some favs.
At 6:30 I fall out of bed to shut off my alarm before it wakes up my little sister. My feet hit the cold floor. I welcome the twinge of pain up my legs because it means my nerves work. I pry my eyes open with peppermint soap, yank out my retainers, grab my bible and force myself to go read some scripture on our beautiful back porch as the sun rises. I want to be in the Word, but I'm hardly self-motivated. I'm distracted by the bats flying around me and the lizards crawling above me and the mosquitoes biting parts of my flesh. I open to Isaiah somewhere. When you pass through the waters I will be with. God whispers a promise. He doesn't say he'll tell me how to get out. He doesn't say he'll help from drowning. He doesn't say he'll throw me a life-ring. He promises that I’m not alone, and that’s enough for me. I'm motivated by that promise and now I have strength to get through the day. I need grace and mercy because I already can tell I'm going to need it. Patience comes in short supply over here. I'm off to Agape by 7:30 with at least one of my brothers, Jimmy, an older teenager friend who goes to school at Agape and our ever doting "Uncle Steve & Aunt Diane". Once on campus, boys surround me. (Good thing I'm used to it, six brothers and all.) As soon as I see their faces my mind fills with their stories. Their abuse. Their neglect. Their abandonment. Their hopelessness. Their families or lack there of. All the bad things I've read in their files and heard from their mouths come rushing to my mind. I forget they're safe. They have a small hope now. Some hope is better than none. I fight out the images than in 10 years this boy might be back on the streets, drunk on glue and helpless. Who can save them now, but Christ? This is when I remember the power of prayer and exercise that power again and again.
I head to my classroom to organize the lessons for the day. I have just one student. Daniel. He is “my project.” Today I want to strangle him because he thinks its fun to play hide and seek when I want him to clean the classroom. Funny, I'm not in charge. Reality check. I fight with myself. Am I helping, or hurting this child? Am I preparing him for his real future or for a fake parallel universe? Will he actually retain any of this knowledge? What will happen when I'm gone? I fight these questions back for the moment…and focus on the present. Reminded again that I know nothing. Humility is the only way. I whisper a prayer to be patient with the boy who understands and speaks no English. Who shows few facial expressions. Who communicates only via grunts. Who stinks and needs to learn how to wash his clothes. Then I remember...I only need to do one thing, one thing at a time. Serve one person. Help one person. Give to one person to make a difference. I cannot become discontent with what I'm doing or I'll never find any pleasure in serving. I remember that I need to act as if what I do matters. It does. Daniel and I sing songs, we grunt sounds, we add numbers and crawl on the floor playing hide and seek. I can’t wait to become a Special Ed teacher so I can actually help boys like this one. “My project” is changing me into someone who sees the beauty of rehabilitation. I see the boys: Daniel, Bramuel, Jacktone, George, Richard and so many more. I remember how they used to fight me: physically and emotionally. They used to run to the streets weekly. They used to punch me, grab me, insult me and criticize me until I wanted to cry like a baby. I'm not exaggerating. Today these boys don’t stand before me as perfect children, but as boys who are different. They are changing and that’s all we can ask for.
"My Project"
I skip around to the other classes to visit my friends, and on break I lock up my schoolroom and go to take tea with the staff in our dining hall. I take tea here. Everyone does. If you don’t…you’re just not Kenyan. I can only stand sitting for 15 minutes before I’m itching to go outside with my boys. They’re stuck in school so long and their meager breaks are a breath of fresh air for both of us. My arms are never empty and my heart is always full. I continually have to be patient. They’re always asking. They’re always needy. They always want something more that I can’t give. I’m done with Daniel. I pray I did something right, Lord. I check in with my favorite social worker: Winnie, drop by the laundry area where the new boys from the streets are always found, and wave goodbye to my big sister, my Juvenile Remand companion. But I will not be going to Remand today.
I walk out the gates of Agape by lunch most days; I feel so confident and safe next to my big brothers. Both brothers are bigger, now. I am safe in Christ, so nothing worries me. Well, almost nothing. We hop onto a motorbike as a few street boys yell our names. We’re back home for a bit, resting, eating, laughing, fighting, talking to you back home. We’re a normal family. We’re so not perfect. In the afternoon I either am cooking some delectable food, trying to do a bit of school because surprise surprise, I’m still in 10th grade, or just talking to our favorite guard and house friend: Emmy & Issac. I learn so much from them. They’ve taught me that I’m still a child. They’ve taught me I’ve so much to learn. They’ve taught me most of the Kiswahili I am privileged to speak, which, by the way, is improving by leaps and bounds.
By 4:30 I’m back on the motorbike with one of our pastors who drives a motorbike as his primary source of income and we're off to soccer practice. Most days I love soccer. On some days, like this one, I loathe playing soccer. Most often the girls are sweet, protective and helpful. But often they’re hurtful, rude and tiresome. But I remind myself it’s another mission field. These girls are my peers. This is who I would be if I were a Kenyan right now. Maybe that’s where I’d be…or I’d be like the girls on the street who sell their bodies just to eat. I’m reminded that their rude comments about my inability to play well really have no eternal weight. I’m just hurt, nothing more. I get over myself and make sure to hug the girls with a smile on my face as I leave. Maybe I’m vulnerable. Maybe I’m naive. Maybe I’m innocent and blonde and ditsy. But I have a heart to serve Christ…and that’s the one thing I’m proud of. Because I know what I’m supposed to do and what I’d love to do isn’t what He would do. I make my way home and collapse, spending time with my priceless family. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without them and the other incredibly supportive missionaries here, Chris & Tammy, Blake & Esther, Steve & Diane. They bless me so much.
By 10 I collapse into bed, retainers back in, bed net tucked in, praying for the street boys, sleeping in my room we’re re-modeling and painting. I might as well be in America at this moment, but then again…in America: I act like I don’t need God so much. I’m thankful for another day to be a Kenyan, for another day to be in God’s presence.
What are you thankful for?
I walk out the gates of Agape by lunch most days; I feel so confident and safe next to my big brothers. Both brothers are bigger, now. I am safe in Christ, so nothing worries me. Well, almost nothing. We hop onto a motorbike as a few street boys yell our names. We’re back home for a bit, resting, eating, laughing, fighting, talking to you back home. We’re a normal family. We’re so not perfect. In the afternoon I either am cooking some delectable food, trying to do a bit of school because surprise surprise, I’m still in 10th grade, or just talking to our favorite guard and house friend: Emmy & Issac. I learn so much from them. They’ve taught me that I’m still a child. They’ve taught me I’ve so much to learn. They’ve taught me most of the Kiswahili I am privileged to speak, which, by the way, is improving by leaps and bounds.
By 4:30 I’m back on the motorbike with one of our pastors who drives a motorbike as his primary source of income and we're off to soccer practice. Most days I love soccer. On some days, like this one, I loathe playing soccer. Most often the girls are sweet, protective and helpful. But often they’re hurtful, rude and tiresome. But I remind myself it’s another mission field. These girls are my peers. This is who I would be if I were a Kenyan right now. Maybe that’s where I’d be…or I’d be like the girls on the street who sell their bodies just to eat. I’m reminded that their rude comments about my inability to play well really have no eternal weight. I’m just hurt, nothing more. I get over myself and make sure to hug the girls with a smile on my face as I leave. Maybe I’m vulnerable. Maybe I’m naive. Maybe I’m innocent and blonde and ditsy. But I have a heart to serve Christ…and that’s the one thing I’m proud of. Because I know what I’m supposed to do and what I’d love to do isn’t what He would do. I make my way home and collapse, spending time with my priceless family. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without them and the other incredibly supportive missionaries here, Chris & Tammy, Blake & Esther, Steve & Diane. They bless me so much.
By 10 I collapse into bed, retainers back in, bed net tucked in, praying for the street boys, sleeping in my room we’re re-modeling and painting. I might as well be in America at this moment, but then again…in America: I act like I don’t need God so much. I’m thankful for another day to be a Kenyan, for another day to be in God’s presence.
What are you thankful for?
Love and stuff, K.
