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.