kenya: half a year ago

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?fiifffff

Why are You so far from saving me,fffffffffiffififfffffff

so far from the words of my groaning? ffffiffiiiffffffff

O my God, I cry out by day, but You do not answer,

by night, and am not silent.iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

Psalms 22:1-2

∞

I have been a near-failure at writing about Kenya, but it's impossible for me to visit Nashville, be reunited with friends who went with me, and meet new friends who went the year before us, and not write something. It's still hard to articulate it all...I want nothing but the best, fullest, richest words to array the experiences, the people, the things...all the nouns those seven weeks brought before my often-disbelieving eyes. Even that word--nouns--I know it sounds hollow, and so tragically one-size-fits-all, but I'm helpless to think of something better than that.

And I hate being helpless. It sort of reviles me. But at the end of the day, the fact is I need Help. I'm going to tell you about Day #13 of Kenya, the day I arrived in Sigowet, Kenya for my three week ministry assignment. Our team of 40 or so had been broken up into pairs and sent out (as Jesus did), and I was paired with Courtney Teaford of Utah. Our ministry assignment was one of the "preaching" ones--we'd go around evangelizing (that word really has such awful connotations in America), praying for people, giving sermons, etc. etc. So on Day #13, as Courtney and I were shown the room we were to stay in for those next few weeks, I knew I needed Help. I knew it when our host mom closed the door and left so we could rest after our journey there and I no longer had to smile and nod and put my best forward. I knew it when I suddenly felt how far from home I was. And I knew it all too feelingly when I started to cry.

So there Courtney and I were, laying on the full-sized bed (we really had it so good. Those are pictures of our host family's house, I really don't know why we were crying) we were to share, crying and praying and flipping through our Bibles, looking for encouraging verses. No good. I kept crying. We both did. I've certainly never garnered much of a reputation for crying. When I started crying that day--right when we got there, no less--I mean, we hadn't even done anything, it was one of those moments of Oh, God, help me.

And I'll be honest--it didn't feel as if help of any sort was coming. I went to bed that night and wanted to wake up and feel refreshed and renewed. But I didn't. The following is an excerpt from my journal, I really can't think of a better way to relay my thoughts six months ago when I arrived in Sigowet--

We arrived and I don't know what it was...I suddenly felt crushed underneath it all. Maybe it was the hole-in-the-ground toilet (I have awful aim), but I just...couldn't. I just couldn't do it. I wanted to go home, to comfort. To my own, pristine bathroom, my bread-buying mother and my bread-earning father. 

Is it going to be like this the whole time? Feeling like I'll crumble into tears at any possible moment? Fighting--perhaps with You--to be strong? I don't know.  

It still makes me wince to think of how frail I was. Anyway, I'm just going to leave you there on that somewhat depressing note. More to come.