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.