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
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