Tiny

My best friend for the past year has been a Kenyan man who lives in the slum. He makes in a month what I spend on dinner out. He has scars on his body from pangas; I’ve never been in a fight. He speaks three languages, and interprets for me, Miss Monolingual. But he is my best friend. Despite the differences, we’re tighter than brothers. Our favorite verse that we tell each other is Proverbs 17:17, “A friend loves at all times, but a brother was born for adversity.” And most of the time, he is kind enough to let me believe that we are the same. I can easily forget that I’m white, that I’m rich, that I’m more educated. Though this is one of the parts I treasure most about our relationship, it’s a sham. I am different from him. Every now and then, I get a glimpse of it.
Due to careful handling, it’s only happened two or three times before. But the biggest kick was just a few weeks ago, and I stepped right into it.
We were talking about what it would be like if he came to visit me in America. I told him I’d set him up and take care of his room and board. I laughed as I remembered what my budget will be when I get back and said, “In my tiny apartment.” And then it happened. The veil lifted and we were divided.
He said, “You mean as small as mine?” It was an innocent question, I’m sure of it. Still, it hit me like a brick wall. His house is as big as most of your living rooms. It is probably as big as my “tiny” apartment’s living room will be. There’s no carpet, there’s no light, TV, or computer. He doesn’t have a separate room to sleep or cook in. He doesn’t even have a toilet to call his own.
And I said, “Tiny apartment.”
A big question for people going back to the States after an extensive stay in a third world country is whether their values will change. Will they still see the same things as “necessary?” I’m not even home yet and I’m saying things like this. What an eye-opener.
“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes?” (Matthew 6:25)
“Ndiyo maana nawaamieni, msiwe na wasiwasi juu ya chakula na kinywaji mnavyohitaji ili kuishi, wala juu ya mavazi mnayohitaji kwa ajili ya miili yenu. Je, maisha ni chakula tu au zaidi? Na mwili, je, si zaidi ya mavazi?” (Mathayo 6:25)

Again and Forever

Let's imagine (as I'm in the habit of doing) that Heaven is real. It's a real place, and one day it will really exist in the physical form and will never die away. All inhabitants of it will never die away, and they will be in perfect harmony together.
Imagine that everyone who loves God on earth will go to this place.
This is my solace and my hope while preparing to leave here. I have three weekends left on this continent and there are so many people that I want to spend all my time with. Since this is impossible, chances are, I'll see most people only a few more times before going. And chances are, they will be the last.
I really don't like relationships because they constantly need to come to an end. But if Heaven is real, if everyone who loves God on earth will love Him forever in a place, then it need not be the end. That means that I may say goodbye to Ebby here, but I'll be able to ask her about her baby one day when all is finished. That means that I'll see how many lives Hyda touched here on earth, or that I'll be able to talk to Genesis all day every day for 10,000 years. What is the biggest joy, which also will produce the biggest pain for now, is that I'll see Arthur again. I trusted my life to him (truly was that tested in January) and he has become closer than a brother to me. If we don't get the chance to see each other here again (something I will actively fight against) it's okay. Because Heaven is real. Eternity is real. And one day, I'll see my brethren there, gathered around the throne, and we will talk endlessly and there will be no more goodbyes.
Hallelujah.

One time I split my thumb

One time I split my thumb open. Right at the top, where it opens again every time you move it. I busted it while carrying a bucket of chai into the church and ran into the doorway. I cut it on the iron sheet. Clean cut, too.
No, I did not cry, despite what Hyda will tell you.

Hillary or Obama?

I’m not making an opinion on the guy or not, but every Kenyan asks me about Obama. Since June 25, I get asked all the time if I’m voting for Obama or Hillary. It’s big news over here, a half-Kenyan with a shot for the President’s seat. They think that if he takes office, suddenly Kenya will be taken care of and the US and Kenya will be tight like brothers. I try to tell them that Obama hasn’t mentioned anything about taking care of his father’s country but in vain. I don’t mention the fact that Obama probably doesn’t have particularly strong ties to anything related to the father who abandoned him, but I do tell them that I’m voting for Obama…the time when McCain ain’t running.
McCain 2008. ;-)

Friday Nights Out

What does a young missionary girl do on a Friday night? The hottest thing around: she does her food shopping.
Every Friday night, my housemates and I went food shopping at a nearby supermarket which had a plaza you could eat at, too. So this was our big plan. And remember, we looked forward to this.
Since curfew was at 6 at night the rule was that you couldn’t be out or on public transportation after 6. Being in a well known place like Prestige Plaza is okay because it’s a public place and you’re inside, so long as you don’t walk home but take a taxi instead. So we would time our walk to get us to Prestige precisely at six. Then we’d take our time and get dinner. It’s never good to go food shopping on an empty stomach, you know. After dinner, we’d go downstairs to the supermarket and do our shopping for the week. We’d get a taxi home for a small amount, and have our faces pressed to the window to see Nairobi in the dark, a sight seldom seen. Finally, we’d pull into our compound and relish the fact that we’ve been out late. Late being 8:00 pm.
Honestly, we considered this the highlight of our week. Take pity.

Cleaning the Building

One of my fondest memories in Kenya is when my project in Kibera cleaned up before we moved into our new building. It still had a lot of work to be done, but with all the dusty mess, the workers couldn’t see what needed to be repaired or filled in. So the project got its youth members to come and clean the building one Saturday. We rolled up our trousers and began sweeping out all the rooms. This created a cloud of dust from the whole place, I tell you. After minor asthmatic attacks, we resumed our work. The real fun (and what a sight) is when they began washing the floors. Their method was to shake detergent powder all over the floor of one room, then pour water from the jugs they kept retrieving on top, and take the local broom, which looks like bundles of twigs, and mix it all up. It made so many suds that you just had to take your shoes off because soap bubbles were everywhere. Then each room poured out into the hallways, and from the hallways, the soap streamed onto the porches and into the ditches outside used for water removal. It was pouring out of every cavity, wave after wave. All the houses were out, taking their first look at their new neighbors, pushing and playing in a massive amount of suds! It may not have given them the best first impression of us, but it gave me a great first impression of the building.

Burning Boat

Of course there’s a burning boat in the middle of the road.
Of course the reason why we can’t get our bus back to Nairobi is because it can’t even get out of Busia because of the FLAMING BOAT the size of a small van.
It’s January 1, 2008, and I am in Busia, tired and hopeless, looking at this boat barrier, and waiting to hear the verdict on how much more I’ll have to pay for a taxi to take me out of here.
It’s here when Adam takes out his camera for a picture. I tell him to be careful, and he slyly takes it out, keeps the camera at his side, and snaps a photo. He doesn’t pause to check if the picture is good, but quickly returns it to his backpack. Within 20 minutes, it’s gone from his bag and our last chance at bringing home any tangible memories is gone with it.
So instead of uploading a picture of this, you’ll just have to close your eyes and imagine the flames.