Two weeks ago, two life-long friends came to visit me from the States. Best gift of the year.

While chatting about the last year of life, we talked about something that they had recently talked about in their young married group. The four-letter word in marriage.

Fine.

“I’m fine,” they shared with us, never really means exactly that. In fact, this four-letter-word can be used to mask all sorts of unspoken emotions, disagreements and thoughts, bottled up and ready to be unleashed with the proper questioning and tone.

At the same time, Chris Kamalski (whom many of you know from my former life), was visiting with his beautiful bride, Maxie.

An Afrikaaner, she shared what we also find to be true in Kenya. Fine, means simply that.

“How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Fine: adverb: in a satisfactory or pleasing manner; very well.”

In America, this question bothered me. Not delving into the turmoil or depth of emotion that I was convinced lived in each person would drive me crazy.

Yeah, maybe that’s a bit intense. But, like most things in life, my perspective has changed again.

Because, you see, here – people are very private with some things – and very public with others.

Your money is a very public thing. Public property in fact. If you have, you are expected to give.

What is actually going on in your life, however, is a very private thing. Such as relationships. A wedding invitation is a common way to learn that a couple is together.

But there are more reasons for this than I understand. It’s a different worldview, despite our shared language and words. So in Kenya, for this question, Fine is fine. It suffices for the normal greetings of the day. Good, fine, healthy, well, cool – they all work for the initial greeting.

Sometimes I wonder if I try too hard to think about the question. Or the answer. Am I really fine? It inevitably brings me to think about how often I think about… me. Really, it’s quite often. How am I doing? What am I doing with my life?

There’s another question I hear a lot. Primarily from visiting teams. “Do you like it here?” To which I always respond, “Of course!” I am, after all, still living here. Year two well underway. My job, my life, my teammates – they have become home. A home where I’m learning by welcoming.

All sort of people come to visit us. People looking to serve, people looking for God. People who come believing that they have been sent, and people who have no idea what they are looking for. And most want to know if we like it here. They ask with words. We use words a lot for this sort of thing. It’s small talk. It’s a legitimate question of curiosity. It’s a step towards relationship.

“Do you like what you are doing?”

The real answer?

Some days, I do. And some days, I struggle. Kind of like – any job in the world. There is nothing glamorous about working with the poor, or living in a developing country. The intrigue that draws us to the slum community never quite wears off, because we never quite understand. But the glamour does. The initial spurt of energy does. The paper-work and adminstrative details that make an organization run are not the daily-visit-someone’s-home-and-have-your-life-changed kinds of experiences.

But since when was that the reason for doing the work? When were we promised that we would always enjoy what we are doing? Where did the gospel of self-fulfillment mix become the result of our ‘salvation’?

As my rooomates-turned-sisters prepare to move on in their lives, we have done a terrible amount of reflection together. A lot of what we have spent our time invested into the last year and half did not result in tangible results.

We are changed. We are different. It’s been beautiful, it’s been rough, and it’s been

fine: of high Quality.

Another meaning to another word.

But we each came seeking Jesus. Wanting to follow him. Wanting to be a part of his work. Knowing we would be changed in the process, but having no idea how that would look. And now we are beginning to see.

That there is still a lot more to learn, and many more definitions to let go of.

A reality that, as I am increasingly more comfortable in saying, is fine.

A few weeks ago I heard a sermon on the Kingdom of God. There were two columns. On the left, all of the qualities of the Kingdom of God. On the right, all of the qualities of the kingdom of darkness.

Simple, right?

Maybe if we know what it’s like on the left.

But, if you’ve don’t consider yourself to be on the left, it’s pretty difficult to grasp.

Bethany and I sat next to each other, a little uneasy. The reality that we work in is people that are on the left. Following Jesus, in their own ways.

And yet, there’s an awful lot of qualities from the right in their lives. Things that can namely be categorized into suffering.

In the lives of people very dear to me, there is an awful lot of it right now.

In theory, it’s tempting for me to romanticize poverty. A simple life, broken and bare. Free from worldly possessions, and able to simply rely on God. Right?

But reading back through my journals from the past year I don’t reach that conclusion. Fire, rape, cruelty, sickness and death characterize the depravity that is fostered in this environment.

But, we’re stuck in it.

Living on the left, but stuck in the world on the right.

Or, maybe those are not the right words.

But sometimes it feels like it. Particularly when we are confronted with death.

I was quite tempted to label this blog, “Holy Sh*t.” But, having respectfully worked through my initial frustration, I settled with a much less controversial phrase.

Tempted, because it’s in these sorts of things in my life that I have encountered Jesus the most clearly.

“I waited patiently for the Lord. He inclined to me and heard my cry. He lifted me out of the pit of destruction, out of the miry bog…”

pause.

The muck and the mire: I normally don't post pictures of sewage, but it seems fitting to connect an image to a thought.

enter Jesus.

Miry bog.

I am not a biblical scholar. But sometimes this is where I feel stuck. Almost as if we still in the lifting.

But does this somehow make the suffering itself, holy?

When death comes and takes the breath from the people that we love. We fumble around for words to make it better. Sentimental titles flow freely, lodging an even deeper sense of confusion, because some of the comforting phrases just don’t seem to fit. They are band-aids. Neutral colors to mask the wounds. But what about the wound itself?

Resume.

Jesus is here.

Waist-deep in the mire.

It sure doesn’t seem holy to me.

Today, Bethany and I had a conversation with a colleague. She spoke of grief, and shared something interesting with us.

You see, when someone is sick in Kenya, it’s very common to hear apologies. “Pole Sana.” (I’m so sorry.)

However, don’t ever expect to get away without the next phrase… “She will be well.”

Call it admirable faith, or call it positive thinking – it can be a wonderful and healthy thing. But then the person you love is very clearly fading. And it’s time to begin to process what is happening. And then, it becomes frustrating.

She is not getting well. She didn’t get well. She is gone.

In the past week, four people that I love have lost people close to them. Another is slipping away. Different ages, different situations, all linked together by cancer.

They are all followers of Jesus, and live on the left. But the things they have walked through are on the right. Not just in the passing, but in the weeks and days before hand.

And not all of them are near-by. Which makes it very difficult to go into the mire. To sit in the muck. To offer silence instead of words that fall insufficiently short.

Back to the conversation.

“Some people think that MoHi does great work because of it’s excellent workers,” she shared.

“But I tell you it’s not because of it’s excellent workers. It’s because they are wounded workers. Wounded workers who are willing to be healers.”

Eerily similar to the words of Henri Nouwen, who shares an ancient story of Jesus as the Wounded Healer, who can be found outside the city gates, unwrapping his wounds to care for them one at a time, to be ready for the time when he will be called to attend to another.

So maybe it’s not about explaining away the suffering, or reaching logical conclusions about why those on the left must live in the right. Maybe, as Rob Bell puts it, we have been asking the wrong questions.

Maybe I don’t have to try so hard to justify all of the powerful stories of redemption that are happening through Missions of Hope, with the reality of the suffering in the lives of it’s workers. Of my friends.

Maybe these attempts at logic will only lead to despair.

Despair which has no place in Hope.

The hope on the left is far from sentimental.

It’s a real hope. A physical hope. A tangible hope.

A hope that what causes our wounds will be destroyed.

A hope that in our woundedness we are not alone.

A hope that Jesus was first.

Wounded first.

Suffered first.

Died.

And came back from the dead first.

He was raised first, but will not be the last.

So we look at the wound. It’s pretty ugly. And it’s pretty dark.

Fear and anxiety come with a crushing weight, like we are alone in a pitch-dark room.

But we aren’t alone.

And we aren’t in a pitch-black room.

And this blog will not have answers that can leave you satisfied that I’ve worked through all of the ramifications of these thoughts. These experiences.

Just a little bit more light on the wound. A few more words trying to see what’s really under all the scabbing. A little bit more vulnerable, and a little bit nearer to seeing Jesus.

So please, bear with my brief usage of profanity.

Sometimes you discover something and want to share it with as many people as possible. Why are we not writing to the Daily Nation, and sharing all that is happening every day in the Mathare Valley and beyond? Over time, I have come to be a bit more cynical of the media, not because of it’s politics and corruption, but because of it’s angle. It’s perspective.

It’s very nature makes it unable to tell the complete story.

I journeyed through college slightly enamored at the ability of international media to influence such a wide audience with information about what is happening in the world (particularly in developing nations and otherwise marginalized societies).

After living in that world, I confess I’ve become a bit more cynical. Or perhaps more realistic. I’ve learned that:

Images and words captured by camera (still and moving) can be distorted to communicate a very different message than the subject of the footage may have intended.

Dignity is very easily encouraged or challenged in the snap of a photo. Or two photos. Or three.

Journalists don’t always do their research. Or rather, ‘research’ in developing nations has a variety of different dynamic. There are the statistics, and official records. Then there are the on-the-ground stories, interpreted by writers with a different worldview than their subjects. If we struggle to correctly understand each other in our native tongue, how are we to able to communicate effectively in a foreign tongue, with a different understanding of reality?

Then slowly, as with all things in this journey with Jesus, I began to see these things in myself.

As journalists, we are trained to always be looking for a “story.” Which, in effect, means that we want something from the people we are meeting. We meet them, and listen, all the while wondering… “What questions would be best to ask next? What story are you sharing that I can retell?”  The reason I know, is because I am guilty of it as well.

I sit in the back of the matatu that cuts through traffic and clouds of smog on our way to the center of town. Street vendors sell clothes, a mix of outdated western fashion and traditional Kenyan fabrics… a story about the Kenyan struggle for cultural identity.

Two men in a fist fight as we drive down limuru road…later on our matatu driver is stuck in a jam far too close to another vehicle, and erupts in shouting as he opens the door to pound on the obstructive object… the built-up aggression underneath the surface of society.

Our intentions are good. Help those who have not seen to understand. Write for now. Write for eternity. 

I met a news reporter the other day. He was very kind. Personable. Outgoing. He asked a lot of questions. All great qualities for a reporter, and for a journalist.

But our brief encounter got me thinking: What makes a good international journalist? What about one who wants to follow Jesus? How do you share what you are hearing to a global audience, while remaining faithful to your convictions in love?

So to those of you who are interested in reporting in the third-world, (named as such because of it’s political and economic state rather than because of our ability to speak in third-person about them), I offer the following suggestions.

Put the camera down. You may or may not be aware of the struggle inside of you, but having that lens gives you a different one as well.

Remember: You come to listen. Before you pull our your pen and paper, take time to hear their stories. Notice as much as you can. Make mental notes of observation. Ask the good questions that you have been taught to ask. But…

Don’t choose an angle to quickly. Where you think you have found the ‘story’ may not be the heart of the matter.

You may notice that these things would be hard to do in a short amount of time. When there are deadlines, either by a professor, employer or teammate you are rushed to take in as much as possible in a tidal wave of differences. Which brings me to the following. Volunteer, serve, or otherwise engage in living cross-culturally for an extended period of time.

There it is – I said it. Yes, you need adequate (holistic) preparation. No, it’s not comfortable. Yes, it takes a lot of money. No, there is no other way to learn.

Before we can write in the third-person, we need to take steps towards understanding. We won’t ever fully be able to walk in their shoes, but there is no ethical writing without taking steps forward, allowing ourselves to be changed in the process.

*Photo credit: Krystal Underwood

A shot of my first time serving briefly inter-culturally: Chile 2005

While in college, I learned to remove it from my vocabulary. It was replaced by all sorts of vernacular to refer to those serving overseas. I learned to take out all sorts of language that could be interpreted as something potentially dangerous to those involved in sharing about my Father.

If you have not grown up in a Christian environment, this could seem very strange. My language and descriptions may appear cryptic and peculiar. In part, it’s because they are.

Since I came on with CMF in June of 2010 I have wrestled with this word. I have fought it, struggled to justify it, and eventually ended up back at the beginning. It’s in my job description; it’s on my work permit.

It’s just part of the reality that I live in.

And yet it makes me uncomfortable. It sets me apart. It is, like most religious rhetoric, far too loaded of a word.

You think different things, and feel different in your response based on your previous experiences or stories about other’s of the same.

Sometimes, admittedly, I can soak it up. Yes, it is different serving overseas “full-time.” There are different difficulties. Different challenges. Different joys. Different triumphs.

But really, it brings me back to another thing I started to learn in college.

Life.

Simply… living.

Life looks different when you learn that you are loved. It takes time for you to see yourself the way that your Maker sees you. But He knows you, kabisa. Completely.

Recently a teammate and I have enrolled in a Master’s course through Africa International University. The course title? Islam in Africa.

There are several other “M’s” in the class.

As we discuss Islam in our class, inevitably the differences between Christianity and Islam arise. A blog would not be conducive to explain what questions we have learned to ask, but tonight our dear professor’s words stuck in me, as he encouraged Jesus-followers to not over-complicate things.

“Just take the grace!”

Since a difficult series of events in life over a year ago, I have learned to depend on this thought. This idea. This belief. This act.

Grace, made tangible on days when you simply do not have the emotional or physical energy to get up. To work. To interact with others. To be.

Grace, when all you know, is that you don’t really know.

Grace, when you feel somehow unsettled and un-centered, and altogether … un.

And then you say, sure. I’ll go. Send me.

There’s grace again.

While living in Kenya, I’ve interacted with quite a few people who have said the same thing, often to a short-term trip of service. Again and again, it ends up being a trip of relationships. With team members, community members, staff, and God through them all.

Recently a new friend sent me an e-mail telling me of how much her week in Kenya has altered who she is becoming. She spoke of a new found boldness and courageousness that no one can take away.

It looks different for each of us; bold and courageous. For what, you may ask? Maybe you should ask her. Or anyone else you know who may have spent time in another cultural context serving others.

Church-goers or not, everyone appreciates a listening ear.

We communicate it differently, based on our circumstances and personality.

But it’s the same message. The same purpose. The same “wine,” filling the skins that have been formed by our environment and others.

And it makes her an “M.”

And it makes me an “M.”

And if you are going about your life and encounter Jesus, it just might make you an “M” too.

Or at least, seriously need to wrestle over his words, actions, and all-together way of life.

So I become more comfortable in this position. In this role. In this title.

But I need your help to take it off of the shelf. Dust it off, look at it. Look out your window. Look around from your cubicle. Look around from your desk. Look at the poor. Look at the rich. Look at the person next to you on the bus. On the matatu. At your neighbor. At their kids. Look. See. And I will try to do the same.

We can do it together, and un-load this word. This idea. This fragmented view of religious life as something “other,” and “sacred.”

Let’s do it together. Let’s take the grace.

It was as true today as it was last Saturday. Pilau, White Rice, Vegetable stew, chapati and the ever-present cooked cabbage was heaped onto some plates, and delicately placed on others who visited Joska from Indiana. (White River Christian Church, and Mount Pleasant Christian Church.)

To complete the meal, fresh pineapple was diced into pieces just large enough to barely fit inside your mouth, leaving the juice to drip down your face as you savor it’s rich flavor.

With soda for all, we dove into the food prepared for us to enjoy and be filled with. As we finished eating, Mama Julianna came around collecting plates.

“Asante,” she said.

“Asante Sana,” I said to her. “We are the ones who should be doing the thanking!”

“Then what do I say?” She inquired.

“It was so great!” I replied, referring to the delectable meal that she had prepared for us all.

As I took a breath in the steady moments my mind needs to process and carefully choose words which can be understood, she beat me to it.

“God’s work is great. Mine is to serve.”

But then he is next to me.

His eyes lock with mine.

I see nothing deep within them. He is present, but his eyes are hollow.

And it’s not okay.

Read more in my September 2011 update…

It can still be the most inappropriate phrase. 

Visiting Turkana was an eye-opening experience, to observe their way of life, and hear brief thoughts and stories from a few voices in a community that live very different than I. It’s not the Kenya that I experience daily, and yet is still part of this country.

What I did not share in these blogs is what we observed about the presence of NGO’s. The work of IGO’s. The huge rain harvester that had a placard displaying the name of the donor in an area where it does not rain. Surely a foreigner came and assessed the situation, suggested an idea, raised some money, implemented a project and concluded.*

It’s a lot more complex than conclusions.

There’s an awful lot of good intentions in the world of foreign aid.

But rather than make conclusions about the people, places, and projects that I saw in Turkana, I find myself more able to articulate things within myself. Most of the places I visit end up being this way.

To describe the difference between visiting and working in the Mathare Valley, I often use the following exercise:

Close your eyes. Picture all of the things that you have seen about the Mathare Valley. This is before you come.

Open them, but cup your hands around your eyes. This is when you come to visit. You see firsthand what it’s like, but not what is above, around, underneath or behind the reality that you see.

The longer you work and live here, the more you can see what is around. Maybe never fully understanding, but changing and adapting as your vision grows.

A vision that belongs, after all, to the One that has created and understands all that we see (and don’t.)

My sight is stretched to understand more of “Kenya” that lies underneath the surface of those who sport Western clothing, and speak the sam language as I.

Several observations have been reinforced through this trip, particularly regarding aid and development. More thoughts may come later regarding this, but for now here’s a few…

Observation 1 (reinforced): Aid is not the “answer.” “The answer to what?” you may ask… good question.

Observation 2 (reinforced): Most often, what we (Foreigners) see as the problems of a community are not the same as what the community would identify.

Observation 3: (reinforced): Aid may be a temporary solution in the case of an emergency, but it can be destructive and work against the focused effort of community development, working towards a vision of the community living in whole relationships with each other, God, the land and themselves.

It may be disappointing that there are not many “conclusions” I can draw, to paint you a picture of the reality in Northern Kenya.

There is no resolve, and I am not trying to sway you towards a particular perspective or action step.

Other than to join me in praying that we do not conclude too quickly.

*These are raw thoughts that hopefully do not reflect a prideful attitude of insinuating that all organizations function in this way. 

Near the river, or not so near,

in the midst of dirt, or is it sand,

defined, marked, patterned

by thorn tree’s,

walking, climbing

over gates into the plot,

are planted things.

Living, as it is.

The sign read, “Stressed is dessert spelled backwards.”

Dessert always looked an awful lot like desert. Later in my schooling, another Montessori teacher gave me the key to remember this spelling trick. “Dessert has two s’s, for strawberry shortcake,” she said. “There’s not strawberry shortcake in the desert.”

It’s very hot in Turkana. It is, after all, a desert. No strawberry shortcake here.

We visited a home about an hour outside of the town. We saw an awful lot of what we would consider, “nothing.”

Where there is a lack of resources, you will always find resilience in some form.

We observed it in the people that we met. To them, life continues as it did the day before. I soaked in every detail around me.

As with yesterday’s photos, these tell a story that my words could not. Perhaps their words could…

I am drawn to these two photos again and again… each detail sharing something about their reality.I wish I could share with you the details that were left in my head as I look away from this photo. Tonight I have been reminded that our frame of reference shapes what we do and do not notice, as well as how we interpret.

I notice…

The expression of the women… beauty. dignity.

The toes on the child as she fingers her own as well as Mary’s… count them. Curiosity.

All of the family’s belongings hung cleverly on their wall…poverty. ingenuity.

Wednesday was also the end of Ramadan. Eid-al-fitr. A public holiday.

The government school we visited was closed, but kids were there for a session. They call it tuition.

As soon as we arrived at the school, a crowd of at least fifteen kids gathered around Erin as she began playing an adapted version of simon says. Pure joy.

Hundreds of kids are enrolled at this school in a few small classrooms. Hours from where they live, kids often end up simply sleeping at the school rather than make the long trip home.

The next few days will feature people that we met. I do not remember all of their names. I know them about as well as they know me. In a crowd, we wouldn’t be able to pick each other out (unless I was the only white face in a crowd of dark skin…)

But I can’t escape their gaze, captured for an instant in these photos.