This morning, after I had had chai at a number of colleagues' homes in Ilula, I noticed Silas Sifuna standing at our training center, obviously waiting to visit with me. Mama Chiri was there to translate.
It's the first time I've seen him since his graduation and baptism, and he was beaming!
"He has come to say 'thank you,'" Mama Chiri explained. Silas explained to me how different his family's lives are now that he is sober and his children and healthy and in school.
"But the best thing I got in rehab is Jesus," he said with the biggest smile ever. "Thank you for giving me Jesus."
And then he explained how, when they moved back home after rehab (Mama Chiri was taking care of his children during that time), that there were NO JIGGERS at the house any more. None. Not even one, he emphasized. "Those jiggers were all Satan's work!" he said without blinking.
We continued visiting about life at the Sifuna house. He's been trying hard to continue finding day jobs. Sometimes he works at our training center (whenever there's a job), but most days, he walks throughout our neighborhood to look for a temp job.
"This week was hard. I didn't find work even one day," he explained. He made it clear that all he is asking of me is if I would keep my ears open about a job in that area.
I was able to send him with some Unga (flour for ugali) and sugar (considered a staple here for chai), and he was very thankful for that. And some bread I had bought yesterday. Unfortunately I didn't have more food with me. But I know Silas wants to work; not get handouts. At the same time, it helps being able to come home with something to feed the kids.
When I drove by his house later in the afternoon, the kids came running. I was thankful from the depths of my heart to see all four looking really good. Kipruto speaks more than before, saying, "Mzuri" (Fine!) with the biggest smile when you ask him how he's doing. Joanna (Jemutai) was sure to use all her 1st grade English on me, and told me that they really like school.
She made sure to tell me "Adele... Pole kwa ghari" (Sorry about your car!). I know she really, really meant it. Here, when one person in the community suffers, so does everyone. People hurt with you!
I picked up Kit, our new intern, from the airport, and headed back to Kipkaren in the rain. The kids here couldn't be more excited about Kit's arrival. He's our first intern this year, and the little ones can't wait to teach him Swahili.
Kit and I joined Allison, Juli, Michelle and some of our Kenyan friends for dinner at David's house, ending the evening with a game of Sequence. (We girls won, just so you know.)
Like almost every single day in Kenya, it was yet another packed day, but a good one... Tomorrow, visitors are coming to my home for lunch. I'm planning on serving lunch in our new gazebo by the river.
Anyone joining us?
Showing posts with label healing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label healing. Show all posts
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Betty
Even just saying her name makes me smile. Betty. She reminds me of Mary Magdalene. Her story is one of God extending her much grace. When she cried out to God just a few years ago, she was dying.
God has since turned her life around. She's still living with HIV/AIDS. But she's using it as a way to serve Him by reaching out to others who are positive. Countless lives have been touched through here testimony and her unwavering faith.
Yesterday, I had the joy of going to visit Betty at her home. I went with the home-based care team.
We found Betty outside her simple home, crocheting. She was beaming when she saw us coming. "Karibu!" (Welcome!)
We all found a place to sit in their small living room. All seven of us. Plus Betty and her mom. We visited about her health, since Betty has had a difficult three months behind her. "Eh! Every time I saw people coming to visit," she said with a smile, "my heart would be so happy. People came to tell me they are praying for me..."
The conversation turned to the weather of late. To everyone's delight, the rains have started. People are starting to plow their fields and plant their maze. With the rains come flying ants.
"You know, those ants are soooo sweet*!" Betty said with a smile. "Yesterday, I found many! They have good, natural fats. You can find me by the road just eating them."
"In fact," her mother interjected in a mix of Luhya and Kiswahili, if you would catch many, you can sell them at the market in Kipkaren... You would make so much money. Eh! They are sweet!" And she proceeded to tell about something else they love to eat as Luhyas. Grubs. As in worms, yes.
Betty had a blast entertaining us with the details of eating the worms... "You find them in the compost," she explained. You have to understand that most of the guests on our team were either Nandis (a completely different tribe than the Luhya hosts) or wazungu (white people).
"After catching the worms, you remove the intestines and you clean them very well. Then you fry them. Eh! They're sweet!"
(Juli's face says it all.)
Betty's mom continued to entertain us with stories, one of which was news of her one grandson talking about dropping out of school. That's a big taboo. People work very hard to pay school fees to send their children to school. "I told him, if he drops out of school, I'm going to take off my clothes!" the grandma proclaimed. Betty explained how it is seen as the ultimate curse for older women to literally bear their breasts to their sons/grandsons, thereby saying that you realize they do not respect you as an elderly woman. (It's very different from the custom of women breastfeeding anywhere and everywhere in this culture. That is not considered offensive whatsoever.)
After a delightful time of visiting and praying together, we took a group photo and said good-bye. We'd be back, yes.
The ELI Home-based Care Team:
I have been taking group shots for a project I'm working on. Yesterday's visit to Betty's home was made after the photo shoot.
The girls and I. Isn't our area beautiful?
The team, walking to Betty's
Kids along the way, at a nursery school in our neighborhood
* Kenyans use the word sweet to refer to anything tasty, not only sugary.
God has since turned her life around. She's still living with HIV/AIDS. But she's using it as a way to serve Him by reaching out to others who are positive. Countless lives have been touched through here testimony and her unwavering faith.
Yesterday, I had the joy of going to visit Betty at her home. I went with the home-based care team.
We found Betty outside her simple home, crocheting. She was beaming when she saw us coming. "Karibu!" (Welcome!)The conversation turned to the weather of late. To everyone's delight, the rains have started. People are starting to plow their fields and plant their maze. With the rains come flying ants.
"You know, those ants are soooo sweet*!" Betty said with a smile. "Yesterday, I found many! They have good, natural fats. You can find me by the road just eating them."
"In fact," her mother interjected in a mix of Luhya and Kiswahili, if you would catch many, you can sell them at the market in Kipkaren... You would make so much money. Eh! They are sweet!" And she proceeded to tell about something else they love to eat as Luhyas. Grubs. As in worms, yes.
Betty had a blast entertaining us with the details of eating the worms... "You find them in the compost," she explained. You have to understand that most of the guests on our team were either Nandis (a completely different tribe than the Luhya hosts) or wazungu (white people).
"After catching the worms, you remove the intestines and you clean them very well. Then you fry them. Eh! They're sweet!"
(Juli's face says it all.)
Betty's mom continued to entertain us with stories, one of which was news of her one grandson talking about dropping out of school. That's a big taboo. People work very hard to pay school fees to send their children to school. "I told him, if he drops out of school, I'm going to take off my clothes!" the grandma proclaimed. Betty explained how it is seen as the ultimate curse for older women to literally bear their breasts to their sons/grandsons, thereby saying that you realize they do not respect you as an elderly woman. (It's very different from the custom of women breastfeeding anywhere and everywhere in this culture. That is not considered offensive whatsoever.)
After a delightful time of visiting and praying together, we took a group photo and said good-bye. We'd be back, yes.Later in the afternoon, as I stopped by to drop off something, Betty was sitting on a bench in the sun, bathing. She was still smiling. As was I. How very blessed I am to have seen God work through Betty's life to touch many, including me.
Below are some other photos taken yesterday
The ELI Home-based Care Team:I have been taking group shots for a project I'm working on. Yesterday's visit to Betty's home was made after the photo shoot.
The girls and I. Isn't our area beautiful?
The team, walking to Betty's
Kids along the way, at a nursery school in our neighborhood* Kenyans use the word sweet to refer to anything tasty, not only sugary.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
"The Dentist and the Crocodile"
That's the poem I read to many of the rooms tonight. The kids were giggling as I read it. "Adele," they'd ask, "do some people really keep crocodiles as pets?"
The poem is one by Roald Dahl, my favorite children's author, and from a book my friend Tom had sent. I love reading poems to the kids. Especially Roald Dahl's.
Other than visiting with the kids about crocodiles and, of course, pet chameleons (since I used to have one), and chatting about how Flannel is (since they had found her when she was a kitten and in terrible shape), the kids were telling me about the unrest in this area.
"We were really scared, Adele," Vitaline confessed. "Especially the day Shadrach was almost slaughtered (!). You know Shadrack, our Sunday school teacher..." and she went on telling me how the son of Linus and Angelina, two of our staff, had been captured, blindfolded, and made to count dead bodies, then told he's the next one... It was an act of God that he wasn't killed, truly! These kids had already been through so much in their short lives. It's sad that they've had to see their world crumble again.
"But now we are fine," Vitaline declared with the biggest smile. "God is good. We are safe. When will the interns come?" I had to tell them that I don't think we'll have interns this year. "Aaaaah, Adele. Why? Because people think there's no peace?"
How do you explain to them that yes, there's peace, but things are simply still too volatile in Kenya. You don't. You just say, "Right now, we cannot have teams or interns. But they will come again. Don't worry."
I got to read to all the rooms and explain to them that I'll be away for a while since I'll be attending class in the US and need to attend to business there. "But will you come to guardians' day next weekend?" they all asked. I assured them that I'd try my best.
It was like balm to my soul to hang out with the Ilula kids for a bit. I came this afternoon, after doing a photo shoot at Kipkaren, and pulled into the compound just as the first big rains of the season started to fall. You could hear the kids coming down the road from school, passing my house, saying, "Adele's car is here! Adele is here!" I went to invite them for a movie, and they were giddy with excitement. We watched Ratatouille, and the kids giggled at Remy and Linguini's antics. (At first, because it's almost Easter, I considered bringing the Jesus Film for Kids--honestly one of their favorite movies--but decided that after the intense few months they've had, they needed a movie that would make them laugh. They usually memorize some lines from the movies and entertain each other for weeks quoting silly lines. Or for years, sometimes. Last week, when I visited them, they were still quoting lines from The Gods Must Be Crazy, and we watched that almost 2 years ago!)
I love these kids. I miss them a lot. My relationship with the kids in Kipkaren is nowhere like my relationship with the Ilula kids. Partly because my work in Kipkaren keeps me much busier. Partly because of language barriers (the Kipkaren kids' English isn't nearly as good as the Ilula kids'). Partly because I've chosen to focus on adult ministry in Kipkaren. But it doesn't make me miss the kids any less.
One of the boys, in a letter about the post-election violence, drew pictures of the gate to the home, how it had been decorated with branches and a gourd, to show that it's a Kalenjin institution. Today, as I drove here, I noticed house after house still having gourds hanging by the door. To me, it's unsettling to see remnants of the violence. It's like the burned-down homes and shops along the way. Or the huge rocks still lying on the side of the road, all reminders of what transpired since December 31.
So, tonight after dinner, I went to every room, read to them, chatted with them, prayed with them, answered their questions, and hugged each and every one of them. Because the memories of the past few months won't go away soon. But little by little, they can be replaced by new, good memories.
The journey to healing is still long. But it has begun. For that, I praise God!
The poem is one by Roald Dahl, my favorite children's author, and from a book my friend Tom had sent. I love reading poems to the kids. Especially Roald Dahl's.
Other than visiting with the kids about crocodiles and, of course, pet chameleons (since I used to have one), and chatting about how Flannel is (since they had found her when she was a kitten and in terrible shape), the kids were telling me about the unrest in this area.
"We were really scared, Adele," Vitaline confessed. "Especially the day Shadrach was almost slaughtered (!). You know Shadrack, our Sunday school teacher..." and she went on telling me how the son of Linus and Angelina, two of our staff, had been captured, blindfolded, and made to count dead bodies, then told he's the next one... It was an act of God that he wasn't killed, truly! These kids had already been through so much in their short lives. It's sad that they've had to see their world crumble again.
"But now we are fine," Vitaline declared with the biggest smile. "God is good. We are safe. When will the interns come?" I had to tell them that I don't think we'll have interns this year. "Aaaaah, Adele. Why? Because people think there's no peace?"
How do you explain to them that yes, there's peace, but things are simply still too volatile in Kenya. You don't. You just say, "Right now, we cannot have teams or interns. But they will come again. Don't worry."
I got to read to all the rooms and explain to them that I'll be away for a while since I'll be attending class in the US and need to attend to business there. "But will you come to guardians' day next weekend?" they all asked. I assured them that I'd try my best.
It was like balm to my soul to hang out with the Ilula kids for a bit. I came this afternoon, after doing a photo shoot at Kipkaren, and pulled into the compound just as the first big rains of the season started to fall. You could hear the kids coming down the road from school, passing my house, saying, "Adele's car is here! Adele is here!" I went to invite them for a movie, and they were giddy with excitement. We watched Ratatouille, and the kids giggled at Remy and Linguini's antics. (At first, because it's almost Easter, I considered bringing the Jesus Film for Kids--honestly one of their favorite movies--but decided that after the intense few months they've had, they needed a movie that would make them laugh. They usually memorize some lines from the movies and entertain each other for weeks quoting silly lines. Or for years, sometimes. Last week, when I visited them, they were still quoting lines from The Gods Must Be Crazy, and we watched that almost 2 years ago!)
I love these kids. I miss them a lot. My relationship with the kids in Kipkaren is nowhere like my relationship with the Ilula kids. Partly because my work in Kipkaren keeps me much busier. Partly because of language barriers (the Kipkaren kids' English isn't nearly as good as the Ilula kids'). Partly because I've chosen to focus on adult ministry in Kipkaren. But it doesn't make me miss the kids any less.
One of the boys, in a letter about the post-election violence, drew pictures of the gate to the home, how it had been decorated with branches and a gourd, to show that it's a Kalenjin institution. Today, as I drove here, I noticed house after house still having gourds hanging by the door. To me, it's unsettling to see remnants of the violence. It's like the burned-down homes and shops along the way. Or the huge rocks still lying on the side of the road, all reminders of what transpired since December 31.
So, tonight after dinner, I went to every room, read to them, chatted with them, prayed with them, answered their questions, and hugged each and every one of them. Because the memories of the past few months won't go away soon. But little by little, they can be replaced by new, good memories.
The journey to healing is still long. But it has begun. For that, I praise God!
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
He said, "Yes!"
Silas, the dad of the Sifuna kids, agreed without any objection to join the alcohol rehab program that'll start tomorrow in Ilula. That's a huge answer to prayer! Yeah God!
Before and After
Just thought to post a new photo of the Sifuna kids, and one from the first day I got to visit them last July. Their dad will be challenged tomorrow to join our AA program that starts this week, Thursday. Please join me in praying that Silas will indeed be willing to join the program! Mama Chiri will be taking care of the children during the time when Silas will be in rehab. I should be able to let you know by Thursday if he's in or not!
Monday, March 03, 2008
Oh, the joys of international travel
I've flown Ethiopian Airlines (ET) six times in my life. Of this rather small sampling of their services, I've not been impressed. They have yet to prove to me that they are capable of having an on-time departure.
This morning's flight to Nairobi was rather comical, quite honestly. The check-in area was semi-chaotic. There was a group of 30-some cyclists on the same flight as I. They are riding from Cairo to Cape Town, but are skipping Kenya due to the unrest. So they rode to the border, bussed back to Addis, and are flying to Arusha. (Some are taking a detour to Uganda, or Lalibela.)
Either way, they can't be the reason for the chaos. They're just ordinary passengers, like I am. Their bikes were being carted by road, so that didn't cause a delay. But every so often, an ET official steps up and calls all the passengers going to such-and-such a place to urgently step up. When it came to "Passengers to Nairobi/Kilimanjaro," the guy's eyes just grew big when he saw that there were still several of us in line.
We finally made it through check-in, headed through customs and then upstairs, falling in line for the second X-ray, one at the gate. This took ages, and soon enough, a semi-frantic officer was walking up and down again, calling, "Passengers to Nairobi/Kilimanjaro?!" He then diverted us through a different gate (1A) to ours (1), but soon we were all herded back to 1A again, downstairs, and told to form one line. (Except, you cannot get roughly 250 people to form a single line in a small room.)
And then ensued a huge argument. One group of ground staff were confronting a second group for bringing us down too early. (By then, however, it was already past boarding time.) Their fight continued for a good 20 minutes easily, until they herded us onto busses, carted us off to a plane on the other side of the runway, where we sat again for another 15 minutes or so.
When the captain finally addressed us, he didn't even find it necessary to apologize for the delay and any inconvenience it may have caused. C'est la vie, right?
Fortunately, I didn't have a connecting flight. I really wasn't in a terrible hurry. Just wanted to get to my destination for today: a colleague's home in Nairobi.
But first, I had to
a) find both pieces of checked luggage (one piece, the one with my toiletries and my books in), seemed to have been left behind in the rush of getting out of Addis, or it wasn't unloaded from the plane and was en route to Kilimanjaro. They promised it would be here tonight. (Which it isn't. They're hoping it will be on tomorrow's flight. I'm REALLY hoping it is on that flight. All my clean clothes are in there!)
b) go to the British Airways office to follow up on a damaged luggage claim from 11 months ago. For the past just-less-than-a-year, BA has been telling me, "Come back next time." But praise God for the supervisor I got to talk to today. She apologized for the delay in getting my luggage back to me and asked me to go and purchase a new bag and bring her the receipt tomorrow. Hopefully, by then, my other piece of luggage will have made it from Addis, well rested and possibly fluent in Amharic.
All that to say: It's good to be back in Kenya. There's a definite change in atmosphere here! But my taxi driver on the ride from the airport was quick to tell me, "It would be difficult to trust our neighbors again! In fact, we were very ready for war last week!"
I'm working on a follow-up project for class in the city this week, after which I'll be returning to the village. I especially look forward to seeing the kids in Ilula. It has been far too long since I've seen them. My heart truly longs to sit with them and hear their stories, to hear what they felt, to pray with them, and to laugh with them.
It's good to be back, though some uncertainty about the way toward healing in Kenya still lingers.
P.S. A day later and I have my second piece of luggage back (it had indeed stayed on for perhaps a massage in Addis), and I got a debit card from BA today for the cost of a new piece of luggage. Nice. Very nice.
This morning's flight to Nairobi was rather comical, quite honestly. The check-in area was semi-chaotic. There was a group of 30-some cyclists on the same flight as I. They are riding from Cairo to Cape Town, but are skipping Kenya due to the unrest. So they rode to the border, bussed back to Addis, and are flying to Arusha. (Some are taking a detour to Uganda, or Lalibela.)
Either way, they can't be the reason for the chaos. They're just ordinary passengers, like I am. Their bikes were being carted by road, so that didn't cause a delay. But every so often, an ET official steps up and calls all the passengers going to such-and-such a place to urgently step up. When it came to "Passengers to Nairobi/Kilimanjaro," the guy's eyes just grew big when he saw that there were still several of us in line.
We finally made it through check-in, headed through customs and then upstairs, falling in line for the second X-ray, one at the gate. This took ages, and soon enough, a semi-frantic officer was walking up and down again, calling, "Passengers to Nairobi/Kilimanjaro?!" He then diverted us through a different gate (1A) to ours (1), but soon we were all herded back to 1A again, downstairs, and told to form one line. (Except, you cannot get roughly 250 people to form a single line in a small room.)
And then ensued a huge argument. One group of ground staff were confronting a second group for bringing us down too early. (By then, however, it was already past boarding time.) Their fight continued for a good 20 minutes easily, until they herded us onto busses, carted us off to a plane on the other side of the runway, where we sat again for another 15 minutes or so.
When the captain finally addressed us, he didn't even find it necessary to apologize for the delay and any inconvenience it may have caused. C'est la vie, right?
Fortunately, I didn't have a connecting flight. I really wasn't in a terrible hurry. Just wanted to get to my destination for today: a colleague's home in Nairobi.
But first, I had to
a) find both pieces of checked luggage (one piece, the one with my toiletries and my books in), seemed to have been left behind in the rush of getting out of Addis, or it wasn't unloaded from the plane and was en route to Kilimanjaro. They promised it would be here tonight. (Which it isn't. They're hoping it will be on tomorrow's flight. I'm REALLY hoping it is on that flight. All my clean clothes are in there!)
b) go to the British Airways office to follow up on a damaged luggage claim from 11 months ago. For the past just-less-than-a-year, BA has been telling me, "Come back next time." But praise God for the supervisor I got to talk to today. She apologized for the delay in getting my luggage back to me and asked me to go and purchase a new bag and bring her the receipt tomorrow. Hopefully, by then, my other piece of luggage will have made it from Addis, well rested and possibly fluent in Amharic.
All that to say: It's good to be back in Kenya. There's a definite change in atmosphere here! But my taxi driver on the ride from the airport was quick to tell me, "It would be difficult to trust our neighbors again! In fact, we were very ready for war last week!"
I'm working on a follow-up project for class in the city this week, after which I'll be returning to the village. I especially look forward to seeing the kids in Ilula. It has been far too long since I've seen them. My heart truly longs to sit with them and hear their stories, to hear what they felt, to pray with them, and to laugh with them.
It's good to be back, though some uncertainty about the way toward healing in Kenya still lingers.
P.S. A day later and I have my second piece of luggage back (it had indeed stayed on for perhaps a massage in Addis), and I got a debit card from BA today for the cost of a new piece of luggage. Nice. Very nice.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
"Just a little hospice in the bush"
I went to see my friend Hannah again today. She was yet again amazingly jolly. More than upbeat. Purely jolly, truly. When we asked how she was doing, she rubbed her face and said, "It's a little painful here..." but continued right ahead to praise God for her health.
I have so much to learn from my friend. It's so easy to grumble about silly, silly stuff. She doesn't.
She politely asked, though, if I'd bring her chicken livers once again. She'd like to have chicken livers for Christmas. I had to tell her that I'd be in South Africa for Christmas. (Since the children's party is tomorrow, I had changed my ticket so I can celebrate the day with my family.)
"Ah!" she exclaimed. "Salamia uko!" (Greet everyone there!)
I assured her I would do so, and that I'll be back. "Of course," she responded. "You're my child."
There were three nurses with me, and as we walked back to the car, one commented that this is "just a little hospice in the bush."
I wish--no, I pray, truly--that this would no longer be hospice care when I return, that God would indeed perform a miracle and heal Hannah.
That would be the greatest Christmas gift ever! Imagine...
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Finding Hope
This morning, I joined our social worker Ruth for some home visits. The families we were to visit are both ones with pretty dismal stories, and I didn't really know what to expect. "Show us, Father, how to share the hope that we have in You," I prayed as we started the journey.
First stop: Tekla's house. This mother of six has made some improvement since people from ELI have started visiting her. But she's still trapped in alcoholism, which truly prohibits the family from making much-needed improvement. Her husband is an alcoholic, too, and he smokes bang (marijuana). One night, while he was high, he attacked their one son, trying to cut his head off.
The son survived, but his vocal cords were severed, leaving him without a voice. He is now living with someone in another community.
The dad ended up in prison, but has since been released, and everyone's dreading the day he may show up at home...
In the meantime, Tekla continues to drink while having four children at home. There's hardly a thing in their house. No food. Just some dirty pots from having cooked porridge this morning. ELI's home-based care team provides the flour for the porridge. They've learned not to bring more than she can cook in just a few days since she trades food for alcohol.
Tekla wasn't there when we showed up, so we got to visit with the kids for a while. Jeptoo, the 8-year-old, reminds me a lot of Jemutai. She's yet another young girl who basically has to care for younger siblings... Ruth has been encouraging Jeptoo to help their 3-year-old sister Jesang to walk. Jesang is about the size of my American neighbors' 1-year-old. She doesn't walk. She hardly talks. We suspect it's from neglect, but Ruth is taking her to a clinic in town later this week to see if it might be a physical handicap. In the meantime, Jeptoo is shown how to hold Jesang's hand and carefully help her to take little steps.
While the girls are working on walking, 6-year-old Cosmas quietly plays with his baby brother, Victor, who is just shy of 2 years old. "Cosmas has a severe stutter," Ruth explains later, "so he doesn't talk much." But Victor is oblivious to the trails his older siblings have faced. His age has been the protecting factor, just like in the case of Kipruto.
We leave later with a promise of being back. I call the guys from our AA ministry, and they commit to come and visit Tekla, to talk to her about joining our November intake at Kipkaren. "Things will be better, Adele," Ruth assures me. "They already are. But the mom must stop drinking..."
A 40-minute-or-so walk from there, we stop at our next home for the morning, that of Lillian, the mom with twins. Her home is a stark contrast with the one we had just visited. The compound has been swept. Clean laundry is hanging on the line.
"Karibu!" the young mom says with a big smile. Her hair has been wound into small balls, and as we sit down in her sparse living room, she cannot stop fiddling with her hair, constantly twisting new balls. It looks cute, but I can't help but wonder about the mom. She's just . . . different.
We ask about her babies and she's happy to report that she's now producing more milk, but not enough to sustain both. "She's still feeding the babies uji," Ruth translates. "She says porridge has more nutrition than milk..." Riiiiight. For 2-month-olds! "And she says she's adding Blue Band [margarine] to fatten them up." I just about swallowed my tongue.
We visit more, and she tells us that she still gets really bad dreams. I pray for her before we head out, but somehow, I just can't seem to find the right words to pray. I don't know why.
Ruth stays behind to talk to her about family planning. The 29-year-old isn't interested. "I can't take shots," she explains to Ruth. "I have cancer."
"What kind of cancer?"
"It moves all over my body..."
"Would she be willing to give them formula if I bought it?" I ask Ruth on the walk home.
"We can try!"
Lillian used to brew alcohol for an income, but no longer does it. Typically, she sells her body to make money...
We walk home in silence. What can we do for our neighbor? Her problems go far deeper than producing enough milk for her twins. It's more than postpartem depression. I am no doctor, so I cannot say, but others talk of schizophrenia. And some major spiritual issues.
Where's the hope in this? 1 Peter 3:15 says, "Always be ready to make your defense to anyone who demands from you and accounting for the hope that is in you." I know my hope is in Christ. He gives meaning to my life. But I've never gone to bed hungry. I've not had a parent abuse me, or be psychologically unstable. How is it possible to keep the hope when your world is far less than simple.
God knew I needed an answer, that this week, more questions seem to be coming forth from my side than I can find simple answers for. So he sent Nellie to my door.
"Adele! I praise God for this chance to see you!" my friend said with all sincerity as she gave me the biggest hug. She's here for an interview, and still has to make the couple-hour journey back home, so we cannot visit for long.
As we walk over to the children's home so she can see her nephew and niece, she cannot contain her joy. "I have to tell you! My mother is now sober!"
"How did that happen??!"
"She just quit drinking one day! God has answered my prayers of many years. I cried for one week. Tears of joy, really. Our home is a different place. Imagine... my mom can now cook for us. I can find a job!"
Sydney and Niva smile the biggest smiles I've seen in a while when they see their aunt walking over. They give her huge hugs and fumble to find the right words. Having lived in a Swahili-speaking environment for a year now, they've forgotten much of their mother tongue. Nellie switches to Swahili and tells them news from Mt. Elgon, of cousins who send greetings. Then she tells them that gogo no longer drinks. Their little smiles cannot get any bigger!
"It's ONLY because of God, Adele," Nellie assures me as I drive her to the main road. "I have seen God break through so many areas! Now, people are starting to say in my village, 'I want my daughter to be like Nellie. I don't want her to undergo FGM.' Imagine! God is answering my prayers."
Indeed. Nellie was the first girl in her village to refuse FGM. She was shunned by her community and by her family. Yet she stayed on so she could serve her alcoholic parents and her siblings who were dying of AIDS. Today, people are starting to follow her example.
When I finally drop her at the matatu stage, my heart is light. God does indeed answer prayers. And though change happens slowly in rural Kenya, it does happen. It takes only one to stand up against cultural practices that have gone unchallenged for too many years.
As for cases like that of Tekla and Lillian, it takes a village to come alongside these families. To love and support them. To show them Christ's love.
I am infinitely grateful to be part of a village and a ministry who is doing just that.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Wondering out loud
This morning, I left home too late to make it in time for an English service in town. So I took my Bible, my Believing God Bible study guide, and my iPod. And I went to Poa Place, an outdoor restaurant-type-place. It's really a family place, and I have discovered that when you go there alone, you get ignored. Which is nice, sometimes. But not when it's your waitress ignoring you. That's an all-together different story. Besides the point.
Point is: There I was sitting, surrounded by families coming for a Sunday afternoon buffet, kids swimming, some young foreigners basking at the poolside. And I was in my own world, under my umbrella, visiting with God about Hannah.
Because I don't understand. In Matthew alone, time and again, Jesus says things like, "Your faith has made you well." Or "According to your faith, let it be done." "Let is be done for you as you wish." And then the famous "If you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, 'Move from here,' and it will move; and nothing will be impossible for you." Sometimes it was a parent believing on behalf of their child. Sometimes someone for their own healing. In the famous passage in Acts, the lame man is healed because of Peter and John's faith.
I believe God can heal Hannah. I have no doubt about it. Every time I go to visit, I go expecting to see her well! Yet her condition is deteriorating fast. Despite the fact that God can heal her. Despite her faith, and that of her family.
So I started wondering about some things. Like if I am trying to manipulate God. If I pray this way, or if I do that, surely God will answer. That would be like Romans 4: 4-5. It would be like expecting wages for work done. Or not? So what am I to do? Simply believe.
In the meantime, I will keep asking God to heal Hannah. And, I will not be offended at the fact that in the meantime, God has not yet healed her. Because God also reminded me of the passage in Matthew 11, where he was talking to John the Baptist. John was in prison, waiting to be beheaded. He was in prison despite the fact that Jesus came to set the captives free.
I don't understand it. I honestly do not believe it is God's will for Hannah and her family to be suffering the way that they are. Jesus was always about fixing what was broken, healing the sick. I do not believe this tragedy is the will of God. But it is.
Why?
I don't know.
I'm not putting this out there to ask for a theological explanation. I honestly do not think we can come up with the answer. Point is: God is God. We are not. I believe he can heal Hannah. He has not yet. But I will not give up asking God for her healing. Because I've seen him do even greater things.
And so, I will keep believing. I will keep seeking him. And I will keep asking God to show himself to Hannah and her family throughout this time. And to heal Hannah. Because he can.
Point is: There I was sitting, surrounded by families coming for a Sunday afternoon buffet, kids swimming, some young foreigners basking at the poolside. And I was in my own world, under my umbrella, visiting with God about Hannah.
Because I don't understand. In Matthew alone, time and again, Jesus says things like, "Your faith has made you well." Or "According to your faith, let it be done." "Let is be done for you as you wish." And then the famous "If you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, 'Move from here,' and it will move; and nothing will be impossible for you." Sometimes it was a parent believing on behalf of their child. Sometimes someone for their own healing. In the famous passage in Acts, the lame man is healed because of Peter and John's faith.
I believe God can heal Hannah. I have no doubt about it. Every time I go to visit, I go expecting to see her well! Yet her condition is deteriorating fast. Despite the fact that God can heal her. Despite her faith, and that of her family.
So I started wondering about some things. Like if I am trying to manipulate God. If I pray this way, or if I do that, surely God will answer. That would be like Romans 4: 4-5. It would be like expecting wages for work done. Or not? So what am I to do? Simply believe.
In the meantime, I will keep asking God to heal Hannah. And, I will not be offended at the fact that in the meantime, God has not yet healed her. Because God also reminded me of the passage in Matthew 11, where he was talking to John the Baptist. John was in prison, waiting to be beheaded. He was in prison despite the fact that Jesus came to set the captives free.
I don't understand it. I honestly do not believe it is God's will for Hannah and her family to be suffering the way that they are. Jesus was always about fixing what was broken, healing the sick. I do not believe this tragedy is the will of God. But it is.
Why?
I don't know.
I'm not putting this out there to ask for a theological explanation. I honestly do not think we can come up with the answer. Point is: God is God. We are not. I believe he can heal Hannah. He has not yet. But I will not give up asking God for her healing. Because I've seen him do even greater things.
And so, I will keep believing. I will keep seeking him. And I will keep asking God to show himself to Hannah and her family throughout this time. And to heal Hannah. Because he can.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
"Thank you, thank you. Thank you very much."
Juli, Allison and I went to see Hannah again today.
I asked if I can take photos. She was happy to let me photograph her as she visited with Juli, Allison and her other daughters. "Other" daughters, because she calls us her daughters, too. Even though she has 7 of her own.
Hannah's health has deteriorated since I had last seen her 5 days ago. Her speech is getting more slurred. The tumor seems to be showing up below her left eye, too. She is obviously having a lot of pain.
Yet she continues to rejoice in Jesus. She broke out in worship songs a few times again during our visit. When I gave her a box of soy milk to try, hoping that it would be easier for her body to digest, she held it with both hands, lifted it up, and said a prayer of thanksgiving to God for his provision.
We left when it was clear that Hannah needed to rest. But as we paused outside in the garden and visited with the family, we heard her voice from her room, "Thank you. Thank you very much..." and saw her skinny hand waiving at us. Nancy explained how they appreciate the visits. We do, too. It's a joy to go and spend some time with her and her family, pray together, worship God together...
I'll be going back early next week to take photos of their entire family. I look forward to doing that.
In the meantime, please join me in praying for a miracle for Hannah!
(Click on the photo to see more pictures from today's visit.)
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Learning from Hannah
Hannah was sitting on her bed in her 8' x 10' mud-walled room, some clothes bundled up behind her for support. The wooden shutter was pushed all the way the let in as much sunshine as one can get through a little hole in the wall. And today, it seemed like the sun was shining brightly outside and inside.
As I rubbed her feet, it was just skin and bones. As is the rest of her body, really. Her knees stand out like huge balls compared the the bony leg on either side. Yet, the most amazing joy filled the room.
She's hardly older than I am, this mother of four. "My mother used to be a very hard worker," her second-born, Nancy, told me as we walked to my car later. "She really struggled to put us through school. But my sister and I had just completed Form 4 (12th grade) when things got bad..."
Nancy's eyes welled up with tears. "Some days, I don't know if I can make it. I have asked God many times, why could I finish Form 4 and now I am stuck at home? He could heal my mother, and then I could continue with my life."
Nancy and her sister takes such good care of their mother. Nowhere on her body is there any sign of skin breakdown. Her hair is combed. Her sheets are clean. She is clean.
"Look!" Hannah had told me soon after I got seated at the foot of her bed. "It's so clean!" She reached her bony hand out and I admired it. It's not like they knew we were coming. We simply showed up at their house this morning in order to drop off some more meds. And good body moisturizer.
And chicken livers. Hannah had told us on Sunday that she's been craving chicken livers. A lot. As we handed her the bag with some papayas and the frozen chicken livers, she held it up in the air, thanking God sincerely for his provision.
At times, it's hard to make out what she says.
At first, it was hard to look at her.
But in the two visits I've paid to her home, Hannah has found a place in my heart. Today, she wanted to sing worship songs. "She really has a song in her heart," Nancy explained. Hannah started singing her favorite Luya chorus, and her daughter joined in. The other children and their father came to stand in the small doorway, next to the roosting chicken. They joined the singing.
Juli shared some thoughts from John 14 and 15 as everyone listened. We prayed Psalm 23 together in multiple languages, with Hannah sticking her bony arm into the air saying her only English phrase over and over. "Thank you. Thank you very much."
"God is so good, my daughters," she told us in Kiswahili. "He has done a good thing..."
I had to fight back the tears, amazed at this woman's faith.
When you look at her, you won't think she has anything to praise God for. But as Juli started another chorus and our colleague Phoebe continued leading song after song, the room was filled with the most amazing, spontaneous worship.
"I have not felt God's presence so strongly in a long time," Phoebe commented later.
It is true. God dwells in that room. He is the one who carries Hannah, the one who encourages her husband and the children. If one thing - no, two things - are evident, is that they love God, and that they love Hannah.
With this family, I honestly am believing that God will heal Hannah! Even though the odds are stacked against her.
Hannah has a huge tumor in her face. It showed up three years ago, and at this stage, it is inoperable. The tumor has destroyed much of the bone on the left side of her face. Her left eye, in fact, sort of sits on the side of her head. Her nose is deformed because of the tumor, so it's hard for her to breathe. It's also hard to swallow since the tumor is pushing into her mouth cavity. Some of her teeth have fallen out.
But today, Hannah was eating. Slowly. But she was eating. The meds we had taken on Sunday was helping. Yet she seemed more concerned about what we might be eating. "Are you having chai, my daughter?" she asked me. "Good!"
And she was singing. Hard as it was for her to sing, she sang. "It has been a while since I've sung," she said. "But God has put a song back in my heart."
Later, her husband poked his head back in the door. "I have a verse for you girls. You can read it at home. I believe it is for you. Go and read Hosea 2:19-20."
As we left, the family asked that we please come back. We will. Perhaps to encourage Hannah and Nancy. Perhaps to be encouraged by this family's faith.
What a gift it is to see God work in the lives of people like Hannah, and the Sifunas, and the countless others around me. What a gift to walk this journey with God. My God. My husband.
As I rubbed her feet, it was just skin and bones. As is the rest of her body, really. Her knees stand out like huge balls compared the the bony leg on either side. Yet, the most amazing joy filled the room.
She's hardly older than I am, this mother of four. "My mother used to be a very hard worker," her second-born, Nancy, told me as we walked to my car later. "She really struggled to put us through school. But my sister and I had just completed Form 4 (12th grade) when things got bad..."
Nancy's eyes welled up with tears. "Some days, I don't know if I can make it. I have asked God many times, why could I finish Form 4 and now I am stuck at home? He could heal my mother, and then I could continue with my life."
Nancy and her sister takes such good care of their mother. Nowhere on her body is there any sign of skin breakdown. Her hair is combed. Her sheets are clean. She is clean.
"Look!" Hannah had told me soon after I got seated at the foot of her bed. "It's so clean!" She reached her bony hand out and I admired it. It's not like they knew we were coming. We simply showed up at their house this morning in order to drop off some more meds. And good body moisturizer.
And chicken livers. Hannah had told us on Sunday that she's been craving chicken livers. A lot. As we handed her the bag with some papayas and the frozen chicken livers, she held it up in the air, thanking God sincerely for his provision.
At times, it's hard to make out what she says.
At first, it was hard to look at her.
But in the two visits I've paid to her home, Hannah has found a place in my heart. Today, she wanted to sing worship songs. "She really has a song in her heart," Nancy explained. Hannah started singing her favorite Luya chorus, and her daughter joined in. The other children and their father came to stand in the small doorway, next to the roosting chicken. They joined the singing.
Juli shared some thoughts from John 14 and 15 as everyone listened. We prayed Psalm 23 together in multiple languages, with Hannah sticking her bony arm into the air saying her only English phrase over and over. "Thank you. Thank you very much."
"God is so good, my daughters," she told us in Kiswahili. "He has done a good thing..."
I had to fight back the tears, amazed at this woman's faith.
When you look at her, you won't think she has anything to praise God for. But as Juli started another chorus and our colleague Phoebe continued leading song after song, the room was filled with the most amazing, spontaneous worship.
"I have not felt God's presence so strongly in a long time," Phoebe commented later.
It is true. God dwells in that room. He is the one who carries Hannah, the one who encourages her husband and the children. If one thing - no, two things - are evident, is that they love God, and that they love Hannah.
With this family, I honestly am believing that God will heal Hannah! Even though the odds are stacked against her.
Hannah has a huge tumor in her face. It showed up three years ago, and at this stage, it is inoperable. The tumor has destroyed much of the bone on the left side of her face. Her left eye, in fact, sort of sits on the side of her head. Her nose is deformed because of the tumor, so it's hard for her to breathe. It's also hard to swallow since the tumor is pushing into her mouth cavity. Some of her teeth have fallen out.
But today, Hannah was eating. Slowly. But she was eating. The meds we had taken on Sunday was helping. Yet she seemed more concerned about what we might be eating. "Are you having chai, my daughter?" she asked me. "Good!"
And she was singing. Hard as it was for her to sing, she sang. "It has been a while since I've sung," she said. "But God has put a song back in my heart."
Later, her husband poked his head back in the door. "I have a verse for you girls. You can read it at home. I believe it is for you. Go and read Hosea 2:19-20."
As we left, the family asked that we please come back. We will. Perhaps to encourage Hannah and Nancy. Perhaps to be encouraged by this family's faith.
What a gift it is to see God work in the lives of people like Hannah, and the Sifunas, and the countless others around me. What a gift to walk this journey with God. My God. My husband.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
One hundred percent
. . . jigger-free kids!
After 5 weeks of working on them, tediously removing one egg sac after another, I am thankful to report that as of today, the children have no jiggers. None. Nada. Nyet. Or none that we could see, at least.
It feels like a miracle. From day 1, I prayed asking God to heal them - their little bodies, but also their hearts, minds and souls. Every time I'd walk down the road, I'd say, "God, I know you can heal them in an instant!"
"You're wanting a microwave solution," I sensed God's answer. "But I'm into basking. I want you to marinate them in my love. This way, they'll learn more, as will you."
And so, day after day after day, week after week, I went, sometimes with friends, often alone. Always expecting to see what God has done.
And he did indeed do a great work.
He put a smile back on their faces.
He helped them gain weight.
He gave them a chance to start learning how to write.
He taught the girls not to run away when they didn't do their chores, but instead, to do the tasks to help run their household.
He brought the family to church the past few weeks without us even asking.
He even brought the children to VBS the past few days.
And he healed their bodies of jiggers.
Today, as I stepped into one VBS class to take some pictures, my heart warmed up as I saw Jepkemboi and Kiprop repeating Psalm 3:3 after the teacher. "You, O Lord, are a shield around me; you are my glory, the one who holds my head high." Though the kids don't speak English yet, they imitated the sounds in English. (The assistant did translate for the kids who didn't understand, so they do know what they were saying.)
After VBS, as Ruth, Mary and I were once again working in tandem to rid the kids of their last egg sacs, I asked Ruth if the kids understand yet who Jesus is. We pray with them every time, talking to Jesus. We praise Jesus for every egg sac that comes out. We sometimes even sing songs about Jesus while we're working on them. Who do they think this Jesus is? "They don't know yet," Ruth replied. "But time has come to explain to them. They will understand."
I believe they will. They will understand in a way you or I may never understand God's love.
In fact, I sometimes wonder if working with this family is the sole reason God has brought me to Kenya. So that they may know how much Jesus cares.
Some of you have been asking about schooling options for the kids. In the next few weeks, we'll be having a meeting with the dad to find out what his plans are. Will they be staying in this area, or returning to Luo country? If they plan to stay, we'll look at options for school as well as for care for the younger boys while their sisters are in school. I'll keep you posted.
For now, thanks for continuing this journey with us.
After 5 weeks of working on them, tediously removing one egg sac after another, I am thankful to report that as of today, the children have no jiggers. None. Nada. Nyet. Or none that we could see, at least.
It feels like a miracle. From day 1, I prayed asking God to heal them - their little bodies, but also their hearts, minds and souls. Every time I'd walk down the road, I'd say, "God, I know you can heal them in an instant!"
"You're wanting a microwave solution," I sensed God's answer. "But I'm into basking. I want you to marinate them in my love. This way, they'll learn more, as will you."
And so, day after day after day, week after week, I went, sometimes with friends, often alone. Always expecting to see what God has done.
And he did indeed do a great work.
He put a smile back on their faces.
He helped them gain weight.
He gave them a chance to start learning how to write.
He taught the girls not to run away when they didn't do their chores, but instead, to do the tasks to help run their household.
He brought the family to church the past few weeks without us even asking.
He even brought the children to VBS the past few days.
And he healed their bodies of jiggers.
Today, as I stepped into one VBS class to take some pictures, my heart warmed up as I saw Jepkemboi and Kiprop repeating Psalm 3:3 after the teacher. "You, O Lord, are a shield around me; you are my glory, the one who holds my head high." Though the kids don't speak English yet, they imitated the sounds in English. (The assistant did translate for the kids who didn't understand, so they do know what they were saying.)
After VBS, as Ruth, Mary and I were once again working in tandem to rid the kids of their last egg sacs, I asked Ruth if the kids understand yet who Jesus is. We pray with them every time, talking to Jesus. We praise Jesus for every egg sac that comes out. We sometimes even sing songs about Jesus while we're working on them. Who do they think this Jesus is? "They don't know yet," Ruth replied. "But time has come to explain to them. They will understand."
I believe they will. They will understand in a way you or I may never understand God's love.
In fact, I sometimes wonder if working with this family is the sole reason God has brought me to Kenya. So that they may know how much Jesus cares.
Some of you have been asking about schooling options for the kids. In the next few weeks, we'll be having a meeting with the dad to find out what his plans are. Will they be staying in this area, or returning to Luo country? If they plan to stay, we'll look at options for school as well as for care for the younger boys while their sisters are in school. I'll keep you posted.
For now, thanks for continuing this journey with us.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
On digging out sand flea egg sacks . . . and almost being robbed!
The day started full of promise! A great time with God. Wonderful breakfast with a good friend. And then we headed out to see our little friends down the road. Armed with Dettol, needles, Triple Anti-bacterial ointment, soap, and a huge portion of courage, my friends and I headed out to see what we can do to help the little ones.
As I rounded the corner into their maize (corn) field, little Jepkemboi came running and through her arms around me. It melted my heart! This is the same little one whom I could hardly get to smile last week!
Laura, Mary, Ruth and I settled in for the task before us. Laura had my camera, so she was able to take some photos of the process. (You can see some of the pictures on my Flickr page.) We had only removed 13 egg sacks from the little ones' hands and feet when I couldn't deal with it any more. The kids were in a lot of pain!
Tomorrow, I'll be taking them to a pediatrician who will refer us to a surgeon. The pediatrician said they'd be able to remove them surgically (with local anesthesia). I counted and estimate that each of the three youngest kids have between 80 and 90 lesions! And even while we were sitting there, we killed at least five or so sand fleas (jiggers) that were trying to dig into the little ones' skins. These fleas are very, very small. There's a picture on Flickr of one of them on Kiprop's hand.
I've been careful, using gloves the whole time. However, it would be easy for one of those fleas to dig into your skin even while you're just sitting there, working. Something has to be done about the fleas in the garden and in the house.
So, after dropping off Laura at the airport, I went to the Agro-Vet store to buy poison to spray in the yard. Since I hadn't had time to burn a DVD for Laura with pictures of her time in Kenya, I took my computer to the airport with me. And though I never leave it in the car, I decided to leave my computer bag while I run into the bakery to buy bread. After all, you couldn't see the bag under the bag with poison.
Or so I thought.
After getting bread, I stopped at a street vendor to buy another pair of shoes for the kids. But the guy gave me a ridiculous price when I asked about a pair of used kids' shoes, so I wasn't even going to barter! I just laughed, turned away, and started walking to my car.
The car was parked at least a good 50 meters (around 50 yards) from where I was right then, and I yelled, "NOOOOO!!!!" as I dashed down the road.
EVERYONE stared. Even the guy. He dropped my computer like it was about to explode and ran for his life. Literally. (In Kenya, mob justice is still practiced, and it's acceptable. If he ran with my bag, he'd be slowed down. If other guys caught him, they could literally stone him or kill him with sticks!)
In the few seconds it took me to get to my car, a crowd had gathered, asking if I'm OK, if the guy had gotten away with anything, if I had left the car open.
I was pretty shaken up, not sure for a moment if I was safe even in the crowd... "I'm OK. He didn't get anything. He busted the door lock." As I drove off, still shaking, people were staring. Some were saying how sorry they were. One guy said, "Praise God he didn't take anything." Praise Him indeed!
The corner of my computer is busted from being dropped from about 3 feet high, but it works fine. Nothing broke. Except for the lock to my car. The guy must've busted it with a screw driver.
Until I can get the lock replaced, I'd have to unlock the driver's door from the passenger side. But think about it: If the guy had busted the passenger lock (the side where the bag was, after all), I would not have seen him get out of my car! He'd have been protected by the vehicle itself!
So, as I head to bed tonight, it's with such a mixture of feelings.
Hope for our little friends down the road.
Relief that my computer didn't get stolen.
Frustration that my car door is busted.
Joy for having had friends around for the past two weeks (first Karen, then Laura).
Sadness for being back to a place where much of my journey is walked alone.
But the journey does continue. For now, Flannel simply has to endure listening to my stories.
Flannel, and you.
To read more about tungiasis, the condition my little neighbors have, visit this site.
As I rounded the corner into their maize (corn) field, little Jepkemboi came running and through her arms around me. It melted my heart! This is the same little one whom I could hardly get to smile last week!
Laura, Mary, Ruth and I settled in for the task before us. Laura had my camera, so she was able to take some photos of the process. (You can see some of the pictures on my Flickr page.) We had only removed 13 egg sacks from the little ones' hands and feet when I couldn't deal with it any more. The kids were in a lot of pain!Tomorrow, I'll be taking them to a pediatrician who will refer us to a surgeon. The pediatrician said they'd be able to remove them surgically (with local anesthesia). I counted and estimate that each of the three youngest kids have between 80 and 90 lesions! And even while we were sitting there, we killed at least five or so sand fleas (jiggers) that were trying to dig into the little ones' skins. These fleas are very, very small. There's a picture on Flickr of one of them on Kiprop's hand.
I've been careful, using gloves the whole time. However, it would be easy for one of those fleas to dig into your skin even while you're just sitting there, working. Something has to be done about the fleas in the garden and in the house.
So, after dropping off Laura at the airport, I went to the Agro-Vet store to buy poison to spray in the yard. Since I hadn't had time to burn a DVD for Laura with pictures of her time in Kenya, I took my computer to the airport with me. And though I never leave it in the car, I decided to leave my computer bag while I run into the bakery to buy bread. After all, you couldn't see the bag under the bag with poison.
Or so I thought.
After getting bread, I stopped at a street vendor to buy another pair of shoes for the kids. But the guy gave me a ridiculous price when I asked about a pair of used kids' shoes, so I wasn't even going to barter! I just laughed, turned away, and started walking to my car.
My car's higher than the average vehicle on the street, and when I looked down the road to where it was parked, I saw a man getting out of my car . . . with my computer bag in his hands!
The car was parked at least a good 50 meters (around 50 yards) from where I was right then, and I yelled, "NOOOOO!!!!" as I dashed down the road.
EVERYONE stared. Even the guy. He dropped my computer like it was about to explode and ran for his life. Literally. (In Kenya, mob justice is still practiced, and it's acceptable. If he ran with my bag, he'd be slowed down. If other guys caught him, they could literally stone him or kill him with sticks!)
In the few seconds it took me to get to my car, a crowd had gathered, asking if I'm OK, if the guy had gotten away with anything, if I had left the car open.
I was pretty shaken up, not sure for a moment if I was safe even in the crowd... "I'm OK. He didn't get anything. He busted the door lock." As I drove off, still shaking, people were staring. Some were saying how sorry they were. One guy said, "Praise God he didn't take anything." Praise Him indeed!
The corner of my computer is busted from being dropped from about 3 feet high, but it works fine. Nothing broke. Except for the lock to my car. The guy must've busted it with a screw driver.
Until I can get the lock replaced, I'd have to unlock the driver's door from the passenger side. But think about it: If the guy had busted the passenger lock (the side where the bag was, after all), I would not have seen him get out of my car! He'd have been protected by the vehicle itself!
So, as I head to bed tonight, it's with such a mixture of feelings.
Hope for our little friends down the road.
Relief that my computer didn't get stolen.
Frustration that my car door is busted.
Joy for having had friends around for the past two weeks (first Karen, then Laura).
Sadness for being back to a place where much of my journey is walked alone.
But the journey does continue. For now, Flannel simply has to endure listening to my stories.
Flannel, and you.
To read more about tungiasis, the condition my little neighbors have, visit this site.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
I miss my Land Rover . . . and more
As I drove the team home after a long day of ministry in Kipkaren and a moving time of fellowship at a colleague's house, I dreaded getting stuck. It had rained much of today, and we were in the rear-wheel-drive Nissan minivan. It's one of the worst vehicles to drive through the thick mud. On top of the challenge of the rear of the vehicle fishtailing every time you accelerate, the van is not nearly far enough from the ground to make it through the deep mud tracks, so you bottom out more than you'd like to!
All that to say that we did NOT get stuck, which was nothing short of a miracle. I cannot wait to get my Land Rover back tomorrow! It's been in automobile intensive care for a few weeks. Feels like months. Tomorrow, I get to pick it up from ICU and drive it to Nairobi.
I'm taking Karen to Nairobi. We'll meet my friend Laura (missionary in Mozambique) at the airport tomorrow night. We'll have a 4th of July celebration dinner at a restaurant in town, and on the 5th I'll take both girls around Nairobi to see the Giraffe Center, the elephant orphanage, and more. Then Karen flies home, and Laura and I will go on a short safari to celebrate her 40th birthday. And to rest.
This time away couldn't have come at a better time for me. I've been both haunted and driven by thoughts of my new friends. As much as their faces keep coming to my mind, I know things are already better for them.
Several of you responded yesterday, saying you'd like to help. Starting this morning, the kids have received a quart of milk. They'll continue getting milk every day. And every afternoon, they'll get porridge delivered to their home. In order to fight the infection in their hands and feet, we've got to get their immune systems stronger. They've got to eat.
I packed a bunch of bananas as I headed out with the team this morning, determined to check in on the kids. But we ran into Jepkemboi on the side of the road, so we gave her the bananas. She gave a little smile. She had milk stains on her face. It made me smile.
We got them socks today, plus underwear and deworming meds. And a blanket for their dad. Though I wish I could just shake him, I believe God is telling us to love this man, to allow him to see God's love, and that the love will be what turns his heart.
Next week, Ruth and I will take the children to a pediatrician so they can get antibiotics. It'll probably be the first time ever these kids have ridden in a car. They will have been in public transportation before, but never a private vehicle.
The journey continues.
I am thoroughly aware of how blessed I am. Muddy roads despite.
All that to say that we did NOT get stuck, which was nothing short of a miracle. I cannot wait to get my Land Rover back tomorrow! It's been in automobile intensive care for a few weeks. Feels like months. Tomorrow, I get to pick it up from ICU and drive it to Nairobi.
I'm taking Karen to Nairobi. We'll meet my friend Laura (missionary in Mozambique) at the airport tomorrow night. We'll have a 4th of July celebration dinner at a restaurant in town, and on the 5th I'll take both girls around Nairobi to see the Giraffe Center, the elephant orphanage, and more. Then Karen flies home, and Laura and I will go on a short safari to celebrate her 40th birthday. And to rest.
This time away couldn't have come at a better time for me. I've been both haunted and driven by thoughts of my new friends. As much as their faces keep coming to my mind, I know things are already better for them.
Several of you responded yesterday, saying you'd like to help. Starting this morning, the kids have received a quart of milk. They'll continue getting milk every day. And every afternoon, they'll get porridge delivered to their home. In order to fight the infection in their hands and feet, we've got to get their immune systems stronger. They've got to eat.
I packed a bunch of bananas as I headed out with the team this morning, determined to check in on the kids. But we ran into Jepkemboi on the side of the road, so we gave her the bananas. She gave a little smile. She had milk stains on her face. It made me smile.
We got them socks today, plus underwear and deworming meds. And a blanket for their dad. Though I wish I could just shake him, I believe God is telling us to love this man, to allow him to see God's love, and that the love will be what turns his heart.
Next week, Ruth and I will take the children to a pediatrician so they can get antibiotics. It'll probably be the first time ever these kids have ridden in a car. They will have been in public transportation before, but never a private vehicle.
The journey continues.
I am thoroughly aware of how blessed I am. Muddy roads despite.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Adele's Update | July 2007
As I walked into my home earlier this afternoon, I broke down crying, my heart aching in a way I have never before experienced. …
This morning, I met four children whose little faces are now etched in my mind. I had heard of them last week when someone mentioned in passing that there are two girls living in a little hut in the cornfields, and they take care of their baby brother.
On Wednesday, I sent food to them, and I ran into the two girls on the side of the road on Saturday. This morning, I went to their home with two friends. We took a mattress and bedding, and told them we’d be back in the afternoon. We wanted permission from their father to bathe them. Here’s their story, some of it told by the oldest girl, some related by their neighbors, some by the father.
Kiprop, Nancy Jepkemboi, Joanna Jemutai and Kiparono
Maybe a year ago, shortly after the birth of Kiprono, their young mother left. What exactly the story is behind this, we won’t know. The dad says the mom is a prostitute. I don’t know. But she left her three oldest children (Joanna Jemutai, a very small 9, Nancy Jepkemboi, maybe 6, Kiprop, 4?) in the care of their father. He says he went to fetch the baby a few months ago, when he found out that the mom was drinking with the baby tied to her back, and that the baby was starving.
But now their dad is hardly ever home. He works in the area, weeding people’s fields. Colleagues who live next door say the man doesn’t come home till late at night, and when he does come home, he’s usually drunk.
I’ve seen the girls on the side of the road a few times recently, carrying water. I always waved and smiled, and on Saturday, I had a Kenyan colleague with me, so I stopped and visited a little. As I headed home, I knew I had to do something! I shared with Ruth, a Kenyan friend, and she immediately said that when I go, she’d go with me. She’s been praying, asking God to show her if there are neighbors who she is to serve.
Yesterday, Karen (a friend visiting from the US for a few days) and I bought a mattress, some sheets, and a blanket. This morning, Ruth, Karen and I walked just 10 minutes or so down the road to visit the girls and take them the bedding. We knew they’d also need a bath, but wanted to ask the dad first if we could do that later this week.
When we walked up to their home, I called, “Hodi?” (“Can I come in?”)
A little voice answered from within, “Karibu!” (“Welcome!”) and the door of the wooden hut swung open. Joanna’s little face lit up as she saw me, and she flung her arms around my waist. She had remembered me from our meeting on Saturday. But more importantly, her smile said, “You remembered ME!”
The smell of urine hung heavily in the small room and around little Kiprop, whom I lifted onto my lap. The children don’t speak any English, and Ruth started visiting with them in Nandi (a dialect of Kalenjin). As she related their story to Karen and I, I couldn’t fight the tears. It’s impossible not to be moved by their story.
We told the children we’d be back in the afternoon, and as we walked home, I asked Ruth, “How is it possible that they’ve been our neighbors, and we’ve never known of them? How many times have I driven past their house with a car full of food, not knowing that they’ve not eaten for days?”
But now we know. We know their names and their faces. And more importantly, they are sleeping in a clean, warm bed tonight for the first time in years. And the children themselves are clean for the first time since their mother left. Getting them clean, though, is what caused me to break down crying today…
We did go back this afternoon, taking with us a tub of warm water, soap, Q-tips, Triple Antibiotic Ointment, Band-Aids, tootbrushes and toothpaste, and towels. We found their father, Silas, at home. Ruth explained to him that we were caring neighbors, and we visited for a while. He told her the story of their mother leaving and said yes, we can give the children a bath. (When Ruth’s husband Philip came later, he visited with Silas while the dad was chopping wood. He encouraged him that even though he lost his wife, he should take care of the children as not to lose them, too. Philip shared with him that though life seems hopeless, there is hope in Christ. Philip will go back to visit more with Silas, and he’ll help him rebuild the floor of the house as it’s below ground level, causing the wooden hut to flood every time there is rain.)
While Philip was visiting with the dad, Ruth, Karen and I bathed the little ones. One by one, we placed them on a wooden stool and bathed them in warm water. And as we started washing their little hands and feet, I could do nothing but pray for God to restore them. If I didn’t pray, I would have broken down there and then and sobbed.
Their little fingers were black with parasites eating away at the tissue. And so were their little feet. I could not get myself to look at the soles of their feet, but felt every little pebble embedded into the necrotic tissue. I cut their nails, but some were so infected that I couldn’t come near them or they’d start crying. The four-year-old was brave, however. Even as we cleaned out an oozing boil on his leg, he hardly flinched. But later, as I rubbed his body in coconut oil and dressed him in clean clothes, he lay his little head back against me, hungry for some motherly love…
When we were done, we asked the father if we could put the mattress, sheets and blanket on the bed. He agreed, hesitating at first. But Ruth explained that we would like to do that so we could send a picture to the friends who bought the mattress. (In fact, I know she said it to make sure the mattress gets on their bed, not his.) As I removed the layers of rags from their bed, I gagged. Three children have been sharing this bed, and in the seven months they’ve lived there, I doubt the urine-drenched rags have ever been taken outside.
Philip ran home to get some socks and shoes for the children, and as we waited, I sang songs to them and then took out a little bottle of bubbles from my pocket. It seemed so little, but the kids had never seen anything like it, and even little Jepkemboi who had hardly smiled all day broke into a smile as she tried to catch the bubbles floating by…
As we bid the family farewell, I had a sense of hope. These children will know that Jesus loves them! I believe they’ll get to go to school someday, too. For now, they’ll come to Sunday school. In fact, Jemutai had already come this past Sunday because Philip had walked by them on the road earlier in the week. She had asked him, “Will you take us to the wazungus (the white people)?” He said she’s welcome to come to our place on Sundays. And so she came. I believe her family will get to know Christ through her!
So, what am I to do next? I’ve asked Mama Chiri (a neighbor) to take them a quart of milk every morning. Ruth and I will visit them at least weekly and check up on their wounds. We’ll bathe the little ones, and Philip will keep reaching out to Silas through friendship. And we'll take them food from time to time.
1 John 3:16-17 has been on my mind since I first heard of these children. As I shared with the visiting team and our Kenyan colleagues tonight, several of us were crying. “Show us how to love, Jesus! May we not miss the opportunities around us to show your love.”
Thank you for touching my little neighbors’ lives today through being part of this journey.
(In the last photo, next to me is Jepkemboi, then Kiprop, Kiprono, Jemutai and Ruth.)
This morning, I met four children whose little faces are now etched in my mind. I had heard of them last week when someone mentioned in passing that there are two girls living in a little hut in the cornfields, and they take care of their baby brother.
On Wednesday, I sent food to them, and I ran into the two girls on the side of the road on Saturday. This morning, I went to their home with two friends. We took a mattress and bedding, and told them we’d be back in the afternoon. We wanted permission from their father to bathe them. Here’s their story, some of it told by the oldest girl, some related by their neighbors, some by the father.
Kiprop, Nancy Jepkemboi, Joanna Jemutai and KiparonoBut now their dad is hardly ever home. He works in the area, weeding people’s fields. Colleagues who live next door say the man doesn’t come home till late at night, and when he does come home, he’s usually drunk.
I’ve seen the girls on the side of the road a few times recently, carrying water. I always waved and smiled, and on Saturday, I had a Kenyan colleague with me, so I stopped and visited a little. As I headed home, I knew I had to do something! I shared with Ruth, a Kenyan friend, and she immediately said that when I go, she’d go with me. She’s been praying, asking God to show her if there are neighbors who she is to serve.
Yesterday, Karen (a friend visiting from the US for a few days) and I bought a mattress, some sheets, and a blanket. This morning, Ruth, Karen and I walked just 10 minutes or so down the road to visit the girls and take them the bedding. We knew they’d also need a bath, but wanted to ask the dad first if we could do that later this week.
When we walked up to their home, I called, “Hodi?” (“Can I come in?”)
A little voice answered from within, “Karibu!” (“Welcome!”) and the door of the wooden hut swung open. Joanna’s little face lit up as she saw me, and she flung her arms around my waist. She had remembered me from our meeting on Saturday. But more importantly, her smile said, “You remembered ME!”
The smell of urine hung heavily in the small room and around little Kiprop, whom I lifted onto my lap. The children don’t speak any English, and Ruth started visiting with them in Nandi (a dialect of Kalenjin). As she related their story to Karen and I, I couldn’t fight the tears. It’s impossible not to be moved by their story.
We told the children we’d be back in the afternoon, and as we walked home, I asked Ruth, “How is it possible that they’ve been our neighbors, and we’ve never known of them? How many times have I driven past their house with a car full of food, not knowing that they’ve not eaten for days?”But now we know. We know their names and their faces. And more importantly, they are sleeping in a clean, warm bed tonight for the first time in years. And the children themselves are clean for the first time since their mother left. Getting them clean, though, is what caused me to break down crying today…
We did go back this afternoon, taking with us a tub of warm water, soap, Q-tips, Triple Antibiotic Ointment, Band-Aids, tootbrushes and toothpaste, and towels. We found their father, Silas, at home. Ruth explained to him that we were caring neighbors, and we visited for a while. He told her the story of their mother leaving and said yes, we can give the children a bath. (When Ruth’s husband Philip came later, he visited with Silas while the dad was chopping wood. He encouraged him that even though he lost his wife, he should take care of the children as not to lose them, too. Philip shared with him that though life seems hopeless, there is hope in Christ. Philip will go back to visit more with Silas, and he’ll help him rebuild the floor of the house as it’s below ground level, causing the wooden hut to flood every time there is rain.)
While Philip was visiting with the dad, Ruth, Karen and I bathed the little ones. One by one, we placed them on a wooden stool and bathed them in warm water. And as we started washing their little hands and feet, I could do nothing but pray for God to restore them. If I didn’t pray, I would have broken down there and then and sobbed.Their little fingers were black with parasites eating away at the tissue. And so were their little feet. I could not get myself to look at the soles of their feet, but felt every little pebble embedded into the necrotic tissue. I cut their nails, but some were so infected that I couldn’t come near them or they’d start crying. The four-year-old was brave, however. Even as we cleaned out an oozing boil on his leg, he hardly flinched. But later, as I rubbed his body in coconut oil and dressed him in clean clothes, he lay his little head back against me, hungry for some motherly love…
When we were done, we asked the father if we could put the mattress, sheets and blanket on the bed. He agreed, hesitating at first. But Ruth explained that we would like to do that so we could send a picture to the friends who bought the mattress. (In fact, I know she said it to make sure the mattress gets on their bed, not his.) As I removed the layers of rags from their bed, I gagged. Three children have been sharing this bed, and in the seven months they’ve lived there, I doubt the urine-drenched rags have ever been taken outside.
Philip ran home to get some socks and shoes for the children, and as we waited, I sang songs to them and then took out a little bottle of bubbles from my pocket. It seemed so little, but the kids had never seen anything like it, and even little Jepkemboi who had hardly smiled all day broke into a smile as she tried to catch the bubbles floating by…As we bid the family farewell, I had a sense of hope. These children will know that Jesus loves them! I believe they’ll get to go to school someday, too. For now, they’ll come to Sunday school. In fact, Jemutai had already come this past Sunday because Philip had walked by them on the road earlier in the week. She had asked him, “Will you take us to the wazungus (the white people)?” He said she’s welcome to come to our place on Sundays. And so she came. I believe her family will get to know Christ through her!
So, what am I to do next? I’ve asked Mama Chiri (a neighbor) to take them a quart of milk every morning. Ruth and I will visit them at least weekly and check up on their wounds. We’ll bathe the little ones, and Philip will keep reaching out to Silas through friendship. And we'll take them food from time to time.1 John 3:16-17 has been on my mind since I first heard of these children. As I shared with the visiting team and our Kenyan colleagues tonight, several of us were crying. “Show us how to love, Jesus! May we not miss the opportunities around us to show your love.”
Thank you for touching my little neighbors’ lives today through being part of this journey.
(In the last photo, next to me is Jepkemboi, then Kiprop, Kiprono, Jemutai and Ruth.)
Monday, June 04, 2007
We serve a BIG God
Spent much time this morning interviewing one of our children for a story I'm writing. It was incredible to hear how much this child has gone through in her short life, and to hear her say, "The best thing about being here? Here, I met Jesus!" Having talked about some of the stuff really hurt, but she was strong, until she started talking about her older sister... "I hear she is sleeping outside. She has a baby, and she's sleeping outside with that baby. Sometimes when I lie in bed, I cry because I think, 'Agnes is somewhere outside...' I really hope to see her someday soon and tell her about Jesus and I pray she will find a good, Christian husband to care for her." Wow. What does one do when you hear something like that? I just wished I could hop in my car and go help Agnes... But we don't even know where she is, so that's not an option.
The highlight of my visit, though, was when I remembered that two nights ago, when I went to say good-night to the kids, this girl showed me a boil she had on her neck, asking if I had medicine for it. I told her to come to my house the next day so I could put something on it, but right then, I prayed for God to heal it. When I asked about the boil today, it was gone. As in, not a trace of it! We serve an AMAZING God! I so desire to see Him do more healings in this community--even, or maybe, especially, healing people with HIV/AIDS! I will keep praying!
Later in the morning, while we were in church, Nelson (one of the dads) was called to take someone to the hospital. Nelson was supposed to preach. I didn't know that until his wife Dorcas, who had been leading worship, said, "Adele, will you introduce the visitors (interns) and then bring us the message?" I literally had a minute before I had to get up and preach! God proved to be faithful. I do believe he showed me what to share, and I left humbled yet again at what an awesome God we serve!
The highlight of my visit, though, was when I remembered that two nights ago, when I went to say good-night to the kids, this girl showed me a boil she had on her neck, asking if I had medicine for it. I told her to come to my house the next day so I could put something on it, but right then, I prayed for God to heal it. When I asked about the boil today, it was gone. As in, not a trace of it! We serve an AMAZING God! I so desire to see Him do more healings in this community--even, or maybe, especially, healing people with HIV/AIDS! I will keep praying!
Later in the morning, while we were in church, Nelson (one of the dads) was called to take someone to the hospital. Nelson was supposed to preach. I didn't know that until his wife Dorcas, who had been leading worship, said, "Adele, will you introduce the visitors (interns) and then bring us the message?" I literally had a minute before I had to get up and preach! God proved to be faithful. I do believe he showed me what to share, and I left humbled yet again at what an awesome God we serve!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)