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...