These are rough days in Kenya.  Water is scarce.  Food supply is dropping with prices rising.  Last night I was up at 3 am pumping water from one tank into another just because that’s when the water came and we’re down to 12 hours a week rationing.  We’re not suffering though, and we know that we’re not suffering because we know those who are.
The Swanepoels, our dear friends and mentors here, mentioned to us that they were concerned about the starving they see endured by pastors and evangelists up in Northern Kenya.  Take for example this one evangelist and his family in a tiny desert town, not much more than some wooden shacks in the sand.  The Swanepoels pass by that town on their way home -to their own place in the desert.  They stop in when they can and try to support the evangelist.
Swanepoels described him as an enduring determined man, and his wife and small daughter as resourceful and caring.  But thin.  So thin, gathering wild berries and leaves for a meal.  Poverty is hard to ignore when it speaks through sunken cheeks and loose clothing.  Liisa listened to the Swanepoel’s story, not sure if we have met this evangelist or not, and felt the Chance.
A chance to taste giving, for those of us on a constant diet of receiving, can taste uniquely spicy. But giving only has this sort of flavor when it has been stirred up by Him -maybe because every good gift comes from Him as the Father in Heaven.  But simply giving wasn’t enough-  Liisa wanted the kids to do it.  She was burdened for the children to get a share in the joy that came with the Chance to help.  To care.  To pray.  To wait and be ready to see…
So Liisa told the kids the story and gave them just a little time to go through their toys and pick out ones to sell at the next missionary sale that was coming up.  They collected a few things and off they went.  Two of our four had in their instruments in tow -Jon a trumpet and Collin a trombone- and their music scores, and their friend Drew -another 6th grader with a trumpet.  Not for sale.
Liisa manned a cardtable with old toys for sale.  It was so little she couldn’t help remembering the boy with the 5 loaves and 2 fish.  It was so little she wondered if she’d end up with ten dollars to send to the evangelist.
Those three boys played all the songs they could think of behind a basket growing full with money and a sign saying that the proceeds would go to a starving pastor in the North.  Between being willing to let go of toys and offer up their music, the children collected half a months’ salary for that evangelist plus a whole lot of food.  We sent it up with the next airplane headed that direction. The kids, having taken that chance, are all the richer.
-Ted

My Sabbath was begun on a Saturday evening, when I slipped. I slid past positive parental correcting and into the murk of plain old complaining, murmuring my malcontent like the ancient mothers of Israel. “You must be the only child in the world who does not like tacos.”
But his answer was complete, “You always said I was special,” defying all irritation with a grin and a hug, melting my murmurings and making my day!

Now in church Sunday morning, standing to sing as a congregation, we were squeezed against the row of chairs in front of us. Those chairs pressed the front of the thigh while our own seats behind lightly bruised back of the knee. Perhaps not actual bruising, but it was close. The chairs practiced an expectancy that if not at the start of service, surely by the end, the church would be packed. The young Kenyan leading the worship read Romans 8:38-39 with a careful exuberance and a shining but quiet smile. He hoped we would hear him with our hearts,
“For I am persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
The 20-something worship leader added, “nor famine, nor corruption, nor politics” to bring it home. The singing was different after that Scripture reading. It sounded like waterfall, roaring and glad about God. Glad He is faithful and unchanging. The young man in front said it for all, “Nothing is better than this, worshipping God with each other.” Yes, we are pressed by responsibilities and worry, we don’t understand pain and trouble, we resist even the revelation in Holy Scriptures, but He is faithful; He is wisdom and cannot lie; and He is full of grace. Scripture says all things were made by him and for him. (John 1:3, Colossians 1:16) For Him. I was made for him.

Morning church prayers were moved by a weight, the weight of knowing that people are literally starving to death in this country right now. This morning the leader in church prayed that we would each be able to give something, do something! I had only recently learned of a committed pastor and his dear wife and little girl who are all three of them alarmingly thin, trying to survive on small wild fruits and leaves in a difficult drought-ridden area of northern Kenya. I had wanted to help them, but struggled with the budget, cutting the amount in every “envelope” this month. But now I had an idea for our family. I saw, in my heart, evening family prayers lit only by candles, and all of us praying about a garage sale!

Funny to pray for garage sales? and by candle light? But actually there will be a sale end of this month in which we could participate. So in my idea, we had decided that we could find some “worldly possessions” to sell and proceeds could go to that pastor’s family! I am so excited and cannot wait to light those candles and pray about it with the children. Giving is exciting. I shiver with amazement at how real the connection is in Christ’s body, the church.

Home again, post-church service, time for lunch. “Myyy” it sounded like. “Maahir” was the next try. He wanted his fourth helping of broccoli!
I said, “Say ‘more’ with an ‘o’. More.”
Timothy was willing, “O. Mah-oh.” I affirmed, “Good.” With every broccoli he ate, there was ceremony. He held it up for close inspection and said, “Tee!” triumphantly like the baby giant showing his mother giantess what he had unearthed and would now eat.
“Trrreee,” I corrected, “Say ‘tree’ with an ‘r’.”
“R, Tee!” ” he agreed, careful to pronounce it rightly and with authority, as one who had eaten many trees in his young gianthood.

Well, my life as the mother giantess sometimes feels pressed to the point of distraction. My candle light prayers got lost in the shuffle. It just did not happen for tonight, but they are already lit in my heart! So probably tomorrow night. Meanwhile, my deepest and excited thanks to those praying and giving to help us be here and make these connections.

-Liisa