I Can Do All This Through Him Who Gives Me Strength

Very soon, I will be kicking up the dust of Kenya’s streets for the last time, cat cage in hand, and strapping myself to the wings of a big bird.  Through spacious skies, I will cross sundry amber waves of grain, span purple mountain majesties, and traverse innumerable fruited plains, and finally return on the sturdy ground of the Land of the Free, where the rich soil of Kenya remaining on the soles of my shoes will be covered and washed away with the pure white snow, which will coat this new, yet familiar place that I call home.

Looking back at my time spent in Kenya, I feel an ache of sadness in the depths of my soul because I know that this is the end.  A sense of longing to stay here and to continue unfinished business occludes my heart and constricts my lungs.  However, I have come to realize that just because I’m leaving Kenya does not mean this journey has ended.  In fact, I’m realizing that this excursion was only a small part of my true journey—that is, my journey towards Christ.  As I step foot back on American soil (or snow—which ever decides to greet me), I know that God is still calling me to do work there.  I want to express that I’m not trying to say that God has called ME in particular to do His work; I really just want to get everyone to start thinking, and realizing that their journey is so significant to God and we all really can change lives in the seemingly mundane daily activities of our lives.  In fact, I don’t think the distance you travel to spread God’s love really matters that much.  As much as it seems to a lot of people that the significant part of my journey was travelling to an underdeveloped African country, oceans away from home, I think that the real crux of the journey was spreading God’s love through kindness and compassion.  I’ve learned that we don’t have to travel to an undeveloped country to God’s work because there is a strong need for His love everywhere we go.  Whether you work as a preacher, gas station attendant, waiter, writer, or nurse, you do make a significant impact on the people you interact with on a daily basis, and that impact can either bring people closer to God (planting seeds of love in their hearts) or steer them in the opposite direction.  Thus, I’m coming back to my homeland with a spring in my step, knowing that I get the opportunity to do God’s work wherever I place my feet.

Scared, That Somehow I'll Cease to Belong Anywhere

It scares me how quickly it has happened. Somehow I lost my way, and I don’t exactly know how it all started, but I’m here. Stuck. In this thickly crusted forested bound by wilderness unknown, I find myself awakening from an apathetic coma and wondering where the hell I am, how the hell I got here, and which direction I take to get back home. One minute I’m breathing in the fragrance of God in everything I do, letting him take control, feeling his wind pushing me in the right direction; the next minute, I’m waking with a start—lost with no signals of where I should head. It makes me feel so weak in my faith, yet I’m too proud to admit this weakness to myself and DEFINITELY don’t want other people to see it—which in itself, makes me more lost. Where to go? What to do? Who will understand? Why can‘t I feel Your beckoning for me to head in the right direction?

The last few months, things have been fine, nothing seriously significant has happened to act a catalyst for this, but I’ve found myself losing my faith again. It’s so ridiculous how quickly it waxes and wanes. In losing my faith, I find myself creeping back to bad habits and unchristian actions, including not going to church, which in turn brings me farther and farther away from Christ’s love. I think it’s a big part of the reason I haven’t been in good communication with people at home. I’m sorry if it had seemed like I had abandoned you all (including this blog). Every time I tried to start writing, I felt this dullness inside me (not the usual passionate flame amid my typically procrastinating self) and everything that came through my fingers onto the screen was like bland oatmeal. I can’t tell you how many abandoned Microsoft Word documents I have saved in my blog folder with two words, a sentence, a short paragraph—none of which will ever have the honor of appearing on the ‘big screen’. 

The uncertainty about my soon-to-be-present future is also contributing to this loss of faith. Where do I go from here? What do I want to do with my life? Do I really want to leave this beautiful country? DO I really want to leave HOME behind? Will I even fit in anywhere anymore? I feel so changed in so many ways and sometimes I fear that I’m not going to perfectly fit in the place that I fit before I came, but on some level, I know I’ll never TRULY fit here either. I am stumbling here. I’ve regressed from walking to crawling and soon I’ll just curl up in a little ball and cry a little. And amid all this uncertainty, I feel alone—so utterly alone in this dilemma. I don’t feel God’s gentle hands pushing me one way; I don’t feel that warm, gentle breeze of the Holy Spirit tickling the hairs on the back of my neck, enveloping me and carrying me to the right path. Maybe God’s testing me—trying to make me rely more on Him. Or maybe my worldly ways are blocking those ‘receptors’ from feeling that Wind. It’s probably both, but that empty, lonely feeling leaves my soul aching and wondering if the God I had come to love is really out there. I know that I’ll get through this time, but right now, it just seems like an impassable mountain for this little mustard seed.

In any case, I have realized that I can’t just sit here and wallow in self-pity and utter disbelief. That ain’t gonna get me out of the middle of this thick jungle. Inch by inch, I’m dragging my wounded body out of the muck and through the dense labyrinth of bushes—nerves raw from the jagged thorns entwined in the foliage etching tiny slits into my skin. Baby steps, people. I’ve started to listen to Christian Music again, which in itself has made a huge impact on my struggle. I’ve begun playing what my mom calls “bible roulette” and reading small passages of the bible before I go to sleep (although I have to admit that when I stumble across a fire and brimstone passage in which all sinners are condemned to hell, I immediately shut the book, feeling a little uneasy about what God is trying to tell me). My faith is so fragile—the littlest incident can either ignite a wildfire of passion in my heart or douse the tiny candle flame that’s struggling to stay lit. I hate to admit that, but this blog isn’t called “Voyage of a Tiny Mustard Seed” for shits and giggles. I have dreams that one day this little mustard seed will move mountains, but for now, I’m just attempting to get out of the thick of this forest, so I can at least start to feel that Wind again. And hopefully soon I’ll be able to plant myself in fertile soil, so I prepare myself for God’s plans for me. Faith isn’t easy, and I know that, but it’s surprising to me how easily I can fall back into my bad habits and humanly ways.

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So, now that I’m back online, I’m sure you all want to know, what I’ve been up to the last 3-4 months. Let’s try and conquer this mountain shall we? *insert long stretch, followed by a quick crack of the knuckles*



After I wrote you last, I had been feeling very isolated here, and I asked God to help me out of this slump. Well, I think he was listening because within a week of me beseeching, the administrator of the hospital called me into his office and told me that there would be two wazungu from U.K. coming to stay at the hospital as they work at a local school here. He was wondering if I would be willing to host them in my house, since it is absolutely huge for one person to live in. Shocked and slightly euphoric, I kept my cool and nonchalantly replied “Hakuna shida” (“No problem”). Of course, in my mind, I was doing a very embarrassing Irish jig and screaming for joy. So, that was that and a week later Tom and Verena arrived at my doorstep, luggage in hand. Tom is British and a student at Oxford University. Verena is German and a student at King’s College in London. So yeah, the Big Wig Universities!! They, along with about 40 others, were working with a small organization KEP, which targets universities students from Cambridge, Oxford, and King’s College to raise money and then use it to help improve local schools around Kenya. They were working at a school in Mukumu called Shidodo. It’s amazing what these guys accomplished in 2 months. It was so nice to hang with wazungu who understood the struggles that I had gone through/was still going through. We watched movies and listened to a wide array of quality music (Michael Bolton, George Gershwin, and Disney definitely made the playlist on numerous occasions); had great conversations about life, politics, and relationships; drank many a Tusker; cooked great feasts, including hosting several dinner parties; and travelled into Kakamega and Kisumu together (I’ll never forget our bus ride into Kisumu, in which the bus almost tipped over and Tom decided that he was going to play Superman for the day—this is after being dropped by a matatu in the middle of nowhere at the top of a hill). I also had many opportunities to meet other people from there program, one who was an American going to Cambridge (shout out to Kate—miss you lady).

At the end of their two months, Verena decided that she was going to go to the coast with a couple of other KEP volunteers, Beth and Patrick. During that time, I was doing night duty at work, in which you do 7 days of 12 hour shifts followed by 7 days off, so I decided to take my week off and join them. I left Totes in the hands of a good friend here and boarded a matatu on route to Naivasha with the rest of the gang in Kakamega (we started travelling with a group of about 13 people and then we all split up in Naivasha and Nairobi). The car ride was FREEZING!! I was sitting next to a window that was stuck open, so I threw a bunch of my packed clothes on top of myself and listened to the radio on my new phone and a distraction (yes, I finally had to break and buy a new phone, as my cheap 500/= shilling phone, pooped out on me 2 months before I had to leave). We stopped once in Nakuru, which seemed like a very nice area, although we didn’t get to see the full city before packing into the tight matatu and continuing onward, Naivasha Bound! We arrived in Naivasha at our cute campsite at night. Yes, that’s right, people. I got to CAMP in Kenya next to a lake where the hippopotami roam! There were literally three of us squished in a dinky tent during the night, but the tight living quarters were actually conducive to the weather, since it was FREAKING FRIGID!!! The next day, we rented bikes and rode through Hell’s Gate National Park (I biked in a skirt, which was superbly breezy; Shout out to my buddy Kaia—you know what I’m talkin’ about). It was a beautiful day, full of climbing, laughter, bicycle break downs, and much more. At one point, we literally biked about 50 meters from a pack of zebras grazing in a field. After that beautiful ride, we were welcomed back to the camp with a shower with HOT running water!!! Such a beautiful experience, after having been painted with a film of grit, bike grease, and salty sweat—not to mention I hadn’t had a REAL shower in over 10 months. Needless to say, I took the longest shower in my entire life and I’m not gonna lie, I diligently followed the instructions on my shampoo bottle and rinsed and REPEATED!

That evening, after I forced myself to get out of the shower, we parted ways with a few volunteers and headed to Nairobi where we met up with some more of the volunteers. For dinner, I had a burrito, but the restaurant was out of tortillas, so I got my burrito on fries (shout out to Jess, who had this brilliant idea). Then we headed to our hotel, named “Terminal Hotel” (a little morbid, but surprisingly adequate accommodation for the price). The next morning Verena and I were determined that we were going to find a Starbucks somwhere and get REAL coffee, because for the last 2 months we had been drinking NesCafe and enough was enough. For weeks we had been joking that we would Google search Starbucks in Kenya and if we found one we would hop on a bus right that second and find it. As we waited in the hotel lobby for the others dreaming about the chance to taste a Starbucks coffee, one of the hotel managers overheard us and delighted us when he said “You want Starbucks? Oh I know exactly where that is. I’ll even take you in my car for free.” Verena and I gazed at each with glossy eyes and jumped for joy, laughing hysterically. I decided that I was going to order a grande Caramel Macchiato and Verena just wanted a cappuccino. This was just too good to be true. My life in Kenya was now complete: I was going to drink COFFEEE!!!!! So, these two jolly gals and two other volunteers jumped into the back of this man’s car and started on our way to the Holy Grail! As we were driving the anticipation was creeping up on me and I started wiggling in my chair and my mouth started watering. All of a sudden, I was jolted out of my euphoria when the driver asked, “So where do you want to go?” Verena and I looked at each other with confusion, as this man had assured us he knew where Starbucks was. “Well any Starbucks will do,” I said. The man looked with confusion and replied, “Yeah, but WHERE are you going?” On of the other volunteers whispered, “Maybe he means what are you getting?” As our anxiety and confusion grew as we tried to explain that we were trying to get to a coffee shop, the driver sheepishly replied, “Ohhhhhh! I thought you were saying ‘Starbus’. No, there’s no Starbucks coffee in Nairobi.” Verena and I sank to the very bottom of our chairs as the reality set in that we were not getting our coffee. I gnawed my bottom lip and stifled a sniffle as we thanked the man for trying, and hey, at least he gave us a lift to the train station, where we needed to buy tickets to the Coast. Luckily, we later found a legitimate local coffee shop with incredible coffee that had just opened, so we even promoted local business instead of corporate Starbucks. Yay us!

After spending WAAAAAAAAAY too much money in Nairobi, we boarded a train to Mombasa, which is on the Coast of Kenya. Getting to the train itself was an adventure because traffic in Nairobi is absolutely ridiculous. It’s much worse than the worst traffic jam you could see in Detroit. We gave ourselves an hour to get to the station, but it took so much longer than we expected and we ended up having to JUMP out of the car, luggage and all, and RUN to the station, because it was faster than driving. Fortunately for us, we made it right before our take off time. This was the first time I had taken a train to any destination, so it was kind of exciting, although much more expensive than I had originally expected. It was a night train, so we slept there, and having gone first class, the four of us shared two compartments with 4 beds total. When dinner was served, a woman in uniform came around and rang a bell. Dinner wasn’t anything special, but it was still cool because, after all, we were eating on a train. After dinner, we were all exhausted so we hit the sack. Unfortunately, there were times during the journey that the train started continuously LURCHING, to the point where I was just waiting for us to derail (I think I’ve seen far too many thriller movies involving fast moving, almost derailing trains). Needless to say, I didn’t get too much sleep. When we reached Mombasa we had to take a matatu 2 hours North to our destination: Malindi. Mombasa is a typical vacation site for many wazungu, but recently there had been some violent activity, so we decided to avoid that area, due to constraints from the others’ organization.

In Malindi, we had some issues with getting a hotel in our price range, but ended up finding a very nice place a little bit way from the Ocean front. It was so much nicer than the other accomodatiosn we were looking at (it even included breakfast), that I became a little suspicious that there was something wrong with the place. As we were shown to our rooms, I pointed out that there was a Mosque right next door , noting how beautiful it was, and the trusty host assured us (much too quickly) that we wouldn’t even hear the noise from it. Noise? What noise? The fact that the man was reassuring us, made me nervous. Sure enough, the mosque makes noise…A LOT of noise. It has a loudspeaker with a dude who sings to the WORLD 3 times over at 4a, and 6am EVERY morning to come for prayers. It was so ridiculous that I just had to laugh. Even Verena, who never has anything bad to say about anything, was a little testy after 2 days of “HUWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! BLABBITY BLAH BLAH BLAH! WAKE UP MZUNGU!” caterwauling. The beach, which was absolutely gorgeous with smooth white sand, and turquoise-blue water, definitely made up for the routine wake up calls.

Every day, we went to the beach we were greet by “beach boys”, who backslapped Patrick for having THREE women, and also at the same time, shamelessly flirted with the three of us girls. I could lie and say it was just ridiculous and annoying (at times it could be), but in reality, it was definitely ego-boosting and at the end of that trip, it took all of my strength to resist looking at other people with cool eyes and thinking ‘yeah, that’s right. You know you want me.’ Ha. In all honesty, though, the people on the coast were very nice and helpful (Yes, even the beach boys).

I hated leaving Malindi, but the time came for me to go back home and get back to work. Reluctantly, I left the other three and travelled back to Mukumu via a 16-ish hour bus ride home. As a cloud of exhaust clear and the bus passed, I met the familiar sights of the Mukumu Hospital sign and the guards welcoming me home, asking me jokingly if I had brought them some coconuts. It was an amazing trip and travelling by myself on the way home gave me courage to do it again sometime.

WorkLife

In the last month, I’ve started acting as the covering nurse for the hospital one day a week in the evenings. This duty sounds a lot more prestigious than it actually is. It entails going to each ward and making sure that everything is okay, all orders made by the clinicians during doctor’s ward rounds are completed, and if a ward is having a problem with a patient, I help where I can, and then have the responsibility for contacting the doctor to review him or her. It’s actually very fun, because it changes up the monotony of my day in the ward. However, I’m still too nervous to go and deliver a baby in maternity. Everyone wants me to do it here, but I know so many things can go wrong during delivery and I can hardly remember anything from my Obstetrics course in college. We’ll see. I’ll start refreshing myself on obstetrics here and, who knows, maybe before I leave, I’ll have delivered a baby.

When I’m not covering the hospital, I am still working in the paediatric ward at the hospital here. For over a month now, there has been a strike of the doctors in the public hospitals (Mukumu is a private hospital). Because of this, those hospitals have not been admitting and we have started to get another influx of patients. All of the big referral hospitals are public, so as of late we are trying to manage cases that are too complex for our facilities here. From an education standpoint, it’s nice because I’m starting to see much more variety in patients, instead of mostly Malaria cases. However, it is so hard to see patients suffer and even die because our facilities are not adequate to sustain them and the hospitals that could help them are either far too expensive or not admitting patients. Yes, I said that: Too Expensive. We see so many patients here that could get better care elsewhere, but are unable to afford the better care. Still think that universal healthcare is too socialist for America? Come to Kenya and see the suffering that takes place because so many people are unable to afford the ‘better’ care. Many referral hospitals here have hefty entrance fees that are supposed to act as a down payment for the final bill, but in turn, it weeds out those citizens in the lower socioeconomic status from getting proper care.


My Precious Butterfly

There is a little girl in my ward whose infectious smile and shy eyes mask the pain she feels inside and she falls into that unfortunate category of those “Weeded out” by the healthcare system. This beautiful 13 year old, is in a messy, destructive war with her own body: she has recently won a battle over Malaria and septicemia, is currently surviving sickle cell anemia (a very painful and demanding disease found mostly in people of African descent), and the doctors here are now querying leukemia and lymphoma. I call her a precious butterfly—so beautiful and yet so unknowingly fragile. As I load her little butterfly hands and plump butterfly face with stickers, underneath the smiles and silly giggles and playful jokes, I wonder and worry. I watch as my precious butterfly holds back tears when she’s burning with fevers and unable to swallow the juice I sneaked to her because her glands are so swollen. I hold her little butterfly hand as the bitter drugs are forced down her throat and into her tender veins, and gulp back my own tears knowing that these piercing drugs hurting my precious butterfly are only masking the symptoms of the terrible forces brewing beneath her precious butterfly skin. I know that time is essential and my precious butterfly needs a full battery of tests and some serious medication to get her through this mess, but the system and the unfortunate economic status in which she was born doesn’t allow it. I come home and pray that God will find them a way. As the time ticks by and my weak heart worries for my precious butterfly, she continues to flutter playfully around the ward and the more I watch her, the more I realize that my precious butterfly has the strength of a lion. She knows she’s sick; she may even know that she’s dying, but my precious butterfly knows on some level that life has to keep moving, and so she smiles and giggles and flutters all day long. No one would know my precious butterfly has this dark cloud always following her around because the rays from her precious butterfly smile hide it. And yet I still wonder—why does this happen to children? My butterfly deserves to live. She deserves to fly beyond that looming cloud that threatens her safety.

I have this and so many more unfortunate stories of the other precious butterflies who happen to pass through my ward and get carelessly swept under the rug by the 'system' and it makes me feel blessed to live in a country where no matter our financial situation, our most precious little bug-a-boos will always get care and treatment they deserve. Fly precious butterflies, fly. One day you all will reach the stars.

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That’s it for now, but when I get back home, ask me about other stories, because believe me, they are here. May God bless you all in this day and every day to come. When you start to feel like you are drowning in the waves of life, go grab your blow up raft and come join me out in the sea. I’m heading there now, just so I can float, and let the Wind of God carry me to where I need to be. Mungu anaweza…

I'm Still Living, People. Call Off the Search Party!!!

This post is long overdue, but you know how these things go.  You get busy/lazy and put off these arduous tasks.  I’m one week short of being here in Mukumu, Kenya for 11 months and things have definitely taken a turn for the better.  I realize that my last post left many of you praying for my sanity, and I think God has heard those prayers and answered them.  So much has happened since the last time I posted, so I don’t even know how to begin writing them, but just know that I’m doing well.

A friend of mine recently sent me a card telling me to write two lists: One of things I will miss about Kenya and One of people I want to see when I get back (Shout out to Asha Poepping).  I decided to modify this idea and use it for my next blog post.  I have come up with two lists here: Things I have Learned in Kenya and Things I miss about Home.  I hope you enjoy them.  Also note that these lists are not completely complete, but I lacked the time or the gumption to continue thinking of witty responses.

Things I have learned in Kenya:

1.       A rubber is an eraser, not that other thing.

2.       “Stoney” is the best ginger ale ever.  This may sound slightly blasphemous to some Michiganders out there, but it’s even better than Vernor’s.

3.       When you ask someone if they’d like some chocolate here, they think that you mean hot chocolate.

4.       That stick that those children are chewing on, is actually sugar cane, not a stick.

5.       Don’t piss off the village people and especially don’t steal from them because be assured that they will strike back with a vengeance.

6.       Tomatoes and onions make any cuisine just a little bit tastier (or in Kenyan terms “So Sweet”).

7.       Always check your shoes before donning them.  For that matter, check your glasses, cups, bowls, and sugar container before using.  (Definitely are learned this one the hard way—many times.)

8.       If you haven’t eaten Ugali, you haven’t eaten all day.  Additionally, noodles are not food, they are merely an appetizer for Ugali. (Words from my Kenyan Baba, but not the opinion of EVERY Kenyan here)

9.       Sleeping with a giant mwiko (ugali cooking stick) in your hand probably won’t save you if a robber comes knocking on your door (he probably has an enormous knife), but it sure makes you feel damn powerful.

10.   If you think you saw a rat, you probably saw a rat.  Those beasts are frighteningly speedy.

11.   Matatus are surprisingly a rather sophisticated way to get around—in a primitive sort of way.

12.   I don’t completely abhor running, only slightly.

13.   Don’t swim in the lakes; you just may find yourself with some amoeba ravaging your body or a hippopotamus up your ass.

14.   Failing to watch where you walk/run can be detrimental to your shoes, knees, and overall ego.

15.   Rats eat soap…and candles.  Also, I’m pretty sure rats intentionally aim their poop pellets at the most inconvenient places, such as your coffee cup, or the clean pot you just washed. (honestly, they’re pretty talented, in that respect).  Legitimately, I was holding a freshly washed plate in my hand and a poop pellet came flying out of nowhere and landed right in the middle of that plate.  Damn you, Blackie!  You may have won the battle, but you haven’t won the WAR!

16.   When you hear thunder rumbling you better you like hell because you have about 2 minutes to take all of your laundry inside before your drying clothes are caught in a hurricane.  If you don’t get to them in time, you may find a pair of your underpants in the middle of the road instead of hanging on the line.

17.   Opposed to popular belief, not every area in Africa is springing with exotic wildlife.  In fact, many Kenyans have never seen an elephant or lion.

18.   The world seems a little brighter with a generous scoop of peanut butter (if it doesn’t taste like dirty socks).

19.   Make friends with everyone: Young and old, rich and poor, educated and uneducated.  You will gain a wealth of knowledge from each individual you meet, if you listen well.

20.   It only takes one act of evil to demolish a building, but it takes many good acts to reconstruct what was lost.

21.   You can only accomplish things if you have a willing and able team to assist.  In fact, no matter how strenuously you work, if you don’t ask for help, you won’t get anywhere

22.   If you make one person smile every day, you’ve done your job.

23.   Nursing is not a popularity contest; inevitably it isn’t about me, it’s about the patients I serve.

24.   Nurses (and other medical professionals) treat, God heals.

25.    “What we do in this world is only a drop in the ocean, but if we fail to do it, that drop will be missing forever.” ~Mother Theresa

26.   Children aren’t the only people who squirm with delight when they get a sticker.

27.   A little kindness goes a long way.

28.   Prayer is an incredible weapon.

29.   Believe in yourself and if God opens an opportunity for you, even if you think you aren’t qualified, don’t turn it down.  Obviously, God has a reason for why he is choosing you for the task and not your neighbor.  Overall, you learn so much more about your own abilities and you feel good knowing that you’ve done something for Him.

30.   We as citizens from a developed country have the ability to really help people from countries like this, but we need to be cautious about which organizations we support.  We should be supporting organizations that focus on teaching locals about how to stand on their own two feet.

11 Things I Miss About Home

11.       Good Meat.  Buying meat here is definitely a new experience from mine of pre-packaged, supermarket meat.  I go to a butcher in the dusty market place, a fleshy carcass hang by a hook in the ‘window’ of his shop.  As I watch swarms of greedy flies encircling my soon-to-be dinner, I try to disregard my nursing instinct to assess the cleanliness of the area (and my natural instinct to gag).  Buying steak is too expensive for my budget, so I settle for what they call ‘mixed meat’.  I’m not really sure what makes it mixed, but it is of lower quality than steak and much cheaper.  The cows here live a very hard life struggling to find an adequate amount of food (I won’t start ranting about emaciated cows again, I promise) and this is definitely evinced by the gamey taste of the meat.  Plus, the type of beef I wish I could see more of would be in the form of a patty slathered with cheese and other unhealthy condiments, and slapped between a sesame seed bun.

22.       Pets.  People in America tend to be pretty ridiculous with their pets, treating them like humans; some extremists even taking their cat or dog to a pet psychologist.  However, I find myself missing being able to talk to people about how much I love my cat and people understanding.  People tend to hate cats here and most definitely don’t give their pets the royal treatment.  I used to tell people that I wanted a cat to get rid of my rat problem, but it’s rather apparent that I have always had alternate motives: I really want to have a fuzzy friend to keep me company at night and talk to when I’m alone in the house.  I also really miss how cheap cat food can is in America.  I practically spend more of my stipend on Totes’ cat food than my human food here.  It’s ridiculous.

33.       Going out to eat.  I miss this.  Period!  Lord knows that when I get back to the US, I’ll gain 20 pounds in the first month just because I’m going to want to get together with long lost friends and what will we do?  Well, of course, go out to eat.  More than this, I miss going to a restaurant and ordering something that I know is available.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gone to a restaurant here, find something tantalizing on the menu, and order it from the waiter who is confident that it is available, only to find out 20 minutes later that by the way the restaurant is out of everything but sukuma, cabbage, rice, and ugali.  Ugh!

44.       Washing Machine and Dryer.  Picture this Option 1: take a pile of clothes, stuff them into a large metal cylinder (and when I say stuff, I mean STUFF), toss in some laundry detergent, then figure you should add a little extra since you’ve stuff so many clothes inside, and press start.30 minutes elapse *BEEEEEEP* Take clothes out, do a sniff check (yup, they smell clean), shove them into the dryer, and press start.  It’s kind of like that one cooker that used to be advertised on TV “Set it and FORGET IT” (Please tell me that some of you remember this infomercial).  Now picture this; Option 2: fill a bucket with water throw in some clothes and some detergent, then with your fingers just healing from the last time, take a piece of soap and scrub the crap out of EVERY part of each piece of clothing.  Then, fill another bucket with water and rinse, taking time to scrub out the soap—3 times!  3 hours elapse.  After the clothes are thoroughly washed a rinsed, squeeze out the water with your now bleeding fingers and throw all the clothes quickly on the clothes line before you head to work.  During work, a sudden, familiar rumble makes your stomach lurch, and you swallow the profanity threatening to jump off your tongue as the water pitter patters on the window and you realize that you left our clothes on the line…outside…in the torrential downpour…and you’re smack in the middle of giving an NG tube feeding to a child.  I don’t know about anyone else, but I choose Option 2!!!

55.       Going out to eat.  I miss this.  Period!  Lord knows that when I get back to the US, I’ll gain 20 pounds in the first month just because I’m going to want to get together with long lost friends and what will we do?  Well, of course, go out to eat.  More than this, I miss going to a restaurant and ordering something that I know is available.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gone to a restaurant here, find something tantalizing on the menu, and order it from the waiter who is confident that it is available, only to find out 20 minutes later that by the way the restaurant is out of everything but sukuma, cabbage, rice, and ugali.  Ugh!

66.       Cable TV.  It’s so funny because we don’t have cable television in our house at home, but I used to have it in college and so I feel like I’m going through withdrawal.  Episodes from shows like “What not to Wear”, “Say Yes to the Dress”, “19 Kids and Counting”, “The Little Couple”, “Dr. G Medical Examiner”, etc. etc. have been flashing through my mind lately and I feel like I need a fix.  Also, I REALLLLLLLLLY miss watching reruns of “Friends” (shout out to Holly Reinking.  Girl, you know what I be talkin’ about.  How YOU Doin?).

77.       Driving.  In the US, I was never worried about getting to a new place, because I knew I’d be behind the wheel and moreover I had directions from googlemaps or Mapquest at my fingertips.  Here, if I’m going to a new place, I get a little nervous that because I don’t speak the language well, I may end up going in the opposite direction that I need to go and moreover there aren’t decent maps to help me confirm which direction I should be going.  Here, I’m at the mercy of the matatu driver and the conductor who is collecting the money.

88.       Nursing with an Endless amount of supplies.  It has become a norm that when I’m fixing IV lines, I don’t use gloves.  In fact, we don’t use gloves from most procedures here that would normally require gloves in the U.S.  We preserve all of our supplies here because we know that one day soon, we won’t have any we can use and who knows when that particular item will be back in stock in the hospital.  We take that for granted in America for sure, using gloves for EVERY little thing.  I worry that when I get back, I’m going to forget to use gloves at some point or cut a corner that I’m used to cutting in Kenya and get in trouble.

99.       Hot shower.  On my recent trip to the coast, I had my first hot shower in 10 months.  Best experience ever.  I didn’t want to get out.  Unfortunately, that event has sparked an itch in my body to feel the pitter-patter of fresh, warm water slipping down my hair, tapping my back, and splashing my toes.  I have been lucky enough to have a water heater here, so if I feel like heating water, I bathe with warm water, but as of late, I’ve been too lazy to heat the water so I just use cold.  Not fun in the early morning!

110.   Swimming.  Again, on my recent trip to the coast, I was spoiled and was able to swim in the Indian Ocean.  I miss swimming so much.  Also, I miss going to Kohl’s or another department store and seeing a large array of swim suits 50 or more.  When I went to the coast, I had to buy myself a swimsuit, and that was a very painful experience.  In the first store, of the 4 suits I found, all of which would make even Pamela Anderson look like a fatty, 3 had legs down to the knees.  The other was just indescribable, and not in a ‘oh the bride was simply indescribable’ kind of way.  I finally did find a suit at the next store, but it was again a painful experience and I ended up picking the swimsuit that was LEAST hideous.  I mean, most of us full figured women know that swimsuit shopping in general is a painful experience (one after which you go home and have a hot date with Ben and Jerry and swear that you’ll start working out tomorrow), but going swimsuit shopping in Kenya is definitely Tusker worthy.

111.   All of YOU.  I miss you all so much.  YOU and YOU alone are making my heart cry out for America.  I can live without fly-less meat, a washing machine, private transportation, and hot showers, but I can’t live without you.  Every time I think of each of you and laugh at the silliness that we’ve shared together, the fire in my heart burns for home.  Love you guys.

In Other news, I may be extending my stay here one month.  I was originally planning on coming home in early November, but due to some extenuating circumstances, if I leave then, I won’t be able to see my Kenyan sister before I leave.  For her sake (and mine), I’d really like to stay an extra month, but we will see if that dream comes into a reality later on.  Stay strong people!  In God’s Peace.  <3

God will See Me Through

Two days ago marked my 7th month living in Mukumu, Kenya. It was a rather unremarkable day in itself, but in a way it symbolizes so much more for me. It not only suggests that I am well on the downhill slope of my one year journey here, but it also represents survival to me. I am a fighter and a survivor, and I know that if I finish this race, I can do anything. I’m not trying to sound self-righteous, but as I look back at my journey from when I left the comforts of home to when I placed my sneakers on Kenyan soil (kicking up dust along the way), I see that the devil has thrown a lot of unexpected hurdles my way and I’ve fallen many times. Somehow, someway, God has given me the strength to pick the shards of gravel out of my knees raw from past falls, stand up, and keep going. I’m not going to pretend that I did all of this very gracefully and that I wasn’t affected by these struggles. In fact, I know there are still some old fragments of gravel now festering in my wounds, that I’ll eventually need to pick out, but right now I’m not ready for the patience of that—nor do I have a leather strap on which to bite down. Sometimes, I can’t help but think that 5 months is still so long and can I really make it? I have to trust that for the rest of my time here, God is going to hold my hand through everything—the good, the bad, and the extremely ugly. I know that if I let Him, God will use His gentle hands to tend to my wounds. When my family left me in Jomo Kenyatta’s domestic terminal, I wearily plopped down at a familiar café and ordered a frothy coffee. As I slowly sipped the silky foam from the edge of my paper cup, I thought back to 6 months before, when I sat in this same café clinging to all of my baggage, praying that no one would rob me, and feeling very alone. In one of my very first posts, I wrote about this experience, in which I happened upon a man whom I dubbed the ‘American Jesus’, or rather he happened upon me. I still remember the kindness of this man, with his brown scruffy beard, red bandana, simple jeans and white t-shirt, giving me a sip of his coffee and then buy me one of my own. I reminisced about how until he showed up at my little table, I had felt so alone in a country full of so many people. A.J. was my sign from God that He was still looking out for me. Sitting alone this time at the café, I came to the realization that I have really grown up from the little girl sweating and clutching her carrying-on to a woman with a new outlook on the world. I thought of what that little girl would have thought if she had discovered everything that would take place in this strange new land. Would she have turned around and booked a ticket back to the US? I don’t really know that answer, but I’m glad for her sake, that she didn’t know. I think it can almost make things worse to know that something bad is going to happen to you—the anxiety-ridden anticipation makes the after-pain much worse, just like when you know you’re going to get a shot at the doctor’s office, so you tense up, and then have a painfully bruised arm for 2 weeks. Despite the many trials that I’ve faced, I know that when I leave Kenya, I’ll miss living here. I’ll miss little phrases that are said here (“You look so smart” and “Help me your rubber”). I’ll miss having the healthy glow of a year’s long tan (although, I won’t miss have a horrible farmer’s tan on my arms and pasty white legs). I’ll miss chopping green vegetables and frying samosas with the locals, or going to my shamba after work to pluck some leafy greens for dinner. I’ll miss the colorful lesos donned by the Kenyan women as they carry their little ones to the market. I’ll miss walking everywhere, and admiring the beautiful scenery and exotic birds hiding behind lush leaves and crusty branches. I’ll miss waking up to the clang of a church bell, summoning the nuns for prayers, and know that I still have another hour to sleep, or waking to the swish of a panga slashing the luscious green grass, still wet from the morning dew. I’ll miss jamming myself into a packed matatu on a blisteringly hot day, sticking to the skin of my neighbor, whom I’ve never met. I’ll miss the pitter-patter of rain splashing on my tin roof as I drift to sleep. I’ll miss the joyful songs sung loudly and emphatically at church. I’ll miss the beautiful children with white toothy smiles that make your heart leap for joy, and the grateful handshake of the mothers who are lucky enough to go home with their child in hand. I’ll miss the simplicity of things; sites, smells, tastes, everything. These memories and so much more than I can imagine, will make my heart ache to return to Kenya. It has planted seeds in my heart that I’m sure will continue to grow throughout my life, nourished by the events yet to come. … I mostly write this, not for your benefit, but for mine. Sometimes, I find myself thinking negatively and drifting to sleep in hopes that the next 5 months will be over when I open my eyes. I’m letting negativity get the best of me, and I need to remember the good things I’ve experienced and will never forget here. As a wise friend here recently told me, “Nat, you’re so focused on the people who hate you here, that you don’t appreciate the people who really love and respect you.” Still another wound festering from the gravel inside, and yet I’m too proud to let God assist me in removing it. One day at a time… Joshua 1:9

Give Me Your Eyes

Painting the Ward In rural Kenya, where the average salary is about $1.00/day, you tend to rely on functionality and not aesthetics, but after being in the pediatric ward for 3 months, I just couldn’t look past the aesthetics anymore. Among many displeasing views in the ward, the worst was the walls, which hadn’t been painted in over 20 years. The buttermilk cream paint had been chipping off—onto patients beds and all over the cement floor—leaving gaping patches of half painted walls. To me, this place looked like a prison for children. As a child, the hospital is already a scary place, full of needle-poking nurses and invasive doctors that you’ve never met before, so to combine this with a prison-like ward can make the place seem like a child’s worst nightmare. I remember learning in school that the environment where a sick person is attempting to heal, can really affect how they heal. As medical professionals, we have to treat the mind, body, and soul because none of them can function without the others. A depressed person can’t start working through their issues if they have a gaping wound in their leg which is not being treated. In the same way, a sick person will take much longer to heal if their environment isn’t suitable to them (aka if they are scared to death of the place they are in). There are studies supporting this, but this isn’t a research paper (and I’m too lazy to look them up right now). After much deliberation, I decided that I would ask the administrator if we would be able to paint the ward. I normally would have hesitated about focusing on the aesthetics of my ward, when we usually can’t afford basic medical supplies, but I have been in contact with the principal at Bishop Kelley Catholic School, my old elementary school, and she had said that the students would like to do a Jean’s Day and raise money for St. Elizabeth. (At BKCS, the children where uniforms, so every once in a while, they have what is called a Jean’s day, in which each child can bring in a small amount of money—in my day it was $0.50—they get to wear appropriate clothes other than the dreaded uniform. The money raised goes to a good cause—in this case, a hospital in rural Kenya.) The administrator approved the idea and I was elated. I told him my plans of painting the ward a soft pink (research shows that the color pink has a calming effect on people), and painting murals of animals, flowers, and trees. I told him that we could just buy the paint and on my time off I could paint the ward, this way we wouldn’t have to pay someone to paint. He looked at me and laughed, and I just nervously chuckled, thinking, “What the heck? Why is he laughing?” After assuring him that I had painted many houses before because my dad used to build houses when I was a child, he decided that we would get a professional painter. I was a little miffed because I thought that he thought I couldn’t do it because I was a mzungu. (A lot of people are surprised that I cook, do laundry, and dig a garden, because they believe that we don’t do that stuff). Later on, I was explaining the situation to a few other nurses, who in turn laughed at the idea of me painting. I had finally taken enough heat for this. I snipped, “What’s wrong with me painting?” One of them stifled her giggles and told me that women don’t paint here. In fact, none of them had ever seen a woman paint before in their life. It’s apparently a man’s job here. I finally gave in, and decided to accept the cultural difference. Well, after about a month of waiting for any work to start on the walls, a man came in with a brush and rickety ladder and began painting. We had to move all of our children to a small area of the private maternity ward, because we feared that the smell of the paint could affect their little lungs, especially since many of them come in with pneumonia. The painter assured us that we would be back in two days, tops! Knowing the beauty of African time, I figured that 2 days meant a week and a half, which seemed a little more realistic anyway. We waited…and waited…and waited…week…after week…after week. It has now been almost a month and he is still not finished. Moreover, instead of the murals of animals, he painted a serious picture of Mother Mary holding baby Jesus and a freaky looking picture of Jesus at the ICU section of my ward. I had asked him to paint a mural of Jesus with some angels lovingly surrounding the ICU, since it’s such a sensitive place. I think other people were getting excited about the paint job and started giving their own input. The pictures are not at all kid friendly and it makes me sad because I knew exactly what I wanted and I could’ve easily painted it. I have to admit, the ward looks much better than it did before, but it’s still disappointing that we are paying this guy for a paint job with which I am not completely satisfied. Moreover, the ward that we have been placed in is tiny, which can promote nosocomial infections. We’ve had several kids come in with tuberculosis and no isolations room. Thank goodness that we haven’t had an influx of children yet. (During the rainy season, there is a high incidence of malaria and pediatric ward is usually full.) If this paint job takes any longer, Kenya is going to see their first woman painting, not to mention a mzungu (people even get surprised when I tell them that I know how to cook). Okay, I’m writing this part a week after this previous paragraph. After the painter decided to take a week vacation without telling me, I decided to through social and cultural norms out the window and paint my ward. I didn’t want to seem like a horrible mzungu, but now our temporary ward is filling up due to the rise in malaria cases, and I’ve had enough with being patient (especially since everyone keeps asking me when we are moving back). As I painted, listening to some jams and possibly singing outrageously loud as I worked, people would form small crowds and watch me paint. In fact, some of my students sat with me and kept me company. It was hilarious, but no one had ever seen a woman painting before. I painted for 6 hours straight until I had finished the gallon of paint and I was dog-tired. My Kenyan mom told me that I shouldn’t paint again because I might get very sick. I stifled an eye-roll and told her that I would be fine, but she was definitely not convinced. Last night, hospital bought another can of paint, so I was able to start painting again. Again, a group of my students came and watched me paint. They all were saying that it must be very hard and was there anything that I didn’t do. I told them that they should never limit the activities they do based on their gender and that we can do anything that we put our minds to—except maybe trying to fly by flapping your arms, you won’t really get too far with that. After a while, one of the students donned a pair of gloves and asked if she could help me to paint (there was only one brush). I handed her the brush and she commenced painting the wall. She did a really great job, so careful and precise, and I made sure to tell her that I was impressed. It’s amazing what people can do when they put their minds to it. … Since pediatric ward moved to private maternity, we’ve had a new woman who washes the floor every morning. I had met this woman before in a church meeting, and found out that she is deaf after trying to talk to her when her head was turned. I felt pretty stupid because I had greeted her many times in passing and she would always respond with the correct response, so I never had a clue that she couldn’t hear me. She’s an excellent lip-reader. I have been pretty busy in my ward and she’s always so serious, so I never really sat down and had a conversation with her. The other day, she sat in our ward and started telling us how annoyed she was because she had just gone to a meeting and everyone was talking and laughing and she was thinking, “What the hell is everyone laughing about?” We ended up having a great conversation and she started to teach my students and me some Kenyan Sign Language. She told me that I had never wanted to talk with her before and now I was talking to her; she thought that I had not wanted to talk with a person who is deaf. I felt so bad that she saw my silence as rude. I apologetically told her that it wasn’t about her being deaf. I had just thought that she didn’t want to talk with me because she was always engrossed in her work. She ended up letting me borrow a small signing book. Now in the morning I always greet her in sign language and she always has a great big smile on her face. It’s interesting how we can misinterpret body language so easily. For a person who is deaf, they really rely on their eyes to observe what is going on around them, so when I didn’t talk with her, it seemed as if I was avoiding talking with her. … The other day, I was chatting with one of the pharmacy technicians, Maggie, about one of the store rooms in the hospital. She told me that the dusty, dingy room is chock full of donated supplies from the US, Germany, Holland and other developed countries. Then she told me something that shocked me: most of the stuff in that room was in working condition, but no one knew how to use it, so they just threw it in that room—I guess some of the equipment came with instruction manuals written in different languages and no one could read it. Of course, coming from my parents who like to save and reuse everything, I decided to roll up my sleeves and have a look. (Side note, my saver’s mentality originates from my dad’s obsession with cardboard boxes and my mom’s compulsion to save every card and letter she’s received—Love you guys, but you know it’s true. I’ve already told them that if they die before cleaning their hoarder’s basement, I’m just going to torch the place, rather than waste my time picking through spider-ridden boxes.) Maggie told me that she thought she had seen an EKG machine in there, which is amazing because we refer patients from our hospital to other hospitals because we don’t have an EKG machine. Of course, this made my quest even more exciting, and in my search through literally hundreds of thousands of eyeglass lenses, I found something spectacular. There beneath the dust and cobwebs was a genuine defibrillator, which the hospital also is lacking. I was amazed, excited, and frustrated all in one: how could something so lifesaving be left to rust in a storage closet? The techs just shrugged and said that no one knew how to use it. Now granted, I have never used one of these in real life (this is a defibrillator with metal paddles, like you see in the movies), but I’m been thoroughly trained on the proper usage of defibrillators. The techs ogled at this crazy mzungu who was practically peeing her pants because of this metal box in front of her, and when I explained to them what this machine was used for, they looked at me like I was mad: I mean really, if you think about it, a machine that can bring a person back from the dead seems a little Frankenstein to me. One of them spoke up and asked how successful it was (he wanted the percentage of lives it saves), and I really had no idea, but I told him that it was extremely helpful in resuscitation. I want to dust the puppy off and see if it’s in working condition, but I’m not really sure how to do that, unless I have a body on which I can rehearse. One of the technicians supposed that we should go down to the morgue right then and try it out on one of the bodies there, and see if he wakes up. I’m pretty sure he was joking…I think… Anyway, I’m on the hunt for the EKG machine still, but I know that we have one because I saw EKG paper in the store room. I’m going to seriously need to brush up on my EKG knowledge, but I want to utilize the equipment that we have. I may soon be teaching the staff of the hospital how to use a defibrillator and EKG machine! This is scary stuff. This also says something about us, who donate to developing countries. Please note that I’m not saying we shouldn’t donate equipment and money. Believe me, without a lot of the donations the developed world contributes to developing countries, they would probably not be where they are today. However, the best gift we can give is education. If the hospital staff was taught how to use the EKG machine and the defibrillator, those machines would be in use and maybe many more lives could have been saved. … Tomorrow, my parents and Rachael, my sister, are coming to visit me here in Kenya. I am so excited. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I see them. It still seems so surreal that they are coming to visit me. As I speak in fact, they are in flight to Nairobi. Pray for their safe arrival and an exciting adventure here.

Goodbye Rats...

By now, you are aware that I have a major rat problem in my house, so after much consideration I decided that I wanted to get a cat to solve my issue. There are many stray cats (and dogs) wandering around the hospital compound, so if I wasn’t choosy, I could easily get one. However, I was afraid that if I just chose any random cat, I would end up with a rabid animal infested with fleas storming my house (the way my luck has been going this year, I just can’t take the chance). I was explaining my issue with my friend, Kang’ethe, and he told me that he knew someone who would soon have a litter of kittens and he could get me one for free. Of course, I thought this was an excellent idea—free is always good. Well, I waited…and waited…and waited. Soon after, Kang’ethe went on a month leave and I was left cat-less. When he returned, I kindly said, “What up, Dude? Where’s my paka [cat]?” Well, he assured me that he would get one for me, so I decided that I needed to motivate him to follow through with his promise. Thus, it became my daily routine to find him and shout, “Where’s my paka?” I kind of gave up that he was ever going to get the cat for me, but I was determined to make him feel a little guilty by reminding him every day that I wanted my paka! A few days ago, I hear a knock at my door during the day, but since I have been doing night duty this week, I had been attempting to sleep and irritated that someone would dare knock on my door during day hours, while I was trying to get my beauty rest, so I ignored the knocks. Soon, they stopped, but not 2 mintues later, I hear Kang’ethe yelling my name at my window.

“UGH! What’s with these people,” I thought, “Take the stinking hint. I’m not welcoming visitors”. Of course, I didn’t actually say this. I grunted, “What?!”

He pleasantly said, “You’re sleeping at this hour? Really?”

I held back some profanity and retorted, “Uh, yEAh!! I’m on night duty.”

He said, “Let me in.”

“Um…I’m SLEEEEEEPING! What?! Do you have my paka for me?”

“ No. Just come on. Open your door; I miss you. Umepotea [you’re lost].”
My first thought was, “Okay that’s creepy.” However, I held back my retort and said, “fine, hurry up before I change my mind.”

I opened my door and waited for him, standing in my best ‘I’m not happy with you’ pose. All of a sudden Kang’ethe comes around the corner of my house carrying a burlap sack that was moving and making strange sounds!

“What is this?” I asked in shock.

“I told you I’d find you one.”

He opened the sack and dumped its contents onto my floor. To my surprise, out popped a little kitten, scared half to death by its new surroundings. I was so happy that I decided to forget that I was peeved for having been woken up.

The new kitten was scared at first, but after I gave it some milk, it decided that I was its mom. Now it never leaves me, which was very cute for the first 2 hours. Now, all it constantly bellows a forlorn meow, as though I haven’t just petted it five seconds ago. It also likes to walk where I walk. I mean , literally WALK where I’m walking, which causes me to stumble and nearly fall every 2 minutes. I wanted to call it an awesome Kiswahili name, but I couldn’t think of anything good. I referring to him as ‘mtoto’, which means ‘child’, and after a while that shortened to Tots (pronounced ‘totes’). I suppose the name will do for now. If anyone has any better suggestions, let me know and I’ll take your vote into consideration. Anyway, I hope this little guy calms down a little, otherwise, I think I may go a little nuts!!

Easter in Kenya

This is the Day [this is the day]
That the Lord has Made [That the Lord has Made]
We will Rejoice [We will Rejoice]
And be Glad in It [And be Glad in It]
Whenever any holiday comes around, I always seem to reminisce about my childhood—maybe because those times were much simpler or maybe because they represent happy times in my life. Whatever the case, when I started to write this post I had a song, which I quoted above, stuck in my head. “This is the Day” was a song that we used to sing when I was in elementary school around Easter (shout out to my BKS peeps). It was always a crowd pleaser for us youngsters because it was an ‘echo’ song, whereby the left side of the church would sing the verse and then the right side would repeat it. I remember feeling so happy anytime we got to sing this song, almost bursting with joy. As I began to grow up, I started to become less and less enthralled about going to church on Easter and I started to treat church more like a burden. I (or my parents) would drag me to church, and I sit in that cold pew with my arms folded, nit-picking about the music and the length of the priest’s sermon. At the end of the Catholic Mass, the priest says “The Mass has ended; go in Peace” and the congregation says “Thanks be to God”. I have to admit that if I was particularly irritable on a given Sunday, I would snottily retort, “Thanks be to God”, as in, “It’s about time the mass is over, man”. Moreover, if the mass ran over 1 hour, be sure that it would not go unnoticed by me and my big mouth. Sounding familiar anyone? Can I get an ‘Amen’?
This year, celebrating Easter in Kenya has been an experience. Holy Week in Kenya is like a week-long church-athon. I have to admit that I found myself avoiding the services EVERY day. Well, since I’m the only Mzungu around here, people quickly notice that I’m not attending, and are not afraid to inquire as to why I wasn’t at mass. Boy, I had a bucket full of excuses to retort, too. I was tired. I had work. I had dishes (although I never actually did them). I forgot. But honestly, deep-down, I knew that I really just felt burdened by going to church. I mean, service here is 2+ hours AND when they say mass starts at 9:00, it really won’t start until 9:15. Of course, my guilty conscience got the best of my on Saturday, and I knew that I needed to save my reputation and my soul (which already singed a little from Hell’s licking flames), suck it up, and attend the 8:00 pm Easter Vigil Mass.
I am so glad that I went because it was such a cool experience. When the students and priest showed up (at 8:20, mind you), all of the lights in the compound were turned off and we all went outside and gathered around a small fire. The priest began reading in KiSwahili and he blessed the Easter Candle. Then, we all lit our candles from the Easter Candle, which in itself was really neat because the congregation is supposed to bring their own candles, so some of the students had to be a little creative. There were birthday candles, enormous palm sized candles, and candles so small they were sure to finish before they were even lit. Then, we all walked silently into the darkened school cafeteria, which doubles as our church. Then the priest started mass as when all stood with our candles. We kept silent out of respect for the death of Jesus. Then halfway through the service, they turned on the lights and we all sang and danced to the beat of a booming conga drum. The little children dressed in beautiful dresses and they danced up and down the aisle, along with a group of students who donned uniform lesos. Everyone was so happy all around me, praising our Lord and thanking Him for His sacrifice. Even the grumpiest person would not have been able to remain unaffected by the positive energy flowing through that small cafeteria. I know it doesn’t sound awesome, but being in that room with all of those students was an incredible experience. The thing is, people here sing and dance like no one is looking—like they aren’t afraid that the really cute guy next to them can hear them singing a little off-key. Because of this, their music is beautifully harmonized and accented with shouts of joy (called “Sigalagala”) They praise and worship God with child-like spirits.
What do I mean by “child-like”? No, I don’t mean that they are acting immature and childish. I’m talking about the innocents that children have. We have all witnessed that child during mass who meanders towards the front of the church and plops down on the altar or the child who sees the manger and screams to his mom: “LOOK, IT’S BABY JESUS!”. Children don’t let culture norms and societal pressure stop them from saying or doing what’s really in their heart and on their mind. If they are excited about something, they scream and dance. If they are sad, they cry. No matter what context, they innocently follow their heart. That’s what I mean when I say that the Kenyans praise and worship with a child-like spirit. It’s like there are no boundaries, no invisible wall built by a judging society stopping them from expressing what is in their hearts. I want to be like that. If something moves me in church, I want to express it. I want to Dance! I want to sing! I want to holler “Alleluia” and “Amen”!
I mean think about it: This man, Jesus, DIED for YOU. He was murdered most brutally, so that WE can LIVE. It’s a hard concept to grasp and I still struggle to realize the enormity of this sacrifice, but it is in fact an ENORMOUS sacrifice that many of us, myself included, take for granted. Think about this: if Oprah knocked on your door today and handed you the keys to your brand new, cherry red Mustang convertible with no strings attached, you would probably scream, hug everyone around you, and jump up and down in excitement. And that is just a car. We’re talking about someone giving up HIS life so that YOU can have eternal life. We should be extremely excited, but sometimes as Christians we become unmoved, unimpressed, and unaffected by this amazing sacrifice. It’s easy to become like this, because were so used to hearing that this Jesus dude died on the cross and saved us. It’s like when you’re watching a war movie and after a while you don’t gasp when you see a body bloodied and bruised. We just become indifferent.
So this year, I want to challenge you all. Don’t allow yourself to continue to be indifferent. Let yourself be excited about church. If a song or a wise phrase from the priest moves you, express it. Sing like no one is listening, dance like no one is watching, clap your hands, because it’s not about those people who may or may not be watching and listening. It’s about our Lord who has Risen Today! Alleluia. And who knows, maybe that person next to you, who you’re convinced is going to judge you, is dying inside to clap, sing, and dance too, but is too afraid. Don’t let fear hold you back from worshiping Our Lord to the fullest because that’s what he deserves.
Okay, I’m getting off my soapbox for today, but I just felt it in my heart that I needed to express how I feel to you all. :-) Happy Easter!