Why?

Over the past few months, many people have asked me why I am going to Kenya. And just today I got an email from a friend who lives in Kenya and he reminded me that I had made the mistake that I feel so many do when traveling to other parts of the world. In my last post I talked about the dangers of Kenya but I never talked about the beauty. I talked about the issues the people face but I never talked about the people. So let me take sometime to give you... a different picture:

Why am I going to Kenya? I believe God is sending me there. I believe that the safest and best place to be is in God's will.

Last summer I traveled to Kenya with my parents' church out of St. Louis. While there we helped to build parts of an orphange in a village a few hours outside of Nairobi. We also went to schools and homes to share Christ and His love and hope. One of my favorite moments while in Kenya last time was when one of the women at the orphange build site named Beatrice asked me to go with her to get some water. I said yes, thinking that it might take 30 minutes to an hour... (which would be a lot to go for some water here in the US, huh?!?). We picked up two empty 20 gallon yellow jugs and began our journey. We walked up hill for about an hour an a half. Despite the fact that we did not speak the same language, Beatrice and I had some great conversations. The whole way up, she would point at something and tell me how to say it in Kikamba (her language) and then I would teach her how to say it in English. We would laugh at eachothers' failed attempts to say the words and communicate in hand signals. We finally reached a small little spring like thing. Beatrice took the yellow jug from me and place it under the spring. She took my hand and pulled me close wanting me to take over holding the jug. So I did. As I watched the water fill, thinking about how heavy this would be, I looked around for Beatrice and she was no where to be found! I started to panic slightly and tried to think if I knew my way back, just in case. And then she appeared from the middle of these tall pole looking plants. She had two of them in her hand. She looked at me, laughed and rushed over when she saw that the water was overflowing from the jug. She pulled it out from under the spring, used some parts of the plants to tie a peice of a black garbage bag to the hole on the top and then took homemade rope and tied it around the handle. She placed the other jug under the water and handed me one of the poles, showing me what I should do with it by biting off a huge section. So I followed... it was sugar cane!!! When she finished filling and preparing the second jug, we began our decent back to the build site. We placed the rope on our foreheads and the jugs on our spines. She walked so gracefully. I, on the other hand, spent much time trying to pull the rope off my forehead with my hands and readjusting the jug that seemed to hit my backbone in perfect ways to make me wanna scream. We veered off the road to the left, taking a short cut and Beatrice looked at me with her hand out. She wanted me to give her my jug. I said I would be fine, but she would not let me walk down this extremely uneven and dangerous terrain. So I handed the jug to her. Beatrice was about half my size in hieght and wieght (which is not too hard seeing that I am not the tiniest thing), she had no shoes on and a skirt. And I watched as she walked down perfectly without slipping, sliding or falling. After she had gone quite a few feet, I began to walk with my athletic self, shoes and pants... and my first step I slid and Beatrice, although she could not see me, knew what had happened and gave one of those, "see" laughs. We got back to the road and she handed me the second jug and we finished walking back to the site. Round trip, it took us a little over three hours to fetch water. Beatrice smiled and gave me a hug. And I hugged her back knowing that she could have taken any of the other Kenyan women with her and been back her in half the time, but she chose me. It was amazing to me how much we take for granted transportation, water in the fridge, language, wheels, etc, etc, etc. Beatrice and the other women wake up early every morning to get water from the spring to be able to cook for their families. It was an amazing experience with an amazing person.

Also while in Kenya, I was given the opportunity to preach at a church. When I first showed up, the pastor and his wife invited me and my family into a small room in the back of teh church. We sat down and he handed me a soda (shows great hospitality) and we began to talk about ourselves, our churches, and what would be happening that day. His wife would be my translator. So he warned me that I would only be able to say a sentence at a time and then I would need to wait while she interpretted. So thats what I did. The Lord had given me a sermon about how we are all the same in God's eyes. There is no difference between the way God sees, loves, and treats us because of who we are or what we look like. I had asked my Kenyan friend, Alex, to make sure that the sermon was true to who I am, but could reach the Kenyan people. I did not want to speak about things that they might not understand or relate with. The sanctuary was a small (I am not good estimating size, but I would say) 15 ft x 15 ft room with dirt floors. People were packed from wall to wall and out into the street. They held onto every last word that I (well, the translator) said. Many eyes filled with tears and when it was time for the alter call, one 15 year old boy came forward. It was amazing. They took up an offering. At which time people brought up eggs, chicken, coffee beans and placed them on the table next to the offering basket. That was their tithes and offering, it was all they had. And as a percentage, I am sure they gave more than required of them. After the service the women came up and place their hands on my head. I was informed they wanted some of my "annointing." Later on that week, I saw the pastor and his wife. They called me over and the wife ran to get something from inside the church. As she left, the pastor spoke to me about how I was meant to be in Kenya and how God has some mighty plans to use me there. He said, "You must return." I could not give him my word, but I said, "I will try." And at that moment I knew I had to do more than just try. His wife came back carrying a bag. She handed it to me and I opened it up and inside was a beautiful purse. She said to me that all the women in the church gave some money to buy it for me (I began to cry, so humbled). It was a Bible bag. Respected women of God place their Bible in the bag and nothing else... it is meant only for your Bible. I was so humbled that the women who gave eggs and chicken for an offering would spare what little they had to get me a Bible bag.

These are just two of many stories of the wonderful hearts of the people in Kenya.

Before we boarded the bus to leave to go back to Nairobi, I wrote in the sand, "My heart is here." And that is where, atleast part of it, has stayed. I am returning to reunite the parts of my heart. I am returning to be amongst some of the most wonderful and giving people I have ever met. I am also returning to bring hope, love, Jesus Christ, to many people who do endure trials and tribulations beyond what I can imagine. I am returning to fufill God's calling for my life at this moment in time. I am returning not because I am strong, bold, couragous, perfect (because I am not and never will be any of those), but rather because I want to glorify and honor my God, the one and only God, who has called me there and will see me through.