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
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