How many people enjoy oreos? Perhaps a peanut-butter sandwich is more your style. But in either case, the important part is not necessarily the cookies or the bread -its the center that counts!!! How many people get excited over two crispy "cocoa wafers" or two slices of bread? None.
So why is it, that in our life, we remember the beginning and the end much more clearly? The beginning and end are more like appetizers anyway. Why is that all the juicy middle portion gets reduced to some blurish motion that can only be described as a connection point from A to B with a few major highlights!
I don't want to reduce this mission trip by any portion. Personally I would love to think of my time in kenya as a decked-out club turkey sandwich on whole grain bread. Why? Lets break it down.
Whole grain bread: I think we can all agree that whole grain is healthy. It may not be what you grew up with, but it is a change for the best. So was my decision to come to Kenya. I took a chance on something new, and I have been enriched in so many ways.
Hummus spread: First off -yum! When hummus is on your sandwich you can't always detect the source of deliciousness, but without it, each bite would be dryer, less flavorful, and overall not quite as fulfilling. In the same way Julie and Audery were my hummus. My experience here would have been much dryer without them. They were the base layer that enriched every experience in Kenya. They were the spice -the excitement.
Cheese: Not just any cheese, but smoked gouda. You don't need much of this, just a little for flavor. I would liken the cheese to clean-up days. I love them, but it isn't wise to go over board; a little goes a long way.
Turkey: The main part of the whole sandwich! It needs to be thinly sliced, layered high, and moist. Don't give me any of that dried out turkey. This would be the health education. It has taken up the majority of my time here in Kenya. I think my turkey may be peppered turkey, because although its been sweet, its also got a bit of a kick. There have been some set-backs in the educational process, but overall, its been fresh!
Lettuce: I want it crisp; just like medical camps. Refreshing, crisp, and absolutely necessary.
Tomato: It needs to be ripe, firm but sweet. Kind of like the people I work with. Ok, call it corny, but the people that i work with are always cheery, and they are "ripe" in the sense that whatever they say, it is said at just the right time. They are firm in their beliefs which makes them endearingly sweet.
Cucumbers: Cucumbers are crisp -just like the morning runs here in Kenya.
Banana Peppers: They need to be sweet and not spicy; just like the kids that sing "how are you?"
Olives: I hate olives, and generally I would pick them off. I could call Matatus Kenyan olives. They are salty, and i don't like them. Sure, they serve some purpose, but life would be much better if they weren't on my sandwich.
Mustard: Mustard originates from a tiny seed. But eventually it grows and is processed into this condiment that permeates the entire sandwich. I want to plant a mustard seed. This seed will be in the form of a medical fund. It shall be planted in a bank, grow interest, and then be processed so that while it grows, it can be cultivated and then processed to affect hundreds of lives.
Second slice of whole wheat bread: Whole wheat is made with whole grains -its retains the fiber and nutrients that are essential to proper nutrition. Kenya has been like a spiritual nutritional revival. I have been well fed, and I know the vitamins and minerals (lessons and experiences I have had) will continue to enrich my life.
Finally, we need a tooth-pick to hold this monsterous sandwich together. The tooth-pick is of course the love of God, shown both through his quiet whispers and the incredibly inspirational people he has put in my life. They keep me together when I think all of my insides are going to fall out!
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Hospital Days
As a part of my job I have the opportunity to travel with social workers to different hospitals within Eastern Kenya. Generally the children in attendance are those kids seeking medical professional care for long-lasting diseases or other complications. My feelings towards the hospitals could be described as a love-hate relationship. It is much the same in the United states; I love to see actions promoting children's health, but I hate how long it takes to receive that care. I love the fact that Missions of Hope cares enough about these children to squeeze an already tight budgets so as to ensure that these kids see proper medical professionals, but I hate that the care comes at such a high price to the school. I love holding the hand of a small girl as she waits anxiously for the doctor to call her in to the office, but I hate walking out of a hospital with less hope than when I came in.
It is indeed a trying challenge -a challenge of both perseverance and hope. Sometimes the struggles outweigh the benefits, but when so much is on the line, perseverance must prevail. Most of my frustrations have come from Kenyatta National Hospital (KNH). A few weeks ago Alice (a social worker) and myself went to the hospital with Kevin, a young boy of 9 years who was still in pre-unit (kindergarten). He had been held back for several years because he could not perform in class. He sat in the front row, squinted his eyes, and tilted his head, and still he could not see the board. But instead of questioning the reason for his lack of performance, the teachers simply held him back. A few months ago we had an optometrist visit the schools for school screenings. This was one of the intern's projects. Kevin was recommended to see a specialist, and so his case was followed up with Kenyatta National hospital.
My experience at the eye clinic should not taint the reputation of the entire hospital. This was just one case, and I should hope that it is not representative of the care that is provided in all departments. On a Wednesday morning a few weeks back, Kevin, Alice and I arrived at KNH around 9 am. Long story short, we didn't leave until 5pm. Of the 8 hours that we were there, I believe the doctors spent a total of 15 minutes looking at Kevin; the diagnosis: come back next time.
We came back again. But this time I was ready. I packed some playing cards, a few books, some activities for Kevin, and most important, a bagged lunch for the three of us. The day progressed much the same as last time. We arrived at KNH, payed out 200/= consultation fee (about $3), and then waited in the waiting room. We sat in dingy chairs and stared at the peeling paint on the walls. There was one lone poster that was stuck to the wall in three corners -it depicted some gruesome images of eye disease and trauma. So long as Kevin didn't have one of those issues, I was glad to put in the 8 hour wait. When we were finally called back to a room we were greeted by another 4-5 families -each with little children. The consultation room was a zoo! Between babies crying, young ones playing, and doctors-in-training chasing patients with a flashlight, I felt like I was in a three stooges movie. This couldn't possibly be how a national hospital performed exams??!?! There was one main doctor who was obviously in-charge of the show, and she seemed even more put-off with her trainees than I was. "Who wrote on the back of the examination form! These are to be copied and .... Where is my scope? If some one removes my belongings one more time... What did you see? Why are you doing it this way, the prism is supposed to be held like this.... Is there anyone who can tell my what I should be looking for in this nystagmus?"
Case and point, she was not very happy.
Well, at the end of the day we were once again referred to a specialist, but this time at Gertrude's children's hospital. After the visit at Gertrude's Kevin was diagnosed with low vision and was recommended to a special school. How much time had been wasted? Not time simply in the hospitals, but what about the years that had passed since the teachers first noticed his poor performance and queer posture while trying to read. I was informed that he had been taken to Kenyatta once before, but was similarily referred for a second consultation without giving any imformation to the mother. Frustrated and unable to proceed with the follow up, Kevin's mother gave up, and nothing further was done. Kevin is a bright boy, and his education is critical to his economic and social maturation. He is already 9, but he must now start anew in a whole new program. The only difficulty, is where -and at what price. Who will pay for his education when his mother is scraping uagali out of a bowl so that she can scrap together enough food to have one more bite -a small bite that will do little to staunch the hunger pains.
There is depressed, and then there is desperate. I love this family dearly, and I would ask that anyone who reads this, that they would say a short prayer for this family.
"That is why we never give up. Though our bodies are dying, our spirits are being renewed every day."
2 Corinthians 4:16
It is indeed a trying challenge -a challenge of both perseverance and hope. Sometimes the struggles outweigh the benefits, but when so much is on the line, perseverance must prevail. Most of my frustrations have come from Kenyatta National Hospital (KNH). A few weeks ago Alice (a social worker) and myself went to the hospital with Kevin, a young boy of 9 years who was still in pre-unit (kindergarten). He had been held back for several years because he could not perform in class. He sat in the front row, squinted his eyes, and tilted his head, and still he could not see the board. But instead of questioning the reason for his lack of performance, the teachers simply held him back. A few months ago we had an optometrist visit the schools for school screenings. This was one of the intern's projects. Kevin was recommended to see a specialist, and so his case was followed up with Kenyatta National hospital.
My experience at the eye clinic should not taint the reputation of the entire hospital. This was just one case, and I should hope that it is not representative of the care that is provided in all departments. On a Wednesday morning a few weeks back, Kevin, Alice and I arrived at KNH around 9 am. Long story short, we didn't leave until 5pm. Of the 8 hours that we were there, I believe the doctors spent a total of 15 minutes looking at Kevin; the diagnosis: come back next time.
We came back again. But this time I was ready. I packed some playing cards, a few books, some activities for Kevin, and most important, a bagged lunch for the three of us. The day progressed much the same as last time. We arrived at KNH, payed out 200/= consultation fee (about $3), and then waited in the waiting room. We sat in dingy chairs and stared at the peeling paint on the walls. There was one lone poster that was stuck to the wall in three corners -it depicted some gruesome images of eye disease and trauma. So long as Kevin didn't have one of those issues, I was glad to put in the 8 hour wait. When we were finally called back to a room we were greeted by another 4-5 families -each with little children. The consultation room was a zoo! Between babies crying, young ones playing, and doctors-in-training chasing patients with a flashlight, I felt like I was in a three stooges movie. This couldn't possibly be how a national hospital performed exams??!?! There was one main doctor who was obviously in-charge of the show, and she seemed even more put-off with her trainees than I was. "Who wrote on the back of the examination form! These are to be copied and .... Where is my scope? If some one removes my belongings one more time... What did you see? Why are you doing it this way, the prism is supposed to be held like this.... Is there anyone who can tell my what I should be looking for in this nystagmus?"
Case and point, she was not very happy.
Well, at the end of the day we were once again referred to a specialist, but this time at Gertrude's children's hospital. After the visit at Gertrude's Kevin was diagnosed with low vision and was recommended to a special school. How much time had been wasted? Not time simply in the hospitals, but what about the years that had passed since the teachers first noticed his poor performance and queer posture while trying to read. I was informed that he had been taken to Kenyatta once before, but was similarily referred for a second consultation without giving any imformation to the mother. Frustrated and unable to proceed with the follow up, Kevin's mother gave up, and nothing further was done. Kevin is a bright boy, and his education is critical to his economic and social maturation. He is already 9, but he must now start anew in a whole new program. The only difficulty, is where -and at what price. Who will pay for his education when his mother is scraping uagali out of a bowl so that she can scrap together enough food to have one more bite -a small bite that will do little to staunch the hunger pains.
There is depressed, and then there is desperate. I love this family dearly, and I would ask that anyone who reads this, that they would say a short prayer for this family.
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2 Corinthians 4:16
Thursday, March 31, 2011
health education
The health education at all of the centers is almost complete! I have been to Kosovo, Area II, Bobandogo, Mabatinin, Pangani, Joska, Kiamaiko, Madoya..... and now, for Bondeni.
By the time I have visited all of the schools, I will have seen every child at Missions of hope schools (at least in theory). This totals nearly 6,000 students. And while there is no way I could ever know each one of them individual, I am shocked by how well they know me. Depending on age, I will see them a total of 45 min -2 hours and a half hours. Although it may be short, it has caused a significant difference.
The difference is not in the cleanliness of the children (perhaps it is still too soon to notice a marked improvement in personal habits) but it has changed the way the community sees me. Now when I walk through communities I still hear "how are you..."* but now I also hear, "hi Leann"
It is quite a new experience to be in a foreign country, walking down paths I have never tread before, and then hearing my name called out. At first it caught me off guard, but now I am thankful for the sweet voices that call out my name.
I still respond to, "how are you musungu," but now this musungu has a name!
*the sing-song chant of almost every child in Mathare
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Why I have the Best Job
Instead I believe that by systematically scoring my job in different areas, I can fully prove that my job IS the best.
First we have work hours: I get to the center between 8:30 and 9:00 every morning. Bonus -I don't need to clock in. Most days we have to pick up the kids from school -around 4:00. So generally it is a short day, unless we want to stay longer. Then, with one phone call, we can arrange for that to happen.
(10/10 pts)
Secondly there is a great community of co-workers: the first 15-20 minutes of the work day I travel to each departmet greating everyone. Usually this isn't limited to a quick hand-shake and a two-line conversation, but it is a huge hug, perhaps a high 5 (unless you are dan, then it is a high "6"), and a few laughs. I find out what they have been studying from the Bible, which community they are visiting today, whether or not they had a busy evening.
(10/10 pts)
Third -actual work: It changes every day. If you are looking for a job for someone who is ADD, this is it. Nothing is the same -ever. One day I do community clean up, one day i visit hospitals, another day is evangelism, bible study, CHE training, health education, clinic observation, packing drugs, computer work (typing reports for kenyans), or just hanging out with whatever short-term missions team is here. I love it. The only set back is if you are one of those people who needs to wake up knowing what every minute of your day will look like -this is not the job for you.
(10/10 pts)
Fourth: If I get hungry during the day, i just walk outside and buy a banana, or a mango for the equivalent of 6 cents. I don't have to pack my lunch -ever! (although there are some days when i wish i could, but that is just one small blip)
(9.5/10 pts)
Fifth: What I do is long-lasting. I get to impact the lives of people in a very real way. Children or adults, I get to make a difference, and I know that what I am doing is not overlooked by my heavenly father. I get to see the excitement of someone coming to Christ. I get to witness spiritual and and physical healing. Ok, so i might not get paid, which could make this job a lot less appealing to many people, but there is payment other than physical cash. I've got a reward waiting for my up in heaven, so I will get to enjoy it later. Its kind of like an extended savings account -I can't touch it now, but I know that it is safe and secure.
(10/10 pts)
Sixth: set up a meeting with me for when I get back to the states, and I can tell you more about why my job is the best... perhaps over a cup of coffee, or a chicken sandwich (mmmmm, I do miss chicken)
Saturday, February 26, 2011
James
Someone once told me that reading blogs is like reading someone else’s journal –except its “legal.” This same someone has also read my journal, an action I am sure will not soon be repeated (ahem). But because I love her dearly, I thought I would actually share one of my journal entries. I apologize if it is not well polished, if it is not exciting, or adventurous. It is simply me, what I experience in a day, and describes why I love what I do.
James Mwendwa Mumo; 10 years old; favorite subject math; has two sisters and 4 brothers all under one roof with his mother. He won’t tell me anymore. He is quiet, patiently waiting for his chance to enter the door at the end of the hallway. Already it has been two hours and the line has moved very little; but it has moved, and for that I am grateful. The wait of hospital visits no longer phases me. Instead I am prepared. I’ve brought a pen, and paper, journal, book, and even cards. I usually teach the kids how to play Go Fish.
But James is quiet. I see the pain behind his eyes. Is the pain from his injury or is it from the questions about his family? I don’t keep pressing. I leave him in silence as his downcast eyes fall to the bandana around his leg. I know what it hides and I shudder to think what kind of pain he is in.
I can’t believe we made him walk. He has been missing school for the past 10 days because he has been trying to sleep away the pain. He is certainly not able to walk to school, and now we have made him walk at least a half-mile.
I wonder, have we done more harm than good? Why did I not pack ibuprofen –some help I am! I have to have trust that we will make it to the end of this line. “Dear God please let us see the doctor before they close the clinic.”
Cue –God; a woman walks up to us and places us in the front of another line. Five minutes pass and we walk through the steel door.
After the usual Kenyan greeting and relationship building, the attention is finally directed at James. He is asked to remove the yellow bandana hiding his injury. It’s bad. Dermatitis covers his leg from his ankle to his knee –and it is seriously infected. It causes his dry scaly skin to well up in some areas and ooze pus –not exactly appetizing during the lunch hour. I really wanted to let out a long whistle and say, “dang, now that is and infection.” But since that would be quite inappropriate, I sat in somber silence while the doc quickly glanced at the wound.
She wasn’t concerned, and she wasn’t impressed. Could this seriously be so common that it wouldn’t deserve any extra attention? Was James’ case no big deal? Did she mistake his stubbornly strong face for nonchalance? Couldn’t she see he was holding back tears??!?
I took the prescription from her, both relieved and concerned. I was relieved that we had not waited all day in vain. I was excited for this little scratch piece of paper with scribbles on it. I may as well have been Charlie and this piece of paper the golden ticket. But I was concerned for the lack of concern shown by the doctor. What kind of maladies did these doctors see on a regular basis? Did everyone around here decide to wait until it was almost impossible to get out of bed to see a doctor? I also felt concern for James. We still needed to walk to the matatu station and he was looking more tired by the moment.
The rest of the day was kind of a blur. We boarded a matatu, made it back to the center, ate a super late lunch, picked up the Kamau children from school, and then I drove to Kiambu to purchase the medicine. The pharmacy keeps the prescriptions as part of their record, and I was actually sad when she wouldn’t allow me to keep that small piece of pater (its weird, but that little paper was like a token of accomplishment –a trifle that acknowledged that we had succeeded that day)
This is only the first step in James’ care, and James is only one boy from Mathare. What is ahead is a huge process with a spreading vision –medical care for all of the people of Mathare. Medical care that expands beyond free handouts and one-time medicines. I truly believe that there will come a day when the community members will have hope when their small child falls sick, when a little boy gets an infected cut from a piece of tin, when a mother starts coughing up blood. There will be hope. They do not have to suffer through this alone, without any care. There are people in this world who care about Mathare; there are people who want to hold their hand through medical trials or tragedies. It will be a process, but the challenge is worth the fight.
Just one more step in the right direction.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
The Forrest
Nairobi is a fantastic city for fast paced, chaotic activities; however less known, are those "secret gems" hidden throughout the city. One of these gems is called "the forrest." Aptly named, this exotic wonderland looks like something from Steven Spielberg's Jurassic Park.
With a few tips from our seasoned friends, we decided a Saturday adventure through the Kenyan wilderness was exactly what we needed to calm our congested minds and cleanse our 'fume infested lungs.' After paying our parking fee, we grabbed our small sack lunches and set off with a skip in our step -completely unaware of where we were going or what we would see.
Five girls walking through a forest. At first it started as a dirt road, winding and twisting around magnificent trees, but then the road faded into a faint trail, outlined by the simple curvature of the land. Soon we were almost swallowed in the enormity of the tress. It was a bright day, but beneath the dense canopy we were thankful for the few rays of sunlight that lit our narrow way. Enormous ferns littered the valley floor and gave definition to a small creek below. Birds fluttered through the air casting eerie shadows on our patch and the constant hum of mosquitoes reminded us that this place was still a land of mystery.
There was an unspoken fear that was growing with each step. AS we made our way deeper and deeper into the woods we were forced to make more turns, creating a zig-zag path that we hope to be able to back-track. The woods were darker, and the path was fainter. However, the fear that had been mounting with the darkening of the trees was quenched with the sight of adorable little boys running from the bush. Normally you would think small children appearing from no-where would be cause for alarm, but their precious curious faces were excited and timid at the same time.
By this time we were hungry, so we walked a few more meters down the path and set-up camp (ok, so we just found a downed tree to sit on, but it was nice enough). We just started chomping down on our sandwiches when I looked up into a pair of inquisitive little brown eyes. They were peeping out from a safe distance behind a tree. Then, two more pairs appeared, each set steadily focused on the veggie sandwich gripped firmly between my hands. As I continued to munch my interest grew, and I wondered what they would do if I walked towards them -would they run back to their "bush," or eagerly snatch the sandwich from my hand? Well, my thinking didn't last long, as I was eager to share the picnic with our new-found "lost boys" (because they reminded my of the boys from Peter Pan). I dropped to my knees, dug through our picnic bag, pulled out some PB&Js and made my way towards the patient children. They didn't move. I approached the oldest boy first, handed him the sandwich wrapped in foil and then called for the others. They didn't move, not until the eldest unwrapped the goods and took a big bite. Then their confidence grew, and they came to me with hands open, waiting for their share.
I don't know much about the Lost Boys from Peter Pan, but for some reason I always perceived them as being hidden. On this particular day of venturing through the woods it really did feel like someone had taken me to Neverland -and low and behold, I met the lost boys. They are sweet -and I'll be darned, if they don't love Peanutbutter and Jelly sandwiches!
With a few tips from our seasoned friends, we decided a Saturday adventure through the Kenyan wilderness was exactly what we needed to calm our congested minds and cleanse our 'fume infested lungs.' After paying our parking fee, we grabbed our small sack lunches and set off with a skip in our step -completely unaware of where we were going or what we would see.
Five girls walking through a forest. At first it started as a dirt road, winding and twisting around magnificent trees, but then the road faded into a faint trail, outlined by the simple curvature of the land. Soon we were almost swallowed in the enormity of the tress. It was a bright day, but beneath the dense canopy we were thankful for the few rays of sunlight that lit our narrow way. Enormous ferns littered the valley floor and gave definition to a small creek below. Birds fluttered through the air casting eerie shadows on our patch and the constant hum of mosquitoes reminded us that this place was still a land of mystery.
There was an unspoken fear that was growing with each step. AS we made our way deeper and deeper into the woods we were forced to make more turns, creating a zig-zag path that we hope to be able to back-track. The woods were darker, and the path was fainter. However, the fear that had been mounting with the darkening of the trees was quenched with the sight of adorable little boys running from the bush. Normally you would think small children appearing from no-where would be cause for alarm, but their precious curious faces were excited and timid at the same time.
By this time we were hungry, so we walked a few more meters down the path and set-up camp (ok, so we just found a downed tree to sit on, but it was nice enough). We just started chomping down on our sandwiches when I looked up into a pair of inquisitive little brown eyes. They were peeping out from a safe distance behind a tree. Then, two more pairs appeared, each set steadily focused on the veggie sandwich gripped firmly between my hands. As I continued to munch my interest grew, and I wondered what they would do if I walked towards them -would they run back to their "bush," or eagerly snatch the sandwich from my hand? Well, my thinking didn't last long, as I was eager to share the picnic with our new-found "lost boys" (because they reminded my of the boys from Peter Pan). I dropped to my knees, dug through our picnic bag, pulled out some PB&Js and made my way towards the patient children. They didn't move. I approached the oldest boy first, handed him the sandwich wrapped in foil and then called for the others. They didn't move, not until the eldest unwrapped the goods and took a big bite. Then their confidence grew, and they came to me with hands open, waiting for their share.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Mission Impossible
Now this is a story that actually builds from another story... but for time's sake, I think I will only post the second half. For it is in the second half of the story that things get interesting, and as it can stand alone, I do not wish to bore my readers with a long introduction.
Three interns, including myself were driving home from Joska on Thursday evening. We had picked up Victory from school and we were crunched on time to get back to the house, shower, and then meet a short term missions team for dinner on the other side of town. Actually we had a target time of showering and being ready in 15 minutes.
When we arrived at the gate we found it locked as usual. We gave a tug on the horn to inform Elizabeth that we were home and she should come open the gate. After two minutes with no response we decided to call her. As it turns out she was in class and unable to come home. But she had left the keys inside, so all we needed to do was scale the wall.
This wall isn't like chain-linked fences back home. It is concrete cinder blocks with broken glass on top! But, where the gate is, despite the piercing metal arrows, it is more approachable. It wasn't too long until that little-kid energy took over and I remembered just how I would do it back in the day.... A little running start, pick a nice place for the hands, swing the leg, and hope the landing was soft and sweet. No problem... or so I thought.
In-fact it was a very big problem. Where as we had though we were just locked out of the compound, it turns out that we were locked out of the house as well. I called Elizabeth, "Where are the keys?!!?" Her response confused me. "They are in the Kitchen." I am not a thief, nor do I have any experience of breaking into houses, but even if I did, breaking into a Kenyan home is much different than an American one. Here everything is reinforced with iron rods. The doors are double locked with padlocks, then two iron rods lock into place so that only someone on the inside can open them. Then there are the windows. All of the windows are glass... with an iron grate!!! Even if the windows were unlocked, there would be no way to squeeze my body through the narrow opening unless I was skinnier than a four year old. That's it! Where was Dave, our sweet adorable 4 year old adopted brother?
We ran out of the compound and towards his school. Luckily he was still there playing on the playground with his friend. We called him over to the fence and asked him if Spiderman could help us. At the mention of his pseudonym he became excited. He looked at us with his four-year old eyes, full of understanding and great commitment, "Spiderman can do it!" he responded. Thrilled, we lifted up part of the wire surrounding the playground and had Dave crawl under. We had no time to walk all the way around and have him officially exit the school. No, we kidnapped little Spiderman so that he could aid us in our dire situation.
While we ran/walked back home, Dave was a bundle of excitement -I can spin my webs and climb walls -I can do anything. "Spiderman, Spiderman, does whatever a spider can," he sang all the way home. And soon my own spirits rose with the confidence of this four year old boy.
Upon reaching the house we found an open window and we hoisted Dave up. His lithe little body slipped through the window and then landed with a soft thud on the other side. Once inside he poked his little head up and spoke in a rushed whisper, "ok, now what is my mission?" "Find the keys Dave, find they keys!" we replied in an equally harsh whisper. "I'm on it," we heard as his little feet turned and ran towards the kitchen.
What happened next could only be accomplished by spiderman. Here was Dave -or I should more correctly call him Spidy, scaling the cabinets and searching frantically for lost keys. For those hard to reach places he had brought in back up -a trusty stool to hoist him up. It was only a matter of time before he spotted them, "There!" he cried with exuberant satisfaction. "I have found the keys!"
And so he had, and our worries about canceling dinner were obliterated with the help of Spiderman. Thanks Spidy!
Three interns, including myself were driving home from Joska on Thursday evening. We had picked up Victory from school and we were crunched on time to get back to the house, shower, and then meet a short term missions team for dinner on the other side of town. Actually we had a target time of showering and being ready in 15 minutes.
When we arrived at the gate we found it locked as usual. We gave a tug on the horn to inform Elizabeth that we were home and she should come open the gate. After two minutes with no response we decided to call her. As it turns out she was in class and unable to come home. But she had left the keys inside, so all we needed to do was scale the wall.
This wall isn't like chain-linked fences back home. It is concrete cinder blocks with broken glass on top! But, where the gate is, despite the piercing metal arrows, it is more approachable. It wasn't too long until that little-kid energy took over and I remembered just how I would do it back in the day.... A little running start, pick a nice place for the hands, swing the leg, and hope the landing was soft and sweet. No problem... or so I thought.
In-fact it was a very big problem. Where as we had though we were just locked out of the compound, it turns out that we were locked out of the house as well. I called Elizabeth, "Where are the keys?!!?" Her response confused me. "They are in the Kitchen." I am not a thief, nor do I have any experience of breaking into houses, but even if I did, breaking into a Kenyan home is much different than an American one. Here everything is reinforced with iron rods. The doors are double locked with padlocks, then two iron rods lock into place so that only someone on the inside can open them. Then there are the windows. All of the windows are glass... with an iron grate!!! Even if the windows were unlocked, there would be no way to squeeze my body through the narrow opening unless I was skinnier than a four year old. That's it! Where was Dave, our sweet adorable 4 year old adopted brother?
We ran out of the compound and towards his school. Luckily he was still there playing on the playground with his friend. We called him over to the fence and asked him if Spiderman could help us. At the mention of his pseudonym he became excited. He looked at us with his four-year old eyes, full of understanding and great commitment, "Spiderman can do it!" he responded. Thrilled, we lifted up part of the wire surrounding the playground and had Dave crawl under. We had no time to walk all the way around and have him officially exit the school. No, we kidnapped little Spiderman so that he could aid us in our dire situation.
While we ran/walked back home, Dave was a bundle of excitement -I can spin my webs and climb walls -I can do anything. "Spiderman, Spiderman, does whatever a spider can," he sang all the way home. And soon my own spirits rose with the confidence of this four year old boy.
Upon reaching the house we found an open window and we hoisted Dave up. His lithe little body slipped through the window and then landed with a soft thud on the other side. Once inside he poked his little head up and spoke in a rushed whisper, "ok, now what is my mission?" "Find the keys Dave, find they keys!" we replied in an equally harsh whisper. "I'm on it," we heard as his little feet turned and ran towards the kitchen.
What happened next could only be accomplished by spiderman. Here was Dave -or I should more correctly call him Spidy, scaling the cabinets and searching frantically for lost keys. For those hard to reach places he had brought in back up -a trusty stool to hoist him up. It was only a matter of time before he spotted them, "There!" he cried with exuberant satisfaction. "I have found the keys!"
And so he had, and our worries about canceling dinner were obliterated with the help of Spiderman. Thanks Spidy!
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