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.
