Merry Christmas from Kenya

Dear Auntie,

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

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

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

I think you have snow.  We have sunshine here.

Happy Christmas again.

Yours sincerely,

Lilian

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

And yes, we do have snow here.  :)

I Can't Fathom

I was trying to corral a dozen or so 5-year olds on Sunday morning at church and in the midst of it, Shade walks over, taps me on the shoulder and says with the kind of grin that only a young child can display, looks me right in the eye and says, "I love you."

I was so caught off guard by his announcement that I stuttered for a moment.  I don't know that he was one of the children that had ever gravitated toward me in the past or me to him, but for whatever reason, he felt compelled to whisper those words to me on that Sunday morning, without prompting, without reason.

And in the ensuing moments, I thought, "How?"

How could someone see a little child like this, like Zachariah, like Ava, like Abby - and so senselessly and needlessly destroy their little lives?  It's inconceivable.  Mind-blowing.

And maybe if I'm really honest, I wondered how God could let this happen.  Because I want to blame somebody, I want to get mad at somebody.  And sometimes it's just easiest to blame God.

Friday afternoon was the first time I found myself in a long, long time opening the doorway to a slightly dark and deep hole of bitterness and resentment. It's a terrifying feeling, especially once you've been there long ago and vowed never to go back there.  I know what that bitterness and resentment is like.  I know what it's like to shake your fist at God and demand answers, demand he tell you "why", demand that he make it all right somehow.  And after making such demands all those years ago, I wound up in a pit so dark and deep that I learned I don't ever want to go back there again.

And I felt those sworn-off sentiments rise up on Friday as I watched the news and read the headlines and heard the radio broadcasts. I felt them bubbling up from deep within, questioning all over again, wondering if I really knew God at all.  

I know everybody is commenting. I know a lot of people are reeling from the pain and the horror.  I am one among many.  So I don't know that I have anything new to say.

All I know is this - at the end of the day, even when I don't understand all that happens around me, even when I don't understand the heinous, heinous evil - I know and believe that God still sits on his throne.  And I know that Satan is on the mission of a lifetime to do everything he can to destroy life.  He came to steal, kill and destroy, make no mistake about it.  But he knows his end is nearing and that makes him all the more desperate.

But if Satan is desperate then God is obsessed.  He's obsessed with his people, the ones he called unto himself, created for himself.  Not one life ends without his knowledge, without his notice.  He is not some calloused God sitting on his throne, unaware of all that is happening here on this little blue marble.

He is here and he is not silent.  And that's what I'm holding on to.



"Sometimes I don't feel like singing to God...I know that my circumstance in this season doesn't change that God is still God.  It doesn't change what God called me to be here or what he has called me to do.  He's still on the throne of heaven and he still rules and he's still bigger than everything I'm facing." 

Nice Try

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

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

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

This is what Cheez-It dust looks like. 

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

Road Trips and the Best Sunrise That Never Was

Hiking up the trail near Linville Falls

"You have never taken a solitary road trip across country? I mean everybody's got to take a road trip, at least once in their lives. Just you and some music."  - Elizabethtown

Road trips are good for the soul.  They are good for my soul, anyway.  Just me and some music and maybe some Louie Giglio sermons.  I'm used to the drive out to Missouri - a straight shot on I-70, but this time I took a meandering drive down to North Carolina to see my sweet southern friend, Kristen.  There were, of course, a few moments as I'm driving through some obscure parts of western Virginia or North Carolina when I thought to myself, "I am going to die out here.  And nobody is ever going to find my body."  It's not a comforting or pleasant thought.  But I tried to banish those thoughts and focus instead on the stunning countryside.  But that also was hard to do when it seems there isn't a single road in this state that goes straight for more than a quarter of a mile or has a sign to tell you where the heck you are.  I just kept hearing one of the characters from the movie Twister in my head when Helen Hunt was yelling at him to find a particular road, "Find this road...it's probably like Bob's Road..." Drives me crazy.  Every time I go away somewhere, I'm always reminded of how much I love my cornfields and straight roads back in Ohio.

I finally made it to NC alive and in one piece and Kristen and I set off on our adventures.  First, I took a tour of Samaritan's Purse, which was quite inspiring.  After that we spent the day hiking (I use that term loosely since I'm horribly out of shape and not much of a hiker) and the weather was simply perfect (this would not be true by the time I left the great state of North Carolina).  We drove up to Wiseman's View to overlook the Linville Gorge and came back down the mountain to drive up another mountain.  Lots of mountains that day.


Linville Falls

On Saturday, we trekked down to Asheville to go to the Biltmore Estate, which is one of my very favorite places in the whole wide world.  Maybe it's the history-lover in me, but I just can't seem to get enough of that place.  We spent the night at Ridgecrest, which is the conference center where Kristen and I met five years ago when we were both summer staff.

Here's where my little story takes a turn.  Kristen loves hiking.  I don't harbor a strong affection for it, especially at 6 a.m.  But she said she wanted to hike Rattlesnake, which is one of the tougher trails at Ridgecrest, early Sunday morning to see the sunrise.  I thought, "Well, I don't particularly want to get up at the crack of dawn, but I also am not letting my friend hike up to the top of a mountain all by herself."  

She's telling me how beautiful it will be and that will be worth getting up this early to go see the sunrise, etc, etc, etc.  I'm holding loosely to that hope.  The plan was to get up at 6, hike for maybe an hour or so, be there in time to watch the colors change and then the sun was to be up by 7:49 a.m.

So, off we go at 6 a.m.  It's pitch black, extremely foggy, and I look like I'm ready to hibernate for the winter, I've got so many layers on.  All I've got is a little tiny LED flashlight and she's got the flashlight on her phone.  We clearly didn't think very far in advance when it came to preparing for this hike.  We drive up to the trailhead, roll out of the car and try to find our way in the dark.  This is the second point of the weekend when I thought to myself, "I'm going to die out here.  And nobody is ever going to find my body."  But I also thought that nobody is ever going to find my body because it'll be stuffed into some black bear's den for the winter.  

We start hiking and it's still so black and foggy out that you can't see but maybe 20-30 feet in front of you.  I often questioned our wisdom in doing this hike by ourselves in the pitch black.  But then that's when the little reminder dings in my head, "Courtney, you just flew all the way to East Africa by yourself, for crying out loud.  I think you can handle this one, too."  The leaves were up to our ankles and they got wetter and slicker the higher up the mountain we went, which made for some near-face-first-falls. It's eerily quiet other than us shuffling our feet along through the piles of leaves.  I'm huffing and puffing my way up the face of this mountain and Kristen occasionally asked if I was cursing and swearing at her yet.  Not yet.  

The going is somewhat easy for awhile until we near the summit, then rocks and boulders appeared everywhere and it got a bit tougher.  It's still dark and foggy, with no signs of sunrise colors.  We reach a higher point and decide to stop until we can get some more light because we're not even sure we can find the right path for the summit.  So, we hunker down in the middle of a rock outcropping and wait for the sun to come up.

It ain't happening.  

It's about 7 by the time we get to this little spot and our hopes are fading of seeing the sunrise.  Heck, we could barely see back down the trail we just came up, let alone anything resembling a sunrise.  At this point, we're nearly in stitches laughing about it all, one of those moments in life where you think, "I can't believe I just got my fanny out of bed for this."  We would get quiet for a moment or two and then you could hear the laughter bubbling up from the other person and the giggling would start all over again.  And maybe I was secretly loving it all, finding freedom and relief in this absurd little adventure.

It's nearly 7:49 by now and this is still all we can see:           

          

That's not blue skies you're looking at, by the way.  Nothing but fog.   

We decide to call it quits on the hike and head back down.  Clearly the sun is not willing to fight its way through this fog and delight us with her colors this morning.  Back down the mountain we go.  

And what do you think the skies look like by 9 a.m.?  Sunny and brillant blue.

Figures. 

But maybe that's what makes the best stories, the best memories - the times when you hike all the way up a mountain to see a sunrise that never comes, don't get eaten alive by bears or fall off the face of a cliff.

Yeah, I'd say roadtrips are good for the soul. And so are 6 a.m. hikes.       

 

Cancer and A Cup of Water

I remember Friday nights spent driving to St. Louis Family Church, but not before we first made a pit stop at Crazy Bowls & Wraps.  I remember nights spent talking about politics and crazy professors and what it really means to say you're a follower of Christ.  I remember countless trips to Columbia in a little red sports car whose nickname I have since forgotten.  I remember the hard conversations talking about broken hearts and broken dreams.  I remember yelling at each other through the doorway of the bathroom that we shared my freshman year.  I remember the awkward moment when I woke up one morning and found a friend of hers sleeping on the floor next to my bed and wondering why the heck he's there.  (Turns out he was sleepwalking and had zero recollection of any of it happening.) I remember a lot of good times with Kristina.

We actually met online long before I ever left for college in Missouri.  In this divinely orchestrated situation, I wound up joining Delta Gamma, of which Kristina was chapter president at the time.  She would eventually become my big sis and one of my saving graces my freshman year.  We were often each other's only form of sanity and I don't know that I would have made it through my first year of college if she hadn't been around. 

But I've been slapped in the face quite often here lately - especially in light of returning from Kenya - with this simple truth:  Life isn't fair. 

And I feel helpless in the face of that.

Kristina was diagnosed with Stage 3 cancer recently.  Barely into her thirties and the girl is potentially facing the end of the road.  And that's not fair. 

I want to get overwhelmed by that thought a lot, this idea that there is just so much bad in the world, so many things going wrong - and no one is exempt.  I remember thinking that a lot in Kenya, just looking at all of the poverty and overwhelming sadness and contradictions and disparity and unfairness in all that I saw around me.  I sometimes would stumble into this vicious cycle of thinking, while standing in the village kitchen, "Does any of this really matter?  Does anything that I do really make a difference?  People are dying all around me - and what am I doing?  Cutting up carrots?  Making paper crowns?  What good is that?" 

I still wrestle with that thought process, but I remember, too, the words of one of the pastors in Nairobi.  He was talking about the next steps the church needed to be taking and he simply asked the question, "What is our community's cup of water?" 

In Matthew 10:42, Jesus said, "And if anyone gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones who is my disciple, truly I tell you, that person will certainly not lose their reward.”

I have to figure out what my cup of water is.  Jesus isn't asking for the moon here, he's asking for a cup of water.  He isn't asking me to save the whole world, he's asking me to see a need and meet it in very simple ways. He's asking me to extend my hands out to those around me, to those in my own family, to those in my community and to those I now call global friends.  There's a world of hurt out there and I've got to start somewhere, even when I feel like life is so terribly unfair.  If I get bogged down in all that I can't do, then I'm doomed.  If I let cancer and rare disease diagnoses and the death of a friend stop me, then I'll never get anywhere.  If I get overwhelmed by all that is wrong in this world, then I might as well just lie down and die myself.

"This is my one and only life and it's a great and terrible and short and endless thing...and none of us come out alive." - P.S. I Love You

Yes, none of us come out this thing alive.  And yes, life is unfair.  And yes, I don't understand God.  But that doesn't mean that I'm no longer responsible for going to the well, filling up my cup, handing it to someone who needs it and whispering, "Drink deeply, my friend."    

You can continue following Kristina's story over at her blog - http://www.girlonajourneywiththeking.blogspot.com/.      

Sometimes God Just Does Not Behave

Sometimes God just flat out does not behave like I think He should. 

It's so annoying at times.

There have been times in the past when life "just happened" - relationships ended, jobs took a turn, families came undone, school went awry, dumb decisions were made, loved ones died or suffered, pain was inflicted.  You've probably got your own list.  But they were all things that, if I'm honest, I probably got a little mad at God for and wondered why He was letting it all seemingly unravel when He could have stepped in and done something. 

My friends and I have been talking a lot about the story of Lazarus.  We've been talking a lot about small dreams and big dreams, small ideas of God and big ideas of God, and how they all get wrapped up in the life of Lazarus. 

His story picks up in John 11.  The man was a dear friend of Jesus, as were his sisters, Mary and Martha.  The short version of the story is that Lazarus gets sicks and dies.  I know, sorry to spoil your fun if you haven't read the story.  But when Jesus finds out that Lazarus is sick, he takes two days before he decides to go see the man, taking his sweet ol' time.  And in the course of that waiting, Lazarus dies.

When Jesus finally does show up, Martha's first words to him were, "If you had been here, my brother would not have died."

If you had been here, Jesus. 

If you had just done what I wanted.  If you had just done what I asked, done what you were supposed to do, we wouldn't be in this mess.

If you had just been here.

What she's really saying is, "You're not behaving like I think you should."

We walk around with such small views of God, don't we?  All Martha could see was that if Jesus had been there, He could have healed Lazarus and he wouldn't be wrapped up in a tomb.  He'd be alive.  I mean, Jesus had done it time and again, just reached out and healed people, just reached out and touched them.  Heck, sometimes He didn't even touch them, He just told them to get up and start walking.  And that's all Martha can imagine.  She's walking around with this limited view of Jesus and what He can do.  Because up until this point, people coming back from the dead just wasn't conceivable, it wasn't something she had ever experienced or witnessed previously.  She had no frame of reference when it came to people being resurrected.

And apparently her sister had the same vision problem because along comes Mary and says the exact same thing to Jesus, "If you had been here, my brother would not have died."

There you go, again, Jesus.  If you had just done what I thought you were supposed to do, if you had just behaved like I thought you would.

If you had been here, Jesus.

And you know what Jesus says to that?

I was there.  I was there all along.  I just didn't behave like you thought I should have.  I didn't behave like you thought I should have because I am about to do something that your mind can't even conceive.  I'm not only going to heal Lazarus, I'm going to bring him back from the dead. You need a bigger imagination, my sweet friend.

It's so like Jesus.  Sometimes I wonder if God sits on his throne and laughs at how little I think of Him, how little I think of his abilities and power.  I'm busy walking around praying for mere healing or comfort when He's busy plotting the resurrection of the dead.  I'm busy walking around praying for safety and protection when He's busy plotting the fiery pillar that's going to lead me straight to Him.  I'm busy walking around praying for a few bread crumbs and a cup of water when He's busy plotting manna that falls from the sky and water that turns sweet at the touch of a stick.

Aren't you so glad He doesn't behave? Aren't you so glad that He exceeds our wildest imaginations, doing things that we never could have conceived on our own?  Aren't you glad that he comes along and blows our worlds apart by misbehaving?  As much as it might terrify me, I don't want a God who does what I think He should do.  What a boring life that would be.  I want God to be God. 

"Does any-one have the foggiest idea what sort of power we so blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does no one believe a word of it? The churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing up a batch of TNT to kill a Sunday morning. It is madness to wear ladies' straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews. For the sleeping god may wake some day and take offense, or the waking god may draw us out to where we can never return." - Annie Dillard, Teaching a Stone to Talk 

Job Ad

Sometimes the thought strikes me, as if it's never occurred to me before - "Holy smokes. I quit my job."  It always seems to startle me when I think about it.  I rather dread the process of finding a job - sorting through my resume, writing cover letters, applying, defining, articulating, interviewing, searching, networking.  All of that.  Thankfully, I'm not sweating bullets about it and I'm rather enjoying just being at home, being with my family, catching up with friends, purging my room of the things that I pull out and think, "Why in the world do I still have this?!"  But there are days when the following picture applies:

   

Well, except for the gym.  And Kinko's.  Those two don't apply.

Here's to finding a job.  Somewhere.

FH Awareness Day

It feels a bit odd to be looking out the window and seeing fields of corn instead of acacia trees and sisal plants.   But it feels good to be back on American soil.  Sometimes when I'm gone from home awhile, I often come back and wonder why I ever left it in the first place.  But I suppose that's all part of the process.

Christian's banner hanging at the Genzyme headquarters
in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

It feels a bit odd, too, to not be writing much about Kenya.  I did this last time I got back from Kenya - for months now I've been conveying all of these stories and adventures about life on the other side of the world and now I sit down to a computer and think, "Well, now what am I supposed to write about?"  But there are adventures to be had and stories to be told here just as much as there are adventures to be had and stories to be told half-a-world away.

One of those stories belongs to my cousin, Christian.  (I actually should have written this post yesterday on the official FH Awareness Day, but I'm still operating on the Kenyans' approach to time - I'll get there when I get there.)  Christian has this rare disease that I can't even pronounce half the time (Familial Hypercholestrolemia - we'll just go with its initials FH for my sake), but he basically has insanely high cholestrol levels.  It's made him prone to heart disease and the like since he was a child. He had a scare awhile back when doctors discovered he had several parts of his heart over 70% blocked.  Since then, he's been partnering with the FH Foundation and a company called Genzyme to promote awareness about this crazy rare disease.  He's been traversing the country and the globe it seems, giving talks at places like Harvard, meeting other patients and speaking at conferences in England and cheering on runners in the Boston Marathon who were running in his honor.  He's become quite the little spokesman for this disease - because he's literally 1 in a million. I'm so proud of him and all of the work that he's doing. 

I'll take a break from my storytelling, to let him tell his own...

"Never Say Goodbye..."

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

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

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

But Our Lives As Well



Thio and I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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


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

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

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