"Without Words"

Check out my latest article for World Next Door about my experiences in Kware Slum with an amazing woman named Judy...

http://www.worldnextdoor.org/2011/07/without-words/.

Silence

I packed to cry: tissues, eye drops and waterproof mascara. I just knew it was coming. And I was less than thrilled.

Our internship director challenged us about halfway through the WND internship to spend a weekend at a retreat center called “Resurrection Gardens.” We were required to go for 48 hours of alone time with God, where a vow of silence was optional, but encouraged.

A retreat like this is something I’ve always wanted to do. In fact, for a long time, I’ve been pushing off conversations I know God and I have to have for just such an occasion.

Right as I put my backpack on to leave, my nose started to bleed. If you know me very well, you know that nosebleeds are my body’s universal signal for “Hey, you’re freaking out right now.”

Tons of excuses for why I should stay at home popped into my head.

Still, as I sopped up the blood, managing to avoid ruining my unstained tan “nice” pants, I told myself, “You can do this. It will be good.”

I still wasn't convinced.

My journey to Resurrection Gardens was interesting in itself. I ripped my pants entirely down the side on a matatu, picked the only boda boda (motorcycle) driver who didn't know where the gardens were are was asking me for directions, and immediately broke my vow of silence in order to find someone to let me into my room.

(Side note: This means that currently, I have one pair of pants that are whole. I feel like a homeless person.)

Since the nose bleeding had begun, my nervousness had increased. I wondered how long it would take me to walk back to the main road. I’d gone to the center, right? I could go home without feeling guilty.

I looked at the clock. I’d been on retreat for around 5 minutes.

Ask

The stubborn part of my personality won out and I ended up staying. The next 48 hours included a lot of silence, quite a bit of granola cereal, multiple walks in the gardens and a few prayers next to nuns. Which, for the record, is extremely intimidating.

But it didn’t include tears.

Like I said, I packed to cry. I thought I needed it, I thought it would help. But I just couldn’t. I came bearing so much brokenness ... but tears didn’t fix it.

I spent time praying about what I’d seen this summer, thinking about my future and confessing my issues in life. I slept late and went to bed early. I took a ridiculous number of showers just because the water was freakishly hot and there was incredible water pressure. Because yes, that was exciting for me.

But what I didn’t realize was that my fear, the nosebleed and the anxiousness were all connected to an agenda I had going into the entire experience.

I wanted specific answers from God. I went to talk to him about a few certain things and I desperately wanted to hear what he had to say about them. Which I thought, was a good idea. I mean, what better place or time?

But at the same time, I was afraid of what I’d hear him say. Afraid of what exactly he would ask of me.

You see, I have a slightly irrational/yet entirely probably fear when it comes to God’s plan for my life. When I was little, I remember praying for God not to make me a missionary. I prayed for him not to send me to Africa.

Now that I’m older, I realize that it’s never a good idea to ask God “not” to do things in your life. Which I think is particularly demonstrated by the fact that I’m currently typing this while living in Africa.

Instead, the child-like fear of being a missionary has now morphed into something bigger. Now, I’m afraid that God will call me to the wilderness, where I’ll live out my life alone, serving God until I’m eaten by a lion or tiger at the age of 65. When of course, I’ll still be single.

Granted, irrational. But in moments when I let fear take over, it’s really easy for it to see like an entirely plausible request from God. At least to my slightly screwed up mind.

Answer

At the end of the retreat, I’m happy to report that God did not, in fact, call me to a future I hate. I don't think my future life will include any scenario where I’m eaten by any sort of creature. Instead, he confirmed some ideas I already had and helped me to understand myself more deeply. He gave me rest and much needed peace. He helped me to find joy in the tasks that he’s given me and showed me the importance of the moment right now.

But he didn’t answer what I'd brought on my agenda. Particularly when it comes to the brokenness part. I set aside the entire last evening at the retreat center to work through this specific aspect of my life. I thought this would be the time, of any, to cry.

And I still didn’t. I asked God my questions. I prayed and praised and asked again. I waited and rested, got sidetracked and then almost locked in the chapel by the nuns (they didn’t see me). But still no answers.

Maybe it was something where God’s answers would come to me when I least expected them, I thought. So I showered again and got in bed.

Nothing.

I woke up early the last morning with the intention of spending a few moments in prayer, hoping that God would tie things together for me. After all, I was leaving at 8:30, so time was running out. Even God couldn't argue with that.

So I prayed and I sat. I wrote and I pondered. I ate more granola.

And I still didn’t get answers.

So I left. I talked to the rest of my team about what I'd experienced, I spent the day in Kalangware slum, I ate ice cream and pizza with Americans, I watched Harry Potter and I made a new cab driver friend on the way home.

But As far as I could tell, God was still silent. And I still hadn't cried.

Girl's got game

Ladies

Strange men have a habit of finding me. I’m not sure if it’s my height or that I say hi, or if it’s an unknown signal I’m giving off. Nonetheless, they come.

Public transportation is no exception, especially here in Kenya. Matatus are an adventure in themselves: Think eardrum-shattering music, entirely rule-less driving and up to 21 people for company, all for less than a dollar.

Usually when I get into a matatu, I choose my seat companion carefully. The rule is to pick someone who is friendly but especially talkative. It’s also important that they have used deodorant recently and show no evidence of creepiness.

This time, I failed in every way.

My seat buddy was a lovely Massai man. Which isn’t inherently a problem. Massai people are very friendly and kind.

They’re also herdsmen who spend most of their time living semi-solitary lives in the hills. They have many traditions, which includes their appearance: stretched ears, long necks, headdresses, and cape-like wraps.

Additionally, the gentleman I was next too had on cargo shorts and was furiously speaking on a smart phone.

When he hung up, we made brief small talk as he grinned at me. Everything was fine. A little awkward, but normal.

Until he asked me to be his girlfriend.

Mind you, this man is in his 60’s.

Because of the language barrier (in his excitement, the man had switched over to Kiswahili), I had to rely on my fellow Beacon staffer, Jackson, to interpret.

I found out my new man friend was telling me that he already had eight wives. He said each of them had their own houses, with cows and goats.

“It’s very nice,” he said, grinning and wigging his eyebrows.

“I’m sure it is.” I said.

Luckily, my ride was short – just a few stops. I exited quickly without saying much more to him. As the matatu lurched away, I saw him peering through the window, a grin on his grimy face displaying a row of mismatched teeth.

I finally understood why my mother told me not to talk to strangers.

Visa

As an only child, it’s been interesting getting used to having two brothers. They want to know where I am, where I’m going and who I’m going with.

And most of all, they’re dying to set me up with their friends.

I keep telling them that my internship has one rule – no dating – but they’re persistent.

“Kenyan men are the best,” they tell me.

On my way home from work everyday, I usually stop by the shop—a cell phone place mixed with a copy center and a pirated movie store.

I usually stay until nearly dark, helping to distract them from the monotony of waiting for customers.

Squashed behind the barred counter (to prevent theft), and occasionally sharing chairs, we often get into interesting conversations. When I return home, I have a feeling that the majority of my Kenyan education will come from discussions in this little room.

One evening, they were feeling particularly rambunctious due to the presence of two friends – a rugby player named Kevo (aka Kevin) and another that for the life of me, I can’t remember his name. I always pretend like I do (“Hey you!”).

[Kagia, if you’re reading this, we need to talk.]

In the midst of a conversation about politics and the new Kenyan constitution, more of a debate, really, the nameless friend (N.F.) broke in with a question.

“So when are you going to decide which one of us you’re going to marry?” he said.

I laughed and attempted to return to the topic of the freedom of information in Kenyan media, but he would have none of it.

“No, no,” he said firmly “You must choose.”

“We all want to go to America,” N.F. said. “And you are ok.”

I sarcastically thanked him for the profound compliment.

He went on to tell me that he would come with me to America, but that eventually we would return to Kenya “because you love it,” he said with a smile.

The last part was true.

“You would be a good Kenyan wife,” he said.

The others enthusiastically agreed.

I reminded them that I was nothing like what a traditional Kenyan woman should be. I was too nosy, too loud. I like my independence and I have no idea how to being mastering all of Kenyan customs and foods.

“In time, in time,” N.F. said.

“What if I want an American man?” I retorted.

With an air of injured pride, they all assured me this was not the case.

N.F. continued explaining our future life in Kenya. He told me about our house in the city, trips to Mombassa and the six sons we would have.

“Excuse me?” I responded.

“And the best thing,” he said, “is that you will never leave me.”

“I won’t?” I said. “And why not?”

“Because if you leave me, I’ll deport you,” he said seriously. “And I know you want to stay.”

“Yep, that’s me,” I responded. “Just looking for a visa.”

This conversation was weeks ago, but N.F. continues to remind me of it.

“We’ll be very happy,” he says with a smile.

I don’t have the heart to tell him that I can’t remember his name.

Snapshots 1

Marked

Rows of sheet metal form little streets, one house indistinguishable from the next. The little streets make up a community, a different world in the midst of bustling Nairobi. The line of houses is broken by a scraggly field, fleck by trash and trampled by excited children enjoying the last hours of daylight. One group plays baseball, another futbol. All are smiling. Their parents watch from the edge of the shantytown village.

It’s Friday night in a Kenyan slum.

Amidst the trash and the last dregs of sunset, my eyes are drawn to one house that sits apart. It looks the same as the others – stained metal walls, gently sloped metal roof. There are no windows, just an open space for the door. It’s unremarkable, save for one thing. Scrawled on the side of the walls, in blood-red pain are the words

“In God we trust.”

I’ve seen the words so many times that they’ve lost some of their meaning. In America the phrase is a slogan, a claim on prosperity. But here, they’re unexpected.

It’s true that they might just be a tribute to the wealth the American dollar stands for here in Kenya. They could be the result of longing for success and prosperity that so many can’t seem to find.

But I think they’re meant to say something more. Here, they’re not just a slogan, a string of four easy words. I think they’re a challenge to the problems of life, a challenge to the tragedy of the slums. An acknowledgement of the overwhelming fight each person who lives here goes through every day.

And in the most literal sense the phrase says, no matter where we are, no matter what happens, we choose to trust.

“In God we trust.” A phrase stolen from a nation of people who live like we don’t mean it ... and unexpectedly claimed by those who understand it’s meaning more than we ever could.

Drops

The bottle’s nearly bigger than he is. But somehow, it stays balanced, immovable, on top of his head. He’s one of a group of children carrying yellow water containers, but for some reason, he’s the one who captures my attention. He stops walking when he sees me staring on the other side of the street; his friends leave him behind. His brown eyes don’t squint in the sun beating down. They don’t narrow to hide from the never-ending dust. As I keep walking, the bottle shifts as he turns his head to follow me.

I look back at him, once, twice. Surely he can’t be more than six years old, alone, walking on the broken streets of his slum.

I want to take him with me, to keep him safe. He doesn’t belong here, in the dirt, the stench, the mass of humanity. It’s not fair that the only water he’ll drink is the dirty contents of his yellow bottle.

I self-consciously remember the unopened Dasani in my backpack.

Water drips down his face as I see him adjust his burden. He doesn’t wipe it away – it stains his face like tears.

But his eyes don’t show me sadness or fear. Instead, there’s a confidence in them, sureness.

“This is my home,” they say.

Updates/Prayer Requests

I don't have a ton of time at the moment, but I just wanted to update all of you on a few things and ask for some prayers.

1. My computer charger snapped in half last week and Kenyans don't really use Apple products. Therefore, I'm commuting to my nearest Apple retailer each night (30 minutes away) to charge my computer and attempt to be of some worth to my organization during the workday.

I think I can get a charger sometime next week with a team that's coming from America, but until then I'm pretty much useless. If you could, pray that I can still be used at my ministry and that NOTHING else will go wrong with my beloved Mac.

I think this is the only time in my life I've wished I had a PC.

2. We just got back from safari last night and while it was AWESOME (photos to come ... eventually) a few of us are now sick (not me, don't worry), so be praying for their health now that they're back to work.

3. Also, be praying for all of us for energy and encouragement. We've been here a month, so we've adjusted, but we're also still coping emotionally, which can be exhausting. Pray that not only can we be present here in Kenya, but that we can also still be willing to have our hearts broken by the needs we see here.

As always, thank you so much for you continued support and encouragement.

Creamy.

This photo perfectly sums up the kindergarteners at Beacon of Hope

My first day in Beacon of Hope’s kindergarten, the most adorable little girl came and sat next to me, looking up shyly. I could tell she had something to say, so I attempted to coax it out of her. “Teacher Molly,” she said in her heavily accented English. “Can you lick white people?”

“Excuse me?” I responded, warily eyeing the little pink tongue that peeked out from behind her gapped teeth.

“Are they creamy?” she said, a little more insistent this time.

Thinking of the popular “Creamy Inn” ice cream shop in Downtown Nairobi, I said, “Like Ice cream?” To which she vigorously nodded. “No,” I said slowly, “They’re not creamy at all.”

Slightly disappointed, she nodded and then ran back to join her friends. For the rest of the day, I skirted the ‘kindergarten a little warily.

So far, no one's tried to lick me, but the mental image of a very confused white person in a sugar cone never fails to make me smile. :)

Faith [fullness]

The team in Kibera slum

*Photo Credit: Jason Lavengood Photography

In the process of adapting to a new culture, working two internships, and attempting to remain a sane person, I haven’t had a lot of time to reflect on what exactly this summer is for me. Which sounds a little strange. I already know this summer is an internship, a requirement for graduation.

But it’s also the fulfillment of a dream.

I’m living in another country, working as a writer and photographer. I am required to do what I love as my job. Seriously cool. I can check a life dream off my list.

But for some reason, I didn’t entirely connect that fact until a few days ago, which immediately launched me into the thoughts of “Where do I go from here?”

You see, because this is the first time I’ve had a big dream fall into place, I don’t exactly know what to do next (even though I’m only halfway through the current opportunity). I’ve been so consumed with doing and planning and going that I have no idea what to do now that the dream is actually here.

Instead of praying for something to happen, now I’m coming to God and asking ...

“Well, now what?”

****

One of the amazing things about working at Beacon is being surrounded by an incredible Christian staff. Part of my daily routine is going to morning devotions. Inevitably, I am either too early or too late (still figuring out the African timing thing) so I make an awkward, sheepish entrance. Additionally, I’ve had two spectacular falls in the past week, so I also come in mud-stained and disheveled. Awesome.

Anyway.

Most of the singing is in Swahili, and often the message is as well, but I always leave encouraged. The staff members all take turns leading the service and share what’s on their hearts, as well as their personal testimonies. Which are usually too unbelievably tragic to explain.

And while I can’t often understand the entire messages (usually half English/half Swahili) I feel like they’re all geared towards me. For the past week, the speakers have talked about one thing in a variety of different forms: faithfulness.

Which brings me to some interesting conclusions.

****

Last Sunday, I went to church with a few other members of the WND teamin Kibera slum. For those of you who read my previous blog post about Kibera, you’ll understand that I was expecting an emotional experience.

But it wasn’t what I thought it would be.

Trekking through the slum for the second time wasn’t easier or harder than the first, it was just different. This time, instead of filth and brokenness and poverty, I started to notice homes. Neighbors. Communities and lives instead of just problems. Don’t get me wrong, the experience was still jarring, but not for the same reasons.

As I was walking, all I could think to myself was “Life goes on here. No matter the circumstances, life goes on.”

We arrived about an hour late to the service (due to my getting lost in Nairobi. Fail). Still, we were the only people inside the church besides the worship team.

To our surprise (and his), when the service started Barry was asked to speak. He claims he had nothing prepared, but the sermon he gave was wonderful. Speaking through an interpreter, he told stories of God’s grace despite hard circumstances.

And yes, Barry, I know you’re reading this. Don’t get too big of a head from the compliments. ☺

Barry used Psalm 73 to talk about the frustration he had at the needs he found in the world. Speaking from experience, Barry related to the psalms author, Asaph, when Asaph questioned why the wicked, and not the good, prospered.

While sharing a Bible with my neighbor, Lawrence, two verses stood out to me.

“Whom have I in heaven but you? I desire you more than anything on earth.
 My health may fail, and my spirit may grow weak, but God remains the strength of my heart; he is mine forever.”

The service continued with three hours worth of speaking, prayer and worship. As I heard the people around me singing words I didn’t understand, as I listened to them cry out in anguish to God through prayers, I was entirely humbled.

I was humbled not because of the needs the people had around me, even though they were overwhelming. I was humbled not because the preaching was incredibly powerful, even though it was. I was humbled, instead, because of the steadfast faith I saw inside that little building.

Faith that would have amazed me anywhere, not just in the middle of Kibera.

In that moment, to me the congregation wasn’t made up of people living in Nairobi’s biggest slum. I simply saw them as fellow children of God.

****

As I was leaving my house this morning to go to work, I reflected on my experiences over the weekend. A day in Kibera will give anyone plenty to think about, but I simply found myself pondering the same phrase.

“I desire you more than anything on earth.”

More than anything. Hm.

When I think about this summer, the plans I’ve made and the dream I’m living, I find that I’m still not fulfilled.

Yes, God gave me a tremendous blessing by answering my prayers and letting me be here, doing what I’m doing. But even as I ask him “What’s next?” I’m discovering what I’m missing.

I’m still missing faith.

Even though He’s done such good things for me, I don’t have the same faith I find in the staff here at Beacon when they give testimonies riddled with pain and abuse with a joyful smile.

I don’t have the faith of the everyday people in Kibera, living life where they do, and regardless, having complete devotion to their savior.

I don’t even have the faith to just be where I am without asking questions. To trust that God knows my dreams better than I do. So without that type of faith, I’ll always be missing fullness.

Which is a sobering thought.

As a result, I’m re-thinking the way I’m going about making dreams. What if I don’t need a specific dream to replace this one ... what If I let a growing hunger to know God replace it?

Could it be that giving up the “dream-making” aspect of myself is actually what’s going to bring me fullness?

That’s going to be hard for someone like me. Someone who likes plans. Who has a bookmark for gradschools.com and secretly wants to work for The New York Times or the U.N. Maybe both. At the same time.

But while it may be difficult , I think the change is essentially to me finally becoming who God wants me to be. Someone full.

Someone faithful.