The most random, unorganized, and spastic thing you will ever read.

I want to be alive...to love. To be radical. To run with passion but not be afraid to come to a standstill. To talk about love. About politics. About philosophy. About the world. About social justice. About injustice. About faith. About religion. Heaven and hell. The supernatural. Music. Poetry. Paintings. Art. Wisdom. Listen to Death Cab For Cutie and Dave Matthews. Explosions in the Sky and Sigur Ros while watching the sun go down in its own explosion in the sky. Talk about social justice and the church while listening to U2. Pray while listening to This Will Destroy You. Dream about a new world, a new heart, and a new life while listening to Angels and Airwaves. Laugh and cry. Scream about injustice but whisper about love. Run through open fields and sit under the stars. Watch the nightlife and when we get bored of the city find the sunset and the sunrise. Be independent. Screw up badly but then try again and again. Write songs and poems. Love much and speak little. Enjoy the little things. Dance with abandon and cry freely. Learn what love is. Learn about sorrow and about hope. About despair. About poverty and about wealth. Feel loved, but experience loneliness. To run, to hide, as we tear down the walls that hold us back tonight. Run to a standstill and in that stillness, find the God of burning bushes and still breezes. Be still. Enjoy community. Find Jesus. Seek humility but tell their story. Study eyes. Get lost in beauty. Run away from rules to create our own. Cry with orphans and laugh with widows. Play with the children and wash their feet. Smile at and hug alcoholics, prostitutes, and drug addicts.



It is a new day. Things will never be the same. WE will never be the same... OH THE GLORY OF IT ALL! For His glory, make me alive because I am dead. Dead without his life... breathed into the world in the sunsets, sunrises, and stars...those explosions of light, sound, and color in the sky...The stars that light up the darkness. I want to be filled with that love, that life, that passion. I want to gaze at the sunset as if fades to black...dotted with the stars and talk about love. I want to look upon that love and talk about how small I am...how broken I must become. To learn together. To pray together. To love together and to love one another. To talk about Africa...about life... about God... about what it means to actually be ALIVE in this life. TO remind one another of our joy in light of the glorious rtiches given to us by the blood shed on that cross, so long ago. To learn together not to wait out the storm but to dance in the rain. To follow that light we see on the horizon. That speck of light at the end of the dark tunnel. The golden tear shed by the eyes of God for this world. To chase that light, that unfathomable love, until we are called home. That incomprehensible, undeserved love for this world that has rejected that light and that love. To chase that forever...To pick each other up when big feet and long legs trip us up...to trip, but then to look up and find the light once more. To pour ourselves out again and again... offering hope to the hopeless and love to the unlovable.

We must open our eyes to the world...screaming at the injustice we see but whispering love to those persecuted by that injustice. Loving much but speaking little. We must be still, but run as fast as we can all the while listening to Love and screaming that love through our eyes...our hands... and our feet as we seek what it means to be the hands and feet of Christ. Learning what it means to actually BE the CHURCH...not an institution but an organism that is eternally alive and changing...promoting life. We must learn that this life is not about the destination but that it is about the journey.

Walk this earth, always looking for that which we haven't found, but that which we are looking for. Recognize that we are not defined by what we do, but that we must recognize who we are...and let that define what we do. But finally, I want to be aware...aware of love, of providence, of people, and of this world...and then maybe I'll be alive.

Be radical but ordinary.

lovewill

"May we find the Way, the Truth, and the Life in a world of shortcuts, deception, and death."
-Shane Claiborne

These are a few of my favorite things !

Jill got her hair braided today, and she looks a lot like a mermaid.

Yesterday Jill and I were talking about our favorite things about Africa on the way into Ngong, so I thought I would share a bit of a list:

• In Africa, the food you eat comes from Africa. If you have a tomato chances are it was grown very close to where you live. I love how the cycle of life is so evident here. They grow their own food, or buy it from neighbors at the market, then they eat it and feed the leftovers to the pigs. All the natural organic products seem to have their own natural, organic life cycle. The rest of the garbage is another story though, as they burn pretty much everything else ! In North America it is the "Organic" food that costs a fortune, whereas here it is the packaged and imported food that costs a fortune. That doesn't really make sense to me.
  
• I love mangoes. They are like 15-20 Ksh at the market, and they are so delicious. I hate, on the other hand, having to barter for them because the vendors typically try and rip us off, and make us pay extra. Some of the vendors are kind though, and give us a fair price.
• I love "Africa Time". Seemingly, nothing happens fast here. There is so much less stress, and less to get done, and more time to do it in. There are alway people lounging in the grass on the side of the road, or riding their bikes to town. When I first arrived in October one of the things that struck me was the number of people riding bikes, and the number of people walking places. I love being able to walk 5 minutes to get to the store and buy a coke. And then getting to walk 5 minutes back to the store to return the bottle.
• Pop tastes better out of a glass bottle.
  
• I love Kenyan-isms. Almost all the Kenyans we've met all talk using the same vocal inflictions and the same "sayings". For example, you'll ask them a question like, "Do you like oranges Jane?" and they will look at you and say "Me?" and after you've confirmed that you were indeed talking to them, they answer. They also don't really have a word for "hello" in Swahili, so when you are greeting some one you instead say "habari yako ?" which means "how are you?" and they other person will say "msuri" which means "fine". So when we say "Hello" in English, they almost always respond by saying "Fine". Jill is the best out of all of us at imitating their speech patterns.
• I love how most of the matatu's are "pimped out". They have music blaring, stickers of rappers and hip hop women, and some have screens to play music videos on. One time we were on a matatu that had a sticker on the mirror that said " Don't kis tha driver!" (*see photo above... it was so funny we had to take a picture) In the windshield of every matatu there is a piece wood or cardboard that has the route number on it, and once we were in a matatu that had "Route 23" on one side and " On a date" on the other side.
  
• Mmm mendazi! Mendazi are these delicious triangles of fried dough that taste like heaven when they are fresh. You can get them for 5 Ksh at just about any store, although some are better than others.

That's all I've got for now. There are many other things that I know I love about Kenya. It's a really beautiful place, equally because of the people as the landscape.

peace,

Bethany

Some colored pencils and a guitar

Sometimes unexplainable things happen. It seems as if the longer I am here in Africa, the more frequent those things become. I have been meaning to write about one of those times for about three weeks. At Huruma, I've been teaching creative arts class for some of the different classes as much as time and class schedules allow. Three weeks ago, I had the opportunity to work with the second graders. The following is a just a retelling of all that happened that morning. This is an excerpt from my journal about that day. Before beginning I'd to tell you about two of the children that are in that class.

One of the little boy is named Nicholas. He is deaf. I don't know why he is deaf or if he's been deaf since birth but he is a beautiful little boy that always seems to have a smile on his face.

One of the little girls is named Miracle. She has an amazing story. When she was little, her parents found out that they had both contracted HIV and that their children had it as well. In Kenya, there is a huge stigma around HIV and AIDS because of the fundamental Christian influence and the fact that HIV is a sexually transmitted disease. Miracle's parents decided that they didn't want to deal with having HIV... they didn't want that stigma placed on their family. So they hung themselves. They hung themselves in their living room in front of their children's eyes. Right in front of two year old Miracle. She does remember it. When she came to Huruma, she tested positive for HIV. However, after some time, she was tested again, and the test results were reversed- she was negative. That is unheard of... They renamed her Miracle.

Thursday, November 8, 2007
Creative Arts Class- Grade 2

Yesterday before lunch I went to Jodie's class to do their creative arts time. For the first thirty minutes or so, we talked about what it means to be creative. A lot of them said that playing football, singing, dancing, and drawing were part of their own personal creativity. I thought about how they all have innate creativity within them and how it is largely ignored and even suppressed in some cases. It seems that the teachers do not emphasize creativity whatsoever and in teaching creative arts I have met with some resistance because the teachers don't think it is important.

We started our little session with a singalong. We sang "How Great Thou Art," "Awesome God," "I'll Fly Away," and "Silent Night." At the end of the singalong, Jodie came back with paper and colored pencils. This was the part that I was excited about.

Two days before, I remembered something that my English professor did with us my senior year and thought I would try it with the kids. He had us all sit down, dimmed the lights, and played one song on repeat for the remainder of the class time. We were encouraged to listen to the song twice through and then to begin to write... writing whatever came to mind from the song whether it be prose, poetry, or lyrical. It was one of those times in life where you feel something happen inside you... you can't explain it, but you know that something was different and my writing that day reflected that. Because of that memory, I wanted to try it with the kids.

I asked the kids to sit down, separate at their desks and to put their heads down. I explained I would play a song and that I just wanted them to listen to the song, keeping their heads down and not talking with their classmates. I began to play "Mexico" by Jump Little Children. As I played and began to sing, a feeling of peace swept over the room... I watched as peaceful expressions washed over their faces and many of them began to smile. Even Nicholas, the deaf boy was smiling. I feel like he felt the music rather than heard it because his whole demeanor changed as I began to play.

After the song was over, I asked them to lift their heads and begin to draw or write whatever they felt after hearing the song. I asked them not to talk with their classmates and to keep their eyes on their own papers. They did exactly as they were told. I began the song again and played for about thirty minutes as they sat and listened and drew. I don't remember feeling that peaceful or that happy in a long time.

At the end of the time, I silently put my guitar away and walked around the classroom to see what they had drawn. My heart began to flutter, beating faster as tears came to my eyes. Probably 80% of the kids had drawn hearts...some drew one heart, some drew lots of small hearts, some drew Jodie and I with hearts around us. Even some of the boys drew hearts. (Well, of course one boy drew a lion and the other traced an elephant... that would have been me.) The deaf boy, who is actually extremely artistic, drew a heart. Even now, I still can't totally believe it or hope to comprehend what happened that morning. They hadn't seen each other's work, but they had drawn hearts as I played the music.

A class filled with the world's abandoned, orphaned, sick, destitute, and abused children drew hearts and wrote about love. The song didn't directly speak of love, but they drew hearts. Out of thirteen kids, ten drew hearts.

There are so many implications of what happened that morning. The power of music....I have aways wondered if music actually does have power. But apparently, music is able to convey love, thereby giving music some sort of supernatural quality. I will never understand what happened in that room and I won't attempt to understand now.

I have struggled with how to love these children... the abused, the abandoned, the destitute, and the dying. I have tried so hard to do something to change the world for them. I have tried so hard to wrap my mind around the big picture and fix things for them. But all it took was a guitar and a voice to convey more love than I could have ever come up with on my own. Something happened in that room that science and reason cannot explain. Something happened that was beyond my human understanding.

I think that was the simplest and yet most profound experience of my life. Don't overcomplicate love. Just love. I cannot explain or understand what happened that day... I just wanted to tell you about it. Smile about the children and go out and love someone today.

lovewill

"In a world overwhelmed with words, sometimes the most powerful communication is action that is fueled and inspired by love."

God, I want so much for you to open my eyes, because they need me to look into theirs.

P.S. This morning I was sitting and writing and I heard this crazy loud song coming down the road. As it drew closer I recognized Johnny Cash singing about being the man... And when it drove by I realized it was a presidential propaganda car... They go around blaring propaganda about a certain candidate in the election... and it was blaring Johnny Cash. HAHAHAHAHA!!!

:-)

Rob Bell, Stars, and a Rat

Tonight, two little boys continually said, “Give me, give me about random things and then proceeded to go crazy and slap Jill and I on certain lower anterior areas of our anatomy. To which Jill responded, “What? Are you serious?” haha

Tonight, I saw a rat on a wall. And it was way too big. And it ran really fast.

Tonight, the sunset was beautiful… simplistic in the fact that the sky was mostly clear of clouds, vibrant in colors, and quite subtle as it faded into an endless blue dotted with specks of light. Infinite, incomprehensible beauty.

Tonight, the girls and I listened to a Rob Bell sermon on the second of the seven woes, recorded in Luke 11 and Matthew 23. In the passage, Jesus criticized the Pharisees for being more concerned with the outside of the cup (our life) than with the inside… Though they cleaned the outside of the cup, the inside was filled with greed, wickedness, and self-indulgence. Bell’s point was that we should live an undivided life, where the outside of the cup is just a reflection of the inside. Clean the inside and the outside will take care of itself. Be real before God and man.

Tonight, God encouraged our weary hearts, stimulated our minds, and lifted our spirits with love.

Tonight, I was reminded once again of the truth of the following statement: “The pursuit of the truth is far more important than the possession of it.”-Albert Einstein

Tonight, I partook of my first communion in Africa which consisted of mandazi and water… And I about cried because of the beauty that I found in that simplicity.

Tonight, I was reminded once again how much I love Jill and Bethany.


While listening to Rob Bell’s sermon (yep, for all my friends- Jill goes to Mars Hill and gets to listen to Rob Bell on a regular basis—lovewins…lucky) from Mars Hill from September 16, and something that he said really hit me. It wasn’t even part of the sermon really, just something that he said at the beginning of his comments on Jesus and a conversation with the Pharisees. During a prayer at the beginning of his talk, he said, “As we long for a reconciled heaven and earth, please tap us into the big themes—the big story—so that we can be a part of it.”

Tap us into the big themes. The big story…. so that we can be a part of it. The big picture. After he finished his sermon, I tried to think about the big picture for the first time in a long time as I listened to Explosions in the Sky while watching the sky grow dark and the stars grow brighter and brighter…seemingly exploding into the night sky. Lately I’ve done a terrible job about being concerned with the big themes. Forgive me for the jumbled up, disorganized train of thought that could possibly follow…

Love… blinding, bright, passionate love that lights up the sky at night as the bright sun descends and sets in an explosion of color while being capped off by the subtle transition to a black sky filled with small specks of light… representing that star, burning fiercely millions of light years away…

Love…that lights up the night sky in the morning as the sun begins it’s ascent in a softer, but equally beautiful sunrise in which the darkness of night is finally chased away by the light of the Son, as it pierces the darkness and extends its long fingers into the shadows…

Love...unconditional, radical love that died on a cross for the sins of the world and broke the chains of legalism, tradition, and sin for all who cling to that cross. And that same Love chased away the darkness of death after three days, claiming victory over darkness, pain, and death for all time.

And I get to see it…. I get to experience it. I get to feel that blinding, unconditional, and vibrant Love that daily puts on a light show of explosions in the sky just because it can. I get to see that love bring tears to the eyes of a child who has been driven from home to the brutal streets by parents that beat him…I get to see that love rescue a young Masaii girl from a future of FGM (Female Genital Mutilation), forced marriage, and polygamy…I get to see that love rescue an abandoned child addicted to glue from the streets…I get to see that love bring three very different people together to embark on a quest to experience that love, follow it, and seek to lose enough of ourselves in order to become channels of that love to the world.

“So what can I say and what can I do, but offer this heart, O God, completely to You? So I’ll stand, with arms high and heart abandoned—in awe of the one who gave it all. I’ll stand, my soul, Lord, to You surrendered. All I am is Yours.” -Hillsong United

Now that I have seen these things and experienced this great love…I am responsible. Faith without deeds is dead. This love manifested in salvation allows me to have an inexpressible joy, an unfathomable peace, and an unexplainable hope…even in the pain, suffering, and death I see daily. These things that I have seen and this love that I have witnessed demand my life, my time, and my all… Maybe I didn’t ask to be here and be responsible for all that I have seen, but I’m here, I’ve seen it, and I am now responsible to do something about it… to tell the world of that love. To feed and clothe a child on the streets. To look at an AIDS victim and pour forth love from my eyes. To tell their story so that they may never again be invisible. And while doing so, maybe then I’ll actually be alive… not just in a medical sense, but truly alive. That’s the big picture…at least for tonight with my characteristic idealism.

The big picture for me tonight revolves around love. I will never completely understand… I may search for all the answers, but I will never know them. I still haven’t found what I’m looking for—heaven on earth—but I’ll keep looking ahead to that…and I’ll keep pursuing truth on this journey. And I’ll continue to believe that along the way, all three of us will discover our vital connection to God and one another. That we will truly be ALIVE.

Never settle!

lovewill

"We are only asked to love, to offer hope to the many hopeless. We don't get to choose all the endings, but we are asked to play the rescuers. We won't solve all mysteries and our hearts will certainly break in such a vulnerable life, but it is the best way. We were made to be lovers bold in broken places, pouring ourselves out again and again until we are called home." To Write Love On Her Arms

Emmanuel

I am the sort of person who loves hearing stories, so I thought I would share a story about Huruma.

Some of you, who have done your research, may know that Huruma houses about 150 children, 25 of which are HIV positive. The effect of HIV on the social fabric of Africa, and its ubiquitous presence here is not something that is easy for me to understand, or even recognize all the time.

But I got a little closer to understanding this weekend after we came back from Lake Naivasha and learned that one of the children, Emmanuel, had passed away. Emmanuel was a boy I didn't know very well, he was in class four and he was HIV positive.

Medically, I don't know enough to explain exactly what happened, but I can explain what I know which may or may not be biologically correct. Emmanuel had not eaten anything on Friday, probably by his own choice because Mama Zipporah is very adamant that the children on ARV's ( Anti-RetroViral) get enough to eat, and no one noticed until the next day. So his immune system became compromised, and he was taking ARV's without food, so all in all it was a bad situation. They took him to the hospital on Sunday after he didn't want to wake up or eat anything. They found out that he had contracted meningitis , and after the doctor put the IV in , he went into shock and died.

When the arrived at the hospital the nurse told Mary, a staff member at Huruma, to ask Emmanuel if he knew where he was. Emmanuel said "Yes, I am dying. I am dying." It's hard for me to imagine a child in grade four saying that.

I didn't personally know Emmanuel, but I know I had met him, and I know that I had played seven up with his class two weeks ago. I find it really eerie to know that a child I had spent time with is now gone.

When Mama took him in, she knew that he would die eventually. She understood that if he stayed wherever he was before Huruma he probably would die faster. But she chose to take him in and show him love for the time he had left. She committed to be his mother and offer him the best she could, until HIV took hold. I really admire her for seeing the value in all her children, while the rest of Kenyan society views them as a burden.

So that's the story I have to share. I hope it offered a brief glimpse into life in Africa, and maybe gave a real, human face to the AIDS crisis.

Peace,

Bethany

Thanksgiving in Kenya... well sort of.

Today is Thanksgiving... And I'm in Kenya. And there is no such thing as Thanksgiving in Kenya... And unless I ate a goat or a stork or something... maybe a scrawny chicken, the whole eat turkey thing on Thanksgiving is pretty impossible. And I just said and at the beginning of lots of sentences. Sad day.

P.S. And I'm listening to John Denver... singing about how it's good to be back home again. That's somewhat ironic or something.

However, my illustrious friends and I are actually doing things for thanksgiving. Jill just made a little cut-out turkey to give to Bethany but she ran out of room at the bottom of the paper so the feet are very awkward. Ha. Right now, the girls are upstairs making french toast.... I will probably be in love with the both of them in about an hour because of that (sorry Steve). We bought two loaves of bread to make it with so that should be able to dampen my bottomless appetite. I'm getting hungry thinking about it.

Then, for lunch, Bethany is making chapatis (the Kenyan tortilla- sugar, salt, flour, and water rolled out) and the three of us are going to make apple pie filling to put on top. Man, we need some ice cream. There's not exactly any pumpkins around for us to make pumpkin pie but Jill and I made an executive decision that we don't like pumpkin pie anyway.

So that shall be our Thanksgiving. After lunch, we'll be wrapping Christmas presents for the kids and listening to the limited Christmas music on my laptop. I have decided that only for today, I will miss the football, family time, and the day after Thanksgiving when my cousins, brothers, and I laugh at the women of the family because they try to shop and then get home whining about how cold it is and how crowded everywhere is... But I will definitely miss the day after Thanksgiving even more than the day itself because the day after Thanksgiving is when my family decorates for Christmas, goes to the back of our land to cut a Christmas tree, and begins to listen to the Christmas music that I really enjoy. I'll definitely miss the decorating and all the memories that come from putting on all the tree ornaments... so many of them are associated with memories or are completely characteristic of my brothers' personalities or things that all three of us enjoy or do.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING EVERYONE!!! (for the Canadians- just imagine I said that about a month ago.)

Now for a brief update. My parents tell me I should blog more about what we do daily and about Africa in general, so the frequency of blogs may increase. Hopefully, I'll keep them short so that it can become a weekly or daily part of the day for whoever is interested.

We are still at Huruma Children's home in the Ngong Hills outside of Nairobi. We've been here for about a month and have definitely learned a lot from the kids, God, and each other. I'm learning a seemingly infinite about of things about myself (most probably not good... but that in itself is probably a good thing), God, and love/life in general. We are working on sifting through the options of what to do next... To name a few we are considering Swahili school in Nairobi (classes every other day and work at orphanages, slums, and the like on the other days... probably work with a pastor we know who works in Kibera. And continue our work with the street kids.), an orphanage and family close to Lake Naivasha, and a couple of ministries we learned about from a doctor friend we met. Please be praying for our direction about what is next for us.

Hopefully, that will give everyone an idea of where we are at the moment and an idea of what we need prayer about... (and that was an absolutely pathetic and terrible sentence grammatically) So I'll close with a random funny Kenyan story.

Last Friday, I had the opportunity to go to a Masaii village with a Kenyan social worker to pick up a girl that was going to be put into a forced marriage with a Kenyan man (probably around 70 or 80...the girl is ten)... Forced marriage occurs after a ceremony where the young girls are circumcised (FGM- female genital mutilation) and are sold at a dowry. Polygamy is normal in Masaii culture. I'll try and write about my experience in the village at a later time.

Anyway, on the way back from the village we are going up this hill, and I hear this huge, terrible noise and feel a bunch of smashing and thumping on the bottom of the truck. Uh-oh. Welcome to Kenya. As the truck slows and starts to roll backward, the driver pulls the parking break and we screech to a halt on this huge hill in the middle of nowhere. When I say nowhere about a place in Africa, it really is nowhere. We get out of the truck and look underneath the chassis... only to see that the drive shaft had pretty much self-destructed and ripped apart. And I'm thinking... awesome I'll get back early today, get a great lunch, and not have to walk a long way, deal with Kenyan mechanics, or enjoy a day stuck in Masaiiland. Ha. What ended up happening was the driver calling his mechanic "friends" who came in an old, midget, decrepit Datsun POS pickup (three of them crammed in) and they proceeded to convince me that they had no idea what they were talking about, were going to overcharge us, and would probably not help at all. We then connected our truck to theirs by a tiny little trashy rope connecting both bumpers and then we slowly groaned up the hill with the drive shaft thumping beneath my feet. At the top of the hill, the rope of course snapped but thankfully we had enough momentum to make it over the hill and coast downhill for an hour and a half... (Seriously I wanted to commit suicide or something... sitting in a hot truck going -7 mph on this barely sloping hill for an hour and a half... I took a nap.) Finally, we made it into town and I'm thinking we'll have to get a matatu to go home as the truck will need repairs... But no, it's Kenya and we went and ate lunch while they repaired the drive shaft... welded it on the spot. So an hour later they welded the pieces back together- welding is sketchy here though. We got back to the truck and the mechanic says, "You should wait a while because it is still very hot and not solid yet..." Oh boy. And guess what, our driver decided against waiting and we took off immediately, the underside of the car smoking and all. Sigh...

But as you can see, I'm still alive.

As Jill would say, "Will, that's pretty sketchy."

Oh really...

lovewill

ps: Will forgot to mention the amazing fried brownies we've been having on our down days. One day Jill and I trekked all the way to Karen, bartered for a pan at a dodgy pan-vendor, and came back to realize that the oven in the guest house does not work! I was a little disappointed, seeing as we had just spent a good two hours preparing to bake brownies. So instead I decided that I would make the batter and fry in in a frying pan. I was expecting them to turn into brownie pancakes, but they were more like scrambled brownies. Mmm they were delicious. It's been good to be able to bring elements of home into our Kenyan lives, even though , more often than not, we have to modify them in some way. I'm pretty excited to celebrate my first American thanksgiving ever, and what better way than with french toast and chapati apple pie.

Bethany the fried brownie gal...

Life and a Cappucinno

I am almost tempted not to blog, because Will’s blog pretty eloquently describes almost all my thoughts of last night. But, I hardly ever write anything, and I am long past due for a blog, so I though I would begin with a funny anecdote:

It was a beautiful night in Kenya, warm with slight, refreshing breeze. Bethany is relaxing on a chair, and Jill and Will are sitting next to her, on the ground. There is a cup of cappuccino that is too hot to drink that is sitting on the arm of the chair.

They are all watching the sun go down over the Ngong hills, and Will begins to get excited about the beauty of the sunset. He attempts to describe how the color of the sky will slowly leak to the sky that is in our peripheral vision. He discovers that words alone cannot capture the essence of what he is trying to convey so he rapidly stretches his long, long arms out to show Bethany and Jill how big the sunset really is. In doing so, he knocks the cup of cappuccino off of the arm of the chair, towards Bethany’s lap. She sees the hot liquid will spill all over her if she makes no attempt to stop it so she reaches out her hand to catch the mug and in doing so launches the mug further into the air.

The cappuccino spatters through the air, and rains down all over Bethany’s face, and clothes. The moral of the story is : Don’t let Will describe the sunset with flailing arm motions, or you too could be showered in cappuccino.

That was possibly the funniest moment of my week, and I am thankful I did not get cappuccino burns all over my face.

Since we left the YWAM base I’ve realized that I lot of times I am trying to do something, instead of trying to be something. Last night as I was falling asleep I began to wonder again about my identity. I wondered whether I let the things I do define me, or whether who I am define the things I do. It’s much easier, I think, to let myself be defined by what I do. It’s less thinking power, and conscious action, because I can just go on with life, and then afterwards tie my identity to whatever it was that I did. To let who I am define what I do, is much more difficult. And I am not sure yet how exactly to go about it. It makes me think of that Casting Crowns song, “Who am I ?” The chorus says :

And you’ve told me who I am,
I am yours.

Do I let the fact that “ I am His” define what I do? I don’t know that I can completely and honestly say “yes”
I love Africa because I feel like there are so many things to talk about…. Like our conversation last night about rebirth. The more I look at our generation, the more I find people who are willing to step out of the numbness and complacency of North America and find new life. And it makes me wonder whether maybe that’s the kind of rebirth Jesus is talking about. Maybe it can be accepting the life of the way of Jesus, while there is deadness all around us. Daring to seek life in a sea of numbness, and discarding the emptiness of materialism and consumerism and replacing it with real, genuine, divine love. Birth is new life. Is discovering a new way to be alive, essentially a rebirth ?

When I think of the churches I’ve been to in North America, and even in Kenya, I am struck by how much deadness I see there. There is life there, don’t get me wrong, but when I look at their eyes, a lot people don’t seem to be truly alive. And I wonder, what’s the point of a religion if it doesn’t offer a better way of life? I’m not interested in religion that exclusively offers life after death. What’s the point of “living” after we die, if we never learned how to live before we die?

We must learn how to live, in the midst of the deadness of the world, for there can be rebirth without life.


Cheers,

Bethany

A new take on being born again...

This is an excerpt from my journal for November 15, 2007. Tonight, Bethany and I were talking about being in Africa and the desire to raise awareness about what we see. We see much of our generation desiring to change things… desiring to do things differently… desiring to solve problems and create a new world. It’s not radical as this is exactly what every generation has done in some way. It’s not rebellion as every generation desires to break from the mold that the previous generation has created. We see our generation crying out against injustices around the world. No longer will it be ok for 1 out of 6 people in Africa to live on less than one dollar a day. No longer will it be ok for 1200 children to die of a preventable cause in the thirty to forty minutes that it will take me to write this blog entry. To my idealism, it feels like a generation is waking up.

Therefore, Bethany and I were talking about an awakening and our desire to add fuel to the fire by telling our story and the stories that we hear and see here in Africa. To raise awareness of a reality that we see daily. This blog entry is a thought on awakening… on being born again…on resurrection from the dead. (In metaphorical terms… of course.)


Bethany's Brilliant Thought...
Bethany mentioned that this awakening in our generation and our experiences here in Africa are causing her to wonder if being born again doesn’t mean a one time experience—that oh-so-glorified conversion experience—but rather a process of awakening. Born again—that implies new life. What if it’s about an awakening, a revival of the mind, body, and soul? What if it’s more about a journey of awakening in which we are born again and raised from the dead? What if it’s about a journey rather than a destination or a one-time experience of conversion?

Christ comes in and begins to burn away all the dross—those impurities which we may have accumulated over time. So being born again may actually have something to do with becoming who we were when we were first born rather than becoming someone else or finding who we are to be. Yes, we are new in Christ… but newness doesn’t have to mean we become something completely different in a blink of an eye. Maybe newness refers more to being raised from the dead to a new life which is a process. II Corinthians something or other says, “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!” And in some other place it says, “I am made alive in Christ. It is no longer I who live but Christ lives in me.” [Forgive me if I misquoted something] Maybe being born again is about awakening, that we may actually come alive.

When the old self, the dross that has built up around the original beauty, has died or been burned away so that there is unblemished purity and beauty and unity, is completely gone, a rebirth can happen. Born again. Alive. Awakening. When we are born again in Christ, our journey is redirected along a different path, a path of awakening and renewal. A path of resurrection from the dead, old self. In Christianese terms, it’s called sanctification, the process in which Christ draws us closer to Himself and makes us holy as He is holy. So this journey, this awakening I see my generation experiencing, may actually be the product of Christ being made alive in me. The process of being born again. The process of our awakening.

(See John 3—Jesus’ conversation with Nicodemus about being born again. “Flesh gives birth to flesh, but the Spirit gives birth to spirit.” Vs. 6)

“Come awake, from sleep arise.
You were dead, now come alive.
Wake up, wake up, open your eyes.
Climb from your grave, into the light.”

-David Crowder

Here in Africa, I am seeing how this is true for myself. I am in a completely new place, experiencing horrible, difficult… though beautiful things. The comforts, luxuries, and securities of home have been stripped away and Will is decreasing because by himself, Will will fall apart. My dross is in the endless of process of being burned away.

Yesterday, I realized that my pride and insecurity causes me to fight change—that which is different from what I’ve known. I fight admitting things to myself that may not be easy to accept. I fight the stages that I go through. I fight the changes in myself because it's uncomfortable... I have to become someone else. I fight admitting things like how much I care about people because it leaves me open for pain at a later time. I fight letting I AM have control because I want to hold to my i am...ness.

But I am being born again. I am learning that I shouldn’t fight the stages as much, but that I should accept it as a process. Last week, I understood that the balance is more like a pendulum. I’m learning that balance shouldn't be a lever with equal weight on both sides, but instead it should be the balance of a pendulum with God as the anchor point... if you always had equal weight, you'd never move and therefore never grow. Instead, the pendulum’s momentum speeds up and slows down in relation with our distance from God. When we get far enough away from him, our momentum slows to a stop (we run ourselves to a standstill). Finally, we are pulled back into God, momentum quickening once more. In those stages, we’ll learn and grow. We can’t always be going at top speed, right underneath God. But we can’t always remain still either. In fact, we spend most of our time in the transition stages, either to reach maximum momentum or a complete stop, only to be pulled back in to the center by the anchor point—God.

Therefore, I’m experiencing an awakening, a renewal of my mind, body, and soul in which God is showing me so much about leaving, changing, stages, love, and faith. Don’t fight the stages. Don’t be afraid to leave yourself…who knows, maybe you just had to leave it in order to find it again, in a new and beautiful way. Don’t be afraid to die and be born again, alive in Christ.

lovewill

There's a little red bridge with the view of the sun with a lake
Recommends such a setting sight
And the thousands of stars come out thousands of times
We can go, only if you believe.

Only if you believe.

-Angels and Airwaves “Call To Arms”

Leave...

Wednesday night bloggageness #2

I guess this sort of has to do with what Jill wrote about how maybe we shouldn’t be so concerned with who we are or who we should become, but instead, try to figure out who we were.

I don’t really like looking at pictures of that little curly redhaired little boy that I apparently was at some point. First of all, I always gripe at Mom, asking, “Mom, why the heck did you make me wear that?” We have a picture of David, Sam, and I all dressed up in little sailor suits and I think Sam has a sailor hat on. Little jumpsuits with navy stripes and yellow borders… Oh wow. Wait’ll I show that to their fiancés after they get engaged. hehe.

On a more serious note, I don’t really like looking at those pictures because I don’t understand who that little boy was. How did he turn into who I am now? There is a home video somewhere of my cousin and I in short shorts, long socks, and disgusting tie-dye and neon orange shirts, holding hands as we “walked” around a roller-blading rink. I obviously didn’t care what anyone thought about me. I just don’t identify with that little guy. Or maybe it would hurt too much to figure out where I went wrong.

So carefree, so loving. I had so much faith, never questioning God or Jesus but just really loving them with as much love as I could muster at that point. I ran around with a pop gun, shooting the bad guys and rescuing the princess… Yes, I did discover how to be a G.I. Joe and rescue princesses at the same time. I’m pretty much a stud in case anybody was wondering. My brothers and I built massive waterparks out of sand in the summer, ruining t-shirts and staining them forever. We’d put the hose at the top of a pile of sand and just see what the water would do. We built rope swings on lakes, fished for crawdads, put snapping turtles in girls’ pools, and generally did everything boys do. And a lot more.

But then, I went to high school and decided it was good to be cool. So girls became important, weight lifting a daily thing in the summer, and designer clothes an essential. Started playing sports and spent every waking moment shooting a basketball or doing homework… well, mostly. And you ask, “How’d you end up in Africa?” Good question.

Sometime last spring I read a phenomenal book by Donald Miller that told the story of a roadtrip he and a friend did one year that took them from Houston, Texas to Oregon. It’s called, “Through Painted Deserts.” At the beginning of the book, he talks about the value of leaving.

“Everybody has to change or they expire. Everybody has to leave, everybody has to leave their home and come back so they can love it again for all new reasons.”

“And so my prayer is that your story will have involved some leaving and some coming home, some summer and some winter, some roses blooming out like children in a play. My hope is that your story will be about changing, about getting something born inside of you, about learning to love a woman or a man, about learning to love a child, about moving yourself around water, around mountains, around friends, about learning to love others more than we love ourselves, about learning oneness as a way of understanding God. God has established the elements, the setting and the climax and the resolution. It would be a crime not to venture out, wouldn’t it? It might be time for you to go. It might be time to change, to shine out. I want to repeat one word for you: LEAVE.”

Leaving… I like the sound of the word. Jill, Bethany, and I, in our conversations at night, have talked about that word. I have tried to explain something deep within me that is hard to articulate, but that I think is one of the most valuable things any of us can do.

I think that we have to leave in order to be able to stay.

I’m one of those people who have to change, or I’ll seriously die. Or actually, the part of me that is most alive will die, thereby making me dead. I don’t think that it’s because I get bored with where I am. That I just need a change of pace to keep me interested or thinking, though those are great things. I honestly believe that one must leave the luxuries of home and the comforts of familiar places, culture, and people in order to realize how beautiful those things are.

I wrote a note on Facebook last spring about leaving. Here’s a portion of it:

“Maybe we need to leave to figure out how to stay. I have felt lately that I need to leave, to go be with the lepers, to cave dive with hippies, to sleep on the front lawn in Oregon with some beautiful sisters, laughing about life, to play night golf, to feed that kid on the posters from Chad, to give the girl who was raped in Sudan a hug, to go to Afghanistan and tell the orphan the world does have love left in it. To get out of here... to find something- maybe a perspective... to see the beauty in the simplicity of the foot to the accelerator... or the hugs. Or the music of it all. Maybe I need to do that so I get a perspective... so I learn the beauty of it- the simplicity of it. So that then I can come back and remember all of that as I live in this America. This place where all of that is radical but it shouldn't be.”

And now that I’m here, in Africa, trying to love people… taking bucket showers, and washing clothes in a bucket, I’m beginning to see the beauty in simplicity. Away from text messages, dating, partying, and success…here I am. I wish that everybody who had the chance to leave would do it…Jill and I talked today about how it will be hard to go home, back to all those things. We don’t ever want to forget that which we have seen, that which has broken our hearts, that which is changing us as we and talk among a completely different culture.

So I think that we have to leave in order to be able to stay… And the following is a twist on that idea…

In what is probably the greatest book ever written (Manalive), G.K. Chesterton writes,
"This round road I am treading is an untrodden path. I do believe in breaking out; I am a revolutionist. But don't you see that all these real leaps and destructions and escapes are only attempts to get back to Eden--to something we have had, to something at least we have heard of? Don't you see one only breaks the fence or shoots the moon in order to get HOME?"

When Jill quietly spoke into that dark night two weeks ago, quietly wondering if maybe we’re just supposed to figure out who we were rather than worry so much about who we are becoming, it hit me that I’m trying to leave something that is within myself so that I might be able to stay… with myself? (I’m Ron Burgundy?) That didn’t really make sense but I guess that I’m realizing that there are things that have made me into a certain person that I need to get rid of, that I need to leave. As the quote says, all these leaps and escapes that I’m making these days here in Africa, are really only an attempt to get home, to get back to something that I know is there, but that I have lost somewhere along the way.

I wish I could bring all of you here…. That we could all leave together, that we might all be able to stay, or get back to wherever home is. That we might see that life is about more than what we’ve made it.

Life has to be about something more than parties, success, big rims, stereo systems, designer clothes, text messages, girlfriends, and things… It has to be about something greater than ourselves or that which we can accumulate for ourselves. If I am the center… If “I” am what life is about, then it’s really not about much, is it?

In this leaving, I’m sure seeing a different side of this life. Did you catch that? This life…Don’t you want to be alive? To feel alive? Do you ever get sick of feeling dead? I sure do.

Here at Huruma Children’s Home, where the destitute, dying, and abused find food, help, and love, I’m beginning to see a little of what I need to get back to. I’ve overcomplicated life for so long. Maybe life was supposed to be about the simple things… the sunrise over a valley near Machakos, the sunset over a landscape straight from the lion king… Maybe we’re supposed to enjoy God, to enjoy that which He’s put in front of us as we really try to be ALIVE.

I’ll leave you with the conclusion to what I wrote last spring… I wonder if that young man had any idea he’d get the opportunity to leave… had any idea that we all have to leave in order to come home.

“Maybe it was meant to be about enjoying God- seeing him in a sunrise over the Andes next to Quito- seen with a street child. Maybe it was meant to be about seeing God's love in the eyes that girl who loves me even though my people, the people from my country killed her family and her hope... even her innocence. For as I look into those questioning eyes, maybe I will see my own staring back and realize I got it all wrong. And through our tears even though we don't speak the same language, maybe I can again enjoy God in the wonder of the hug. Seeing God, enjoying God... in the snow, in the replenishing rain, in the softness of a touch, in the breath of fresh air... what would it be like to be in a coma and then take that first conscious breath once again. I should revel in that as I see the sunrise, as I give a hug, as I play guitar and piano, as I climb the mountain, as I crest the hill...as I leave- needing that fresh breath once more so that I might be able breath a fresh breath into the body. The body that has become more concerned with the shell- the skin, rather than that which makes it alive... Maybe God can use me to wake it from its coma and show how God can breathe a fresh breath into the body once more. The air around here has gotten kind of stagnant. Let's all breathe again- enjoying Him in the process... In the morning, after the frozen night, let him shine light on the frozen twig once more... so that the life within can once again begin to grow."

LEAVE!

lovewill

Wednesday night bloggageness #1

And this shalt be in response to Jill’s response to Bethany’s response to what happened last Sunday…Doubting you followed that but mmkay.

I always wonder where to begin. In beginning the blog, I had every intention of writing often and extensively about things that have happened, things that we’ve done, and thoughts that we discussed/thoughts that I have. However, with everything that happens on a daily basis, I find disgust myself on a regular basis because it takes so much effort to open up and really write about things, so much time, and my thoughts are all so jumbled and mixed up that I never know where to begin. So I just don’t write. Sigh…

Tonight, I sit here in a Kenyan family’s home down the hill from the orphanage with an adorable three year old Kenyan girl named Sabrina laying across one leg as I listen to music and think about the events of the last couple of weeks. I’m listening to a song by the Fray off of their first EP and I’m amazed because it is the story of my life. As I listened to the song, I randomly found the blog that Jill wrote yesterday about the lady that I ignored because of my complacency, my calloused heart, and a plethora of excuses because I was too busy and too poor (isn’t that hilarious? Not so much really.).

And now, here I am, knowing that I should write a lot tonight.

I just finished reading what Jill wrote about the little boys in Karen and all the memories of those little boys, that little beggar mother, the sea of boys in the small shop the morning I went to work with the street kids all came crashing back. Since I don’t ever know where to begin, I’ll just tell one of the stories, or retell it from my perspective.

I am also haunted by the little mother in downtown Nairobi. She will forever be another of the invisible faces that fill spaces in my mind. I was leading the girls to Railways that morning, the central matatu stage. Because I was in front, I think it was an unsaid but understood thing that if I had stopped, things would have been different. The girls are always hurrying to keep up with my six three legs anyway. As we walked that morning, I remember a mental sigh of frustration as that mother came up behind me and I heard her jingle the coins in the cup as she begged for money from the girls. Rolling my eyes, I kept walking, thinking about all the beggars and having read and been told never to give money because it will be used for glue, drugs, or alcohol. I honestly don’t know what I was thinking that morning. I kept walking and turned off everything in my heart, sealing my calloused heart off from feeling anything for that woman. She sped up to beg to me and I actually told her no multiple times and then ignored her. We crossed Haille Sellassie Ave. and she changed direction. I looked back and lost her in the crowd as she crossed the street. Still looking behind me, I looked at the girls, seeing the pain in their eyes as Jill spoke for all of us, “I feel like the worst person in the world right now.”

I immediately felt the frustration at the situation turn into frustration at myself and pain as I realized, “Wow, I just did a spectacular job of acting like Jesus.” I don’t remember exactly how we began talking about it, but somebody mentioned something about how we had not exactly exemplified Christ in dealing with the girl. I now picture Jesus looking down with a tear in his eye as we walked away from that girl. Jesus, the one who walked Galilee healing people, touching people, and loving people. In the story of the rich, young ruler, Mark recounts, “Jesus looked at him and loved him.” As He walked around Palestine, He made time for people, loving them, talking to them, and healing them. No money to give, but He gave so much more than money.

So with a heavy heart, we got on the bus to Ngong and all sat alone with our thoughts. I retreated into my own world, looking out the window, away from the girls as the tears started. I remember wishing that I could just get out of the bus and run back to where we left her, searching for her and when I found her, I would give her a hug and say, “I’m sorry. I really do love you.” I wish I would have done so. We eventually talked about it and decided together that we would not hold back Christ’s love because of our busy schedules, our calloused hearts, and our endless excuses revolving around people won’t use the money for the right reasons.

Looking back on that day, I am amazed at how much it affected us, how much we learned, and how different my attitude toward similar situations has been since. The next morning, I got up alone to go and work with the street kids once more. We went to another corner, one that is known to have a lot of young girls and their babies. At that corner, there was a boy with the scariest, most fascinating, and powerful eyes I have ever seen. Eyes so deep… endless. Eyes that have experience more pain and seen more things than I can ever imagine. Eyes that tell a story about the loss of innocence and the desperation that follows. Eyes that speak of death, sorrow, and resilience. Bloodshot from malnutrition and seemingly dead. Eyes that seem as if they see nothing. I don’t know his name, but I find myself wondering how he got there, what he does on a daily basis, and how to help him…to give him a name and a face in that world of nameless kids and invisible faces.

After working with the kids, I had to take a matatu out of the area because Sandy was going south of Nairobi and wasn’t going home until later. Because I only had a thousand shilling bill, I needed change for the matatu. The boys were still close to me, and one of them told me with tears in his eyes, “I didn’t get any milk. I’m hungry.” I glanced to his wrist to see the telltale bulge under his tattered coat, revealing the presence of the glue bottle. With him in tow and the beggar mother in mind, I walked across to the street to a small store and asked the shopkeeper for milk. Fred, a Kenyan worker, and I grabbed handfuls of powdered milk packages (which they devour dry), costing about ten shilling each (that’s about fifteen cents). As we began to pass them out, boys began appearing from everywhere, clutching at the milk, at my pockets, and at me, begging for, “more more.” I think we passed out around 12 or 13 packages and then had to run away quickly to catch the matatu. It was such a little gesture, but maybe one of those boys saw love in my eyes. “Change the world one hug, one smile, and one person at a time.”

I have been in Africa over a month now. In one month, I have learned more about faith, dependence, love, and trust than I had in my previous years. And the more I learn, the more I am astounded by the fact that I know nothing about any of those things. I have undergone a process in which God has stripped away all the baggage I have that I might be free to love with His love. It hurts. I am finding that Will must disappear so that Christ may fill his place, loving these people through me. I think that it doesn’t really matter what these people do with the money I give them. I think it has more to do with my heart. Do I trust God enough to trust that He will take my sacrifice and use it? Do I love that person enough to risk them abusing what I do or give? Yep, I’m young, immature, and idealistic but seriously, what is love? Am I willing to really try to understand that question? I talk about love a lot, and I think we left YWAM in order to try and learn what it means to love, to learn what it means to be a true disciple. How do I, a young man with an insubstantial and nonexistent bank account, love people here and try to “change the world”? I have no money, no understanding of love, and nothing left within me to be able to pour into these people. “Give until there is nothing left.”

May Jill, Bethany, and I have the courage to do give until there is nothing left. Love one person at a time. And truly follow Jesus one step at a time.

"We are only asked to love, to offer hope to the many hopeless. We don't get to choose all the endings, but we are asked to play the rescuers. We won't solve all mysteries and our hearts will certainly break in such a vulnerable life, but it is the best way. We were made to be lovers: bold in broken places, pouring ourselves out again and again until we are called home." To Write Love On Her Arms

Amen to that.

lovewill

In response to Bethany’s entry from last Sunday—this is Jill.

I am still haunted by what happened that morning. I still think about the woman following us on the deserted Sunday streets of Nairobi, her baby tied to her back, clutching a cup of coins. And I still feel sick when I think about our reaction. We were not lost in the shuffling crowd typical of downtown, but we could not hear her voice. We were not bound by Western standards of time and punctuality as we made our way to church, but we did not slow our pace. Our hurried steps maintained their stride as she desperately ran to catch up, circling us, shaking her meager earnings, repeating her words over and over. “Please. Some food for my baby.” Anything to get our attention. And we continued on our way. Eventually she gave up and changed directions. I watched her go, and wanted to call her back. But I didn’t.

We boarded the bus in silence and I spent the entire ride to Ngong unsuccessfully trying to hold back tears. I wanted so much to take back what had happened. I wanted to ask the woman’s name, how old her baby was, how often someone actually acknowledged her presence on a daily basis. As Will, Bethany, and I discussed the situation, we examined our excuses. We didn’t know how much money to give her. We weren’t confident that she would actually spend the money on food. We didn’t see any stores open to buy milk. We were late for church. And as soon as we spoke those words, we realized that none of these things could justify our actions. Maybe it wasn’t about giving the “right” amount of money or being able to buy food or worrying about what she would spend it on. Maybe it was about the love behind our actions. Maybe it was about any action at all.

So we made a pact. The next time an opportunity presented itself… we wouldn’t let the fear of not doing it exactly right keep us from not doing anything at all.

So Sunday night, one week later… On our way back to the orphanage from our weekend in Machakos, we stopped in Karen to pick up some essentials at the Nakumatt (toilet paper, water, bread). Stepping off the matatu, we were greeted by six small boys on the side of the road. They approached us in dirty, tattered clothes, speaking quickly. We stooped down to understand them and heard only, “We are hungry.” Will, Bethany, and I looked at each other and Will spoke the simple words in all of our eyes. “You’re hungry? Okay.” No questions asked.

The boys grabbed our hands as we made our way to the supermarket and Will went to find a taxi. We attempted to strike up conversation, with our limited Swahili. The boy next to me was slightly taller than my hip, and I asked him his age, expecting to hear seven or eight. When he told me he was 14, I almost didn’t believe him. His nine year old brother, who was noticeably taller, and seven year old brother were close behind. I asked him where he lived and he pointed to a general direction across town. He told me that he lived with his mother and that he didn’t have a dad. We walked into the Nakumatt and the boys led Bethany and I over to the bread aisle. We filled a cart with muffins, an enormous loaf of bread, two cartons of milk, and some chocolate bars. Will came back to meet us as we checked out, and the boys followed us to a grassy area outside the supermarket where we sat with them while they ate.

I have never seen so much food disappear so fast. The muffins were divided up, two for each. Some crammed both in their mouths; others shoved one in their pocket for later. The loaf of bread was torn open and they grabbed multiple pieces at a time, balling them up in their fists to devour them faster. They snatched the milk cartons away from each other, their small mouths still full of bread, spilling all over their clothes. Seeing the problems that would arise with the two chocolate bars, we divided the squares into six servings, and they all eagerly held out their hands.

I think the food was gone in under two minutes.

I asked one of them if they had eaten today. Between mouthfuls and gulps of milk, he told me that they hadn’t had breakfast, but they had some rice for lunch. We continued to ask them various questions about their life. Some questions were answered, others weren’t. We sat and watched them eat, wondering what their lives were like, having no way to really know. As they finished, they helped us pick up the trash and throw everything away. It was getting dark, and they asked for some money for a ride home. We gave them 60 shillings, 10 for each boy. They thanked us and ran off. We would probably never see them again, but this time felt much different. God presented us with another opportunity to show His love, and this time we embraced it.

Before the boys walked away, Will asked us, “How do we end this? Should we tell them why we did this?” I didn’t have an answer, and we said nothing. But as the group turned to walk away, we all waved goodbye, and I heard him say, “Nakupenda.” --I love you. I hope they heard. And if they didn’t, I hope they know.

“Sometimes we learn how to do things well by first having the courage to do them badly.” – Soul Graffiti