One of the first facts I learned about my Kenyan Momma and Baba: They
are Kenyan missionaries!
This is their 12th year living on the coast. 2 years ago,
Pastor and Momma took a trip inland to Ganze to plant a church. It just so
happens, my second Sunday here in the village, the Ganze church was hosting a
second anniversary celebration of sorts.
Naturally, Pastor’s entire congregation was invited and eager to attend
the celebration!
A good looking bus appeared in front of the village church while the
morning air was still cool. Parishioners, in their crisp Sunday attire, had
been meandering into Pastor’s property since the sun rose. Ladies were flitting
about sweeping the sand outside our house with bound palm brooms. They work in
circles to clean the mango tree’s droppings, creating endless sand eddies. Men
stand around discussing the weather. The children played with each others fine
dresses, anything to keep occupied. Finally, time to board the bus! Our bus,
crammed fuller than a sausage casing, sways on the sandy road until the delayed
traction can start her down the lane.
We barely begin our journey and a single voice raises to a chant.
Excitedly, the whole bus joins in the hymn. Today, the Kenyan call and response
hymns are brimming with expectancy. We are audial and visual joy to the mommas
and babas stoop-sitting at the homes or farms we pass.
Thick into the bush we go! The farthest most of the villagers on the
bus have ever travelled! My sweat is taking long journeys of its own, tickling
my scalp to my knee crevices. The Kenyans are wary of getting their best
clothes dusty, so opening windows is beyond mentioning. I do anyway.
Arrival!, just about the time my shirt is saturated with sweat, and
step into the gusty plain of Ganze. There is incredible and varied terrain
beyond the field. Tents are erected on the land which I’m now occupying with a
starfish stance in hopes of drying out. I tell the Kenyans my stance is in
celebration of our arrival and the day to come:).
A quick visit to the premier church in Ganze, a corrugated tin room,
then into the tents for the celebrating.
The celebration kicks off true Kenya style: speakers blaring a drum
beat, 2 or 3 strong voices in harmony, and a myriad of tribal, yet excellently
choreographed dancers. The choir is electrifying! Their movements explain the meaning
of the Swahili words. I am jittering in my chair to the drum. Unashamed to try
the hand and shoulder motions in my seat, my excitement elicits looks, laughs,
and other seat dancers from the surrounding Kenyans.
The speaking begins. All in Swahili. I expect this, but when the
speaker is separated from me by a grassy expanse, the language barrier feels
rigid. I can not read the lips. I can not watch the gesticulations closely or
pantomime myself. I can not quizzically ask him to slow down. Staying engaged,
not to mention staying awake, are taking superhuman strength! Another speaker
takes the mic. My mind is in syrup. Several members are being introduced. My
butt bones hurt a touch, a little, a Little, a LIttle, a LITtle, a LITTle, a
LITTLe, a LITTLE, A LOT. The mic is handed to the next meandering speaker. Ok,
my rump bones are aching. Are they even speaking Swahili anymore? No, the new
speaker is deep into Gidiama, the mother tongue of my villagers. How polite! I
wish I could share their delight.
Well into the 5th hour of this celebration. my purified
water depletes. Breakfast cleaned from my ribs at my disembarking moment from
the bus. But now, the exhaustion from tugging my brain for every Swahili word
spoken is gone. I’ve stopped listening.
The choir suddenly reappears on the field as a bathtub size pot holding
lunch is produced. Seat dancing ENERGY is restored upon sight of both stimuli.
If only recharging always come this easy.
Prior to our arrival, Momma briefed me on the Ganze area. This region
of Kenya is considered one of the poorest areas of the nation. Directly related
to the lack of water sources and rain, the people of Ganze are lacking in
natural resources. They struggle to grow food for their families. There is much
less to sell. If time is money in America, water is currency here. At the
moment, there simply is none.
In that moment, Ganze is feeding 200 mouths. That afternoon, Ganze sent
us home with the leftover maize and beans.
Our village does not have much. We must to fight for water and our
children have one pair of Sunday Best. But, we do have more than Ganze.
What faith! Despite creating a deficit on our behalf, there is trust
there will be food enough for tomorrow. There are steely eyed men trusting in
the rains to come. There is faith that Ganze’s generosity will be turned into
blessing. Faith in the provisions and the Provider for survival.
What faith do I have in comparison?
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