"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.

How long?

When you go to another country, it’s customary to have a different pace of life. For most Americans this is particularly difficult to adjust to because, well, we like things done our way.

As someone who’s done a bit of traveling, I’m both aware of and sensitive to differences in time. For example, I know that when you visit a country you very quickly learn that for some people, arriving at 8 am is equivalent to arriving at 10 am. They will mosey in as if nothing’s wrong and you simply have to deal with it. Sometimes it’s entertaining and other times it’s infuriating.

It all depends on how you look at it.

Here in Kenya, life is much slower than in the U.S. . I knew that it would be coming in and (up untill today) it’s been a welcome change. I like having a leisurely meal while talking and laughing. I like chai breaks at 10:30 and the lack of stress in my office.

But as I’m sitting attempting to send an email with photos, I think I might hurt something. I don’t want to wait 65 (!?!?!?) days to download a file.

In all seriousness, that’s what my screen says.

I know that my download speed isn’t really Kenya’s fault. Instead, I think subtly God’s laughing at me as I sit fuming and attempting to look up Swahili swear words in my phrase book, You see, downloads aren’t the only thing I have a hard time waiting for.

I don’t like waiting for answers about my future and the specifics of my life. I don’t enjoy waiting while everything seems hopeless or when I can’t see an end in sight.

And more than anything, I hate waiting for God to fulfill his promises.

I think part of why I hate waiting has to do with my American-ness. To me, waiting is passive and I like to be active. If I have to wait, I’ll multi-task (like writing this blog post while I attempt to send an email). If I’m on the phone, I might clean my room or check facebook.

By itself, waiting seems like a waste of time.

Elizabeth Elliot has an infuriating quote that I always copy down for inspiration, and then make a face at. It talks about waiting being part of the process, part of the joy of becoming refined into Christ’s likeness.

She says:

When ours [plans] are interrupted, his are not. His plans are proceeding exactly as scheduled, moving us always (including those minutes or hours or years which seem most useless or wasted or unendurable) "toward the goal of true maturity."

Yes, because my ultimate happiness is wrapped up in the word “maturity.” Clearly this woman never had to wait for anything.

If you know anything about Elizabeth Elliott, though, you know that waiting made up most of her spiritual walk with God. Waiting for direction, waiting for peace, waiting for the man she loved for many years. Then, waiting to recover after he was killed shortly after their marriage.

So she might know a little bit.

This summer, I’m in an office mostly by myself, in a different culture, reliant on many other people for direction and understanding. Somehow, I have to get to work on time, schedule interviews, meet with directors from 6 different departments, and plead with my computer to connect with the Internet on a daily basis. Each day I write myself a little “to do list” and make boxes to check off what I’ve done. I rarely finish half of what I’m supposed to.

For this season, waiting is my life. And I think God wants it that way.

Today my mom sent me a facebook message telling me how incredible it is that I have time. Time to think and process, time to spend alone with God. In the past I’ve challenged myself to pray longer and occasionally withdraw from people to grow in my faith. But most of the time it doesn’t happen, at least not like I want it to.

So here I am, frustrated and in a hurry, when I have what I’ve wanted. It doesn’t look like I thought it would (I think I imagined something 15^th century monastery-like instead of an office in Kenya), but I have it.

And I hate it.

Like I said, He’s lovingly laughing at me.

So dear friends at home and abroad, please be praying for me in my waiting.

Mostly, I wish I knew what I was waiting for (I have a few suggestions for Him, but I’m going to keep my mouth shut) but I’m hoping by the end of the summer I’ll discover it. And when I do, I think I’ll be just a little closer to who He wants me to be.

Pray that not only will I avoid going crazy at my little desk, but that I also find joy in being alone with God. That despite the questions, anger, or confusion I might feel towards him, I’ll continue to be able to actively wait for what he has for me.

So here I sit, eat, walk, write and live ... waiting.

Let’s see what happens.

And for the record, my email finally sent.

Leah

My new friend Leah is absurdly beautiful. She's equal parts mischevious and ladylike, although I think she tends to lean more towards the former. I'm not sure of her HIV/AIDS status, but I know that her life is much harder than her smile would lead you to believe. Meeting her, and the women at Beacon of Hope like her, reminds me of God's grace and faithfulness in providing for everyone he loves.

More Than Tears

I haven’t really cried in Kenya. Ok, there was one night where there was a little sniffling involved. But not the real, shaking, disgustingly snotty crying.

The kind that really matters.

At the same time, I’ve been having a hard time reacting to what I’m seeing and experiencing here. For some reason, I can process a little, but not to the full extent that I actually feel better.

I’m not really a person that cries a lot, (at least not on a regular basis), so I didn’t really think there was a connection.

We had a team day today where we all processed our experiences thus far with each other and shared how we were doing emotionally. I was incredibly excited to see everyone after only a week, but I felt unsettled as we talked. I could tell them about my God moments and express excitement about what my ministry was doing with complete honesty. I have seen God at work and it’s been wonderful, but emotionally, I haven’t taken it in. I have tons of notes, but I didn’t pause to think about what they meant.

In comparison to my fellow interns, what I see on a daily basis is tame and comfortable. The house I live in is lovely. There’s hot water, electricity, and wifi whenever I want them, not to mention wonderful food. My workplace is gorgeous, where everyone speaks English and I can visit kindergartners and student artisans anytime I want. My brothers drive me to and from work (about a 10 block distance or less) and won’t let me out of their sight if I’m with them.

So I really didn’t think I had anything to cry about.

On our way to Prestige Plaza today (a mall), a man across the road from us had an epileptic seizure. One minute he was walking eating a bag of bananas and the next he was on the ground, greenish foam coming from his mouth and limbs rigidly twitching. As the rest of my friends rushed toward him, I was frozen and disconnected at the same time. We stayed until we were sure he was all right, and then continued walking. It turned out that he had run out of money for his epilepsy medicine and was attempting to go without it. Some of the others gave him money for more meds and were deeply affected by what happened. I just felt more unsettled.

The rest of our day was great. We had gelato and attempted to negotiate a Kenyan supermarket/Wal-Mart equivalent (where I found nothing that I needed and bought a phrasebook instead). But I still felt off.

During one of our conversations, some of the others had talked about their struggles to feel things and engage with what was going around them. I ignored the fact that I could relate. I was fine, I told myself.

Previously in the week, I’d submitted my first article for WND (woot). I didn’t love it, but it was ok. My problem is always word count (as you’re probably noticing, I’m a bit long winded), but that was my only worry.

After coming home for the day today, I checked my email for my internship account. Reviews had arrived! I was nervous, as usual when it comes to stuff like that, but excited. The reviews were fair. The more that I read my piece, the more that I agreed with what they said.

The writing was stiff. Informative. Very, very news story like. In just under 1,000 words I had said a lot about what my organization did without including any emotion, whatsoever. Which, when you’re writing about intense social justice issues, is a problem. Why wasn’t I feeling?

I shook off the frustration I had with myself and ate dinner, watched Spanish soaps (yeah, they’re awful but hilarious) and went back to my room. Now I was really, really unsettled.

I sat on my bed with my Bible and just stared for a bit. Shut my eyes. Got up. Sat at my desk. Got on facebook.

And then I read a message from a friend that was entirely perfect. She encouraged me, told me she was praying for me and said that God was doing incredible things in my life, not just in the lives of the people I’d met. “Wait,” I thought. “Is He?”

And then I completely lost it.

All the feelings and thoughts, the anxiousness of going, the confusion at adjusting, the stress of the unknown, the weight of poverty and desperation, the worry about life at home, the anticipation of plans for the future, all came out in 15 minutes of straight crying. My poor host family! They probably thought someone dear to me had died.

When I finished, I went to my computer and began to write. I stayed up until 2 am entirely re-writing my piece. I kept three sentences from the first draft, but that’s it.

I still think my article is just ok. But at least, now I’m connecting. I’m wrestling and feeling instead of just recording.

I’m no longer just a journalist; I’m in the process of becoming a wrecked human being who has fallen in love with the idea of justice and mercy and the faces of those in need.

In the process, I’m discovering that God’s plan for my life this summer is to blow my plans and perceptions out of the water. While I might think I’m safe, He’s still going to change my world. And I have a feeling that means he’s going to take the feelings I have (no matter how reluctantly I give them to Him) and use them for bigger things than tears.

Regardless, I’m still buying Kleenex.

A New Friend

144 of the cutest Kindergarteners ever go out to play each Friday afternoon.

How could I not love my job?

First impressions

(Top: My view from the office. Not too shabby, eh? Bottom: My desk)

Right now I'm sitting at my own desk in a non-profit organization in Kenya, and I love it.

For the past few days I've been getting to know my host family and host organization, Beacon of Hope. They have me doing orientation this week, so essentially

I'm spending time with all of the different departments and programs that Beacon of Hope offers.

I'd give you more details about what Beacon of Hope offers, but then I'd spoil my first article for World Next Door, which should be up sometime next week!

Check it out (when it's up) at www.worldnextdoor.org.

The director of the program, Jane Wathome, is absolutely incredible. The organization she's created is fantastic, and her attitude to ministry and community building is inspiring. I have a feeling she's one of those women I'm going to model my life after.

Yesterday I spend my morning with the Social development office, which is the starting point for those who come to Beacon for help. I think it's my favorite department so far, simply because of the people. The staff is all fairly young and excited about what they're doing, which, considering the circumstances (HIV/AIDS patients and extreme poverty) is pretty amazing. They put me to work with the revolving fund, filling out check receipts and then totaling them in the computer. It's complicated, but similar to filling out a checkbook registry. First day on the job and they have me doing math. Haha what are the odds.

In the afternoon I moved on to the kindergarten, which is filled with 144 of THE CUTEST children I've ever seen. The first time I walked through, 40 to 50 of them (not an exaggeration) ran towards me and want to hug me. Sometimes standing out is ok. I sat with them through a class and then went back to the main office.

Today I was with the youth resources center, which provides opportunities for young people in the area to use computers, a television, and a small library. In addition there are also a number of clubs run out of the office, including a very dedicated drama club. Most of the rest of my day has been spent with them, watching them practice for a competition they will participate in during July. As soon as I sat down with they pulled me towards the stage, so today I played a nurse in a very complicated play they'd written about a captain's daughter who is smuggling drugs in her uterus. Hm. Not at all what I expected. Still, very talented and fun people.

Outside of work, Kenya is incredible as well. I've stayed true to lifelong promise to myself that I'll eat anything while traveling, which in this case has included cow intestines (which were fantastic) and whole, uncooked tiny fish (bones included. Not so fantastic). I spend most of my time with my Kenyan brothers, who are 23 and 25. They already protect me like I'm their sister, and have promised to show me what Kenya's like for someone young.

No idea what that means, but I'll keep you updated.

So far it hasn't been too much of a shock culture wise, although there are certainly things to get used to. The fact that there isn't really a language barrier is fantastic, and I've taken full advantage of asking questions about relationship customs, government, foreign affairs, universities, faith, and traditions. I'm going to run out of paper I've taken so many notes already!

However, the home where I'm living does employ a servant, which I don't think I'll ever be used to. I try not to think about the fact that she is the one who cleans my room (even if I tell her she doesn't need to), cooks my food ect.

The experience is far from over, but I feel at home here. Really, I think I fit here better than I have in any other culture, which I find a little odd.

They've asked me if I'll return and I haven't really given an answer ... but I know I will. I'm falling in love with Kenya.

Temporary Home

This is Mayfield Guest House, a missionary retreat center we've been living in for the past few days. The staff is incredible and we love the free wifi. :)

The Slums: Part 2

After lunch, we set off to visit Zana Africa, a ministry that concentrates on empowering and enriching the lives of young women, specifically in Kibera slum.

South of the center of the city, Kibera stretches for miles and swallows up hundreds of thousands of people. I still couldn’t interpret my emotions from the morning, so I was anxious for the afternoon. What if I felt more helpless than before?

We took a matatu (taxi-like, but with many more people and far less rules) to Kibera and somehow, I ended up in the front seat with the driver and a silent passenger. He pulled me into the seat and then reached around me to cram me inside before shutting the door. As we lurched forward, I fought the impulse to dig my nails into the seat. I could do this, I thought to myself. I’m here to have new experiences.

At first Kibera didn’t look like I thought it would. Lively music played, children in tattered but brightly colored uniforms dotted the street, and chickens dodged bikes, motorcycles and a throng of walkers. On the main street in the sunlight, poverty didn’t look that bad. At Zana we were greeted with friendly faces and after a briefing, set off to a primary school near the edge of Kibera where we would help with a computer class and deliver sanitary pads.

To get there, we’d have to walk through the alleys of the slum itself, instead of just the approachable main street border.

In the midst of lively conversation with Laura and Jocelyn, I noticed the shops grow less frequent and the music fade. Then we turned to our left and hurried down an even narrower alley, with sheet metal houses with crude roofs that hung over the path.

At first negotiating the hole-riddled road and jumping over unexpected and dark streams seemed like just a challenge, it didn’t mean anything. But then the smell enveloped us. I involuntarily paused at the edge of a waste-filled ravine, then looked up to see a family staring at me from a crack in their home’s wall. The building was less than 2 feet from a river of sewage.

I shrugged it off and continued, meticulously following our leaders.

I think in this moment I didn’t feel horror because I thought,

“Oh, yes, this is terrible, but it’s ok, they’ll get to go home.”

But it was their home. And it probably would continue to be. There might even be a chance that it would become their children’s, and then their grandchildren’s. They might live in that place forever, never knowing any difference.

The horror began to set in.

It became harder to walk as we went down the slope towards the edge of the slum city. We crossed a plank bridge that I was convinced would collapse and then followed a river near the base of Kibera to St. Michael’s school. The teachers welcomed us inside and gave a few of us a brief tour. As I stepped into a pitch-black hallway, the smell of sweaty bodies made me gasp. To my left a tiny room held at least 25 boys, crammed onto benches behind a few desks and attempting to see the words they wrote through a tiny window near the ceiling. Across the hall even more boys and girls excitedly raised their hands and came out of their seats as they answered questions.

We went upstairs to a class of 30 or so young girls in level 8, which means they were around 14 to 16 years old. We split up into groups to help them with their computer lessons and I attempted to introduce myself to the four faces looking up at me. I spoke loudly and slowly, hoping they would understand. They looked at me quizzically, and then answered in perfect English. I felt foolish, but enjoyed the opportunity to overcome the language barrier.

I crouched on the small bench in front of them and shook the hand of the little girl next to me, wearing a torn blue sweater and faded purple dress.

She told me her name was Molly.

She laughed when I told her my name, but after I assured her that I was serious, she wordlessly scooted closer to me

In turned out that the computer lesson was on social networking, which as a communications major, I know a little something about. J

The computers were running slow (wifi isn’t great in Kibera), but the girls were far more patient than I thought they would be. While we waited we talked about hobbies and siblings. I asked them how old they were and what they wanted to become when they grew up. “A journalist,” Molly confidently told me. The other girls continued the conversation while I just sat and looked at her, at a loss for words.

I listened to the young women around me as they confidently expressed their hopes and dreams. A few wanted to be lawyers, others doctors and teachers. They didn’t say, “someday I hope I’ll be,” instead it was always “I will be.”

In a classroom without windows, in one of the forgotten places, one of the biggest slums in Africa, these girls had hope. They had confidence in themselves and their dreams. They would have to work harder for the lives they wanted than I ever would, and they were far more excited about the possibility than I ever have been.

When we handed them their packs of sanitary pads you would have though we were giving them candy. After, as I stood in the back, I thought about my needs and what made me excited, where I found joy and gratitude.

The girls told me that if I was going to be in Nairobi for two months, that I had to come back and see them. “We will see you again, they told me.” I said I would do my best, but that I couldn’t promise anything.

We made our way back through Kibera, through darker stretches that made my skin crawl. While the girls’ hope had enlivened me, the magnitude of their situation became even more real.

The fact that I had faces to attach to the problems in Kibera ensured that I couldn’t ignore my feelings. I couldn’t pretend like I could handle it, that it didn’t affect me. I couldn’t block it out.

While I was deep in thought, we continued on our walk back to Zana’s office. At a particularly close and difficult part of the road, I saw a woman washing her family’s clothes on the stones outside her home. She wrung water out of a worn shirt and stopped to look at me. A dead animal carcass and a pit of mud sat next to her.

For the first time, I felt like I understood a little. I was still an intruder, but I was an intruder into the homes and neighborhoods I was standing in, not just into heaps of wreckage and filth.

Like the woman washing clothes and the little girls studying to be doctors, teachers, and journalists, the people who live in Kibera are living life in the best way they knew how. They were still families who love each other, people who have dreams, and parents who care what their children wear and eat.

I still haven’t processed what I saw that day. And I might not ever come to terms with the emotions that I felt. But I finally saw the people in Kibera simply as people. People with dignity and personalities, not just subjects to be scrutinized and pitied.

In the grand scheme of this summer, I think that’s what I’m here to learn.

The Slums: Part 1

I didn’t write anything last night because I couldn’t. I had the opportunity, but not the words. In order to help ourselves recover from jet lag faster, we packed our day full of visits to our various host ministries, including Tumaini Clinic in Korogocho slum, Tunari International, and Zana Africa. I was excited but nervous, although I knew the day would be amazing.

I just wasn’t prepared.

I can’t really explain to you how being in two of Nairobi’s biggest slums made me feel. I can’t communicate the smells, or describe the color of the sludge that ran down the crevices of the narrow streets.

I can’t even show you photos, because I didn’t take any. Not yet. I think I still need to wrap my mind around what a slum is, what it means.

When we first drove into Korogocho, I wasn’t aware what was happening. One minute we were on a pretty normal road, and then we started to see piles of garbage dotted with birds picking out what they wanted. Then instead of birds there were dogs, and finally, people. All digging through the trash together, all fighting to survive.

I didn’t notice it at the time, but there were vultures circling overhead.

As we drove in our hired car, the streets grew more and more narrow. Our driver told us that the main road was built a few years ago as the beginning of a rehabilitation project for the area. But, while the road attempted to lead the residents of the slum to new and better places, instead the shacks just moved in closer and the road became a marketplace/main street of sorts, swallowed up by the slum. The type of place with a mix of beggars and shops, ditches and stray dogs, where an American girl is entirely without the option of being discreet.

We found the Tunari clinic down a fairly wide side road, one of the nicer areas, we were told. Although permanent structures are not allowed in the slum, the clinic was built 2002 to help the local population. Its high ceilings, strong walls and welcoming windows are a stark contrast to the neighboring buildings. The clinic offers testing and vaccinations, in addition to common, family practice sort of medicine. It’s main operation, however, is a neonatal facility. The clinic is run by an Australian doctor, whose plan is for the clinic to be entirely self-sufficient, run without outside aid from either local or national supporters. This model is rare for such a ministry, but so far it seems to work.

We toured the facility (no babies were being born at the time, unfortunately), and then had Chai with the staff. They talked about how much of a blessing the clinic was to the area and how it had grown from a single dank and dark room to a thriving ministry. While the clinic had many challenges, all of the staff members said that their success was simply existing and helping in any small way, instead of providing the most excellent medical care in Nairobi. That goal was second; it always came after bringing stability and helping the community to thrive.

During a break in the conversation, a few of us peered out the window to look at the rest of the slum as it sprawled into the hazy distance. I looked, but didn’t take it all in. In my mind I wasn’t looking at houses, schools, and businesses. I didn’t even know what I was looking at. Nothing in my experience could help me define what I saw. Barry pointed out black smoke in the distance ... the mark of the city dump as its refuse leaked into the rest of temporary city.

We took a walk with the Australian doctor, Joe, who took us down the main street. As we walked, nearly every child we saw yelled “Hi! How are you?” at once, proud of their English. Our appearance and their cries left little possibility that we wouldn’t be noticed. The staff told us that we could take our cameras if we wished, but none of us did. As I talked to our guide, John I felt shame as we walked and partially kept my head down.

I’m not sure why I did it. I think I tried to convince myself that it was because I didn’t want the people to feel like they were in a zoo. I wanted to show them that I wasn’t there to gawk at them openmouthed, but instead to give them dignity. And maybe that was part of it.

But I also couldn’t face myself. Every step I took around rotting garbage, every time a beggar placed their hands out and I refused, each pair of eyes I felt staring at me made me feel entitled and proud. It made me feel like an imposter who said they loved the world, but had done nothing to truly help it. I was ashamed of the fact that I wanted to escape the smells and the hands and most of all the children’s eyes. I wanted to gather them all into my arms and run away at the same time.

Was this the attitude of someone who wanted to change the world?

We returned to the clinic and crammed ourselves into the car that would take us to Mayfield guest house (where we’ve been staying since we arrived). I sat in silence while everyone else talked and processed what they’d seen.

As we drove away I still felt like hiding. Hiding from the problems that were there, hiding from the guilt I had, but mostly hiding from the fact that I consciously wasn’t letting myself emotionally process what I’d seen. That I stupidly pretended like I was “tough enough” to handle it while my friends heart’s broke around me.

I tried to journal when we got back and came up with a stilted paragraph. Then nothing.

I just sat staring at the page, feeling overwhelmed. Not angry or upset, just lost.

---

My People.

Over the course of two months, you really get to know someone. The good and bad, tired and coffeeless sides all come out, whether you’d like them to or not.

Last Monday I drove to Indianapolis to meet my fellow interns and World Next Door’s year long fellow for the first time. We had all talked through Skype, but had never met face to face. Meeting my summer family was what I was most excited for as we started training ... and I wasn’t disappointed.

The people I have the joy to spend time with are better than I thought they would be. We’re all incredibly different ... different senses of humor, talents, and interests, but we just click.

I’m completely unashamed to tell you that I stole the idea for this blog post from my lovely new friend Jocelyn, so I’ll start by introducing her.

You like Jocelyn the instant you meet her. Her laugh is contagious and she’s never afraid to surprise you with a comment or unexpected dance move, not to mention her mastery of mystical unicorn language. Her story with Jesus is incredible and I admire her faith nearly as much as I do her wavy red hair (which, unlike me, she comes by naturally). She just graduated from Concordia University in California, although she comes from Maryland.

Another west coaster, Laura, brings wisdom and incredible talents to our group.

We’re learning she’s most productive in the morning. In other words, by 7:00ish, Laura may have gone for a run, finished some kind of craft project and potentially have even done some hemming or flower weaving (yes, all of these things occurred).

You might not expect it, but Laura also loves Salsa dancing and languages ... which might be the reason for the numerous admirers she attracts. Currently she’s traveling with a ukulele, the playing of which we’ve discovered will cause people to give us free things ... and we couldn’t be more thrilled.

When it comes to experience and patience, you can’t get better than Steven. As the yearlong fellow with World Next Door, Steven is dedicated to doing life his own way.

He’s comfortable in nearly every situation, from hiking up a ridge with two full-size North Face camping backpacks to negotiating the complexity of a Nikon (not to mention a team full of energetic women). Still, I think he’s most at home with his flock of nieces and nephews, who hang on his every word and action.

Bridgette and I have twin tastes in music, but I adore her for so many other reasons.

Jesus has done amazing things in her life and I have a feeling that the story of her experiences this summer will be especially powerful in my own life. Fluent in Italian and a passionate cyclist, Bridgette is entirely genuine and honest no matter the situation ... something invaluable in a friend.

And then there’s the Boss. Barry’s passion for his work is magnetic and entirely heartfelt. What he does as the founder and director of World Next Door comes from the wrecking he experienced in his own life when faced with the reality of the injustices in the world. Each of us is here because we’re drawn to the way God’s working in his life and want to be a part of it.

But don’t be fooled ... as serious as he is about his work, he also makes time for his adorable nieces, a freakishly successful Halo gaming career, an impromptu study of quantum physics, and a budding fascination with the combination of Mumford and Sons and the Mandolin.

So that’s us. And I love every second of it.

Now when I tell you stories, you can feel like you know and love the people I’m talking about like I do

This summer we’ll be doing incredible things together and apart and we’re all going to come back such different people, but I can’t think of a better group to live this part of my life with.

In Preparation

First day as a WND intern! For the next few days we're in Indianapolis talking about our direction for the summer and getting to know each other through a number of activities, including an adventure/camping excursion in the wilderness of Indiana. This morning our leader gave us tiny moleskine journals with the following poem, one of his favorites. He said he feels it will define what we'll be doing this summer.

"I see you

Walking, talking,

breathing softly, healingly,

on the sorrow of the poor, the weak,

going from hut to hut

in the life-destroying darkness,

torch in hand,

giving the sorrow

that drains the blood

like a contagious disease

a new meaning"

-Daya Pawar

It's chilling to me that in the next few days, the images and battle in this poem will be reality. That instead of being simply a work of literature (from a slightly fascinating author, I might add: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dagdu_Maruti_Pawar), this will be my world for the next few months.

As we continue to prepare, I'm not sure that I'll ever be ready to take on the darkness so directly. Not only will I experience it, but I'll go looking for it. Seeking it out to bring light and then writing about it so that all of you can help fight against it too.

It's a terrifying opportunity ... but also a tremendous ministry.

Beyond Measure

How It's Possible to Be Reluctant But Blessed.

I strive to be someone driven by passion and curiosity. I work hard and push myself, often simply to see how long it will be before I crack. It’s more for the sake of loving a challenge than masochism, I promise. My dreams and plans for the future are no exception, particularly this summer.

But, despite my confidence in myself and God’s plan for me, each aspect of the internship with World Next Door has been a challenge. When I applied, I struggled with the fact that I might not be good enough. That I still had so much to learn and that God’s plan for me might be very different than the one that I had for myself. I worked on my application for at least four months, writing and re-writing my essays, and above all, desperately praying for direction. To my disappointment, I never got a clear answer from God. There was no encouragement or apparent yes, but there also wasn’t a resounding no.

So I applied. And then I waited. Meanwhile, my overactive brain played out every potential situation. I imagined the internship committee laughing at my submissions before tossing them aside. I jealously envisioned those I deemed “less qualified” being selected instead, while I was left to find another internship opportunity.

Don’t worry, I repented later.

I prayed a lot during my waiting period. Admittedly, the actual amount of time I had to wait was much shorter than it seemed. Nevertheless, between miniature freak-outs and general spastic-ness, I muttered a lot of prayers. I have to say that most of them were far more selfish than they should have been. The prayers involved an excessive used of the word “I” and few actually focused on would be best for World Next Door and the partner ministries. Instead, it was all about me.

I had the right desires and direction, but the wrong attitude.

When I received an email saying that I had been selected for an interview, I breathed a sight of relief ... for about two minutes. Then an entirely new batch of worries surfaced. Would I fail after having made it so far? After all, I was younger than many of the other applicants and consequently felt like I had something to prove. I tried to play it off like I knew God had my best interests at heart, but inside I was already planning on how I could make myself look better and secure the position.

On the day of the interview, the weather in Indiana was more wretched than usual. Below zero temperatures and an impending ice storm probably should have kept me at home, but I stubbornly got in my car and drove to Noblesville. As I walked toward Grace Community Church for the interview, I tried to stop my hands from shaking ... and failed miserably.

Walking in the doors, I prayed the first entirely sincere and humbled prayer about the opportunity I had thus far: “ Dear God, please don’t let me act like an idiot.”

To the best of my knowledge, I didn’t. I was still nervous, and I don’t know that I had the right answers to all of the questions, but I finally relaxed. The interview was fun and the group of us spent most of the time laughing and getting off topic, which I took as a good sign. We went over our allotted time and I left feeling content. Not confident or cocky, but content.

I remember thinking, “Well, I’ve tried the best I can. It’s not up to me anymore.”

As if it ever was.

Despite this less than profound statement, I was still on edge for the next few days. I checked my phone and emails obsessively and I’m sure made the people I care about miserable. I had one of my least favorite classes at the exact time I was supposed to get a call about the internship. When I saw that I had missed a call, halfway through the class, I literally had to force myself not to run out of the room. As the professor was dismissing us, I pushed past my classmates and left all of my belongings in the classroom.

Because you’re reading this post, you probably know that the phone call would tell me that I’d gotten the position.

My friends and I squealed for a good five minutes once I hung up. For once my happiness was enough. No worries or doubts, just joy.

That was almost three months ago. Since then, I’ve had to work through fundraising and convincing various members of my family that I will, in fact, not be eaten by a wildebeest while living in Nairobi.

I’ve made dozens of calls humbly asking for prayer and support and cried many times thinking that there was no way that the funds would ever come in. But somehow, they have and continue to arrive.

I have bruises down my arm from enduring the appropriate shots to travel and have a prescription for malaria medicine that I pray works. I even have my suitcase sitting out in my room, where it mocks me as I continue to neglect the packing process.

Every time I go out to eat, run to Walgreens, get coffee with a friend, or sit at Church, I have opportunities to talk about what I’ll have the chance to do. Apparently, choosing to intern for a non-profit in the city and slums of Nairobi automatically makes you a great candidate for a conversation, even if you’re a complete stranger. Suddenly, I have an amazing opportunity to talk about the issues and places that tug at my heart the most.

Throughout this process, God has blessed more than I ever though possible. While I may have had many selfish moments, he’s continually been faithful. I don’t deserve the opportunities, but he seems to think my meager gifts have worth.

And still, I question.

Currently, most of these questions are connected with ability, not opportunity. God has prepared the way for me; all I have to do it take it. I leave in just under two weeks, but I can’t seem to shake the feeling that I’m not good enough. That somehow choosing me was a mistake and surely World Next Door’s board will realize their grievous error. They’ll put me on the first plane home once they figure out I can’t write and I’ll sheepishly call my mother from the airport to bum a ride home.

I’m telling you this not for sympathy, but for the sake of transparency. I’m not anyone special. I fail and I have insecurities. Sure, I can type and press a shutter release, but that doesn’t make me a great writer or photographer. All I have that makes me special is the call God has placed on my life.

And really, I can’t take credit for that.

Over the next few months you’ll see me continue to struggle. I’ll experience culture shock, desperation at the sight of extreme poverty, and joy as I encounter God’s work in unexpected places. I’ll do my best to continue to be honest and self-aware so that my experience won’t be wasted.

As I get on the plane June 1^st, there might be a small part of me (and chances are I’ll never admit it) that very much wants to remain on the ground. To stay safe and comfortable instead of being challenged. I won’t listen to it, but it will be there. It will be there along with my doubts, my insecurities, and my barely-realized hopes. It will be a whirlwind experience, in the best and worst ways.

Bring on the uncertainty.

What I'm Reading

Currently I'm reading "Dreams in a Time of War" to get ready for my summer in Kenya. I love memoirs, so this book is right up my alley.

It's refreshing to read an account of Kenyan culture that is simple and straightforward, told from the eyes of a child. Granted, a very observant and poignant child, but still. So far, the book tells the story of a young boy who promises his mother he will do his best in school no matter what and the dreams and consequences that follow.

I found a review by Marie Arana from The Washington Post that I think sums up the essence of the book and its message.

"But for all these references to the mounting chaos, Nugugi's memoir is not about the world adults had made. "Dreams in a time of War" hews to the promise the boy made to his mother. Young Ngugi carries on his studies, despite all possible adversity. He marches off to school, takes joy in his ability to read, memorizes poetry, sits at the front of every classroom. The picture of Kenya that he presents, in other words, is admirably free of cant or sentimentality, and yet it is enough to make you weep. Here is a child, against the backdrop of a terrible war -- traveling a bloodied land with pen and paper -- thinking a dream can forge a better world."

Although the author and I may not share a similar background, we do share a similar purpose ... to see the state of the world, and document hope where we find it.

The full review can be found by clicking on this link: Dreams in a Time of War

Oh, the wonders of technology.

A message for me from my host ministry.

Did I mention I'm excited?

Click below to see what they said!

New Friends in Kenya

How cool is this?

I just found out that this is the organization I'll be working with in Nairobi this summer ... I can't wait!

Click on the Link to check it out!

Beacon of Hope