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