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!
The Encounter
I was eating lunch down in the kitchen on Friday afternoon (I had stayed home from work because I was sick that day, with some mysterious disease that took my voice along with my energy). I was just about to head upstairs when I heard scurrying from the living room. Interested, I poked me head around the corner to see what it was. The scurrying stopped so I decided to boldly press on in the direction of where I had last heard the noise. As I approached the living room the cutest little creature popped its little head out from behind the couch and scuttled across the room. When it saw me it stopped dead in its tracks, as did I, then the two of us had a staring competition for about a minute (I think it noteworthy to mention that I won this stare-down). Soon he started leaping towards the windows in a desperate attempt to leave the room. His efforts were thwarted by the curtains that delicately covered the window. I was so sure that he was going to tear them down with his efforts that I forgot my fear of this being a wild animal and I ran towards him.
My efforts to divert his attempt of destroying the house worked, but I hadn't thought about the fact that he might run towards me in the chaos of it all. And that's exactly what happened. As the cute -yet still potentially dangerous creature -ran past, I let out a yelp -or at least I would have if I'd had a voice.
He darted from one room to the next trying to find his escape. All the while I am wrestling with trying to figure out what kind of creature this is. It is neither mouse nor squirrel, but perhaps something of a mix? Its not a lemur, for it was far too small -Ahhh -be on the look out he is still running around the house! I went to the back door and opened it. We must have been thinking along the same wavelength, because as soon as that fresh air hit his little nose, he raced out of the door way and disappeared into the field.
I would have wished to keep him a little longer, just to find out what kind of animal he really was, but this impulse of mine was completely selfish. I am glad he is gone back to his home -perhaps back to his family. I am not really sure where he is at, but I am glad he came by for a little visit. Next time he drops by, I should hope not to act so skittish. He really is an adorable little creature, and I would like to him to feel comfortable in the house -just so long as it is a short visit!
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Some things that I haven’t gotten used to, nor do I think I ever will
There are some things in Kenya that I seem to have adopted. For example, saying ‘some few’ for just about anything. I have ‘some few’ minutes of credit on my phone. I ate ‘some few’ mangoes today (in reality its more like ‘some many!’), there are ‘some few’ children patting the hairs on my arm. There is also the tendency to talk with a lot more inflection. It is the Kenyan way to swing their sentences so that they will come to the last word, pause before speaking, and nod their head like they want you to say that word with them. Yup, sometimes I catch myself doing that. Also, I have found myself wearing jeans and a sweater during the early mornings. And I’m not covering up simply for cultural reasonings, but because I am legitimately cold –and its 70degrees! I also say ‘vege-tables,’ ‘moe-squite-o’s,’ and ju’iece (for juice).
But for all of the things I have adopted, there are more things I don’t think I will ever get used to. For example: hot milk with cereal, killer dogs that guard the compound at night, roosters with abnormal circadian rhythms, or guards with machine guns. The ice-cream here tastes more like whip cream, people prefer “tomato sauce” to ketchup (tomato sauce being this really watery neon orange/red version of ketchup), and arriving one hour late is perfectly acceptable here in Kenya. No one throws trash in a receptacle, personal-space is a foreign word, and if you don’t like chai then there is something wrong with you.
There are some things in Kenya that I don't think I will ever know –like why do mutates make four lanes of traffic out of two, why every sidewalk only last for a total of 2meters before ending it a significant hole, and why Kenyans only put in enough fuel to get them to work in the morning? Well, life is a mystery, I guess that’s what makes it exciting.
What am I worried about?
It is a huge change, a drastic change, a change so abrupt I can’t believe I hadn’t seen it before. I have been reaping the benefits of this change for almost 4 months without ever confirming in my mind the reason for such change.
The difference comes from living a low-stress life since moving to Kenya. The weight of worry has been lifted from my chest and I have been able to move about my day without little ‘pings’ of worry constantly popping into my head. Ironically I had to move to halfway across the world to be freed of the weight, but I now know that this satisfying relief doesn’t have to come with such drastic measures.
This morning in Sunday service the message was about worry. I liked how the definition of worry was simplified to a “preoccupation with tomorrow.” Worry works in opposition of prayer. Where prayer makes our troubles smaller, worry tends to magnify those same difficulties.
Now I don’t really want to detail the entire message, so I would encourage everyone to read Matthew 6. While we might not have the same worries as the people did during Jesus’ day, the same principle applies –why worry? Do we not have faith?
This message came at such an appropriate time because it reminded me of a story I wanted to share with you, a story of worry and faith.
The growth that has occurred in Missions of Hope over the past few years has been astronomical. In the year 2000, there were only 50 students, and today there are almost 6,000 –just to give you a rough estimate of how fast this mission is taking off. With the rapid influx of children, numerous buildings have had be constructed…. a task much different than what one might expect in the States. I was talking to Mary (the director of Misisons of Hope) the other night about how she was doing. Here recently she has been out late with numerous meetings, traveling for funerals, comforting family that is in the hospital, finding high schools to accept all of the graduating 8th graders, and she has also been in-charge of orchestrating the construction chaos. I have seen her pushed to the max, and yet each morning she is rejuvenated with a strength that can only come of God (because I know its not from the 4-6 hours of sleep she get every night)
Her response to my inquisition was one of displeasure, but also one of hope. The construction accounts had been quickly dwindling, and all construction was to end at the end of the week unless they were able to pay the workers for the supplies used (it works differently here in Kenya –workers work and buy all the supplies, the purchases are then complied and they are reimbursed by the end of the week). In any case, the account was at a meager 285,000/= or about $3,500. “I know our God will come through –He always does.” And that next morning, like every morning she prayed what was on her heart. Everything works on God’s time –sometimes its slow, and sometimes its fast –and sometimes its answered even before we pray!
In this case, God answered Mary’s prayer immediately, and in a way only He can do. A few hours after Mary had opened up to me, I found out that a couple from Oregon had just made a donation to MoHI; just a small contribution of $100,000!!!! When Mary found out you can imagine the commotion that she started –and her ecstasy was contagious. Tears streamed down her face and as she wept all she could say is, “I serve a mighty God who has heard my prayer. He is so faithful.” He is a God who knows the concerns of our heart before we even pray.
So now jumping back to my own life –I just want to make mention of how much different life can be when we do not let worry have control of us. I have let stress run my life before; I have spent countless hours toiling away with worrisome thoughts, and yet none of those hours have ever mounted to anything productive. Worry is a waste of life, but still I worried. Now that I look back on it, it seems somewhat silly –the problems that I had were so insignificant when compared to others. For example, I worried over grades, where I was going to live, what summer job I was going to find, my running performance, school applications, I would even fret about making sure I didn’t ignore my family. We all have our worries, and those worries seem to consume our life, at least for a certain season. But have you ever met someone who doesn’t break under what would be classified as a stressful situation? Have you met someone whose girth is made up of something much stronger than optimistic character?
People whose character is reinforced with faith persevere through trials. They are not burdened by their own worry. For they take care of what they can today, and let God take care of tomorrow. What I have noticed is that living with Mary and Wallace produces a totally different atmosphere than what I was used to in the States. Their ease of mind and complete reliance on God is not only a relief but it is also an encouragement to pursue the same. For the past four months I have felt at ease, confidently knowing that the Lord knows my requests. He knows my heart better than I do, and so when I think about how much he loves me, I know he will make a way.
I am blessed to live in a place where I am reminded of this promise every day. Every day I encounter a situation in which God’s grace and His provision are blatant: HIV/AIDS patients who were once bed ridden now lead Bible studies, children with abusive parents find grace with new families, street boys whose who sniff glue are reconciled to Christ, the woman who was to be evicted from her home now has a job so she can pay her rent for all of her family. Day in and day out God reveals his good grace.
The difference between Kenya and America is our devotion. The reason I wasn’t able to fully rely on God was because my first devotion was not to him, but to myself. I was devoted to school, devoted to running, devoted to my family –so much that I sought control over those things. But God says to seek first the Kingdom of God. “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.” God has an agenda for this world, and it might not be our own.
I am surrounded by people who make Christ their first devotion, and I see what a difference it makes. The only way that we can find victory over worry is if we surrender our will to the Lord. There is victory in surrender because His will is supreme and our power over the future is non-existent. So why not surrender to the one who loves us and cares for us? Why not turn in our worries for a promise of hope? It will be a change –a drastically enormous, monumentally extraordinary change, but it’s worth it!
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Acrobatics in action
This afternoon I went to the field with Anne, one of the CHE members (the field refers to going into the communities of Mathare and visiting homes or doing community projects). Today we were to meet with community leaders from Area 2. Despite the fact that I have been here for three months, this was my first time to visit area 2. We walked through a few different communities before arriving at our destination. it always impresses me, those people who can navigate the slums, because it is an intricate maze of twists and turns, small passageways and narrow bridges. But of course, because I travel with a Kenyan, I never get lost.
The meeting place for this particular meeting was different than any other. The building was made of poured concrete floors, cinder blocks for the walls, and transparent sheets of sturdy plastic for the roof. As impressive as the building was, more spectacular were the men inside. They were self trained acrobats who were practicing and exciting routine.
Nothing but pure shock painted my face as I watched in awe. Within this tiny make-shift gym men tumbled, flipped, and contorted their body into obscure positions. Five men jumped through hoops, balanced on heads, balanced on their friends' heads, and built pyramids as high as the ceiling would allow. Amazement lit up my eyes as I watched spectacular displays of strength, flexibility, balance, and agility. Was I really in the middle of the slums right now? What these men had was talent, that was plain to see. But beneath the raw talent, the thing that made their show truly spectacular, was their perseverance and attitude towards a hobby that has changed their life.
I listened as Anne spoke of the type of men they once were -thugs, thieves, drug addicts, but I saw none of the displays of aberrant behavior. Instead I saw joyous faces and easy laughter. These men came together five years ago to instigate a change. And changed they are. They have met to enhance their routines and strengthen their bodies, but in the process they have also strengthened their character.
I marvel at their trust in each-other, the respect they have for one another. There is no way anyone could do those moves without having full confidence in their partner. Men are doing flips and landing on someone's arm. They are doing ariels and back flips with a power jump over the group of men arranged in a pyramid. SMACK! one of the acrobats lands flat on his feet. He doesn't flinch. In-fact, he doesn't even seem phased. A few seconds later one of the men is jumping rope from his back. He is literally bouncing on his back on the concrete floor! Men are jumping off the top level of the pyramid at least 9ft high, and nothing, no pause to grab shins, no massaging of the feet. They just keep going. And I am reminded that their performance is not all that different from their lives -
Indeed, their lives have never been cushioned. They have never had the protection of being padded from every blow. In this one room of concrete and cinder blocks, things are learned the hard way. Every mistake would have hurt, but eventually the sting wears off and you must move on. You have to be tough. Those who stop and feel sorry for themselves get kicked out of the show. You have to move on with the performance and deal with the sting of blows as they come along.
The performance of these men was one of excellence and perfection. Not perfection in the sense of timing or unison, or even body composure, but perfection because these men were perfectly executing life. They had been thrown hardships and instead of feeling sorry for themselves, they decided to turn their lives around. They decided to excel and pursue a passion against all odds.
Is anyone thinking about booking an acrobatics team for their next function? I know a great group of talented guys for cheap hire!
The meeting place for this particular meeting was different than any other. The building was made of poured concrete floors, cinder blocks for the walls, and transparent sheets of sturdy plastic for the roof. As impressive as the building was, more spectacular were the men inside. They were self trained acrobats who were practicing and exciting routine.
Nothing but pure shock painted my face as I watched in awe. Within this tiny make-shift gym men tumbled, flipped, and contorted their body into obscure positions. Five men jumped through hoops, balanced on heads, balanced on their friends' heads, and built pyramids as high as the ceiling would allow. Amazement lit up my eyes as I watched spectacular displays of strength, flexibility, balance, and agility. Was I really in the middle of the slums right now? What these men had was talent, that was plain to see. But beneath the raw talent, the thing that made their show truly spectacular, was their perseverance and attitude towards a hobby that has changed their life.
I listened as Anne spoke of the type of men they once were -thugs, thieves, drug addicts, but I saw none of the displays of aberrant behavior. Instead I saw joyous faces and easy laughter. These men came together five years ago to instigate a change. And changed they are. They have met to enhance their routines and strengthen their bodies, but in the process they have also strengthened their character.
I marvel at their trust in each-other, the respect they have for one another. There is no way anyone could do those moves without having full confidence in their partner. Men are doing flips and landing on someone's arm. They are doing ariels and back flips with a power jump over the group of men arranged in a pyramid. SMACK! one of the acrobats lands flat on his feet. He doesn't flinch. In-fact, he doesn't even seem phased. A few seconds later one of the men is jumping rope from his back. He is literally bouncing on his back on the concrete floor! Men are jumping off the top level of the pyramid at least 9ft high, and nothing, no pause to grab shins, no massaging of the feet. They just keep going. And I am reminded that their performance is not all that different from their lives -
Indeed, their lives have never been cushioned. They have never had the protection of being padded from every blow. In this one room of concrete and cinder blocks, things are learned the hard way. Every mistake would have hurt, but eventually the sting wears off and you must move on. You have to be tough. Those who stop and feel sorry for themselves get kicked out of the show. You have to move on with the performance and deal with the sting of blows as they come along.
The performance of these men was one of excellence and perfection. Not perfection in the sense of timing or unison, or even body composure, but perfection because these men were perfectly executing life. They had been thrown hardships and instead of feeling sorry for themselves, they decided to turn their lives around. They decided to excel and pursue a passion against all odds.
Is anyone thinking about booking an acrobatics team for their next function? I know a great group of talented guys for cheap hire!
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Never will I ever
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| Don't eat it!!!! |
Incase you were wondering as to why this is such a bad idea, I will share my personal experience/pain.
Last week I ventured to Mombasa, a lovely costal town in Kenya. It is any vacationer's dream, with it's white sandy beaches and tropical festivities. The sun is always shining, the temperatures always boiling, and the people undoubtedly friendly. But what you don't want to do when you travel to Mombasa, is trust local restaurants to provide you with clean quality food. I have lived in Africa for almost three months now, so I should know by now that our pampered stomachs are no match for the roaring African bacteria. Personally I would encounter a lion any day over a microscopic bacteria, but that may just be personal preference.
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| beautiful beach paradise |
whirl wind
What in the world is going on? One minute I am in the slums of Mathare, and the next thing I know, I am riding a train through the sky scrapers of down town Chicago. "Where am I?" That is the only phrase I could conjure as giant structures of steel cast shadows across my train window.
What was this country where everyone listened to their ipod, so engrossed in themselves that they didn't notice the artistry of the changing colors just outside their window. Nature was beautifully displaying the elegance of fall, but no one would look up from their self-absorbed state. How was everything here so clean, so spacious, so perfectly calculated for efficiency? What would the lowly mutatu driver think if he took a ride on the Chicago metro? would he be impressed by the speed, the organized stops, or perhaps the roominess of the cars? where he would be used to cramming 20 people in a 9 passenger van, here was an entire train with less than 5 people per car. How is anyone ever to make any money? And where is the noise? No obnoxious m-tot music videos blared from the speakers, no incessant street clatter from the vendors, no angry drivers nor talkative pedestrians. There were no chickens littering the floor, no smells of rotten trash to make one hold his or her breath, and most surprisingly, no one close enough to feel the bead of sweat as it rolls down your arm.
But this is America. Sterile, cold, like the temperature outside as I stepped from the train station. My sandals and shorts that I had boarded my plane with in Nairobi were now insufficient for the American November day, even if the temperature was above average.
I walked down the streets of Lawndale knowing full well that this was the rougher part of the city, but still I was in awe of the architecture, the cleanliness of the roads, and the consistency of the buildings. It had been so long since i had seen structural planning. The streets were paved, and while I am sure most people would find the potholes unforgiving growing problems, I saw them as nothing more than minor imperfections in a road as smooth as glass. I had never thought about how roads were really made, but at this particular moment, I reveled in the artistic beauty and pure craftsmanship that went into the construction of this masterpiece. Two lanes, a consistent painted yellow line down the center, stoplights, no speed bumps -there was order. I felt at peace as I rolled my luggage down the smooth asphalt.
I knew, somewhere in the recesses of my mind that this wasn't Naperville, this wasn't Downers Grove or any other nice suburb, this was Lawndale. I saw the chain-linked fences, the unbridled weeds and unkempt houses, but it was beautiful. America is beautiful. Leaves swirled around my legs as a gust of wind burst from around the street corner. The sky was heavy with deep grey clouds and there was a warmth that was quickly fading with every passing second. America is beautiful, but something is missing. As I watched the sun disappear behind the clouds a brisk breeze stirred me and sent goose bumps down my legs. There was no one to greet me at the airport, no warming smile to melt the tension of a long day's travel; there was no one to help me find my train, no one to lend a hand with my luggage. I am reminded of these things as I walk down this cold, smooth street. America is beautiful, but something is missing.
What was this country where everyone listened to their ipod, so engrossed in themselves that they didn't notice the artistry of the changing colors just outside their window. Nature was beautifully displaying the elegance of fall, but no one would look up from their self-absorbed state. How was everything here so clean, so spacious, so perfectly calculated for efficiency? What would the lowly mutatu driver think if he took a ride on the Chicago metro? would he be impressed by the speed, the organized stops, or perhaps the roominess of the cars? where he would be used to cramming 20 people in a 9 passenger van, here was an entire train with less than 5 people per car. How is anyone ever to make any money? And where is the noise? No obnoxious m-tot music videos blared from the speakers, no incessant street clatter from the vendors, no angry drivers nor talkative pedestrians. There were no chickens littering the floor, no smells of rotten trash to make one hold his or her breath, and most surprisingly, no one close enough to feel the bead of sweat as it rolls down your arm.
But this is America. Sterile, cold, like the temperature outside as I stepped from the train station. My sandals and shorts that I had boarded my plane with in Nairobi were now insufficient for the American November day, even if the temperature was above average.
I walked down the streets of Lawndale knowing full well that this was the rougher part of the city, but still I was in awe of the architecture, the cleanliness of the roads, and the consistency of the buildings. It had been so long since i had seen structural planning. The streets were paved, and while I am sure most people would find the potholes unforgiving growing problems, I saw them as nothing more than minor imperfections in a road as smooth as glass. I had never thought about how roads were really made, but at this particular moment, I reveled in the artistic beauty and pure craftsmanship that went into the construction of this masterpiece. Two lanes, a consistent painted yellow line down the center, stoplights, no speed bumps -there was order. I felt at peace as I rolled my luggage down the smooth asphalt.
now that's odd
Do you ever find yourself doing things that seem so uncharacteristic of yourself? In those moments of boredom, when your brain starts to shut off, and your body just tends towards whatever bad habit that it wants to pursue? Tell me, do you ever have those moments where you catch yourself doing something so odd you hope others never see this side of you?
Well, despite embarrassment, I will delve into my personal experience.
In my defense, it has been a busy week (its only Tuesday, but I feel like I have been living in a whirlwind). This evening my brain decided to shut off partially -it was strong enough to encourage me to do what it wanted, but not working well enough for me to be completely aware of what I was doing.
So you might be asking what I was doing. Hmm, well about the time my roommate walked in the room I was sitting on my bed staring off into space. Not exactly strange, except for the part where I had a huge swiss army knife plunged into a tub of peanut-butter that was sitting on my lap. "Listening" to my music which was on mute, blankly staring at a FB screen that was failing to load due to slow internet connection, I must have looked ridiculous. And then I saw the fruit snack wrappers strewn across the floor (all 4 of them), the candy bar wrapper, and the remnants of mango peels and pits that were neatly nestled in the corner of the room. When did I eat all that and why?!?! The majority of my secret snack stash was gone in one night! It was like my brain decided it wasn't getting enough glucose, so it did something about it.
Well, after cleaning up the remnants of my eating spree and removing peanutbutter chunks from the intricate crevices of the knife, I have realized that however organized I am, at some point, chaos will surface. No matter how much I conserve and ration, there will be a breaking point. I hit that breaking point this evening. The damage is almost too much to bear. Almost half of my bees knees American honey peanut butter is gone!!!! I know, devastating.
Despite the tragedy, a lesson should be learned. Don't restrict yourself on the things your brain craves, or if you do, make sure that those precious possessions are locked away where it takes significant brain power for extraction.
Well, despite embarrassment, I will delve into my personal experience.
In my defense, it has been a busy week (its only Tuesday, but I feel like I have been living in a whirlwind). This evening my brain decided to shut off partially -it was strong enough to encourage me to do what it wanted, but not working well enough for me to be completely aware of what I was doing.
So you might be asking what I was doing. Hmm, well about the time my roommate walked in the room I was sitting on my bed staring off into space. Not exactly strange, except for the part where I had a huge swiss army knife plunged into a tub of peanut-butter that was sitting on my lap. "Listening" to my music which was on mute, blankly staring at a FB screen that was failing to load due to slow internet connection, I must have looked ridiculous. And then I saw the fruit snack wrappers strewn across the floor (all 4 of them), the candy bar wrapper, and the remnants of mango peels and pits that were neatly nestled in the corner of the room. When did I eat all that and why?!?! The majority of my secret snack stash was gone in one night! It was like my brain decided it wasn't getting enough glucose, so it did something about it.
Well, after cleaning up the remnants of my eating spree and removing peanutbutter chunks from the intricate crevices of the knife, I have realized that however organized I am, at some point, chaos will surface. No matter how much I conserve and ration, there will be a breaking point. I hit that breaking point this evening. The damage is almost too much to bear. Almost half of my bees knees American honey peanut butter is gone!!!! I know, devastating.
Despite the tragedy, a lesson should be learned. Don't restrict yourself on the things your brain craves, or if you do, make sure that those precious possessions are locked away where it takes significant brain power for extraction.
Monday, October 25, 2010
One tough job
I wouldn't necessarily classify my job as difficult, technically my job isn't even a job, more like a voluntary position. But there are moments, even days, where I wonder whether or not I will be able to continue. I wonder if God gave me enough strength to be in the position that I am.
Friday was one of those days where I questioned my endurance. Friday was a clinic day -the last day of a five day temporary clinic at Mathare North. For four days doctors, nurses, and residents had devoted their time to attending to the needs of the community. People flocked in the hundreds to the school where we had set up camp. It was a simple set up, one tent for triage, a courtyard for waiting, 3 consultation rooms, and an office that was set up for pharmacy. Each tiny consultation room was divided into two sections, each hosting either a kenyan or american doctor and a translator. The rooms were dimly lit, with the only light being the few rays that filtered through the cracks in the door. The clinic by any American standard would be scoffed at, but for these people of Mathare, it was the best care they would probably ever receive.
This particular Friday I worked triage, frantically taking blood pressures, height, weight, temp, and chief complaint -trying to smile all the while remembering the key Swahili phrases I had learned. It was a race against the clock to get as many people seen before noon that day when the clinic would close. The doors would shut shortly after noon, the doctors would eat lunch, and then be on their way to get ready for their trip back home. It wasn't until 11 o'clock that I started really getting nervous. We had been triaging patients for over three hours, and there was still a mass of people yet to be seen. We weren't going to make it. The sinking realization swept over me like a heavy shadow, and as I looked into the crowd I couldn't help but pick out the faces of desperate mothers. We would have to send them home, we were going to turn them away. Thirty minutes later the truth that I knew was coming settled on the camp. No one wanted to accept it, let alone inform all of those who were waiting. I don't know how it came to be my job, but before I knew it, I was standing in front of the crowd, "Pole sana (very sorry). Mganga anakwende nyumba (the doctors are going home). The clinic is closing. Tefadali Mkwende (please go)."
There wasn't the uproar that you would expect in the US. No one stood up and shouted at me.... it was worse. There started a low murmur, then when the murmur progressed to the point where more and more people understood what was happening, there were groans, sobs, and women pleading. It wasn't loud, it wasn't rude, it was desperate. I wanted to tell them I would visit them all, I would stay until sundown if it would help, but I could do nothing. Ashamed, and afraid I would bust into tears if I remained any longer, I retreated behind the comfort of the school walls. It was here that no one could see me, no one would notice my frustration, fear or anger.
But, my job was not done, I had to clean up the triage area. Bracing myself, I stepped outside and returned to my position, only to rip the measuring tape off the wall, collect the thermometers, and scoop up the blood pressure cuffs. Somewhere between tracking down all of the alcohol swabs and retrieving the charts, she found me. She was no more than 25 years old, and with her was this precious little girl. "Please, " she begged me. "Just look at her head; just for a second."
I looked. After seeing hundreds of small children with white round patches on their head, I knew exactly what this little girl had -tinea capitis, otherwise known as ring worm. Once someone in the family gets it, usually all the kids get it because the sleep practically on top of each other in their one room shantis. But hers was different. Her head was infected. Sometimes this happens which a child scratches the fungal infection, then a secondary infection sets in, and due to constant scratching and unsanitary conditions, the infection spreads. Well, it had spread alright -all over her head. Yellow puss was weeping from her wounds which covered about a third of her scalp. "Please, will you help her?"
What could I do? I tried to tell her I wasn't a doctor. I tried to tell her that there must be other clinics in the area that she could visit. I was lost for words, and desperate to leave the situation. How could I possibly explain? How could I convey my great saddness that I could not fix her child, how could I tell her I did not wish to be so cold hearted, but one exception would lead to dozens of exceptions which could not happen because the doctors were litterally packing up their bags and leaving.
Once again I returned to my refuge, but this time all the more shaken up. I didn't go unnoticed. Amos, one of the Kenyan nurses approached me and asked if I was having a rough day. Not necessarily prepared to go into detail about how things were going, but not so confident to completely bluff, I summarized with, "yes, it's been a rough day, and turning away people is wearisome." Then, I simply asked what could be done for a small girl who had an infection -should she be turned away. His response was surprising -he told me to get her a card, write down these meds, and stick her in the line at the pharmacy. She wouldn't have time to get in for a consultation, but he knew what she had, I knew what she had, and the solution was simple, and her condition should not have gone without treatment. In a flash I dashed out of the room, grabbed a chart, filled out the meds, signed my name like Amos told me to, then found the woman. I jotted down her daughter's name, pulled them aside, and told them to stand in line. When they got to the lady at the window, she was to hand her this card, and then follow her instructions on how to take the meds. She thanked me, and then pulled out another little girl -with the same problem. "And this one," she asked.
Before I knew it mothers were bringing over their children, even fathers were approaching me. They all needed treatment. My efforts to be discrete were in vain, I was soon being swarmed by desperate people. Why had I made the one exception, was I wrong in my efforts to help?
The doctors were done seeing patients, the only people left at the clinic where those in charge of pharmacy and those who were directing people. There was no hope to give these people, and in the pit of my stomach I shared in their desperation. For the last time I retreated, I knew it was over, and this time I did not wish to suppress the tears. I sat in the corner, weeping for these people, weeping that they would not get care today, weeping because there was nothing else for me to do. My nerves were raw, all emotions were exposed.
It wasn't until later that day that I could start to feel again. I had been given some words of encouragement from a very wise friend who has been here longer than me. She told me that God uses our weaknesses to show us something about Himself. God is stronger than any medicine we can give. Medicine can treat, but Christ is the only one who can truly heal us. There is something beautiful about fully trusting in Him to be our savior -our saviour in times of injury, sickness, and desperation. God is provider, healer, comforter, and refuge. All too often I think we rely on ourselves to carry us through, but so much more- no, all of our reliance should be on Christ. Even my own frustration and sadness today came from feelings of inadequacy. I know I cannot heal these people, I cannot even get them to see a doctor, but there is someone I know who can. My hope is in Christ, and my refuge should be in Christ. Strength comes from the Lord, and his power is far beyond my understanding. These are his children, and he cares for each one. It is a difficult concept to consider, and even more difficult to accept, but I must take comfort in the knowledge that He is a just and compassionate God.
As I shuffled through all the charts of the patients that had been seen that day, I noticed one that stuck out. There, scribbled across the yellow slip of paper, was very familiar handwriting ordering Griso 250 and some Clotrine-B. Christina -that was her name. She was one of the 150 who received treatment, and as I added her card to the pile I couldn't help but smile. She is a child of God, a beautiful sweet child.
Friday was one of those days where I questioned my endurance. Friday was a clinic day -the last day of a five day temporary clinic at Mathare North. For four days doctors, nurses, and residents had devoted their time to attending to the needs of the community. People flocked in the hundreds to the school where we had set up camp. It was a simple set up, one tent for triage, a courtyard for waiting, 3 consultation rooms, and an office that was set up for pharmacy. Each tiny consultation room was divided into two sections, each hosting either a kenyan or american doctor and a translator. The rooms were dimly lit, with the only light being the few rays that filtered through the cracks in the door. The clinic by any American standard would be scoffed at, but for these people of Mathare, it was the best care they would probably ever receive.
This particular Friday I worked triage, frantically taking blood pressures, height, weight, temp, and chief complaint -trying to smile all the while remembering the key Swahili phrases I had learned. It was a race against the clock to get as many people seen before noon that day when the clinic would close. The doors would shut shortly after noon, the doctors would eat lunch, and then be on their way to get ready for their trip back home. It wasn't until 11 o'clock that I started really getting nervous. We had been triaging patients for over three hours, and there was still a mass of people yet to be seen. We weren't going to make it. The sinking realization swept over me like a heavy shadow, and as I looked into the crowd I couldn't help but pick out the faces of desperate mothers. We would have to send them home, we were going to turn them away. Thirty minutes later the truth that I knew was coming settled on the camp. No one wanted to accept it, let alone inform all of those who were waiting. I don't know how it came to be my job, but before I knew it, I was standing in front of the crowd, "Pole sana (very sorry). Mganga anakwende nyumba (the doctors are going home). The clinic is closing. Tefadali Mkwende (please go)."
There wasn't the uproar that you would expect in the US. No one stood up and shouted at me.... it was worse. There started a low murmur, then when the murmur progressed to the point where more and more people understood what was happening, there were groans, sobs, and women pleading. It wasn't loud, it wasn't rude, it was desperate. I wanted to tell them I would visit them all, I would stay until sundown if it would help, but I could do nothing. Ashamed, and afraid I would bust into tears if I remained any longer, I retreated behind the comfort of the school walls. It was here that no one could see me, no one would notice my frustration, fear or anger.
But, my job was not done, I had to clean up the triage area. Bracing myself, I stepped outside and returned to my position, only to rip the measuring tape off the wall, collect the thermometers, and scoop up the blood pressure cuffs. Somewhere between tracking down all of the alcohol swabs and retrieving the charts, she found me. She was no more than 25 years old, and with her was this precious little girl. "Please, " she begged me. "Just look at her head; just for a second."
I looked. After seeing hundreds of small children with white round patches on their head, I knew exactly what this little girl had -tinea capitis, otherwise known as ring worm. Once someone in the family gets it, usually all the kids get it because the sleep practically on top of each other in their one room shantis. But hers was different. Her head was infected. Sometimes this happens which a child scratches the fungal infection, then a secondary infection sets in, and due to constant scratching and unsanitary conditions, the infection spreads. Well, it had spread alright -all over her head. Yellow puss was weeping from her wounds which covered about a third of her scalp. "Please, will you help her?"
What could I do? I tried to tell her I wasn't a doctor. I tried to tell her that there must be other clinics in the area that she could visit. I was lost for words, and desperate to leave the situation. How could I possibly explain? How could I convey my great saddness that I could not fix her child, how could I tell her I did not wish to be so cold hearted, but one exception would lead to dozens of exceptions which could not happen because the doctors were litterally packing up their bags and leaving.
Once again I returned to my refuge, but this time all the more shaken up. I didn't go unnoticed. Amos, one of the Kenyan nurses approached me and asked if I was having a rough day. Not necessarily prepared to go into detail about how things were going, but not so confident to completely bluff, I summarized with, "yes, it's been a rough day, and turning away people is wearisome." Then, I simply asked what could be done for a small girl who had an infection -should she be turned away. His response was surprising -he told me to get her a card, write down these meds, and stick her in the line at the pharmacy. She wouldn't have time to get in for a consultation, but he knew what she had, I knew what she had, and the solution was simple, and her condition should not have gone without treatment. In a flash I dashed out of the room, grabbed a chart, filled out the meds, signed my name like Amos told me to, then found the woman. I jotted down her daughter's name, pulled them aside, and told them to stand in line. When they got to the lady at the window, she was to hand her this card, and then follow her instructions on how to take the meds. She thanked me, and then pulled out another little girl -with the same problem. "And this one," she asked.
Before I knew it mothers were bringing over their children, even fathers were approaching me. They all needed treatment. My efforts to be discrete were in vain, I was soon being swarmed by desperate people. Why had I made the one exception, was I wrong in my efforts to help?
The doctors were done seeing patients, the only people left at the clinic where those in charge of pharmacy and those who were directing people. There was no hope to give these people, and in the pit of my stomach I shared in their desperation. For the last time I retreated, I knew it was over, and this time I did not wish to suppress the tears. I sat in the corner, weeping for these people, weeping that they would not get care today, weeping because there was nothing else for me to do. My nerves were raw, all emotions were exposed.
It wasn't until later that day that I could start to feel again. I had been given some words of encouragement from a very wise friend who has been here longer than me. She told me that God uses our weaknesses to show us something about Himself. God is stronger than any medicine we can give. Medicine can treat, but Christ is the only one who can truly heal us. There is something beautiful about fully trusting in Him to be our savior -our saviour in times of injury, sickness, and desperation. God is provider, healer, comforter, and refuge. All too often I think we rely on ourselves to carry us through, but so much more- no, all of our reliance should be on Christ. Even my own frustration and sadness today came from feelings of inadequacy. I know I cannot heal these people, I cannot even get them to see a doctor, but there is someone I know who can. My hope is in Christ, and my refuge should be in Christ. Strength comes from the Lord, and his power is far beyond my understanding. These are his children, and he cares for each one. It is a difficult concept to consider, and even more difficult to accept, but I must take comfort in the knowledge that He is a just and compassionate God.
As I shuffled through all the charts of the patients that had been seen that day, I noticed one that stuck out. There, scribbled across the yellow slip of paper, was very familiar handwriting ordering Griso 250 and some Clotrine-B. Christina -that was her name. She was one of the 150 who received treatment, and as I added her card to the pile I couldn't help but smile. She is a child of God, a beautiful sweet child.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Medical Clinic
Thus far on this adventure in Africa, my favorite days are clinic days. More precisely, I enjoy the short term teams that operate in different communities within the Mathare Valley. Each week, short term missions teams bring medically trained professionals willing to devote their time and talent to the people of this region. Schools, churches, and even meeting rooms are transformed into temporary clinics and the US staff joins arms with Kenyan professionals in a cohesive effort to meet the medical demands of the community.
Within a matter of a few minutes, a classroom becomes a consultation room, an office a pharmacy, and the small "courtyard" outside hosts triage. Members of the community flock to the center. Some are sick, others wish simply to take advantage of medical attention while it is available. Mothers come with their children -often a half dozen of them, all with the same ailment -tinea capitis (ringworm on the head).
I usually hang out in triage. Generally I aid in collecting hight, weight, temp, BP, and then with the aid of a translator, I dictate chief complaint. After the patient has been through triage, they are off to consultation with either a nurse practitioner or a doctor. While they wait for the pharmacy to fill some scripts, generally there is someone going over some health education. This is the area of medical clinics I wish to see grow. While distributing medication may relieve some of the symptoms and perhaps treat disease, it can do nothing to change the perspective of the people. If the same habits and attitudes about health are maintained, then the reoccurrence of whatever brought them to the clinic in the first place is highly likely. Prevention is key, and education is power.
I fear that because health education does not have immediate results like a bottle of antibiotics, it is considered less effective and less pertinent to the rotation of these clinics. Specific focus needs to be aimed at education if we hope to make a change in Mathare. Bandaids only soak up the blood after the wound, but would it not be much more effective to avoid injury? Can not the education of one individual spread exponentially? But what good is knowledge if it is not shared? What power do idle lips carry?
What I have come to learn is that I do not need my doctorate to open my mouth and share medical knowledge. While my knowledge may be minimal compared to a professional medical worker, the truth is that I have something to offer. In-fact, anyone who grew up in the US had medical knowledge that should not be taken for granted. How many people know how to wash their hands? How many people know how to clean a cut? How many people know to cover their mouth when the cough? How many people know to drink water when you have diarrhea?
Education -it really is the key to change.
Within a matter of a few minutes, a classroom becomes a consultation room, an office a pharmacy, and the small "courtyard" outside hosts triage. Members of the community flock to the center. Some are sick, others wish simply to take advantage of medical attention while it is available. Mothers come with their children -often a half dozen of them, all with the same ailment -tinea capitis (ringworm on the head).
I usually hang out in triage. Generally I aid in collecting hight, weight, temp, BP, and then with the aid of a translator, I dictate chief complaint. After the patient has been through triage, they are off to consultation with either a nurse practitioner or a doctor. While they wait for the pharmacy to fill some scripts, generally there is someone going over some health education. This is the area of medical clinics I wish to see grow. While distributing medication may relieve some of the symptoms and perhaps treat disease, it can do nothing to change the perspective of the people. If the same habits and attitudes about health are maintained, then the reoccurrence of whatever brought them to the clinic in the first place is highly likely. Prevention is key, and education is power.
I fear that because health education does not have immediate results like a bottle of antibiotics, it is considered less effective and less pertinent to the rotation of these clinics. Specific focus needs to be aimed at education if we hope to make a change in Mathare. Bandaids only soak up the blood after the wound, but would it not be much more effective to avoid injury? Can not the education of one individual spread exponentially? But what good is knowledge if it is not shared? What power do idle lips carry?
What I have come to learn is that I do not need my doctorate to open my mouth and share medical knowledge. While my knowledge may be minimal compared to a professional medical worker, the truth is that I have something to offer. In-fact, anyone who grew up in the US had medical knowledge that should not be taken for granted. How many people know how to wash their hands? How many people know how to clean a cut? How many people know to cover their mouth when the cough? How many people know to drink water when you have diarrhea?
How did the chicken cross the road?
In case my last blog did not keep you thoroughly entertained, I thought I would supplement with some classic Kenyan humor.
Things that Kenyans find everyday/mundane, the average American would find, well, simply odd.
So my question is, "how did the chickens cross the road?"
-"by mutatu of-course!"
(Mutatu is the public form of transportation. Generally dangerous, smelly, and crowded, and always loud. But also inexpensive. Also noteworthy, is the fact that I have yet to ride a mutatu without a memorable experience.)
Things that Kenyans find everyday/mundane, the average American would find, well, simply odd.
So my question is, "how did the chickens cross the road?"
-"by mutatu of-course!"
 |
| Chickens ride free on mutatus |
Driving 101
 |
| Driving to work |
Because the British have such an influence in Kenyan culture, Kenyans drive on the wrong side of the road -that is to say, the left side. Convinced that I needed to feel independent, the Kamaus (my Kenyan host family) so graciously offered the car keys to me. On my fourth day in Kenya I was given all the privileges of of a 16 year old, along with additional fears and anxieties. I was told not to worry, I could drive in the US, so driving in Nairobi should be natural.
Natural! ha! Everything that I learned in the US should be thrown out the window. Other than turning the key and adjusting the seat, nothing is the same. I had observed Wallace Kamau driving through the city, and often times I closed my eyes and prayed for fear that if I continued to watch I would not be able to suppress the screams of fright as we narrowly missed head-on collisions with mutatus and motor bikes. The rule in Kenya is that there are no rules. Terrifying. People will cut across four lanes of traffic to make a right-hand turn (remember this is opposite US driving). Where there should be two lanes, four will suddenly emerge as mutatus can pass on either side. If there is not room to pass, they will make room -this leaves pedestrians to fend for themselves. That in itself is a whole other situation. I have never seen so many pedestrians in my life. In America, whether out of the kindness of our hearts or fear of a lawsuit, we make sure to give the pedestrian plenty of space. In Kenya, so long as someone doesn't die, everything is ok... and even then, I am not sure what would happen. People run across roads with reckless abandon, sometimes dragging children, other times carrying crates, juggling chickens, or pushing wheel barrows. In kenya you must be ready to stop. You must watch people from every angle, and you must be ready for anything -like the truck that drops sticks, the mutatu that jumps the curb to pass, the lady with chickens who just stands in the middle of the street, and especially the motor bike that fancies driving in the your lane because his lane is too congested.
Ah yes, Kenyan driving. There are speed limits, but they are never followed. Instead, to assure a safe speed, there are speed bumps avery 400yds -0%exaggeration. There aren't always road signs, and round-abouts are a bona-fide mess -may the bravest car win. Needless to say, driving is different.
Back to my story: First day of driving lessons, actually first five minutes of driving lessons, I am rounding a corner coming out of the neighborhood, and here comes this enormous truck. Anyone who works with HUGE trucks would appreciate the size of this thing. There was nowhere to go, so I do what instinct would tell me to, I start to pull over to the side of the road, hoping that a few extra inches will save our lives. Instead what I found, or what the tire found, was a huge piece of concrete conveniently placed where I could not see it. MPUUUUSHH -there goes the old tire. Talk about embarrassing -not only am I driving the other interns to work, but Mary, Wallace, and their two children are in the car. Then, on top of that, I think every pedestrian, motorbike, and car stopped to see what was going on and how they could help. Luckily, out of the some 30 people who stopped, someone knew how to change a tire. So, with the new donut in place, we were off again -with me in the driver's seat.
Oh yes, there is no better time to get back on the horse than right after you fall. So, I drove us all the way to Mathare that day, and everyother day since that incident.
So, what is the lesson? Don't drive into concrete blocks :)
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Sometimes its hard
Sometimes it is hard to put into words exactly how you are feeling. I have attempted to write a new post for a while now, but every time I start, I re-read what I have written and feel discontent. To be quite honest with everyone, I am not sure of how I feel right now.
There are so many emotions that are experienced throughout a day here in Kenya, that I am generally exhausted by dinner time (my tired state could also be due to the rooster that crows periodically all day, and all night long, but that can be another entry).
My time here in Kenya has been such a blessing. Each day is a reminder of God's excellence, His power, and His grace. It is such an encouragement to be working with people who are so passionate about loving God and loving others. Passionate people are so necessary in this field. Day-to-day experiences are so difficult, that anyone who is anything less than passionate, committed, and empowered by the love of Christ, is not going to last more than one week. I thank God for the people at MOHI, because they fill me up -I fuel up on the excess love that pours out from them. There are days when I do not feel like the up-beat, go-get-em Christian that I want to be. I get out of bed and I do not feel overwhelmed by the love of Christ. And yet, I get to the center, I see my teammates' (fellow CHE members) faces, and I feel it. It is an exhilarating attitude that captivates my being and anyone else who happens to be in the room with them. They are such a great reminder of what is happening here in Mathare. When Christ comes into your life, he fills you up so full that you alone cannot contain the love, and it just pours out from you and fills up those around you.
Mathare is huge, and right now there is a lot of people who have never heard of the love of Christ. But when we move out into the slums, when we bring the light of Christ, I see that same love pouring out. I see people being filled with hope. Walking down the streets of Mathare I see love radiating from this team. They walk with purpose, with passion, and with a desire to see that all of God's children feel the love.
When I am in a slump; in those moments when I doubt I can make a difference, my prayer is this, that God would fill me up. He promises to fill us up until the point where his love flows out of us, and I believe his promises. Mathare valley needs people to walk the streets and to pour out Christ's love. Illinois needs people to walk the streets and pour out Christ's love. Michigan needs people to walk the streets and pour out Christ's love. ____(fill in the blank) needs people to walk the streets and pour out Christ's love. I know that whatever I face, I know God is faithful to fulfill his promises. When I come to him asking to be filled, my cup will overflow. So now all I have to do is take that cup to the streets, so that where I walk, the love of Jesus would just flow out.
I guess it's time to take a walk.
There are so many emotions that are experienced throughout a day here in Kenya, that I am generally exhausted by dinner time (my tired state could also be due to the rooster that crows periodically all day, and all night long, but that can be another entry).
My time here in Kenya has been such a blessing. Each day is a reminder of God's excellence, His power, and His grace. It is such an encouragement to be working with people who are so passionate about loving God and loving others. Passionate people are so necessary in this field. Day-to-day experiences are so difficult, that anyone who is anything less than passionate, committed, and empowered by the love of Christ, is not going to last more than one week. I thank God for the people at MOHI, because they fill me up -I fuel up on the excess love that pours out from them. There are days when I do not feel like the up-beat, go-get-em Christian that I want to be. I get out of bed and I do not feel overwhelmed by the love of Christ. And yet, I get to the center, I see my teammates' (fellow CHE members) faces, and I feel it. It is an exhilarating attitude that captivates my being and anyone else who happens to be in the room with them. They are such a great reminder of what is happening here in Mathare. When Christ comes into your life, he fills you up so full that you alone cannot contain the love, and it just pours out from you and fills up those around you.
Mathare is huge, and right now there is a lot of people who have never heard of the love of Christ. But when we move out into the slums, when we bring the light of Christ, I see that same love pouring out. I see people being filled with hope. Walking down the streets of Mathare I see love radiating from this team. They walk with purpose, with passion, and with a desire to see that all of God's children feel the love.
When I am in a slump; in those moments when I doubt I can make a difference, my prayer is this, that God would fill me up. He promises to fill us up until the point where his love flows out of us, and I believe his promises. Mathare valley needs people to walk the streets and to pour out Christ's love. Illinois needs people to walk the streets and pour out Christ's love. Michigan needs people to walk the streets and pour out Christ's love. ____(fill in the blank) needs people to walk the streets and pour out Christ's love. I know that whatever I face, I know God is faithful to fulfill his promises. When I come to him asking to be filled, my cup will overflow. So now all I have to do is take that cup to the streets, so that where I walk, the love of Jesus would just flow out.
I guess it's time to take a walk.
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