Below Cultural Differences

It’s Wednesday afternoon and the children are dismissed for lunch.  It has been a very long morning as I have been fighting fatigue since I awakened.  As I walk to the door, I silently pray that I will make it back to the house, no more than 100ft away, without interruption. I cautiously place one foot onto the sidewalk outside, and then the other.  On a normal day, I would wave to every child passing by, often times stopping to play for a few moments.  Today, I try to ignore the activity going on around me.  I can think of nothing but curling up on the couch for the next hour. 

The adorable Hadassah (left) and her equally
adorable friend McKenna (right)

All too soon, and just as expected, I hear the pitter-patter of small feet running up behind me.  A small arm quickly embraces my waist, then falls comfortably into my hand.  It’s 7-year old Hadassah and this has become our daily routine.  As she pulls my arm to begin our walk around the schoolyard, I want to resist.  Instead, I fall into step beside her.  Her sweet little voice carries up to my ears, “You see. . .” and she begins todays conversation.  She talks happily, waving to the guard as we pass the gate.  As we near the end of our walk, her words tear my heart apart:

“When the white people come, I always really love them.  I love the white people.  You know, when I look in the mirror and see my face, I think it is ugly.  I think people might look at me and think I am dark and stinky.”

With tears in my eyes, I bend to my knees.  I begin to share with her a passage of scripture that I had shared with my students earlier this morning – Psalm 139:13-18.

“For You formed my inward parts;

You covered me in my mother’s womb.

I will praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made;

Marvelous are Your works,

And that my soul knows very well.

My frame was not hidden from You,

When I was made in secret,

And skillyfully wrought in the lowest parts of the earth.

Your eyes saw my substance, being yet unformed,

And in your book they all were written,

The days fashioned for me,

When as yet there were none of them.

How precious also are Your thoughts to me, O God!

How great is the sum of them!

If I could count them, they would be more in number than the sand;

When I awake, I am still with You.

“Do you know what that means, Hadassah? That means God put you together exactly the way He wanted you .  It means His hand was in every detail of your creation.  He thinks of you continually; thoughts of love, thoughts of joy, thoughts of a beautiful future.  You are beautiful and God has a marvelous plan for your life!”

Here in Kenya -  8,000 miles away from the place I call home, in a culture completely different from my own – I am reminded by a 7-year old girl that below the culutral differences, we all have one desperate need. We all need to know the One who saved us; we need to know that our lives serve a purpose; we need to know that we are of great value; we need to know that we are loved and loveable; we need to know what God’s thoughts are toward us; we need to know that we are cherished. 

To all the women out there, I speak this to you as much as I speak it to myself:

Beauty does not come from outward adornment.  Rather it comes from the hidden person of the heart, with the INCORRUPTIBLE beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit.   (1 Peter 3:3)

You are beautiful.  You are of great worth.  You are LOVED!! 

What I Didn't Know

Nothing is ever as you expect it to be.  I now understand the truth in this statement.  I didn’t expect Kings Kids Village to be such a thriving ministry; I didn’t expect to have clean water to drink; I didn’t expect to have a showerhead or a toilet that flushes; I didn’t expect to have electricity and constant access to the internet; I didn’t expect to live in a nice room with a comfortable bed; I didn’t expect to have a pleuthera of food choices and I certainly didn’t expect baked goods!  But all of these things are a reality for me here in Kenya.



Dan, Dorcas and all the girls with their babies.



So when Saturday morning (September 8^th)  rolled around and it was time to spend the morning with Wings of Compassion, I assumed that their compound was as comfortable as the one I live at.  What I didn’t know was that the ministry is located just outside the slums, in a very poor section of the city.  What I didn’t know is that their compound – home to 11 rescued girls and their babies, the directors Dan and Dorcas, their son, and their daughter with her two children – is smaller than my parents entire house.  What I didn’t know is that seven girls sleep in three bunk beds in one tiny room and two more currently occupy the kitchen.  What I didn’t know is that the babies only have one small room to play in during the day as the “yard” outside is nothing but mud and gets very messy during the rainy seasons.  What I didn’t know is that the kitchen is barely large enough to contain 3 people and the sink can hardly be used because the drain is blocked. 

What I didn’t know was that my first blog (posted less than two weeks since the day I arrived) was going to be a call for action.  But first, let me tell you a little about Wings and the heroes that started it.  Wings of Compassion is a rescue mission that seeks to give the most desperate teenage mothers and their babies a safe place to live, food to eat, and the opportunity to go back to school.  Each individual girls story is heart breaking and nauseating.  Many of them were sold into prostitution by their own family in order to earn money for food; one of the girls conceived as a result of rape; still others had their lives threatened and were forced to run away.  Not a single one of them is over 19 years of age. 

Dan and Dorcas started the ministry less than two years ago and their over whelmingly compassionate hearts willl not allow them to turn any girl away.  They have no space that is their own, even sharing their bedroom with their young son.  Two girls currently live in the kitchen, requiring most meals to be prepared outside.  With no money to buy a van, none even to pay the bus fare for all the girls, Sunday morning services are held in the living room.  To top it all off, Dan and Dorcas are also overseeing a small orphanage.  Just last weekend, a 6-year old girl was rescued from the streets.  She had been abandoned, sexually assaulted, and left walking the streets for 5 days and nights.  Even though she was rescued late at night, everything possible was done to ensure the girl received immediatie medical attention, food and a place at the orphanage.   Dorcas returned home at 2am the following morning.  But you won’t hear her complain.  Neither of them utters a single, disgruntled  complaint.  If you ask Dan, their compound is their “glory”; a hundred times better than the one they moved out of last December. 

What they really need is more space for the endless number of girls who need refuge.  What they really need is a support team – people who agree to give monthly to meet the growing needs of their ministry.  What they really need is a place they can call their own.  I know that those things will come in time.  But what they need IMMEDIATELY is the funds to build another room on their compound.  One more room will allow them to have their kitchen back; one more room might even allow them to bring in a few more girls.  And this is where I turn to you.  The cost of building another room is between $300-$400.  If you feel compelled at all to give to this cause, please message/email me.  I will be greatful; Dan, Dorcas and the girls will be grateful; and God above will see your selfless heart. 

Thank you in advance my wonderful family and friends!!  Blessings!

Not a Beauty Queen

I am not a beauty queen.  I don't wear a lot of make-up; I'm not all that interested in fashion;  my feet are not accustomed to high heels; my finger nails are rarely painted; my teeth aren't straight and my hair is almost always done haphazardly.  Sometimes I forget to shave my legs and waxing. . .not even in my vocabulary.  Classy places intimidate me, large audiences scare me and I am incapable of following anything but a loose schedule.  I am not dainty, cute or graceful.  I am more comfortable in a pair of gym shorts or my favorite ripped jeans; I am competitive to a fault;  I like sitting on the floor and I like to wander until I get lost.  I climb trees and I hike mountains and I get dirty.  I am quite the opposite of a beauty queen.

I am Sandra Bullock in Miss Congeniality.  I scoff at the infamous answer "world peace". . .or at least I used to.  Recently, I have been reading a lot of world news, and what I have discovered has left me broken hearted.  Take Somalia for instance - for a generation, "Somalia" has been just another term for "failed state".  As if famine and disease are not enough, Somalia is also one of the worlds most violent countries - warring militias, bandits, warlords and pirates plague the country.  Al Qaeda affiliated Al Shabab, one of Africa's most fearsome militant Islamist groups, controls much of Southern Somalia.  Pirates on the coast attack entreating ships, killing some and taking others hostage.  Somalis escaping to Yemen are not exempt from pirate attacks; ships are often seized and Somali civilians thrown overboard.  Increased famine has made women and children more vulnerable to rape than ever before while others face beheading if they refuse arranged marriage.  Thousands have been forced from their homes and displaced into refugee camps in Somalia, Kenya and Uganda.

In Afghanistan, the Taliban, which once ruled many parts of Afghanistan, continues to fight the Afghan government for power.  As a result, innocent lives are taken in suicide bombings, beheadings, and insurgent attacks.

The thing I have taken for granted most as an American is not the abundance of food, the availability of clean water, the access to medical care or even the sturdily constructed buildings.  The thing I have taken for granted most; the thing I have thought about least, is the peace that exists within our country.  When I lay my head down on my pillow at night, I am not afraid that a bomb will waken me; I do not fear that tomorrow I might be raped or murdered.  When I wake up in the morning, I do not plan the best way to quickly and safely escape my home; I do not worry that I will see several children lying dead in the streets; I do not wonder if my family will be intact when the sun goes down.  This is not so for so many in countries world wide.  The terror that cosumes the lives of those living in war-torn societies is not something I can even fathom. But of this I am convinced - the Lord does not intend for this to be. 

Jesus I pray, may kingdoms fall and rulers crawl before Your throne.  May the hearts of the wicked bow at Your feet and may the lips that now blaspheme Your Name suddenly begin to offer up praises.  May every knee bow and every tongue confess that You are Lord.  May You receive the glory and honor You are due from people of every tribe, tongue and nation.  May Your peace, which surpasses all understanding, fall upon those who know no peace.  May Your arms of protection encirlce the innocent.  Dear Lord, stretch out Your mighty hand over all nations  in such a way that none can deny the existence of the LIVING God.  Your Name be praised, sweet Jesus. 

Conflicting Dreams. . .Or So It Seems

If you had known me 6 years ago, you would know that I had one dream.  Those who did know me then can testify that my greatest desire was to marry, settle into a house in my parents back yard, send my children to the same high school I attended and live a comfortable, "normal" life surrounded by the few people I knew and loved.  As a teenager, I was the least likely of my friends to move out of the area; the least likely to travel across the ocean. I was the least courageous, the least out going and probably the most insecure.

I remember one of the first small group bible studies I attended as a freshman at SUNY Brockport.  That night, we were asked to share our dreams with one another.  I wouldn't have participated had I not been forced, but as we were each taking our turn around the circle, I decided I may as well at least be honest with these "strangers".  When I finished sharing, they prayed.  From my perspective, I wasn't asking much from the Lord.  All I needed was for Him to provide a man, the rest was already figured out. . .or so I thought.  If there's one thing I've learned about the human condition it is this - "We do not know what we should pray for as we ought" (Romans 8:26).  Fortunately we have a heavenly Father who "Himself makes intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered. . .He makes intercession for the saints ACCORDING TO THE WILL OF GOD" (Romans 8:26, 27).  I remember the words I heard that night, but I wonder what He heard.  I imagine it went something a little like this,  "Father, may she see how great, how pure, how perfect Your love is for her.  Raise her up in Your tender mercies, strengthen her by Your might, prepare her heart for the things You want to share with her.  Pour Yourself out upon her until all she knows and all she desires is You."

As I waited impatiently for my prayer to be heard, my Lord waited patiently for His prayer to resonate in my heart.  He protected me as I entered into a relationship with a man almost 6 years older than me.  Looking back, I shamefully admit that my only reason for moving in that direction was because he was the first man to pay any attention to me.  My life was far more important to my Father than it was to me at that time because had the relationship been abusive in any way, given my great insecurities, my life would have been over.  I never would have entered into His fullness; I would never have learned His purpose for my life.  But His hand of protection is forever upon me.  And when the relationship ended, He lovingly guided me through what was certainly the darkest season of my life.  My friends expressed their amazement at how well, how maturely I was handling everything.  But to be honest, I was lost in the darkness.  I wondered if it was truly the Lord I was serving or if I was a demon in disguise.  At first, I fought to see light again, but as the months dragged on, I lost hope and stopped fighting.  But the Lord Jesus does not give up and I have since learned that others were fighting for my life through prayer even as I did nothing.

Like most people who have endured the darkness, I vowed to God that I would never be grateful for it.  For years, the choice to pursue that relationship was my one regret; it was the one thing I would do over again if I could because in choosing it, my life spiraled out of my control.  BUT GOD.  Isn't that the testimony of all our lives?  We are sinners, we were lost, we were destined for hell. . .BUT GOD!  God sent His Son to take my iniquities upon His shoulders and die for them.  God reached down His hand and pursued my heart.  God was, is and will continue to be in relentless pursuit of my life - until He has it all.

Daily, I am grateful to be on the other side of that wilderness season but forever I praise the Lord of heaven and earth for leading me through it.  Because it was then that He stripped me of myself and filled me with Himself;  it was then that He began to reveal His unconditional, never-ending love for me; it was then that He birthed in me passions that match His own.  For the call on my life is clear.  I will never again live in Pembroke, NY as a permanent resident;  for the rest of my life, most of the conversations I have with my parents and siblings will be done over the phone instead of face-to-face;  I am going to miss out on the experiences and lives of the people I love most.  I won't buy a house next door to my best friend; we won't raise our children together; I'll be the face that's missing at family gatherings and I may never get to hold my future nieces and nephews.  And that hurts to think about.  So much so that I'm tempted to run home every time I do.  But my spirit knows that I will never be fulfilled if I don't live out what He has called me to.  The Lord my God gave me His one and only Son.  The least I can do is surrender my life.

The little girl who once trembled so severely as she shared her essays to the class that the paper in her hands shook has now also stood in front of a church full of people in a country not her own with much less fear.  And He's not finished we me yet.  He turned my world right-side-up.  Those dreams that were once so precious to me seem hardly important anymore.  Don't get me wrong, they're not gone.  It's like when I hear my sister share about her adventures in searching for a house with her husband.  As she explains to me every detail from the three-car garage, to the hot tub, to the cupboard where she hopes to keep the cleaning supplies, I can't help but picture myself looking at houses with my "husband".  Or when the young woman walks into the restaurant with her 6-week old baby girl.  There is a yearning in my heart to someday have my own precious miracle wrapped in my arms.

I recognize that both dreams are of the Lord - but how can it be?  In my limited vision, I can't see how He could possibly work it out.  So I meditate upon these verses - "He [Abraham] did not waver at the promise of God through unbelief, but was strengthened in faith, giving glory to God, and being fully aware that what He had promised He was also able to perform.  And therefore 'it was accounted to him for righteousness.'" (Romans 4:20-22)  He has promised me two dreams confirmed in my spirit and through prophecy.  He is able to carry those out and He will.  And the story will be a million times more beautiful than one I could ever dream of writing.

Red Dirt Roads

A plane touches down in Entebbe, Uganda.  Passengers remove their seat-belts and pull their belongings from the compartment boxes overhead.  I sit quietly in my seat by the window, not really believing that the plane is on African soil. . .not completely understanding that soon, my feet will be, too.  As I leave the plane and begin the descent down the stairs, I feel like the President of the United States whose arrival has been long anticipated and prepared for; I feel like I should be doing the Miss America wave.  We are warmly greeted by Pastor George and several members of Elim Church before we board the bus to Kampala.  It doesn't take long for the conversations around me to fade into distant chatter. I'm staring out the window, waiting for culture shock to set in. It never does, even though what I'm seeing is so different from what I'm used to. Houses nailed together haphazardly with gaps beween the boards that are so wide a hand could easily reach through; umbrellas so tattered and torn they can't possibly accomplish their job of providing shelter from the sun; shoeless, shirtless children; garbage in burn piles all over the streets; stray dogs wandering aimlessly and of course the red-orange dust. The remainder of the day passes in a surreal haze - room assignments, team bonding and warnings to pull the mosquito net down over our beds before we fall asleep.

Day 1 - I haven't eaten in over 24 hours and still I am not hungry - or perhaps I simply don't want to waste time eating. So I brush my teeth and board the bus.  As we drive out of the city, the scene outside my window dramatically changes.  Suddenly, we are on red dirt roads barely wide enough for the bus we are riding on and the houses are no longer made of slabs of wood, but of mud and grass.  I shiver with excitement and anticipation, but I also wonder if I'll know quite what to do once we get to our destination.  We depart the bus and I look around, breathe in the warm African air.  There's a little boy across the street staring at me intently and when my eyes meet his, I smile and wave.  Next thing I know, I'm being ushered into the school house, where 40 or so children are standing on the "stage" preparing to perform songs for us.  I walk through the door and I can't move; can't even breathe.  Because for three years, every time I've closed my eyes, it is their faces that I have seen.  But my eyes aren't closed now. . .they're standing in front of me.  As they sing songs of worship to the Lord, even the smallest of them praising Him in Spirit and truth, I fight back tears.  And when they're finished and several of them come over to sit on my lap and hold my hands, everything and every one around me fades away.  Several minutes later, I hear people shuffling to their feet and I'm being escorted by five or six children to their classroom.  No desks, no chairs - just a small blackboard and some hand-written notes.  Desiring deeply to be at their level, I bend to my knees. . .and 15 children sit on the floor around me.  I wasn't expecting this and I'm not prepared.  So we say our ABC's and count to ten.  I could have stayed there, with those children, for eternity.  But it's time to go and as we get back on the bus, a part of my heart doesn't come with me.

We visit several schools and orphanages throughout our stay in Uganda, and by the end of day one, I'm beginning to loathe my skin color.  It's true what they say, if you want to be treated like a rock star, go to a third world country.  At times, children ran alongside our bus, hitting the sides and grabbing our arms through open windows.  At least once, we couldn't get off the bus for the number of children swarming the door.  My heart melts every time a child grabs my hands - some just content to hold my pinky if there are already several small hands on mine.  But I'm also plagued with thoughts of,  "What makes me better than them?" and "Why do they value me more than they value their own people?"  Mzungu - white person - someone of great wealth.  I have no right to say it because I've always had everything I've ever needed, but I wish someone would tell them that America isn't as beautiful as it's made out to be.

Day 5 - I slept at Senga, an orphanage for street boys, last night.  It's the closest I'll come to living like most of the people here do (at least on this trip), and still there is electricity.  We take a boda-boda and then a cab back to Kampala; back to the slums of Kivulu.  It's our second day here and a sadness consumes me because I know we won't be coming back.  The past few days of laughing, playing and dancing have been joyous and wonderful.  But today. . .today I want sit quietly holding  one child on my lap.  So I find a spot under the tarp covered shelter and lower myself to the red dirt. Yusef, a boy I met yesterday, sits beside me and puts my arm around his shoulders. Soon, we are sharing worship songs with one another - Yusef singing one in Lugandan then me singing one in English. We go back and forth for several songs until another boy sits down forlornly in a broken chair a few feet away.  The wound on his leg has just been cleaned and wrapped by team members doing medical ministry.  My heart breaks as I watch several boys walk by, each one poking and jeering at him.  As a tear rolls down his face, I move to his side.  Yusef follows.  His English is poor, so Yusef translates for me.  He is 13 years old and has been living on the streets for two weeks - both of his parents dead because of AIDS.  He won't say anything more, just sits with his eyes cast down, not bothering to hide the tears.  Not knowing what else to do, I pull him to his feet and wrap him in my arms.  I'm shocked when I realize he's not fighting me; even more awe-struck when, as I loosen my grip to let go, he holds on tighter.  By now, we're both crying.  Who's going to take care of him, or 10-year old Yusef, or any of the other boys?  Where is he going to sleep tonight?  How will he get his next meal?  Survival is entirely up to his own capabilities and often times that means stealing - an act that has severe consequences in Kampala.  To make matters worse, police give out brutal lashings to anyone found sleeping on the street.  He isn't protected by anyone from anything.

The boys walk us back to our bus; goodbye's are said over and over again.  I know what this is doing to me; I don't even want to imagine what it's doing to them.  I put on my "rock star" sunglasses to hide the tears that are falling like rain, wishing that I could disappear into the seat I'm sitting on.  Sadness, anger, heartache.  Yesterday as we walked through the slums, I remember thinking that I could see all of this, look into the faces of the people who live here and still walk away untouched.  It would be so easy to get on the plane next week, fly back to America and pretend like these conditions don't exist.  Even after today, I realize that I could block all the emotions but somehow that seems more exhausting than letting them run their course.  Besides, I know they'll catch up with me eventually.

Day 6 - The next two days are "rest" days.  Rest from what?  I'll only be in Uganda for a total of 10 days; I can rest when I get home.  Regardless, our driver is taking us to Jinja where we will stay with the Nesters, who have been living here for several years. Guards, a tall wrought iron gate and finally a large house - upper-middle class by American standards.  My heart drops to my stomach.  This isn't exactly what I pictured when I signed up for this trip.  Can I go back to Kivulu?  Sigh.  I guess all I can do is make the most of it.

Day 11 - We spent the last three days in Uganda putting on a youth conference at Elim Church.  Several countries were represented.  Many of the girls tried to teach me how to African dance to no avail.  I suppose that means I'll have to visit again soon. Starring out the window as we drive through Kampala one last time, I realize that I don't want to buy them new umbrellas.  It sounds hateful even in my own head and I don't immediately understand why the thought occurs to me.  But as I process it through, I realize that, simply, I don't want Africa to become "Americanized"/modernized.  I love the simplicity of life that comes with not having access to so much stuff;  I love that a few blown up balloons can satisfy a child for hours; I love the great faith those who believe in the Lord have; I love the smiling faces that greet me wherever I go despite the gross poverty most of them are accustomed to. Africa is beautiful - the people are beautiful - what they can offer us is significantly greater and far more important than what we can give to them.

Welcome 2012

Excitement.  Anticipation. Expectation. A breath of fresh air.  My skin is tingling and my heart is beating twice as fast as it should; my feet want to dance and my arms want to lift to the heavens.  This has been my state of existence for several days - this is 2012.  I can feel God moving within me and around me.  There is a passion in my heart and a stirring in my spirit - He wants to move and this time. . .this time, it's going to be big.  When I close my eyes, I see the captive set free - chains being broken and barred gates opened;  I see mourners get up and dance and those once in rags are now clothed in righteousness;  I see the hungry fed, the sick healed, the dead raised and the tormented delivered.  For He is raising up an army - those who won't compromise, won't back down, won't grow weary or faint-hearted.  There is a remnant who rise up and call Him blessed, who deem Him worthy of even their final life's breath.  And it is through these that He will move mightily.  

As I look back over 2011, I am in awe of what the Lord has done.  This is a year that I will always look back upon with gratitude and fondness.  It was a year of fulfilled promises.  I have realized in a fresh way how the Lord has gone before me into every place and every situation for as far back as I can remember.  His hand of protection has been upon me when I needed it, when I didn't think I did, and even when I didn't realize/acknowledge that He was there.  By His grace alone, I went from over $10,000 in student loans in January to a mere $1,600 in less than seven months.  By His grace, I (finally!) took a short term missions trip to Uganda, Africa.  By His grace, I was the only member on my team to remain healthy for the entire two weeks - a marvelous blessing as I resigned from my job right before I left and had no health insurance!  By His grace and provision, I was offered a job (in an area with a 21% unemployment rate) and that job was held for me for a month as I took a season to rest in the Lord.  By His grace, I received the emotional healing I so desperately needed and have begun to build a relationship with my dad  where (in my opinion) none existed.  By His grace, I am more content now than I had been in the past 3.5 years.  He knows my heart, He sees my passions and He is faithful to complete the work that He has started in me.

2011 marked the beginning of a chapter of my life that I had waited 3 years to get to.  The waiting is over. . .it's time to move; time to plow; time to press forward.  My dreams are big, but my God is bigger. My heart burns with passion, but the flame in His is greater.  I hold fast to those things that He has whispered to me.  I expect great things in 2012, knowing He has a way of going above and beyond all that we could ask or imagine.