Waves & Wonderings

I have lost count the number of times I have tried to write this blog.  Normally, I have so much to say, to the point where I mentally write out passages to later transfer to a page.  But I find myself frustrated that I have very little to say.  It is not that things haven’t been happening, or that I am not having a great time here in Kenya.  Yet, this trip is different.  The sights, the sounds, the people – so much is becoming familiar.  In fact, when I share with people that I have been to Kenya five times now, a common response is “now you are a Kenyan.”  Of course, that is pretty far from the truth, but maybe it does shed some light on a transition that is happening.  I think maybe I am transitioning into something new.  I no longer feel like a tourist, and just “seeing” a bunch of things no longer is enough.  I long for deepened relationships.  I long to be part of the solution, and not just another person witnessing the slums.  I want so badly to truly know and understand this community, yet I don’t feel that I am supposed to move here.  It feels a lot like limbo, the in-between.

At the risk of sounding prestigious, it was difficult for me to come to the coast for vacation.  I am not anti-vacation, and going to the coast in California has always been a relaxing and rejuvenating time.  But the sudden change of scenery – from walking through one of the world’s largest slums on Monday, to arriving at a beautiful, oceanfront resort on Tuesday was confusing.  I keep replaying questions in my head – Is this okay?  What would my Kenyans friends think?  Is spending money on massages and snorkeling selfish, when it could be invested in fighting poverty?  If I am enjoying myself, does that mean I don’t care?  I keep thinking – why is it so hard to go back and forth and seemingly effortless when I am at home?  Maybe it is because when I physically come to Kenya, I see my purpose as living out the mission of Imani.  Restore hope through health.  It is difficult to see how sitting here on the beach is fulfilling that mission.

Then I gaze out into the ocean.  Tears welling up in my eyes.  My only response is to say “God I feel you.”  The ocean does that for me.  The crashing waves into the shore.  Over and over again.  Day and night.  Sun and storm.  When I am awake to stare at it in awe, and when I am asleep.  I have struggled with guilt my whole life.  Guilt and shame.  And somehow even in this beautiful, calm, heaven-like place, the emotions that have plagued me over and over strike again. 

The ocean is frightening and inspiring.  Powerful, yet calm.  Intimidating, yet inviting.  Similar to my Heavenly Father, the one who gives and takes away, the author and creator, the beginning and the end.  I think when I am here, in Kenya, I expect to feel a certain way.  To respond to encounters in a certain way.  There is this expectation that the experience is going to be life-changing, the way it has been in the past and some.  That’s a lot of pressure for a trip.  I keep asking, God, what is it that I am supposed to take away from this?  Well, that is the mature version – the questioning normally sounds more like why is this sad thing not making me cry?  Why don’t I have a collection of dramatic and amazing tales to share?  And then I hear myself.  And I question why am I insisting on making this all about me?

I am reading this book about the life of Jesus, and the author is quick to point out the historical and Biblical evidence of his humanity.  He says it much better than this, but in essence – Jesus walked, talked, slept, ate, learned, cried, laughed, got sick, etc.  I guess I have not spent a lot of time thinking about Jesus doing very ordinary things.  I tend to think of Jesus’ life as being one of performing miracles – healing the sick, giving sight to the blind, turning water into wine, multiplying the fish and the bread.  And yet, more than likely, the majority of Jesus’ life was nothing special (at least by our standards).  It was rather ordinary, mundane even.  But it mattered.  There were seasons to his existence, in the same way there are seasons in my own life.

So as the sun sets, and the waves roar on, I thank God for these quiet moments, these ordinary but precious days, and the chance to be still.  To sleep.  To eat.  To laugh.  To gaze.  To stand in wonder and awe.  To watch the tide go out and come back again.  All before my life drastically changes.  These are the days the Lord has made, full of moments – some miraculous, some mundane, but all full of meaning.

Lord, help me to be still and know you are God.