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

Rain Boots

Missing rain boots wasn’t the most tragic thing that had happened in my life. However, I was fond of my rain boots, I had gone on a long quest looking for the perfect pair. They had black and white designs, complete with a nice buckle at the top. I was styling in those rain boots. You can imagine my concern when they went missing. Yes, I had been the one to leave them outside my door to dry but the thought that they may up and walk away did not cross my mind…Considering that Africa has two seasons: rainy and dry, my concern was justified. Thankfully, it didn’t rain for a while and my worries over my missing rain boots were mixed into the sludge of all that was consuming my thoughts. As I went for a run to clear my thoughts a few weeks later I stopped and prayed for myself and the girls. I prayed specifically for a girl I had become close to named Naomie. She had been having a rough time since I arrived at MITS and for some reason she had cleaved to me the past weeks like my long lost twin. She may be 17, but she thought I was her new mom. Naomie had a known reputation and very few friends, thanks to her reputation. I had been told she had no family and had been thrown from one children’s home to the next since she was little. Naomie has a tattoo on her arm that her mother gave her when she was three. I prayed that our relationship may grow and that I may have more chances to talk to her one on one, that I may be able to help her through whatever issues she was dealing with. That I may be a constant friend that wouldn’t waiver despite what she had done or would do. As I ended my run, I walked to the gait to knock and finished my prayer for Naomie. After a few knocks with no answer, I peered through the peephole into the girl’s compound. I didn’t see anyone. Except for Naomie, crouched down, leaning against the wall, and crying. God answered my prayer with impressive speed. Once I was let in the gate, I asked her if she wanted to come over to our apartment and talk. She said yes, and we spent the next hour painting nails and toenails and listening to music. She didn’t want to talk about what was upsetting her so I didn’t push. I told her if she ever did want to talk that she knew where to find me. We prayed together and then she left. I wasn’t sure how to feel, she hadn’t talked much, and I felt like I probably hadn’t done anything to really improve the situation. I couldn’t help but wonder if I had done any good. About 10 minutes later, there was a knock on our door. Kristin answered it and when she closed the door, there were a pair of black and white designed rain boots in her hands. I was more than excited to see my long lost rain boots, I didn’t think I would see them anytime soon. “Naomie brought these by,” she said as she handed them over. And with a pair of rain boots, I knew that the things we do, no matter how small or insignificant they may seem, can make a difference.

Presents:)

His hands were shriveled and wrinkled, like old leather that had been stretched and worn by years of hard work and preservation. He eagerly waited at the dusty counter top, eyes searching the horizon of the shop window expectantly. As I opened the squeaky door, a familiar smile crept across His face. The wrinkles around His eyes deepened and eyes gazed at me as if seeing an old friend for the first time in many years. “I have been expecting you.” Was all He said as He patiently watched my cautious approach. “Um, yea I’ve been meaning to come I just got busy, you know how it is.” I admitted. My excuse was met with a knowing smile. “So you want me to create a masterpiece I hear?” He said gently. “I’ve heard you’re the best in town…” I looked around his dusty shop, shelves empty, a few plain pots here and there-nothing special. His fingernails were caked with old clay that had hardened, his hands an ash grey. “Yes,” He admitted “I’m the best. I have big plans for this work of art; it may be one of my finest.” A look of pure contentment spread across His lined face. “You brought the materials I assume?” He questioned, His eyes roaming over my empty hands. “Oh, yes here it is.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small zip lock bag. I sat it on the counter and proceeded to unzip it. From it I produced a sliver of grey clay, and placed it on the table before Him. Confusion clouded His grey eyes. “What is this?” He eyed the small piece of clay. “Well, I know you asked me to bring it all, but I have plans of my own for the rest of my clay. See, I plan to make something myself-exactly how I want it.” I explained. There was no way I was risking all of my clay to this man-I couldn’t dare take those chances, it may not end up how I wanted it. He looked at me sadly, and slowly slid the piece of clay back across the table. “I don’t think you understand how this works. I can’t do anything with this.” He slowly turned and retreated back into his workshop. Before shutting the door he turned slowly back to me. “When you decide to give it all to me, come back. I’ll be here.”

What can we expect God to make with only a few pieces? This is exactly how I have been feeling lately. God has called me to give all that I am so that He may make me into the masterpiece He created us all to be. He is the potter. We are the clay. Although I’m the clay, what can a potter make if we are not willing to give Him all of our clay? I have been struggling with giving it all up. I want to pick and choose, like maybe I could get rid of this in my life…but not this. I can sacrifice this…but absolutely not this. And I’m pretty sure that’s not how He works. Maybe when I gather enough courage to give Him everything, He can begin His masterpiece. As far as Africa goes, I have begun art classes and am in control of all things library-which I don’t mind at all seeing as I love reading!! The kids are as crazy as any teenagers are expected to be, we have caught them right in the prime of their attitude years. However, the moments when they write that they love you at the top of the papers they turn in, makes all the attitude worth it. On Thursdays we have begun going to a prayer meeting with some of the ladies in the community, and yesterday I went with Bari to read English with a woman at her home. She stuffed us full of maize and chai and was extremely thankful for the help. Everyday Kamulu is beginning to feel more and more like home. The simple joy of being able to walk down the street and wave to people you know feels amazing. I have been getting closer to some of the staff members, and I spent last night with Olive and Jane, trying on some African weave (which suits me very well) and talking about wedding dresses-I have been finding out that Africa and America are not so different after allJ I can’t believe that 2 months have passed already and 4 more months doesn’t feel like nearly enough time. Eliza, the café cook has promised to teach me how to cook some African food, so I can stop eating a diet of sandwiches and popcorn every day. I am so thankful to all of those who have sent letters and care packages, it is very encouraging to know that so many people are keeping me in their thoughts and prayers and it is very much appreciated!! Please keep praying, thanks and gig em!

p.s. Much to my surprise as I entered the bathroom last night, I came to find that I was not alone. Peeking behind our shower curtain was a three year old African boy Eric. I think I scared him as much as he scared me. As innocent as he looked, we soon came to find that our shower must have resembled the ever so famous squatty potty. He had left us a nice big present right in the middle of our shower. The simple joys of Africa.

Words.

I didn’t know. That’s almost all that can be said. How can you find words to describe what I have seen, to try and explain reality, to people millions and millions of miles away…I don’t know. I do know that try as I might-my words will never do justice to what I have seen. Yesterday the team went into Eastleigh again. We began by drinking a nice cup of hot chia before heading out with the team. It was a crisp morning, I borrowed a sweater from Evan (one of the team members) which swallowed me seeing as he is a large guy. We stopped by a few new bases for me, some of the same scenes, men smoking marijuana, wasting the day away. We walked to the next base, men littered the sidewalk, sprawled out, so high they couldn’t comprehend a thing. “This is what happens when you sniff glue from age 9.” Larry the missionary pointed out, directing his statement to the man, about 40 curled into a ball rhythmically rocking back and forth, head down, shaking. He can’t stand, or walk. He could barely lift his head to look us in the eye.  We didn’t even attempt to give a message, they wouldn’t have understood. So we prayed. He bowed his head. And he rocked. I couldn’t close my eyes during the prayer. I stared at him, his head bowed in honor of the Creator who made him in his mother’s womb. Who knew him before he was formed. He is not a man now. He is a body. He is incapable of thought. His brain has been fried from a life addicted to drugs. His eyes were closed so tight. It was hard for me to have hope for this man. I have seen the living dead. And I hope to never see it again. Moving from that base, wading through the streets of trash we walked down an alley. Larry prepared our group for the next base, one of the hardest to see. I couldn’t imagine worse. It’s funny how you can always be proved wrong. Big momma is an extremely large woman. She was seated on a wooden bench, like a queen. Big momma sells kids drugs. She keeps them addicted; she has the police in her pocket. Big momma has become rich by selling 8 and 9 year olds drugs.  As we approached little boys and girls, 7,8,9 years old swarmed us. Little boys covered in dirt reached for us. They were shaking so bad they could barely keep their balance long enough to shake our hands. I have never seen a kid so little, look so old. Their eyes were vacant. Hope left long ago if it was ever there at all. I wanted to grab them all and take them away. I wanted to take them away from adults who know how to manipulate them. I wanted to feed them. I wanted to take them away from a dark alley and tell them that this isn’t all there is. I wanted to give them hope. About 30 little kids. High on drugs. To dull their hunger. We said a prayer with some of the kids. During the prayer I glanced to my left, the walls of buildings were lined with people asleep in the dirt and mud. Men stared up at us as we prayed. It was hard to tell when one person stopped and the next began. Beside the men were infants. Babies, in the dirt, in the mud. Asleep on the ground. With men who may or may not have been their parent. Together, in an alley, asleep in the gutter. Babies no longer than my arm. For the first time on the streets the tears burned at the back of my eyes. All at once came the emotions. I can’t begin to describe the emotions at being surrounded by masses of little kids and people and babies who have no hope. My heart broke in two. Just when you think it couldn’t possibly survive anymore, you can.  If there was a living hell, I was in it. As we exited, the little boys ran after us. “I want food.” One persisted, staring at me and begging for food. They held their glue bottles in their mouth so they could constantly sniff it. I want food. It was all they said. I know God said there will always be poor. The kind of poor I always pictured-is rich. This is poor. This is hopeless. This is the absence of God. It is overwhelming. It is all consuming. It knocks the breath out of you. And all I can say, is I didn’t know.

A Chance

Leaving all the stress and struggles of daily life in College Station to go help the mission efforts in Africa would seem to be the obvious decision, if there ever was one. Who wouldn't want to leave all their troubles behind and take off to an unknown land? That's the catch though, you can try and leave your troubles-but your troubles won't leave you. They in fact pursue you with relentless determination. It is no easier for me to designate my time with God daily, than it was back home. I am not constantly on fire for the Lord, or this inspiringly passionate person. Yes, sometimes I am so consumed with a passion for the Lord I'm not sure how to handle it-but other times, I'm complacent, I don't know what to say to God, or how to talk to Him. I get comfortable, I feel safe. I feel immuned. I know these are probably normal feelings for everyone, but I was naive in thinking that leaving your current setting will automatically leave your problems there as well. God says multiple times in the Bible to seek Him. To seek means to pursue, to follow, to find, to search. I feel that I’ve been more of a drifter lately, and everyone knows that it is far too easy to drift away from God than towards Him. He says to seek and you will find when you seek Him with all of your heart. He makes it sound so simple, what should have been said is when you finally decide to put down your cell phone, your computer, your books, your t.v., your friends, your music, your games-and seek ME, you will find Me. Easier said than done. These thoughts have been on my mind a lot lately and is definitely something I am trying to work on. As of lately, the team made the 9 hour trip to Malindi, Africa. Malindi is on the coast, and an absolutely beautiful place. The Indian ocean is right outside our door. Monday morning the team headed out to the Mahenzo school which is located at what everyone calls “9 poles.” 9 poles is out in the “bush”, as in there are mud huts and a lot of coconut trees, mango trees and pretty much exactly what you picture when you think of Africa. The women carry water on their heads and all! At the Mahenzo school, we have worked all week on tearing down one of their huts, in order to make a new building of stone. This has consisted of digging trenches, lining them with rocks, carrying cinder blocks and making cement. (It’s pretty hard work and our guys have done an amazing job!) The girls have helped as much as we can, and learned to carry jugs of water pretty efficiently on our heads! Me and a friend, Taryn, both were sent to the medical dispensary to take inventory of all the new medicine they had acquired from previous medical missions. The medical dispensary is the only medical facility for miles and miles and it employs one doctor-for 7,000 people. He and the cleaning man are the only two there all day. It was extremely insightful talking with the Kenyan doctor as he described the frustrations of having no help, hoping his support from the States held up, and having to take the entire inventory manually as he has no computer. The doctor explained how prevalent AIDS is to Malindi, and that most of the children at the school are AIDS orphans. As Taryn and I talked with the doctor, we told him about Made in the Streets, and what we had been doing the past month. When we finished explaining it something he said really permeated in my mind. He explained that he thought it was great that we would give the kids a home, and an education. He said, “give them a chance.” That phrase caught me off guard. If it had been coming from anyone else it may not have. But here is a doctor, that works by himself, he makes 100 shillings per doctor visit which is a little over a dollar. He lives in the “bush” meaning he lives in a mud hut. He is entirely supported by a church in the States-and relies on them to keep him running. His career rest on the generosity of people thousands and thousands of miles away. Yet he has a home and a place to sleep and a family. He has had an education and when he asked for the kids of the streets to be given a chance, I don’t think he was hoping for them to have a chance to be successful or have things in life, but I think his hope was for them to have a chance to be happy. A man who lives in a mud hut, wants those kids to have the chance to become educated, to have a home, to be clean, to have friends, to not be in a constant state of delirium due to drugs, to have a chance to experience love, to be given a chance to know God, to be given a chance at happiness, to be given a chance at LIFE. There are about 170 kids at the Mahenzo school, and they are the cutest kids I have ever seen in my life (I want to bring them all home!) Most of them don’t have parents, but they are some of the happiest kids I have ever met. They have been given a chance.

Mother's Instinct

Bananas. That was our goal as me, Traci and Kristin set out a few nights ago in order to save our fellow roommates from starving. Thankfully, braving the crazy drivers of the matatu’s (tiny vans packed full of people, the preferred mode of transportation in Africa) was not necessary as there are several stalls of vendors neatly lining the road selling all kinds of fruits and vegetables, so the trek was on. We had been walking for about 10 minutes when in the distance we noticed a group of shady looking guys. We knew the drill, keep walking and ignore them. Heads down, walking at a brisk pace, we walked past the group of men. As expected, the men proceeded to follow us at a distance too close for comfort. Now seeing as Traci is in a delicate state right now being about 7 months pregnant, this was a precarious situation. Much my surprise however, Traci whips around belly and all with her finger pointed high. My mind is racing, what is this?? A new approach? Are we introducing ourselves?? Should I follow suit? But as she stared them down with a vicious gleam in her eye, she utters in a voice that made my blood run cold- “I DO NOT WANT YOU TO FOLLOW US.” And as fast as she had whipped around, she whips back around and continues walking. Kristin’s eyes were as wide as mine. Deciding to make the safest decision, the men halted in their tracks and returned to their previous positions. It was quiet for a few seconds, then, “I don’t know where that came from,” Traci remarked, I think she surprised herself as much as she surprised us! The mother instinct is clearly no myth and Traci has definitely developed it. Me and Kristin are equally thankful that is has. We returned safe and sound with a bunch of bananas. As I am writing, the electricity is out, a frequent occurrence. I wrote a list earlier of things I need God to give me the strength to overcome here in Africa. I thought I might share a few:

1.     Toenails in my bed. (that were not mine.)
2.     Mosquitos inside my mosquito net
3.     A very leaky toilet
4.     Frogs in the shower

After reviewing my list, I don’t have much to complain about-I have far less problems than those around me. Africa is great, and Africa is tough, and Africa is my new home. Bring on the bugs.

Reality.

When we arrived at Made in the Streets, it was dark it was quiet and it smelled weird. When we woke up, we woke to the sounds of giggly girls, African music and the sound of breakfast being made. Despite it being 5 in the morning, they were welcomed sounds and we gladly left the comfort of our cozy beds to join them. As the days rolled by here in Kimulu, we have gotten to know the girls, boys and their children. We have taught their 3 and 4 year olds in the nursery, we have cooked meals with them, we have had devotionals and had our hair yanked and pulled as they argued over who would do our hair. We have danced to Taylor Swift and made cute braclets with them, we have painted nails upon nails. We have done laundry, watched movies and sang songs to the Lord, a mixture of Swahili and English blending in harmony to the same God. We have laughed and joked and played, we have experienced teenagers and kids in their prime. I dreaded this blog, the blog that I knew would come but hate to write. The blog where everything changes. A couple of days ago we visited one of the major slums of Niarobi, called Eastleigh. We visited the home of these children. There are about a million people in this slum. This is where Made in the Streets originated. As we drove further and further into the slum, the trash increased, the people increased, the smell so thick it permeated every breath you inhaled, the homes made of sheet metal increased. The roads consisted of mud.Only mud. A few times I just knew we would have to get out and push our bus through the sludge. Fortunately we made it to the headquarters and filed out, pretty silent trying to take in the poverty that surrounded us. After being introduced to the staff there, we went with one of the missionarys and two Kenyan men base walking. The roads became impossible to walk on as they were mud pits full of murky water. People marched by guaking at the only white people in an entire slum of Africans and Somalians. I was so thankful we were guided by the Kenyans because you had to watch every single step, hoping this step wasn't the one to plunge you to your death in the mire that threatened to overtake every inch of dry ground. It may be fitting to say there was no "solid ground" here. Eventually we arrived at the first base. It consisted of a few men and girls, we were introduced and suprisingly were very welcomed. In fact, the missionary agreed to give my hand in marrige to whoever offered the most goats! The reaction was not at all what I expected from the individuals in the base. They were nice, happy to see us and very friendly! We shared a few verses and a prayer and they listened intently to what we said and agreed to pray for us and with us. We then moved to the next base, a group of men leaned against a broken down bus in the road, smoke so thick it burned your eyes and nose. Through the smog, we could make out plastic bags attached to the ground and then to a fence next to it. This pattern went on for a good ways. The men informed us that these were their houses. It was a plastic bag. Off to the side of the men a woman was covering herself with an umbrella. We approached her and she lay down her umbrella, revealing that she was holding a baby. We asked how old the baby was as she showed us her 2 week old infant. She lives on the streets-with a two week old baby. We again discussed the Bible with these men and as we left one man grabbed my hand and proceeded to give me a very long, inaudible speech with tears in his eyes, never leaving my eyes, one of the Kenyan men translated that the man wanted me to share something with him. Me, being the shy person I often am went completely blank. Me? What can I share with someone like this? I know nothing about his life and what he has lived through what could I possibly say that would mean anything to him? Then my favorite verse popped in my head. I shared Isaiah 49:16 "See I have engraved you on the palms of my hands; your walls are ever before me." I told him that God knew about his entire life, God knew his struggles, God knew his walls in life. And that God loved him anyways. That God was in love with him. That was all I had. He thanked me so profusly and I have no idea if he understood, but I realize that's not my job, that one is up to God. At last, we came to our last base. As we topped a hill, there they were at the bottom. Leaned against a shack in a row. A line of little boys about 8 to 10 years old. Grasped tightly in their hands is what I knew to expect but dreaded the day I would see it. A bottle of glue. A few lay sprawled on the ground covered in dirt and trash, a bottle of glue permanetly held under their nose for sniffing. Glue is the drug of choice in the slums, it dulls hunger and keeps them high constantly. One of the reasons it is so hard to get the kids off the streets is because they are so addicted to this drug. They are so high they can't think. All of us stood in awe, was this real? Did kids really live like this? All day. Every day. The answer is yes. One of the Kenyans kneeled down, and sat in the dirt with them. God has greater plans for you, he said in Swahili. They stared a blank stare, eyes reflecting a life spent rejected, high, abused, not even a glimmer of hope. He told them the story of missionarys in the Bible when they were rejected and people wouldn't listen to them, they would dust off their feet and go to the next town. But here we are, he said, every day. Back with you, to tell you God loves you, and we're not going anywhere. We left the base silently, as they returned to their glue. On the walk back, piles upon piles of trash surround us on every side. Merchants on the sidewalks sell the things me and you throw away. They sell our trash. They value our trash. Babies crawled across the piles of trash, sifting through it with the hope to find any ounce of food they can. So much trash. And so many people sifting through it. Looking for anything even remotly edible. It is so easy to see pictures of Africa, to hear stories like this one. To read books, and National geographics on the poverty of the world, of Africa. But until you see the babies. Until you smell the stench, until you hold the scarred hands of a man who has never known anything other than drugs, trash and abandonment, until you look at the face of the 2 week old baby who will eventually become exactly like this old man-if he lives that long, it is not real. It's easy to see the pictures on your computer from the comfort of your nice desk chair while the smell of your dinner enters the room and feel sorry for these people, but then quickly forget as you move to the next task in your busy life. But it is not easy to see the reality. And it is not easy to make a difference. With a million plus people, you may even say it is impossible to make a difference. I would agree with this. It is impossible for you and I to make a difference. But, "He picks up the poor from out of the dirt, rescues the wretched who've been thrown out with the trash, and seats them among the honored guests, a place of honor among the brightest and best." Psalm 113:7-8 The girls that I have laughed with and played with, danced with and lived with this past week, came from these streets. This was their home. And they are proof of what God can do, and what God does daily. I ask that your prayers not be with me, I am blessed. Pray for these people. Pray for the people that are forgotten daily, because they are real, and they are there among the trash day in and day out, and because God made them the same as He made you and me.

After we were asked if we were going to Nairobi, Brazil...

JAMBO!! We finally made it to Africa, after a very nice layover in Dubai, which I might say is a beautiful place! What a shock to go from an extremely advanced city, to a not so advanced...Africa. As soon as we stepped off the plane I leaned over to Traci and asked "Whoa! What is that smell?" She replied, "That's Africa. Get used to it." Haha I am glad to say I have got used to the smell! We arrived at Made in the Streets pretty late and went straight to sleep. We woke at 5 to some African tunes blaring through the thin walls and masses of teenage girls cleaning, chatting and doing their morning chores. We jumped straight into their routine, helping teach some Bible classes and then eating some awesome African food (which has been amazing, we were prepared for the worst). Saturday was a very relaxed day, we woke up and preceeded to join the dance party that was occuring outside our door, I definetely don't have moves, so I was the object of their laughter. We painted nails and helped the girls cook chipati's (oily tortillas) for dinner later that night. There are a ton of little kids running around, some of which belong to the girls staying here and others belong to the staff. Their feet probably never touch the ground, they are constantly passed from person to person! Yesterday it rained a lot, so all the African dirt turned into a very sticky glue-like African mud. Walking place to place was an adventure, by the time we got to our destination, our shoes probably weighed ten pounds! Me and a few of the other girls decided to try out the African look and had a mud fight. We were quite a spectacle to the other people who live in Kimulu (the area MITS is at) a bunch of wazungu's (white people) rolling around in their streets throwing mud! Walking back to our apartment, you could hardly tell what color we were! We have been cooking dinner most nights, with the guys who are on our trip, last night we made a very american meal of spagetti and grean beans. The boys have definetely gotten the bad end of the deal, they have not had water since we have been here and dinner was not so appetizing sitting beside them!! All in all, Africa is everything and nothing I expected. It is dirty and loud, a few mosquitos have found a home on my face every night, and we are constantly covered in mud, there is a constant giggle of girls outside our door. This I expected, but the kids are so smart, and sweet, and coming straight from the streets, this is not at all what I expected. I did't expect some of them to be so smart they ask questions I don't know the answer to! I know dynamics may change and there will definetely be conflict at some points, but right now, Africa is all that you would expect it to be and more. Church in Africa is so amazing and exciting, it has only reaffirmed that God is the God of the U.S. and of Africa and I can't wait to see what else He will do here!

Away We Go

We leave in a few hours for Dubai, a 15 hour flight, and then after a long layover we're on our way to Kenya!! I can't really describe the mixture of emotions I am experiencing right now I can't decide if I'm excited or just scared out of my mind! The last few weeks we have been going on retreats and really trying to prepare our hearts and minds for all that we will experience in Africa. On the first retreat we went on, we went to Leb Shomea, near Corpus Christi. Leb Shomea is an international house of prayer, it is an area where silence and solitude is practiced year round in order to practice the disciplines of simplicity and solitude. I will admit I was pretty nervous about not being able to talk for 2 days but once we got there and got into the rhthym, the silence was extremely refreshing. I never really realized how accustomed we are to noise ALL the time. The area was beautiful with a ton of wildlife and scenery, there were also a lot of trails to walk down and just time to be able to wrap your mind around all that is God and all that is His creation. Needless to say, I recommend anyone who finds themselves getting to caught up and consumed in the duties of daily life to take a trip there. When we went to Leb Shomea, I was put in the house of Jeremiah as my dwelling. Now I don't know about you, but whenever I open the Bible, I never know where to start. So when I opened my Bible, I immediatly turned to Jeremiah. I started to pray to God about what He wanted from me, just in the next 6 months and life in general, who He wanted me to be, and where I fit in to this whole mess. I've just kind of been trying to figure out who I am and where my role is a lot lately. I've also been anxious about my abilities to reach people while I'm in Africa-seeing as I've never been someone who is a big talker. When I began to read Jeremiah, I wasn't expecting my prayers to be replied to so quickly as I read Jeremiah 1:5, which said "Before I formed you in the womb I knew you..." Before I was even formed-He KNEW me. I don't even know me. But none of that matters, because even if I don't know where I fit in or who I'm suppose to be, God knows, and only by intimately knowing God, will everything else fall into place. God knows that I am not an eloquent speaker, or very confident when it comes to things like that, He knows my fears and concerns, He knows who I am and who He made me to be. Lastly, God gave me this- "Do not say I am only a child. You must go to everyone I send you o and say whatever I command you." Jeremiah 1:7 Please keep me, Kristin and the rest of the team in your prayers!

My email- shaleynikkai@hotmail.com
My address-
 Made in the Streets
P. O. Box 77826
Nairobi 00622, Kenya

And so the adventure begins...In less than a month I will be in Nairobi, Kenya ready to begin no doubt the most difficult/amazing, terrifying/exciting, adventure of my life. About six months ago the thought of doing serve abroad Africa was a fleeting thought that I quickly dismissed in view of my life plan which I had so carefully planned out. I felt I just didn't have time to go do something like this if I was going to go to nursing school, graduate get a job, hopefully get into a specialized nursing school, graduate and be able to be a nurse..in Africa. Incidentally as soon as I dismissed the idea, God smacked me in the face with it-I was trying to finish school on my time, so I could go serve God on my time and have my life planned out the way I thought my life should be planned out-and God said, it's not your life to plan. So the current plan is no plan at all as it seems as soon as I try to set one, God says nope that's not what I have planned out. I know without a doubt, my time in Africa will be a pivotal point in life and it's weird to be on the other side of things; knowing that in 6 months I will probably not feel the way I feel right now. Like this is Shaley pre-Africa, and this is Shaley post-Africa, will anyone be able to tell a difference? One would hope. I've titled this blog Remain because Traci brought it up last summer in Peru, the idea of remaining in God, from 1 John 15:5, "I am the vine, you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing." I love the idea of remaining in God and with God always, and yet the word "remain" can be used in so many different context. What will remain when the comforts of daily life are gone? What will remain of the pre-Africa Shaley, post-Africa? My daily prayer has been to be emptied by God: so that I may be filled again, to be emptied once more. I am beyond excited to be able to pour my life into a new culture, a new people and a new experience. Please be praying that me and my partner Kristin will remain in God and that God will remain with us, and that once we are emptied, that God will peice back together our remains- to live out the plan He has for us.

My most recent picture: Shaley pre-Africa.