Reflections on Kenya

Psalm 105:16-19

¹⁶When he summoned famine against the land, and broke every staff of bread,

¹⁷he had sent a man ahead of them, Joseph, who was sold as a slave.

¹⁸His feet were hurt with fetters, his neck was put in a collar of iron;

¹⁹until what he had said came to pass, the word of the Lord kept testing him.

REFLECTION

Today’s passage reminds me of a great story, and the psalmist reminds me of a great storyteller. Now we’ve all encountered bad storytellers. There’s the one who gives so much detail that you await the end of his story like you do the second coming. And then there’s another whose story lacks so much detail that you wonder what the point of it was, or the one who mixes details of different stories and forgets the point himself. Then there’s the one who is so utterly amused at his own story that he is the only one who enjoys it. But the worst, the absolute worst, is the person who continues to tell a story that you’ve already heard, after you’ve said to him, “Yea… you told me.” At first glance, it looks like the psalmist is the worst offender. After all, she uses Psalm 105 to recount a story that God’s people have heard many times before. But when we take a closer look, we find that she offers incredible insight regarding the significance of the story to all believer.

While preparing my reflection I was attentive to the fact that many of you have had some type of interaction with our Kenyan brothers and sisters through the Umoja Project, and I did not want to offer you a story that you had already heard. But I realize that my assignment today is not to entertain you with exciting or sentimental stories as though you were reading Chicken Soup for the Soul. Rather it is to worship with you, so God can remind us of how important it is to tell the right story, the right way.

In her recounting of Israel’s stories, the psalmist mentions some great people of the faith; Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph and Moses. But she is careful to emphasize God’s deeds, not simply those of the people. This is evident even in our short passage with the language she uses that records God’s activity. It is clear that God sends famine on the land, that God sends Joseph as part of God’s plan of provision, and that God’s word continues to test, or refine Joseph. The psalmist teaches us that telling, and retelling, and retelling stories of God’s faithfulness are vital to our faith, and that though God calls us to participate in these stories, we are never the main focus of the narrative.

 Our Kenyan brothers and sisters have learned this lesson well. They are keenly aware of God’s presence and activity, waiting in anticipation for what they have already seen, careful to frame their experiences and stories through a theocentric lens. Stories of joy are narrated with God’s blessing; stories of pain and suffering are narrated with God’s providence; stories of loss and grief are narrated by God’s comfort; stories of lack and abundance are narrated with God’s provision; and stories of daily living are narrated through God’s faithfulness and presence. Everyday activities like praying upon entering a house to acknowledge God for giving us a safe journey home; and thanking God for rain, or for the ability to catch a matatu quickly, or for fresh eggs… all of these actions are demonstrations of remembrance and acknowledgement. The faith of many Kenyan brothers and sisters is incredibly strong, partly because they recognize how important it is to tell the right story, the right way. Like the psalmist, they reiterate God’s activity rather than that of people in narrating and understanding life’s events. Like the psalmist, they teach us that our feelings, our positions, and even our perceptions are valid, but all of these come secondary to God’s activity. Like the psalmist, they show us that the correct posture for approaching and narrating stories is with the question “What is God doing, and how can I be a part of it?”

During my time in Kenya I saw God doing ordinary things in extraordinary ways, and doing extraordinary things in ordinary ways. I saw God forming and strengthening relationships between Christians who had just met. I saw God digging in the soil and harvesting maize. I saw God walking with clumsy Americans who got stuck in the mud during rainy season. I saw God holding a boy suffering from sickle-cell. I saw God using people, in spite of people. I saw God consoling a frustrated seminarian who thought she knew the story of the Gospel, only to find that she was narrating it the wrong way. I saw God doing the same things in Kenya that God is doing at 38^th and Meridian. And that is completing a story told thousands of years ago, by calling God’s people to participate in and retell it.

We retell the same story to ward against forgetfulness, lethargy, and irreverence; to remind ourselves that only God is the author and finisher of our faith; to remember that our lives are part of a greater narrative of redemption. We use our lives to both tell and witness to God’s story. So I ask you, what story is your life telling? To what are you testifying? Let that story be one worth retelling. Good stories are worth hearing more than once.

May God give us ears to hear the Gospel story again, so that even if there be moments in which we say to God, “Yea… you told me,” we follow such a statement with a plea; “Now tell me again.” 

Lydia M.

Rise and Shine

I woke up about seven times this morning, each time trying desperately to ignore the crowing of the roosters outside of my window. Determined to be heard, these feathered alarm clocks made a noise that pierced through cement walls and thick windows, deep sleep and even ear-plugs. As I reflect upon this morning’s wake-up call I am reminded of the personal growth and theological enlightenment I have attained during my short stay in Kenya. Some of my experiences here have served as alarm clocks waking me from a slumber of ignorance and arrogance that undergirded a comfortable Christianity and a passive posture of service to others in need. Before this experience, I believed that I understood the importance of helping others, so I offered assistance when people requested my aid. But I never sought out persons to help, and rarely initiated service to others that I knew had a need. My ignorance kept me sleep-walking, as it were, through the halls of my school, through the streets of my neighborhood, and even through the aisles of my church. My arrogance kept me proud of the few moments of service in which I actually opened my eyes.

I came to Kenya with eyes wide shut, but was jarred out of my slumber after only a few days by alarms that would not quit. They resounded when I saw a six-week-old infant starving, and heard a widow cry for rain because it was her only source of water. The sounds grew louder with the stories of girls denied education so their parents could reap dowry, and with the children who walk an hour barefoot up a stony mountain to go to school. Even during times of joy I could hear the ringing in the distance. I could not go back to sleep, but the pain I felt from waking up was so intense that all I wanted to do was hide under the covers of a dreary consciousness. I tried harder to shut my eyes and stop my ears, but found it impossible to revert to my previous state of slumber. I had to wake up. My eyes began adjusting to the light illuminating my own desperation, and they began searching for a gospel powerful enough to save the soul and nourish the body. My ears strained to hear the sound of self-surrender, the silent but profound confession of my own finitude and God’s boundlessness. I was (and am) being challenged to practice a gospel greater than myself; one centered on God’s mission rather than a personal agenda. To practice anything less is to be unfaithful. So I surrendered.

This submission caused me to wrestle with difficult questions concerning service to others. If compassion means to suffer with, how does living in privilege affect ministry? If I seek to serve without resources, how great of an impact can I truly have? I am still working through these questions, but Paul’s statement in Philippians 4:12 has provided a foundation on which to build. The apostle says, “I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound: every where and in all things I am instructed both to be full and hungry, both to abound and suffer need.” My experience here is teaching me the importance of coupling work with faith, and that part of such work is to maintain a consciousness of those who suffer. This is one way that I must live out the gospel.

As I close I remember the words that my mother used to sing to wake my sister and me, “Rise and shine and give God the glory!” Her musical instruction captures the objective of my awakening in Kenya. As I rise from my slumber, shine through the light of God’s truth, and give God glory by constantly being mindful of his people, I learn to celebrate the joy of greeting a new day... Even if it is ushered in by a rooster. 

Lydia 

Blessed Be Your Name

I was in a mood on Monday.

After spending two days and countless shillings talking to AAA automated phone messages trying to reload the debit card I had bought through them (which I bought because it was “fast and convenient to reload”), I had had enough.  I even went, as my roommate calls it, “Chicago” over the phone on some poor guy who obviously had no authority whatsoever to do anything about my situation.  Lydia and Camille, being the wonderful people that they are (and probably noticing the fire-breathing mood I was in) thought it would be good to pray.  I tried to think about something other than the fact that I was going to have to call my mom to take off work and help me out while Camille said a prayer that I didn’t hear a word of.  When she was finished I went right back to being angry at everyone and everything.

As I sat down to try to think who I could call to help me (or at least someone I could yell at) we heard a soft knock on the door.  Lydia opened it to find two of the young students at Mawego Girl’s Secondary Boarding School standing on our doorstep.  We immediately invited them in.

The girls giggled like it was a special treat that they got to come and talk to us.  It reminded me of the way I used to feel when a favorite teacher would let me follow her into the staff room to get something.  This made me laugh for two reasons.  The first is the realization that I actually am old enough to be a teacher (weird) and the second is that it could be a treat for anybody to come and sit down with me (also weird). 

I’d like to say my mood dissipated instantly, because I’d like to be that kind of person, but it didn’t.  Anyone who knows me knows that doing anything involving finances, institutions and automated phone messages is like asking me to jam pencils into my eyeballs.   Actually, I would prefer to jam pencils into my eyeballs.  But the girls quickly told us they had come to collect the lyrics of a song we had sung the night before for something called “entertainment.”  Entertainment is an hour or so on Saturday night where they get to hang out, dance, sing songs and generally entertain each other.  We had taught them the song, “Blessed be the Name of the Lord.” 

I sat down to write down the lyrics while the girls talked to us.

Blessed be the name of the Lord.

They spoke about the exams they were taking.

Blessed be your name.

They told us what it was like to live in a boarding school.

Blessed be the name of the Lord.

They told us about how they preferred being at boarding school where they did school work from 4:00 am to 10:00 pm.

Blessed be your glorious name.

Because at home they were responsible for house chores and cooking and that didn’t leave much time for studies.

Blessed be your name, on the road marked with suffering…

Then they began to tell us their dreams.  One of the girls (an orphan who had shared with the group the day before that she often felt others looked down on her because she was an orphan) told us that she wanted to be a doctor.  The other one quickly added that she wanted to be a news broadcaster.

Though there’s pain in the offering…

Then they told us that they were on their way to their next class (it was 7:00 pm).

Blessed be your name.

I quickly finished writing down all the lyrics, had them check that they could read my handwriting, reminded them how to sing the pre-chorus (Every blessing you pour out I’ll, turn back to praise, When the darkness closes in Lord, still I will say…) and sent them on their way with a quick, strong, hug.

When they left I heard Lydia say, “Wow, Camille.  God really answered your prayer to remind us why we were here.”  The prayer I hadn’t even heard.  God answered it anyway and God answered it in a way that made me know God was up there, laughing at me, mischieviously showing me what was important, forcing me to remember why I’m here and who God is.  All I wanted to do after the girls left was laugh at myself and at the mischievous and loving God that surprised and even sometimes tricked me into remembering my love for that God.

Blessed be the name.

Lindsey

Jesus in the Market

Last Sunday I went to a Catholic church.  In some ways this was refreshing, because the service was in English and I am at least familiar with Catholic theology.

I participated in what prayers I could, clapping when I didn’t know the words and wishing I could learn the dances that were a part of every processional (of which there were three).  I also tried to think about something other than my throbbing knees as we knelt for what seemed like hours at a time.  I tried not to fidget, watching older people and young children handle the kneeling with ease.  After I tried to focus on praying for something other than the kneeling time to be over, we had communion and the recessional. 

The family had warned me that the service would be longer than usual because it was a communion Sunday.  This made sense to me as communion Sundays in America tend to be longer as well.  What I didn’t realize was the recessional at the end of the service would take a good part of the day.  My host family asked if I would join the recessional and, not having any idea what I was getting myself into, I said, of course.

The recessional was a walk around the village, where the priest held the host (the communion wafer) and the congregation followed, singing and clapping.  It was a form of praise and also a form of evangelism.  As we walked along the road and mutatus (15 passenger vans that are the main form of public transportation) honked and passed by dangerously close to the congregants, we would stop every so often, kneel down one the side of the road in the sun and praise Jesus for being in our midst.  The processional followed a dangerously narrow passageway over a bridge while semi-trucks sped by us and ended in the market place.  There in the middle of the market place, the congregation knelt down and prayed to the host, then walked back to the church for the benediction. 

When I asked the priest about that recessional he said, “it is to remind people that Jesus is in our midst and to thank him for being there.”

Kneeling in the middle of the market place while people sold goods and stared all around us was one of the most powerful church exercises I’ve ever been a part of.  What would it look like in America if the churches and faith communities literally brought God out of the church into the market place? 

This is something I’d like to bring back with me to America (perhaps with less kneeling), but to be intentional in bringing God into the ordinary, every day places and not just in the church, to be reminded that God is there even in our grocery shopping, to be reminded that even in the market place God is there, could help us all out a little bit.

Lindsey

Expecting the Unexpected

One of the best and scariest things about Kenya is learning to expect the unexpected:

You don’t expect that the answer to the question, “Where is the bathroom?” to be, “Do you fear lizards?”

You don’t expect that when a “program” is set up for you that means you are handed a piece of chalk and told, “you have an hour with class 8.”

You don’t expect that when you are introduced in church you are also told that you will be bringing the word today…after this prayer.

You don’t expect that the “processional” at the end of the service will be an hour long walk around the village.

You don’t expect to have six waiters for five people.

You don’t expect that “signing the guest book,” means having a three course meal.

You don’t expect to make children cry/scream just by looking at them.

You don’t expect your skin color to make you the most interesting person at most public gatherings.

You don’t expect to be showered with more hospitality and gratitude than any one person could ever deserve.

Lindsey

Tears

Today I experienced my most difficult home visit. It was a female student from Bar-Andingo Primary School. She was a partial orphan, and had lost her mother. Her father is aging and ailing, and she assists in taking care of him.

While sharing her story, she began to weep. She did so silently. In fact, she was so silent about it, that we did not realize she was crying. She was mourning her mother, who died when she was 4 years old. She is now 13. I have been welcomed into so many homes, and listened to so many stories. However, I have not seen anyone express their sorrow the way she did today. I think that in visiting many homes and hearing the stories, the magnitude of loss is given second priority. But this experience reminded me how much some of the other students need and deserve to just let the tears fall.

So today, I shed tears for the students who have lost--parents, dreams, and possibly even hope. But I continue to let God lead...

The Struggle

I came to Kenya believing that I would have no trouble adjusting to whatever Kenya threw at me.  I tend to be pretty flexible and don’t put a lot of value on showering in a shower, so really, what could Kenya throw at me that the Appalachian Mountains hadn’t already?  I was used to being in a place where I was the obvious outsider, a place where I barely understood the accent and a place where the every day comforts we expect in middle-class America were not present.  I knew it would be a new experience, of course, but I didn’t really expect to be shocked.  I didn’t believe that my ideality would come in sharp contrast with reality.

I also felt that my faith was prepared for whatever I saw in Kenya.  Like most young, idealistic Christians, I pride myself on having a nitty-gritty faith.  I want to believe I have a faith that doesn’t shy away or gloss over things like poverty or injustice, a faith that believes in a vulnerable peace in the midst of a violent world.  In short, a faith that has some substance, a faith that has something to say.  In my secret heart, even though I didn’t admit it to myself until later, I think I believed this faith would be new and exciting to the Kenyans.  I would have something to share.

But that was where I was surprised.  I have found no need or want for that kind of faith here.  In the rural areas where I am staying there is no such thing as glossing over poverty and injustice.  It is part of every day life.  The things I pride myself on, reminding people that the world is not perfect, rural Nyahera has no need for.  They know, every day, that things aren’t perfect.  I see families led by 12 and 13 year old children and boys crying in the classrooms because they do not have blankets.  Where are my ideal notions in that place?  Where are my ideas of what missionary work is?  I am both ashamed that I cannot help and ashamed that I feel it is my job to help.  So I stand utterly helpless and at the same time thankful that these children would share their pain with me at all. 

I have been trying very hard not to romanticize my experience, to be careful of my language and watch what kind of pictures I am taking, etc.  But for all my education and careful crafting that goes into a blog, I’m still asked to use a bucket at night for “short calls,” just like the family I am staying with (forgive my honesty).  This is what I’ve discovered:  This internship isn’t really about me at all.  It’s not about what I have to say and my words aren’t nearly as powerful as I’ve come to believe they are.

So what do I do with my ideal notions of what a partnership looks like?  I remind myself that I pride myself on a faith that lives in the gray.  There is no clear answer here.  What do you do in a partnership where one side seems to have all the resources?  How do you form a friendship with people who speak very different literal and cultural languages?  What can a 24 year old student offer people who are constantly asking her to give something?  If you have black and white answers to these questions, I’m willing to bet that you’ve never really been faced with them.

So I remember that God is found in the struggle.  God is found in the board members in America struggling to answer these questions.  God is found in my host that is struggling to find answers to the overwhelming poverty around her.  God is found in the Kenyan director who struggles to define a partnership and challenge the community in the face of such odds.  God is found in the questions and the realization that it’s really not about any one person, but a shared struggle.

That doesn’t mean I’ve lost my "idealistic notions."  I hope I never do.  I’ve just situated them back where they belong in my mind: in the gray space that tortures and sustains faith.  And when I really feel helpless, God has ways of reminding me God is there, in the gray.

As I walk home, forming these thoughts in my mind, a small child, about three years old, takes my hand in the market.  The child cannot speak English and I cannot speak Luo, but we look at each other and burst out laughing.  How strange and wonderful that we are both together in this place.  The three-year-old child proceeds to escort me home from the market, and we giggle the entire way. 

You see, this thing is not about me at all.

Lindsey

The Kenyan Dream

Two roads diverged, but not in a yellow wood. Instead the road is a muddy cornfield with cows, chickens and crops. Being in Kenya forces me to see the world through diverged lenses simultaneously. I have a dark brown complexion, yet still American Mazungou. Minister yet human. However, today, I saw development that was 100% Kenyan.

Today, I attended a meeting after church with Mother Dorothy, her husband and other members of their HTCA church. They are a part of an organization that serves as a community bank, loan and investment project. Members are comprised of married couples, committed to working on community wealth building and development. They utilize fundraising opportunities, membership dues and other strategies to help businesses flourish, people get through hard times, and support the poor in their community. Although the meeting was held in Luo, I saw the “Kenyan Dream,” (like the American Dream) where they see their community as the greatest resource for empowerment.

It is easy to become overwhelmed by the poverty, lack of infrastructure, technology and educational opportunities. In a conversation, many of the Kenyans said they had no idea who Oprah Winfrey was. However, today I saw hope.

African Burial

Today, we went to a burial for a man who worked for Kenya Airways. He was related to one of the link teachers, and we attended the burial to pay our respects. I met Laura, Lydia, Lindsey and Mary (Lydia’s host) at the Chulaimbo station and we walked to home of the deceased’s daughter. In Kenya, burials take all day. The burial commenced at 10:00 a.m. and went until almost 5:00 p.m. And this does not include the time spent with family after or food.

In Kenya, people are buried at their homes, not in a cemetery as in America. We had an opportunity to view the body, listen to testimonials about the deceased, meet his colleagues from Kenya airways, and witness countless family and friends mourn his loss. We were fed lunch, and had a chance to say a few words to the family. There was dancing and singing and people came over the course of the day.

However, we also had the opportunity to see the vast differences between a Kenyan funeral and the traditional American funeral. At this funeral, they take your picture during the funeral ceremony and later attempt to sell the photos to attendees, as a way of raising money for the deceased’s family. I admit, I have never experienced anything like that. Towards the end of the ceremony, the photographer put pictures up, and I saw pictures of myself and Lydia walking to view the body, a photo of Lindsey and Laura sitting in their chairs, and miscellaneous photos of us and others during the burial proceedings. Furthermore, when we went up to meet the family, I noticed that they were dressed in formal Black attire. The sons were wearing tuxedos and sunglasses, and the mother and daughter were wearing semi-formal dresses and sunglasses.

Another aspect of the Kenyan burial experience that differs from ours is that people do not typically cry until after the proceedings. People had dry eyes during the entire ceremony. Usually in America, people are crying throughout the service. However, here, people will wail after the burial is over. Apparently, wailing is an important part of the mourning process.

I admit, at the end of the burial, I felt exhausted. Both because it was an experience of first impression, but also because things were so different than anything I had ever seen or experienced. Admittedly, at times, I wondered if I were actually at a funeral. People were chatting and laughing and joking with one another. It even sometimes seemed as though people were not concerned with the burial proceedings. However, maybe this was their way of coping with the great loss. I guess at the end of the day, I’ll never know.

Umoja and Desiderata

As Max Ehrmann penned in his famous poem Desiderata (Latin for “Desired Things”), “with all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.”

I and the other Duke interns have been in Kenya for almost two weeks. In Kenya there is no refrigeration, wireless internet access and little infrastructure. During my short time here, I have had a gamut of experiences. Some of these experiences include visiting churches of different denominations, attending meetings with Umoja Project staff members, visiting Umoja member schools and interacting with the students, visiting some of the Umoja students at their homes, and visiting our home stay hosts friends and members of their community.

In our home stays, we live with Kenyan families in the neighborhoods where we are visiting Umoja schools. I’m staying with Dorothy (Mother Dorothy) and her family in the Sianda region. Her family lives in the compound, including her husband, daughter in law, grandchildren and a child she is a guardian caretaker for. Her biological children are all grown and live elsewhere, due to school or work obligations. Her eldest son is married with 2 children of his own, and they live with their mother in a house to the right of Mother Dorothy and Willis (Dorothy’s husband) home. Their father, Dorothy’s son works in Uganda, and commutes home on weekends.

These experiences have shown me the beauty, hope and richness of the Kenyan people and culture. The Kenyans I have met are some of the kindest, most giving and most loving people. They love you, simply because you are God’s creation. They are not a people that give short salutations or greetings. They embrace one another, and desire that you do the same in return. Being prompt is not a virtue for Kenyans, but concern for others is. For example, Kenyans may schedule a meeting for 2:00 p.m., but the meeting may not begin until 4:00. For us in the United States, this would be cause for crisis and fury. However, for Kenyans, this is just a way of life.

Unfortunately, I have also witnessed the devastation that poverty, illness, and HIV/AIDS has done to the community. I cannot articulate the emotions that I feel being here, staring abject poverty in the face. To visit a child-headed home, where they have no bed, no mattress, no electricity, no food and no shoes, are just some of the small examples of what I have seen. For some, it seems tragedy is just another part of life, like waking up and breathing. Instead of attempting to write, I will close this entry by saying that if we believe in Christ, hope can never be a lost virtue. We must remember that all the suffering and pain in this world will end with the return of Jesus. As Jesus said “Blessed are the poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. Blessed are you who hunger now, for you will be satisfied. Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.” Luke 6:20-21.

Desiderta (desire) and hope must continue to fuel projects like the Umoja Project and others that work to reverse the devastating aspects of poverty. No one person has the answer, but no matter how difficult it becomes, we must continue to persevere.

I Give Up

My short time in Kenya has already been transformative, and the worship services have greatly contributed to that transformation. Because much of the service is in Luo or

Swahili, I imitate parishioner‘s responses to fully participate in times of worship, with one striking feature of the service being the offering. Congregants are as excited about giving as they are about every other component of worship. They joyfully approach the offering basket for however many times giving is needed to meet the demands of the church, and those that do not have money bring fruits, vegetables, and animals that can be auctioned to fellow parishioners, essentially converting items into monetary gifts for the church. People offer whatever they have unashamedly, and no one enters God’s presence without a gift. In doing so, the Kenyan people offer themselves to God. Coupled with the various gifts they bring to God is an intangible sacrifice of self-preservation. They willingly risk being viewed as persons that live humbly, unknowingly teaching foreigners like me that offering should never be anthropocentric.

As I observed this form of giving, I began to reflect on ways in which offering is viewed in most of the American churches I have frequented. It seems that in the US the offering is the least enjoyed component of worship. While there are many reasons for this, I believe the foremost one is shame. A consistent conflation between what one has and who one is has crept into the scenery, offering a daunting backdrop to this time of worship. Thus, many people refuse to come to church or will be intentionally absent during the offering because of the notion that if they have nothing, they are nothing. Such a view is drenched in self-centeredness insomuch that even those who give large sums can offer gifts stained with this unbiblical assumption. We Christians can so easily be like the Pharisee who boasted about his gifts, but few of us are willing to offer ourselves. During my preparation for Kenya, I prayed a lot, spoke with former program participants, purchased six of everything that I thought I would need, and tried to convince myself that using an outhouse would not be the end of my life. I left my pants, my jewelry, and my laptop at home. But what I clung to was Lydia.

I did not want to give myself to God by fully offering myself to others. Along with my two heavy bags, I also brought distance and defense against others that I learned in the US. The distrust, even (and especially) of fellow Christians encourages this distance, but the love of Christ evident in the Kenyan people is eradicating it.

The offering in worship is a microcosm of the Kenyan way of living. Our Kenyan brothers and sisters do not live in fear of people, of pain, of lack, of anything. They are not naïve; they simply refuse to live in fear by choosing to operate in love. Such love is seen in their hospitality, their tendency to trust before distrusting, their willingness to offer avocadoes when monetary gifts are not readily available… They are teaching me how to remove myself from my offerings, not only in times of worship, but also in daily living. The Kenyan people are showing me how to live into the Gospel, which is love. When Kevin Armstrong, pastor of North UMC, asked me why I wanted to go to Kenya, I told him that I simply wanted to be a better Christian by learning to love better, and God is answering my prayer through the Kenyan people. Each day God endows me with the strength to give up the notion that I am my own. That is my greatest offering.

Mazungu! How-are-you-fine!

            On Friday night when I arrived at my first home stay, I found out that I would be preaching on Sunday at the Pentecostal Assemblies of God church.  My previous preaching experiences I was told at least a week in advance (with apologies for the late notice).  So I asked Mama Rose, the wonderful woman I am staying with, how long I should preach and she said, “Not long…30 minutes?”  Now I am a good, traditional Methodist girl and good, traditional Methodist sermons never go longer than 15 minutes.  So being expected to preach for 30 minutes with only a day to prepare obviously made me nervous.

            I was even more nervous when it quickly became apparent that I would spend all day on Saturday walking around Mama Rose’s entire community, meeting all of the Umoja students and responding over and over again to children yelling “Mazungu (White man)!  Mazungu!  How-are-you-fine!”  To which I awkwardly responded, “Yes…fine? Hello!”  Or some jumble of English words the young children wouldn’t know anyway.  When it got to be 7:00 at night and I still had not had time to prepare anything for Sunday, panic started to set in.  I finally excused myself from my hosts with apologies, saying “Please excuse me, I must study for my sermon tomorrow.”  Fifteen minutes later three more families showed up at my home to greet me.  At this point I was getting angry.  I was angry at the people that seemed to need so much from me and I was angry at God for calling me to this place. 

            Finally at 9:00, after I had greeted more community members and had dinner with my family during which my plate kept being heaped with more and more food until I finally had to refuse (and thanked God I was wearing a skirt with an elastic waistband), I sat down in the living room with my Bible to try to throw something together.  My host, Mama Rose, walked into the living room and sat down next to me and inside my head I screamed, “Please do not talk to me!  I have to prepare something!”  She said, “I will not keep you long, but I just wanted to tell you that there are many poor people here and many orphans, too many for the Umoja project.  These people need something from you.  They need to hear encouragement, they need something spiritual.”  Her request was so earnest it shamed me both for my annoyance at everybody’s excitement to meet me and at my own lack of ability to give any of these people what they need.  After Mama Rose excused me I went to my room, laid on my bed, cried for a minute and then prayed to God and said, “God, I literally have nothing to give.  I don’t know what to say to these people, the only thing I have to give is what you give me.” 

            It is both a terrifying and a freeing thing to realize, to truly realize, that you have nothing to give.  The people of the Ogada community look at me as if I somehow have the answer and I barely understand the problem.  My white skin marks me as someone from the outside, someone that might be able to help.  But I really can do very little but listen to their stories and hope that they will continue to allow me into their lives and both their joy and suffering.  I suppose I have always known that I am nothing without God.  Anyone who has been to Sunday school knows that, but I never really realized it the way I did on Sunday.  At home I am shored up by my education, my books, my friends and even knowing the language of the people to whom I am preaching.  All of these things make it easy to forget our reliance on God.  Here I have none of that.  I barely even understand the culture.  A fact I have been painfully aware of as I have walked around like a bumbling idiot.  For example, being white is like being a celebrity here.  The other day at the market a woman came up and took a picture of me with her phone.  So I’ve gotten used to waving and smiling at people.  So when we went out on the lake I waved at everyone, including the naked men bathing along the shore (a fact I realized too late to stop waving).  I am on the outside here.  Here, if I’m asked to preach, I have a Bible and I have prayer and that’s it.   And with a Bible and prayer I managed to somehow get out of my own way long enough to trust God and allow God to use me on Sunday.  After all, what other choice did I have?
Lindsey

A-GNAT-OMY OF A BUG’S LIFE

The other night, uninvited guests paid Lydia and me a visit. We were exhausted after climbing Kit Mikayi, visiting the Lisuka Primary School, and attending a meeting at the Sianda Primary School. After returning to St. Anna’s Guesthouse and taking a brief nap, I awoke and noticed a grayish-brown looking object on my mosquito net. I saw one. Then another. Then another. These objects were so small; I disregarded the fact that they were insects. UNTIL…I looked up at the light and saw an infestation of……………..GNATS! There were too many to count. They were flying around the light. I almost screamed.

Our natural reaction was to spray bug spray around the light, so the bugs would die. We assumed this would control this issue. Boy, were we wrong! We went on to dinner, and realized that it was now pouring rain (a bug’s haven).

After dinner with Lindsey, Laura and Leah, Lydia and I returned to our room to assess the situation. When we returned, the bugs were stuck to the light. Thus, we thought it would be wise to get a broom from the front desk to remove the bugs. When we got to the broom and tried to remove the bugs, all we found was one obstacle after the other. The light kept shutting off. The broom was too thick to remove the bugs from certain areas of the light; or, the dead bugs were falling on our bed sheets. We decided to use the mosquito nets to remove the bugs from the sides where the broom could not reach. Genius idea, right? WRONG! We were able to remove some, but not all of the bug matter.

However, this was okay in our minds, because we would simply go back to the front desk and request new sheets. I was able to get another towel that day, so getting new sheets should be a piece of cake…or so I thought. However, we Americans were in for a rude awakening. When we went down to the front desk, Didakus greeted us. We explained the situation to him, and requested new sheets and a new mosquito net. However, we quickly learned that like Dorothy, we were not in Kansas (or Indianapolis, Massachusetts, Mississippi, or North Carolina) anymore. The comforts of home were a distant memory. Unlike the United States where we have washing machines, things are hand-washed in Kenya. Thus, it would not be as simple as calling a housekeeper and getting new sheets delivered. Nor was there a linen closet with spare sheets. Didakus genuinely felt concern for our plight, and shook out the buggy sheets, telling us that they were “like new.”

Lydia and I realized that in Kenya, quick and fast is not the order of the day. We had to accept that we could turn our sheets in, but we would not receive new ones until the following day when they cleaned our room. We chose to prioritize, each taking the sheet that was not affected by the gnatstorm, and sleeping on our beds. Returning to our room, we tossed, turned and tossed some more. And somewhere in that time, we got brief amounts of inconsistent sleep. The evening provided a learning experience both about Kenya and about us. In experiences like this, it can be easy to get upset or irritated. But sometimes, you simply have to laugh or just accept a situation for what it is. As Americans, we are accustomed to things operating on our terms. However, we must now adjust to life on someone else’s terms. God blessed us with a wonderful opportunity to connect with Didakus, who showed us that help comes in many forms, and that the answer to a problem may not look the way you envision. And although we awoke the next day, exhausted from uncomfortable sleep and unsure of when we would get new sheets, this was a blessed experience, in visible and unseen ways. Thus in the end, the experience was GNAT so bad after all.

Better than Olive Garden

You’ve seen the commercial. Smiling servers present mouth-watering pastas and savory soups while an announcer promises, “When you’re here, you’re family.” Such a statement captures the essence of my short experience in Kenya. We interns are greeted with incredible hospitality, warm expressions, open homes, and demonstrations of affection on a daily basis not because we are American visitors, but because we are viewed as family. Despite my American (and furthermore, Southern) accent, I am constantly addressed as sister, granddaughter, or another familial term that takes away the shame and embarrassment of being (or at least feeling like) an outsider. I was taken a-back by this warm embrace, until the Holy Spirit reminded me that this approach is exactly what God does for us. God fills the chasms that separate humanity and divinity through Jesus, welcoming former foreigners into God’s family. I am beginning to understand how extravagant, secure, and powerful God’s love is by interacting with some of God’s children in Kenya. Though I am away from my biological family, I am amazed that God continues to introduce me to new relatives here. - LM

Church’s Chicken Takes On A Whole New Meaning

This past Sunday each of the Duke interns worshiped with a local congregation affiliated with the Umoja Project. Leonard, the head link teacher of the project, and I visited an Anglican church in which we were asked to introduce ourselves and offer greetings. After taking my seat, I thought I heard a chicken cluck. I looked around my area but only saw a purse and thought, “It’s the jet lag. I need some sleep.” I tried to concentrate on worship. Though the majority of the service was in another language, I thought I recognized one word- poultry. Before I knew it, members of the congregation were bringing live chickens to the front of the church. Leonard explained to me that this was the church’s fundraiser for emergency relief and community development. Parishioners who could not offer monetary gifts brought items to be auctioned off to fellow church members, with all proceeds going to the church. The auction eventually came down to one final chicken. Two groups were passionately vying for the prize, one of which assumed the responsibility of representing the Umoja Project. After a very intense battle, the group contending for Umoja won, and the auctioneer attempted to hand the chicken to me. Now I’ve encountered hundreds of chickens in my lifetime, but all have been dead. So I shied away and insisted that Leonard take the prize, and the entire congregation erupted in laughter at the American girl who was afraid of chicken. After service one parishioner reassured me that chickens did not eat humans. When I told my fellow interns about the experience, they ascribed to me the Kenyan name coo-coo, which means “chicken.” 

8 MILES TO GO BEFORE WE SLEEP

Our day began with a visit to the Leggio Maria Church and ended with an 8 mile walk throughout Kisumu. The Leggio Maria Church, an Umoja participant, sprang from the Catholic Church in Kenya. They believe that Jesus came twice. The first appearance was the biblical Jesus and the second appearance was an African Jesus. The Leggio Maria Church began in Kenya in 1963, after the African Jesus came.

Next, we attended a meeting for the Umoja Project at the Sianda Primary School. We met teachers, students, and home stay hosts, and also learned more about the activities we would participate in while in Kenya. This was a wonderful experience, where we learned more about the role the church plays in reconciling education, familial and development issues.

After the meeting, myself, Laura, Leah, Linda, Lindsey and Lydia walked all over Kisumu in Kenya. Leah and Linda work for the Umoja Project in Kenya, and Laura, a past intern, has led me, Lydia and Lindsey. The goal was to familiarize us Duke interns with the Kisumu region, so that we could properly navigate the city during our home stays. We saw the markets, banks, Nakumetts, Ana Khan hospital and fair-trade shops. We also had the opportunity to learn about landmarks, matatas, and tuk-tuk’s.

Overall, the experience was wonderfully enriching, though equally exhausting. Learning one’s way around a new city is both simultaneously exciting and daunting, because you are like a newborn baby. Learning requires you to operate like a sponge who is ready, willing and able to absorb everything. This journey in Kenya requires us to walk by faith and not by sight. Being unfamiliar with our surroundings required myself, Lydia and Lindsey to follow and not lead; to trust without questioning our leaders, and; to listen and not speak. Today we were led. I believe that God shows us as much about ourselves in leadership opportunities, as God does in moments of pilgrimage. This short time in Kenya allows me to “be still and know that I [God] am God.”

Although we were sweaty, tired and dirty when we returned to St. Anna’s, our lives were that much richer and more beautiful because of the experiences we had that day.

First Day in Kisumu

June 5, 2011

This morning I woke up in a mosquito net, which is already feeling less strange.  However, I listened to the sounds of the birds chirping outside my window and found that they were completely different from the birds at home.  It’s funny the things you notice when you’re in a different country.

We soon found out that the four of us (Me, Laura, Lydia and Camille) would be worshipping at four different places that morning.  I was nervous because it would be the first time I was on my own in Kenya and it was my first full day in Kisumu!  However I quickly found out that four wonderful Kenyans had taken their time to come with each of us to a different congregation: Linda, Barack, Leonard and Leah.  I was to go with Linda to an African Pentecostal church.

As an American that grew up in a traditional Midwestern Methodist church, I was slightly nervous about my first African church experience being an African Pentecostal church.  The tradition was so different than my own and I knew very little about Kenyan culture and less about the Luo or Kiswahili languages.  Luckily Linda, the Deputy Director of the Umoja Project in Kenya, stuck by me the entire time and helped me both navigate the church service and the subsequent meal.  I have never felt more welcomed at a church than when I was at the Pentecostal church today.  God is good.  They welcomed Linda and I again and again and had a young woman translate the entire service into English so we could understand.  There were a few prayers that were in Luo, but I am quickly learning that the Spirit really doesn’t have a language.  I felt the Spirit moving in that place so strongly I was almost brought to tears.  Every time the congregations of the church welcomed me they would say, “feel free in our church,” or “we want you to feel free.”  I thought that was a wonderful way of describing how the Spirit moved throughout that place: freely. 

I am so grateful to that congregation for making me feel so at home even among people who didn’t speak the same language as me.  (I am also grateful they allowed me to attempt some Luo like, “good morning,” which is “oyaore” and “thank you” which is “ero kamono,” if I have the spelling correct).

Later we got a chance to meet with the Umoja Project Staff, some teachers from the schools, post-secondary (post high school) Umoja Scholar graduates and our hosts for our home stays.  Everyone went out of their way to make us feel welcome and put us at ease.

The last thing we did today was finally meet THE Joseph we have been hearing about since we learned about the project.  He is the Director of the Umoja Project in Kenya.  He came to where we are staying and had dinner with us and introduced himself.  It was good to finally put a face to a name.

That’s all I have for today, I will try to keep the posts coming as faithfully as possible.

Lindsey

Elephants and Giraffes in Nairobi

June 4, 2011

Yesterday we spent much of the day in Nairobi before flying to Kisumu.  We petted baby elephants and got the chance to have a giraffe eat food out of our mouths.  That might sound odd, but I was pretty excited about it.  If our internet will let me load a picture I will try to put one on. 

At dinner we met the Umoja Administrative Assistant, Leah.  She was absolutely wonderful and patiently tried to teach us words in Luo.  We learned about ten and I feel confident we will learn more before the end of the summer, even though Leah graciously tried not to laugh at our pronunciation.

We got into our hotel, St. Anne’s, pretty late tonight so, while this is brief, I will have to write more tomorrow.

Lindsey

On our way!

We are currently in the Indianapolis airport, our flight is slightly delayed (surprise)!  But we are excited and ready to start our journey.  We made friends with a little boy named Tyler who informed us that his daddy didn't use bad words anymore and pointed out all the airplanes that flew by.

Hello All!

Thanks for checking out our new blog!  We will begin to document our journey shortly, starting with our plane trip tomorrow!