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