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