God is in it

Today I went running through the Kibera slum. It was one of those things that if I would have thought about it longer than 30 seconds I probably would not have gone. We have six kids that are going to run a 10K race here in Nairobi in one week. We have to train and Kibera to these kids is not a dangerous, overpopulated place, it is their neighborhood. It was our only option as the space outside their school was muddy from the heavy rain last night. A couple of orphans from First Love’s girl’s home joined us, as well as the “aunty”. We were quite a site, 6 Kenyan juniors, 3 from the First Love home, and me, the muzungo (white person). We had little kids following us for blocks chanting “mzungo, muzungo” and “run faster!” – I wonder if they were talking to me? Swerving pot holes, raw sewage, and crazy matatus, we found ourselves running along the infamous train tracks that were filmed in the movie “Constant Gardener.” The run ended when we entered the school gate and the students who had stuck around after school began cheering for their unofficial cross country team. It was exhilarating and the best training run I have ever had!

We interviewed a girl named Phoebe today who needs a sponsor. She was precious and quiet like most 10 year old girls who have been through something like she has would be. She is cared for by her aunt after her parents were both hacked to death in the post election violence. Phoebe and her two younger siblings leave their home at 5:00 am so that she can arrive in time for the 7:00 am start to school. A two hour walk to school. I kept thinking about her parents tonight and their tragic, unnecessary deaths. I was reminded that yesterday as I sat in a hospital waiting room for 3 hours (I was accompanying my friend Agnes for a checkup, who last year was severely burned after a man threw gasoline on her and then lit her on fire) I saw two women who had survived the post-election violence. They were hiding in a church that was locked and doused with gasoline before it was lit on fire. The church had 50 women and children in it. Oh God, I don’t understand. These women had burn scars covering their face. Despite the apparent physical pain, they smiled contagiously and after emerging from the waiting room enjoyed the beautiful sun pouring down on the lusciously green Rift Valley.

Every day I feel like I have been given a rare gift. It is a gift from God in which I am allowed a glimpse of what just might go on at the core of his heart every day. Everyday God’s heart rejoices in our accomplishments, laughter, and rare peaceful moments. But thankfully because he is a real, live God he knows that life is not always so blissful. His heart breaks much more than ours ever could because he experiences not only my pain, but Phoebe’s when she found out about her parents being brutally killed, Agnes as the gasoline doused her skin and the fire spread over her face and neck, and he was even there with those precious children and women who sought false refuge in the church building. God carries that weight that I only get a glimpse of when I happen to hear a story or witness someone’s wounds. I am glad I am not God. I am glad I praise a God who is much bigger than this world’s sadness and destruction. I worship and have devoted my life to a God whose heart not only breaks when ours does, his power heals, restores, and gives us the courage to rejoice again and treasure that peace.

Two slums and a prison

Thursday was my most interesting day yet here in the great city of Nairobi. Our friends Michael and Mya are here visiting from the States, they have been so wonderful helping us out as we transition from the Dellamater’s home to our own apartment. So, back to Thursday, Michael and I started the day in Kibera at the Raila Educational Center where First Love works. After visiting some classrooms and playing tag with kids we headed to the Mitumba slum.

We were told that Mitumba was even more impoverished than Kibera, I thought “Is that possible?.” It is. Mitumba is much smaller and is tucked in between an airport runway strip and a middle class neighborhood called South C. The school where First Love assists consists of tin shacks (they are not allowed to build permanent structures) and very, very old wood. While Heather and Karen (First Love’s social worker) handed out uniforms, Michael and I went on a tour of the poorest village I have ever seen. Before we entered this small child came running over to us, I wanted to scoop him up immediately but before I did Heather’s words, “not all children are potty trained” (even though they don’t have diapers) echoed in my head. I couldn’t resist this child who I later learned was named Clinton and 4 years old. He was way too small to be 4, with some of the chubbiest cheeks I had ever seen…. Which is why when I picked him up, even with his urine soaked pants I couldn’t put him down. I carried him throughout our walk and just kept thinking I am the luckiest girl in

the world to be walking through the narrow passage-ways in between the tin shacks carrying this boy who clearly just wanted to be loved on. As we returned to the school I brought the boy back to where I picked him up and chatted with some women and other children who should have been in school. I could only think about how difficult it is for these families and in some cases orphans, to cover the seemingly daunting school fee amount and how easy it would be for someone outside of their community to cover their minimal school fees.

After giving the middle school age girls a pair of underwear and a pack of donated maxi pads, Karen gave the girls a demonstration on how to use the pads. I thought about how normally that is something a mom, big sister, or friend might show you how to do – but many of the women in their life have probably never had the privilege of using such sanitary products so they wouldn’t have a clue as to how to use them.

After Mitumba, I made my way to the women’s prison. Our first Sunday here, the church we attended highlighted a prison ministry for women. I was immediately intrigued as they talked about the women they visited on death row who had not had visitors in as long as 15 years. Capital punishment is against the law, so they are not really on death row, it is only a label for the most severe convicted offenders. I met the other women from the church outside the prison where we prayed for our time. As we entered the prison, I was almost brought to tears simply at the sight of the over 200 women gathered for our time. They were wearing hospital gown type uniforms, some gray some white. The women in white were awaiting trial for more petty crimes while the women in gray were awaiting trial for a murder arrest. We began our time of worship and unlike other prisons I had been to, I was trying to imagine the types of crimes they may had committed. I felt like the Lord slowly broke my heart more and more, as he said “Lydia, my heart breaks for these women, the world may see criminals, but I see one of my children who has been so broken and hurt that she was desperate enough to do the act that brought her here”. They looked so vulnerable in their gowns. I sat next to a few of them as we heard the lesson given on overcoming fear. After I learned their names and was able to pray with them before we had to leave. I could only say to myself “wow” after that day – I felt a little guilty grocery shopping for dinner that night – having the means to buy fresh food and cook in a kitchen bigger than most of the slum dweller’s homes. At the end of most days I have been exhausted, the good kind of exhausted where you feel like what you have seen and experienced is so out of the norm all you can do is think, pray, and sleep so that the next day you have the appropriate amount of strength to do it all over again.

Hi! And Welcome!

Hi, thank you so much for "clicking" this far into the site! I am very new to this blog thing so I really appreciate you taking the time to read this. Last fall, we began praying and thinking about the jourey we are beginning this fall - moving, working, and living in Kenya. I am so excited that God has brought us this far, to the point where we have sent out letters letting others know about our move, beginning to think about packing arrangements, and sitting down with our bosses to tell them we will no longer be working for them 9-5. My prep for Kenya has been basic thus far, but much more so than any other trip I have ever been on or move I have ever made. The night before I left for Ecuador, I packed at midnight and was still working on pronouncing the name of the city I would be living in: "Gua-ya-quil".... the same with almost every other trip. Kenya is different for many reasons, I have a husband this time (awesome!) (we have to watch out for eachother, I no longer feel invincible), we are going for at least a year, and Africa in general has been on my heart since I was a little girl - I feel like I have so many expectations-yet I cannot comprehend the feeling I will have the first time I lay my eyes on the infamous Kibera slum.