love them.  We assume they know we respect and admire them.  We assume they know how much we appreciate them.  We assume a lot. And we fail to encourage along the way because of those assumptions.  And it's often the people we think are the strongest are actually the ones who most need to hear how valuable they are.  I think the men in our lives especially never hear the words of encouragement that are so desperately needed.  They live lives of quiet and desperate defeat and we keep passing up the opportunities to speak a few words of life and meaning. 

I'll be the first to admit that my family - well, I probably should speak only for myself - doesn't always do a good job of communicating.  But what family does?  We get our wires crossed and we get bent out of shape - and we assume. 

My dad's birthday is tomorrow (don't shoot me, Dad, for announcing that to the whole wide world - or at least the 12 people who consistently read this blog) and I realized I needed to take this moment and make sure nothing was assumed.

So, to you, Dad - there seems to be this simple truth that I can't escape and I want you to hear it on your birthday and not assume you know this:

You're not a failure.

You're not a failure.

I can't even begin to imagine the sacrifices you (and Mom!) have made for me over the years.  You let go of me when you least wanted to, when your parenting instincts told you to hold on the tightest.  You watched your only daughter and youngest child head off to Missouri and Russia, California and Kenya, and so many other places in between.  Your insides probably screamed and warning bells probably went off in your head, but you gave your blessing anyways, each and every time.  I can't tell you what that means to me, the signficance of those blessings.  I would never even have considered taking the risks I have taken if it weren't for your quiet and steady support - and especially your words of wisdom that always seem to come at just the right moment.

In the past you've often asked me how it is that I got to be so confident and self-assured.  And I think, "Easy - because that's how you and mom are.  I just sat back and watched and learned from the best."  Whoever I am today is made up in part because of you and Mom, through the grace of God.  I know you have often wondered where you went wrong or maybe how you could have done things differently in raising us kids.  We all make mistakes, so yes, we each could have done things differently but you have given us your very best, in the best way you know how.  And that will always be enough.  "Thanks" will never suffice.

But I also want to encourage you to take care of yourself, your health.  I need you (bionic knee and all) to be there to walk me down the aisle should God ever allow that to happen in my life.  We've probably far too often nagged you in the past instead of simply encouraging.  I'm sorry for that. We sometimes just didn't always know the right words to say or how to say them.  We just want you around for as long as possible. 

Sorry for getting all sentimental on you in a public forum. :) I figured it was worth the risk.  The rest of the world needs to know, too, what a great dad  you are.  I wouldn't trade you for anything.  You will always be enough.  Happy birthday, Dad.      

The Bridge That Spans

I'm honestly at a loss for words and struggling to figure out how best to frame this entry.  My apologies if it seems a bit jumbled or haphazard.  It seems I live in this chasm, suspended between two worlds that I can't quite figure out how to bridge - life at home in Columbus and life here in Kenya.  And in the middle of all that confusion, I'm reminded of God's sweetness and tenderness in a very simple way. 

If you have followed this blog at all in the last few months, then you know about Jonathan.  If you need to catch up, go here and here.  And if the pictures below are to make any sense, then you ultimately need to go back to this post.  A few weeks ago, the man who planted those sunflowers here in Kenya sent me a picture of Jonathan's garden.  And today my mom sent me a picture of Jonathan's garden at home in Ohio. 

The bridge that spans the gap. God's tenderness in the form of blossoming sunflowers.  Reminders that His mercies are new every morning.  Reminders that life goes on.  Reminders of home.  And reminders that my friend's legacy lives on.         

Jonathan's garden in Eldoret, Kenya

Jonathan's garden near Columbus, Ohio

As the rain and the snow
come down from heaven,
and do not return to it
without watering the earth
and making it bud and flourish,
so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater,
so is my word that goes out from my mouth:
It will not return to me empty,
but will accomplish what I desire
and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.
You will go out in joy
and be led forth in peace;
the mountains and hills
will burst into song before you,
and all the trees of the field
will clap their hands.
Instead of the thornbush will grow the juniper,
and instead of briers the myrtle will grow.
This will be for the Lord’s renown,
for an everlasting sign,
that will endure forever.
Isaiah 55:10-13

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.