My Lesson

What have I learned from my 6 months in Africa. That is and will be the question. What knowledge have I gained that changed my life that will change your life that will change our lives and make us into people that help Africa. People that try to improve their conditions. What lesson did God teach me. What impenetrable piece of wisdom have I been imparted? What can I give you? What have they given me? What did He give me? To give back to you?

I learned.

I learned.

I learned.

I learned.

I learned.

Learned…

 Life. Is. Big. Life is big. Life is more. More than you thought. More than I thought. More than they can imagine. Life. Is. Bigger. LIFE. Is a gift. Is a burden. Is a challenge. Is there. Until it isn’t. LIFE. I’ve seen life. I’ve seen it wasted. I’ve seen it abused. I’ve seen it broken. I’ve seen it mended. I’ve seen it healed. I’ve seen it fixed. I’ve seen it improved. Me, Africa gave me proof of miracles. Africa showed me lives completely wrecked. And lives completely renewed. Those completely beyond repair. Fully and wonderfully repaired. I’ve learned that no matter what you’ve gone through you are lucky. Because someone has gone through worse. I’ve seen the bad.

Kids running away.

Kids beaten.

Scars.

Kids having kids.

Drugs.

Incest.

Rape.

Sodomy.

Bestiality.

Addiction.

Babies with no chance.

Women with no hope.

Men with nothing.

Kids with no innocence.

 I’ve seen their pain.

But I’ve seen their renewal. I’ve seen their redemption. I’ve seen repentance.

I’ve seen the good.

Kids returning.

Kids becoming staff.

Hunger fulfilled.

Thirst quenched.

Love granted.

Jobs given.

Hopes blooming.

Hopes becoming reality.

Smiles.

Laughter.

Love.

 So much love.

In fact, it’s not just any kind of love. It’s the real kind. The kind that you never thought you could feel for someone that you weren’t related to. The kind of love that makes you smile for no apparent reason and makes you worry that your heart might explode. The kind of love that swells up within you and makes you have to catch your breath. Yea, the real kind. For about 80 kids. That’s a lot of love. But there was no stopping it. It was inevitable. We were in Malindi at the beach last week. And we waded out into this clear blue ocean, the current fighting us the whole way. And I as stared out at the vast emptiness before me a hand grasped my own, and I turned to find Erick one of our new boys. He doesn’t speak much English and the look of sheer terror and excitement that filled his face was enough to bring tears to my eyes. It was the first time to the beach for a lot. And there I was, experiencing it. I got the privilege, to experience their first time to the beach. And I couldn’t have been more excited and proud of those goofy smiling kids than if I had given birth to them myself (although that would have been a ridiculous number of kids to give birth to!) And as he held his death grip on my hand and we waded out further his smile never faded and neither did mine and I just knew my heart would burst and I would drown. And I would die of happiness.

I thought I was coming to Africa to help. I thought I could be a blessing. But I have been blessed beyond all measure. I have given so little and been given so much. Who would have guessed. Africa didn’t need me. I needed Africa.

photos by Kristin Pizilate

Mathare Valley

Mathare Valley. A place where families eat together around one table every night, sometimes on the floor or wherever their tired bodies lay. They gather around a single flickering candle while the woman of the house prepares a meal in the corner. Giggles can be heard from the girls sitting cross legged on the floor. The eight by eight room gives a sense of comfort, of protection, everyone you care about is right here. Reggae can be heard from your neighbors, and your other neighbors and their neighbors next to them, blending together in an exciting tribal rhythm. The giggling girls make animals with the shadows of their hands on the sheet behind them that separates the table from the single bed. A dog, a bunny, a monster that is creeping across the ceiling towards my head. The crisps breeze that makes its way between the cracks and crannies in the sheet metal causes everyone to huddle a bit closer together and the anticipation for the hot meal increases a bit. Then a present is presented, a rare delicacy that never sees the inside of this house. A gleaming glass bottle of Coca-Cola. Not a small one at that, it is divided sparingly each person receiving a few gulps, just enough to sweeten your mouth. Everyone smiles at the unexpected surprise. Then the meal is presented, and everyone eats with their hands, laughing about the stories of the day and sharing memories of the past. The granddad of the house lounges in the corner barely visible except for his white beard, quietly listening to the family he has created that surrounds him. And then the candle begins to flicker and it’s time for bed. The women gather their blankets and we head out single file (because that’s all the alley allows) watching your step every bit of the way. You notice a person crouching in the corner and say hello as you make your way past him, then share a few laughs later at the fact he was showering and you didn’t even notice because it was so dark and so was he. You make a stop at the public restrooms before heading to the bedroom, paying the man three shillings before you open the creeky wooden door and try desperately not to fall in the hole that has been the target of men and women all day…After doing this somewhat successfully, you carefully follow the rest of the women, skipping, jumping and scaling the alleys that lead to the bedroom. Babies are littered through the alleys, laughing and postponing their impending bedtime. You smack your head a few times on the low riding sheet metal roofs that appear out of nowhere and massage your wounds as you unlock the bedroom. One by one the women file in, about 7 or so of us. And we light a single candle, and latch the door behind us. The Gerry can is placed by the door, just in case some of us can’t wait till morning for the restroom. One by one, we lay on the ground, happy for a rest after a long day. The breeze has picked up and all 7 gladly pack like sardines together to keep each other warm. The neighbors conversation can be heard through the cardboard, and after a while, the sound of an army of rats outside the door and on top of the roof make its way into your ears, but if you listen closely they almost sound like rain, and they put you to sleep just as well. The night passes quickly and wake to the blend of Reggae blaring and exciting, another day. One by one the women wake up and file out of the bedroom, the morning air greeting you like an old friend. The prospect of a new day hangs in the air. With your clothes for the new day clutched in your hand, and your pj’s still on, you wind your way through the rest of your neighbors waking and emerging from their rooms. Skipping and jumping and ducking through the maze, you make it to the public toilets and rejoice in your triumph of making it through the night without having to had used the Gerry can, but reluctantly hand over your 3 shillings yet again. Then you stand patiently while your friends gather around the one water spout and fill their 10 liter containers with water. You exchange greetings and smiles and admire their nightwear. The kids from the night before stare at you amazed and wide eyed at the strangers who are gracing their presence.  You smile goofily and awkwardly turn your gaze to the toilet man. And yes-you might mention, these are penguins on my night pants. Once your container is full, you skip and jump and duck your way back towards your dining place. Once inside, the water is warmed over the flame and poured into a large bowl. Then the cloth is hung on a line outside, in the corner. You get the privilege of showering first, and you step outside back into the chilly air while the others chat and prepare the morning tea, waiting for their turn. Behind the conga you go, removing your shoes first and then your  clothes, peering over the conga to make sure no one is peeping. About half way through your shower, as you splash the warm water over your goose bump filled body, you hear giggles erupting from somewhere nearby. Self-consciously you check behind you, hmmm. Then you realize there is a hole. In the middle of the conga. A large hole. You peer through the hole and a brigade of tiny bodies with tiny amazed eyes stare back at you as they laugh at the very white naked person taking a shower. You dry off quickly to avoid attracting any older eyes from joining the peep show as well. Breakfast awaits you, bread and chai. You make small chat as you sip on your hot tea that works its way through your body, erasing the damage the night of cold did to your bones. As your body warms, everyone seems to liven and the laughter starts again. Then it’s time to take a look around. And your lead to a roof top that over looks Mathare Valley. And colors upon colors penetrate your eyes and people upon people stare up at you in wonder. The rainbows of businesses and life going on around you surrounds you and draws you in. Blacks and browns and whites and blues and pinks and purples and not any greens but definitely every shade of brown swarm the cascade of houses that seem to go as far as the eye can see, although you know it’s in fact not very far at all. And the sounds of Reggae never leave your ears, but the sound of voices and laughter join the Reggae to make its own blend of music and noise. Your friend beside you holds his 5 month old baby as he tells you that it is beautiful, even though it may be hard to see. It is beautiful. And I say, yes. It is beautiful. And then his friend thanks you. For lowering yourself, that you may raise them up and it sounds oddly familiar and completely inaccurate. And you correct him profusely, no-this has lifted me up, this has opened my eyes. Thank you. Then you go through the valley on a short and thorough tour. And bright smiles meet you at every turn, and odd smells and sights arrest your senses and your eyes want to be everywhere at once. Processions of little kids gather around you, grab your hands with their grubby ones and smile at you toothless and awestruck chanting the only thing they know how to say, HOW ARE YOU! Which is about the extent of the conversation because when you answer back or ask how they are in return they stare blankly back. So you continue marching through the streets and over the bridges, taking in the colors and the peoples and the businesses and the personalities and the smells and the further you go, the further the procession gets and just when you don’t think your hand can hold any more tiny hands in it, one more latches on and your proved wrong. And then the sun begins to set and the tiny hands gradually begin to let go to make it home for supper and it’s time for you to return as well, so you begin making your way back to your room. And you wave to all the people you passed before and climb the stairs that lead back to the house and you glance down at the valley, once more at the cascade of houses and the colors and the kids and the smiles and the believe it or not edible foods and the families and the colors. And you think yes. It is beautiful.

I could tell you one more sad story. I could tell you that my two days and two nights in one of the two biggest, and the oldest slum in Africa was a terrifying, uncomfortable and an extremely sad experience. But I would be lying, because it wasn’t in the slightest. I could tell you that Mathare Valley is home to 800,000+ people in a 2 mile long by 1 mile wide area. I could tell you about the hundreds of little kids playing on trash heaps and covered in dirt. I could tell you that all anyone has is an 8 by 8 room made of sheet metal and cardboard and plastic bags. I could tell you that the floor is dirt and that the toilet/shower/sink is the gutter right outside your door. I could tell you that women sell their bodies in Mathare for an average of 100kshillings per client and that that is equal to $1.2 dollars in America. I could tell you that to pay for the meal I ate last Saturday, I would have had to have at least 10 clients. I could tell you about the people bathing in the sewage water. I could talk about how hard it is to find daily food. I might mention that there is no forms of security and even the police don’t dare enter Mathare. I could tell you the statistics. But this wasn’t my experience. My Mathare was beautiful. It had family, it had candles. It had a time that we have long since forgotten; it had a time where things are done the slow way. Where things are done the hard way, but by the end of the day your meal is much deserved. I could tell you the bad things-but then you would miss the beautiful. And how much Mathare is like the rest of the world. It is so easy to focus on the ugly and the bad. But while focusing on the ugly and the bad, we miss the beauty beneath the thin layer of dirt.

Move

Your standing on the slant of rock that slips into the waves. The waves lap against the edge of the limestone. Green algae has begun to make its way up the surface of the rock trying to escape the dark water that laps at it hungrily. You peer into the dark water trying to see something, trying to see anything. And then your slipping. Your sliding and there is no grip on your shoes. You hit the rock hard and in a split second you’ve become engulfed in the hungry waves. They wash over your head and your arms and legs flail in panic reaching for something solid. Anything solid. They find nothing. You struggle to keep your head above water, but it’s a losing battle. The waves keep pushing you under with invisible hands on a clear mission to claim you as their own. Your head dips below the surface. The strength of the ocean is astounding. The will to keep you under, to engulf you, to swallow you whole is stronger than yours. Your lungs are on fire. Your brain screaming for air. You kick harder. It will not end this way. Your not finished yet. The darkness has engulfed you, you reach upwards towards the sun, a blurry image under the murky water. Your head breaks the surface again. You gasp for air only to inhale a salty wave. And then you see someone. Standing on the rock, watching you. You scream for help. You plead. You try your best to make your way towards him, but its futile. He realizes you can’t save yourself. So he extends his hand. But your arms don’t move towards him. Your too busy keeping yourself afloat. Please. You beg. Save me. And his hand remains, extended. And untouched. Your head dips again. This time there’s no fight. You turn your eyes one last time to the blurry sun. As you sink. Lower and lower. Into the depths. Down and down. Where the darkness consumes you, and claims you as it’s own. And His hand remains, untouched.

Last Monday, we went base walking as usual. One of the missionaries that walks with us every week is Larry Conway. He has worked with Made in the Streets for about 7 years. He has been seeing the same people, on the same streets for years. Every week, we see those same men. The same men, week after week after week. And they are the same. Week after week. They are still in their same mess. They are still high. They are still crawling with flies. They are still shaking. And it’s discouraging. And I’ve only been here 4 months. I can’t imagine being here for 30 years, and seeing the same men. With no change. Every week, we go and tell them about God. Every week we go tell them to change their lives, to give up the drugs and take care of their families. Every week we tell them it doesn’t have to be this way. And every week, they are the same way. The other day, I realized that we can tell them until we are blue in the face. But they would never change. Unless they choose to. Unless they move. Unless they decide that there are more important things that drugs.

“From one man he made every nation of men, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and he determined the times set for them and the exact places where they should live. God did this so that men would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from each one of us. For in him we live and move and have our being.” Acts 17:26-28

Please pray, that these men find the strength to move. To reach out to Him. And to be saved by Him.

Truth

Moving into the girls compound at Made in the Streets, me and Kristin found ourselves the proud owners of the two stupidest dogs in all of Africa. Now don’t get me wrong, they can have their moments and for all arguments sake, if I was subject to the care of 33 teenage girls who have grown up on the streets, I would probably find my state of mind to be compromised as well. Our dogs aren’t like normal dogs-these dogs are special. They resemble a very large, very unkempt rodents. However, the state of mind and appearance of these dogs are not the moral of this story. One day after classes I was sitting outside, reading some C.S. Lewis contemplating the genius of a man that he was when one of our scrawny dogs caught my eye. A tiny bird had flown down right beside him and he was staring at with intense curiosity. As the bird fluttered around completely unaware, our dog placed himself in a more appropriate position for the attack he was surely formulating. I sat there unmoving, aware that I may just witness an atrocious act of murder. However, as our dog pounced in his awkward fashion the bird took flight and the chase was on. Our other dog caught on to the fun and both scrawny rat dogs chased that poor bird. And then I witnessed the stupidest bird in all of Africa.  Around and around the girls compound that bird flew, with two skinny dogs in hot pursuit. And around. And around. And around. And around some more. You’ll be glad to know that the bird did manage to escape his carefully plotted death after dizzying our dogs for a while. As I sat there, I couldn’t help but think of the stupidity of that bird. And how applicable that bird is to all of us. First mistake: he was so concentrated on the ground that he did not notice the approaching danger. Second mistake: when he finally realized his situation and attempted to flee, instead of flying up and out of the girls compound, he proceeded to fly around. And around. And around. When all he needed the whole time, was to turn his gaze upwards. I find myself in that position often. I am so focused on the immediate concerns that I forget the bigger picture. I am so concentrated on the letters, that I miss the word. Lastly, why do we attempt to solve our own problems knowing the whole time that we are merely running in circles? It’s a simple formula and God is the answer every time. Every time. Me, I turn to books about God. I talk to people about God. I ask others what they think about God. I go to everything but the source. Why is it so easy for me to talk about God when it would be so much easier just to talk to God? Maybe because at the source, there is also truth. And truth can be ugly and truth can be beautiful. And maybe I, maybe we, are scared that the truth about God, about ourselves-will be ugly. But maybe only by uncovering the ugly, can we also uncover the beauty.

I feel like I haven’t had much to report lately as far as Kamulu and myself and maybe that is a good thing! I am still teaching art classes and library and beginners math every week and every week we also go into Eastleigh. I can’t believe me and Kristin have been here for 4 months already! Everyone said that time in Africa goes by slow, but I feel like our time here has flown by. We are slowly but surely learning how to cook and cooked our first big meal for some of the team members (with no electricity!) And we are proud to admit that no one got sick! So we are venturing into new territory as far as food goes and trying to lay off our daily sandwich and cereal diet. As far as the kids go, please be praying for our girls and boys and the team here, as we all need as many prayers as we can get. I am definitely looking forward to the next 2 months and hoping that they go by a little slower than the first four;)

My Marbles

What to say. What to say. What to say. I have all these words rolling around my mind like a bag of dropped marbles. And they may come out jumbled or they may come out in perfect sense but I think I’ll leave it up to chance at this point. Here goes. My feeble attempt to describe my day. We went base walking today another Monday, another day visiting the men we see every week, we prayed, we read the Bible and gave them food. As much as I hate to say it, it doesn’t impact you as much as it did the first time. The first time I shook their scarred hands it shook my world. And now it’s a mere rattle. I am happy to see them now, they know our names, they don’t make me sad. As we prayed next to a man injecting cocaine into his veins with a rusty needle I didn’t feel. It’s reality now…and you can only feel so much before you stop feeling at all. I was contemplating the severity of this problem when we stumbled upon a corpse of a woman leaning against a brick wall. She looked at us with that blank stare. Nothing but blankness occurring behind those vacant eyes. Her head rolled from side to side and she stared at us with a goofy smile displaying the few teeth she had left. Her chest was exposed and I could count her protruding ribs like a cage that imprisoned her from the inside out. She had a bottle of glue in one hand and in the other a tiny baby that lay sprawled across her arm like a scale that would eventually tip to one side outweighing the other. I had a hunch at which would be easier to give up. The baby didn’t flinch as the flies crawled across its face, into its eyes and nose. She didn’t attempt to cover herself or her infant. And the familiar burning at the back of my eyes was back. And I felt and I felt too much. And I wasn’t sure where the strength would come from to stand there in view of a month old infant, drowning in the addictions of a mother who was doing all but reaching for a helping hand to save herself or her child. As we walked away, awful thoughts began to creep into my head. Plots…would those metal detectors detect a cluster of tiny bones in my suitcase? Could I put a supply of water and food like a hamster inside my suitcase? Would it cry as it flew back to America among the luggage of the lucky few? Maybe I could run back and replace her baby with a piece of paper reading I O U…I doubt she would notice, she may even thank me…But I walked on. Walking back, it was all intensified. The dirt and mud that caked the bottom of my feet. The dust that threatened to choke the slightest bit of clean air from entering your nose. The hundreds of people walking by. The rainbows of trash mountains that lined the sides of the road like layers on a cake. The clanging of people beating metal like the clanging on the bars  of a prison, the chants of little kids mindlessly  memorizing the Koran in school. They couldn’t be more than three or four. The same old man leaning against the same old wall his beard a mass tangle of dirt mud and trash eating from the same black trash bag eating the same trash he ate the day before and the day before and the day before and the day before. The same little kids who ran after us with their teary eyes and silly smiles, their dirty clothes and their reaching hands always wanting to shake our hands. When we left Eastleigh, it started to rain. The rain in Africa is brown, it doesn’t clean it dirties. It makes the things that weren’t brown-brown. It equalifies. And we passed the trash bag houses tied to the brick walls. And a cold front blew in. And the equalifiying rain decided to add a chill to those who were already drenched. And I had to wonder. Do the people who live under those trash bags curl into a ball when it rains? Does the trash that compiles their floor cushion them and conform to their shape or does it poke and protrude into their skin a constant reminder of where they are and where they live…Do the fleas and ticks under those trash bags bury themselves as far under the trash as they can get to escape the smell, or do they welcome the body as a feast? Do the people under those trash bags stay dry, or do those trash bags leak? And when they leak do the people under those trash bags wipe the brown rain from their faces or do they let them roll down like tears that have long gone? Do they curl their mud caked toes and pull down the scraps of pants over their toes when that chill comes, do they cover their toes with decaying food and plastic? Does decaying food and plastic insulate? I don’t know. And I will never know, and for this I am thankful-and for this I am sad. Because I can’t imagine the strength it must take to live under a trash bag. To LIVE under a trash bag, to convince yourself that life is still life. To convince yourself to continue to breathe. In and out. In and out. To continue to breathe. Even though there’s nothing left to breathe for. 

“Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I’m not living.”

And this was my day. And it was another Monday. But do love Africa. I love that to get from point A to point B you have to brave a matatu which is a 13 passenger van that they cram 20 or more people on, they squeeze you into spaces you never thought you could, and never should be squeezed. They sit men on ladies and make you sit in strangers laps. I love that I have whip lash right now because a herd of goats caused our matatu to stop abruptly, causing the matatu behind us to hit us. I love that church is this electric atmosphere of people filled with a common passion for a common God. I love the resounding songs sung at the top of their lungs in a language that I am still clueless to that bounces off the walls and into your heart. I love the clapping and swaying and excitement for our God and for each other. I love that the roads are so full of pot holes that a simple drive feels like a ride at six flags. I love that African people are the loudest, most passionate people I have ever met. I love their bright colors and bright smiles. I love that everywhere we go there is a procession of tiny kids in tow screaming MAZUNGU!!! (white person) at the top of their lungs announcing to the world that we are here. I love the tiny hands that grab mine constantly. I love that when we get lost amongst the throngs of people in the city that there are several more than willing to grab us by the hand and lead us to where we are going. I love the dirt that equalifies. I love the knocks at ten at night on our big metal door that brings hugs and goodnights and I love you’s. And most of all, I love that I love them more than I ever thought I could.

Peter.

I never wanted kids. Ever. No question. And then I found myself in a matter of a few months, to have 80 kids. 80 kids. When they fail, I fail. When they are happy, I am happy. When they are sad, I am sad. They are my kids…I am with them all day, every day. They are my kids. I am responsible for 80 kids. They are my kids. And then one runs away. And I’ve lost a kid. I lost a kid. And the policies go out the window, and the rules mean nothing to me. He is my kid. Once he leaves, he can never come back. And I understand for the sake of the rest, but I hate it for the sake of him. My kid. And when the others talk about running, I feel like I’ve failed them. They are my kids. They are KIDS. And running away back to the streets back to the dirt back to the abuse back to the hunger back to the addictions back to people who are only interested in using them makes no sense to me. But maybe it does to a 12 year old. And my kid can never come back. And maybe my kid will wake up tomorrow on the street and realize the implications of what he has done. But tomorrow will be too late. And my kid will be stuck on the streets and in all reality, will most likely be stuck on the streets for the remainder of his life. Maybe my kid will wake up on the streets at 40 and realize the implications of what he has done. But 40 will be too late.

 My kid. My kid was amazing at art. And he loved his iPod more than anything. He liked basketball. When I first met my kid he told me his name was Pedro. And the next time he said it was Ken. Then Adam. Then Eric. It took me the longest to figure out his real name. My kid was in the advanced class. My kid was brilliantly smart. My kid had a future. But I’ve lost my kid. I don’t know if my kid is safe or hurt or regrets running but I know where my kid comes from and I know what he’s gone back to. And the odds are against my kid. And maybe it’s best I don’t know exactly where my kid went because I think if I did it would take all my strength not to go get my kid and bring him back home. Whether he wanted to or not. I would bring him back. Because he’s my kid.

 

Please pray for all of our kids. A lot of them have been discussing running away, they miss their families and street life in general. Street life is an addiction like any other drug and the temptation of street life can be too much to resist sometimes. Please pray that the kids will have the strength to resist these temptations. It is incredibly difficult to wake up and find out one of your kids has left. And there is nothing good for our kids on the streets. Please pray for the staff to have strength to not become overwhelmed, we are all extremely involved in the lives of these kids and I cant even imagine those who have worked with these kids for years feel when they run away. Please pray for those who have run away that they will be safe and that maybe they will beat the odds.

Compassion

Compassion. So many people have so much compassion for animals. Like every time that commercial for animal abuse comes on TV and there are all these sad puppies and kittens with that lady singing in the background “in the arms of the angel…” We’ve all seen it, and it makes us all want to go out and adopt 100 kittens…or maybe that’s just me. I change the channel every time it comes on. It ruins my whole day.  People have funerals for their animals, people have clothes and fancy refrigerated food for their animals. We love our animals. I can’t help but wonder how the world might be if everyone had that same compassion for people. I met a girl today named Rachel. Rachel is blind. Rachel’s eyes were eaten by maggots. Rachel is a year and a half old. Rachel’s mom dropped her into a latrine and left her for dead. Until someone came along to use the bathroom and noticed a baby in the bottom of the pit. Rachel survived. She has had four surgeries and still can’t see. Maybe if we put Rachel in a commercial and played a sad song, we would compel people to have compassion. Or maybe they would just change the channel. It’s easy to avoid the hard things in life, especially in America. But each and every day, Africa forces me to face the hard things in life. The things like babies being thrown into sewage. The things like how Rachel will feel when she asks how she lost her sight. How Rachel will feel when they tell her that her mother threw her away. Rachel is at a baby orphanage with about 20 other babies who were put in similar situations. Most were left at the doorstep. How is this ok? How do things like this happen? What ever made someone think that this is ok? How can we be ok knowing about these things? How can we change the channel? No, maybe you didn’t meet a baby who is 6 pounds and 6 months old today. Maybe you didn’t rock a baby to sleep that has no one in the entire world, who was left on a doorstep. But I did and I can’t change the channel. I’m not saying we should all go out and adopt African babies. I’m saying it happens. And we should care. I’m saying we should have more compassion for people. God asks us to love Him, and love people. No more changing the channel.

“He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand.” Psalm 40:2