SundaySunday night atSunday night at dusk I found myself one of three on a motorcycle in an unfarmiliar African countryside. The rains had come that day like every other and I was wet and cold from disturbed puddles and dowpours. Lush plains stretched as far as I could see, scattered with typical Kenyan manure huts, cows and and goats. We were quite a sight really - mzungus with raincoats and little backpacks shouting back and forth trying to determinethe whereabouts of a pineapple  . We didn't actually know where we were suppose to go, only that we were staying with a pastor Haden. The motorcycle  befriended in the marketplace. The motorcylce taxi dropped us off at on a small property with a couple huts and we stood there hoping that we had found the right home. A mama came out from the smallest hut and welcomed us, in Swahili, into her house. Soon the pastor and the rest of my team arrived. We ate, danced with the children and the neighbours and curled up on the floor to sleep. In the morning neighbours came to visit so we taught them about the love of Jesus. We got the neighbourhood tour, including a sugar plantation, a small, gleefully muddy river, a dozen family friends and some beautiful countryside. We also walked by a primary school where we were invited in to teach the kids for a short time while they were on break. We chased them, taught them and sang songs with them. Once again, my heart was stirred and my mind was boggled with the extent of the poverty in that place. I don't really think that mud huts or carrying water is poverty. Poverty is the big malnurished bellies on the kids who cannot go to school for lack of a uniform. Their eyes seem empty and even though they laugh and play when you come over to them, you know they are plagued with suffering. But in a typical, heartbreaking fashion there was not much we could do that day when our loyalties were elsewhere. So, afternoon rolled in and after some photos we headed back to a nearby town to catch a van. 

Sunday night at dusk I found myself one of three on a motorcycle in an unfarmiliar African countryside. The rains had come that day like every other and I was wet and cold from disturbed puddles and dowpours. Lush plains stretched as far as I could see, scattered with typical Kenyan manure huts, cows and and goats. We were quite a sight really - mzungus with raincoats and little backpacks shouting back and forth trying to determinethe whereabouts of a pineapple  . We didn't actually know where we were suppose to go, only that we were staying with a pastor Haden. The motorcycle  befriended in the marketplace. The motorcylce taxi dropped us off at on a small property with a couple huts and we stood there hoping that we had found the right home. A mama came out from the smallest hut and welcomed us, in Swahili, into her house. Soon the pastor and the rest of my team arrived. We ate, danced with the children and the neighbours and curled up on the floor to sleep. In the morning neighbours came to visit so we taught them about the love of Jesus. We got the neighbourhood tour, including a sugar plantation, a small, gleefully muddy river, a dozen family friends and some beautiful countryside. We also walked by a primary school where we were invited in to teach the kids for a short time while they were on break. We chased them, taught them and sang songs with them. Once again, my heart was stirred and my mind was boggled with the extent of the poverty in that place. I don't really think that mud huts or carrying water is poverty. Poverty is the big malnurished bellies on the kids who cannot go to school for lack of a uniform. Their eyes seem empty and even though they laugh and play when you come over to them, you know they are plagued with suffering. But in a typical, heartbreaking fashion there was not much we could do that day when our loyalties were elsewhere. So, afternoon rolled in and after some photos we headed back to a nearby town to catch a van. 

About 3 towns, 3 kilometers in elevation and 3 hours later we reached the vilage famous for producing the worlds's best runners - Capsabet (1 hour from Eldoret). One of my teammate Michaela's best friends at home was born and raised there and we went to visit his family. They own this piece of land on the side of a hill overlooking a gorgeous valley. Different members of the family have different huts or houses along the hill between gardens, animal pens and a passion fruit vineyard. It is seriously like the shire - amazing beyond words. The family welcomed us so joyfully, feeding us mounds of rice, giving us tribal names, letting us pick fruit, milk cows and plant trees. They took us to the running track in town and we sat hours on end talking with them about faith, America and missions. Finally, on Wednesday morning we made our way back home to dusty Busia, making a a surprse stop to see one of the other teams in Bungoma.

 

Thursday we walked to no man's land in the morning near a notoriously raunchy Ugandan slum called Sophia. We prayed for that place and talked and prayed with some specific people. Then we spent the afternoon at a small crusade in a Busia outskirt. I reconnected with some friends there and got to encourage them. It was a moderately tough day, but I would have considered it easy if I had known what was coming the next morning. 

 

We started with an activity that has become normal. We invited the street kids from no man's land, who are now our friends, to a specific field to play soccer. Ussually when they see us they run to us and hug us, they smaile and laugh. But when they showed up we confronted a serious and unexpected issue - some non-medical person had gone into no man's land and forced all the boys to be circumsized! They had no pain-killers, no beds, nothing to protect against infection or keep them clean. So my first thought was to fall on the ground laughing, but I when I looked at these friends and saw that they were in great pain I was upset. We brought crayons and paper, and the kids, even the older teenagers, drew eagerly instead of plaing soccer. Intrestingly enough, they all drew pretty much the same thing - their homes. But soon things got out of hand. Men acame and sold the kids drugs right in front of us. We watched one of our favourite kids go use a fake-crying tactic to beg for money to trade for inhalants. They began to fight and were antsy for the food we promised. My team was overcome by righteous anger and brokeness for their hopelessness. Even at home, one of my teammates was preparing fod and she broke down. One kid was lying on the ground sobbing in pain from a terrrible infection, so Jake carried him to the hospital where he saw half a bloody man dying.

I took a bike taxi home and figured out a way to explain in Swahili to the driver to take the food back to the otherside of town. I planned to follow him but instead found another one of my teammates who was home sick had become sicker, so with a change of plans I was off in another scurry to a hospital, knowing that there was still chaos with the street kids. So put simply: chaos, stress, brokeness, helplessness, darkness. But the flip side is: growth. I'm realizing more and more how helpless and useless I am and how great God is!

Perhaps, that is what Jesus was talking about when he said to take up our crosses and follow him - to be severely brokenhearted and distressed by evil.

To relax in the evening I visited a friend who has a tiny shop and danced and played with her children. She has been teaching me the language to use in the store and the prices of the few items she sells, so I take pleasure in suprising customers by serving them. 

A few days later, my sick teammate is well on her way to health, we are planning to meet with the street kids once more before we leave and have helped the church started a councelling program for them. I am in love with this place more than ever before and I know that God is working in my heart. I even preached about perservereance through trials on Sunday for a couple hundred adults in a Pentacostal church. The power went out so I had to yell but it was great! 

God is good! He is good to me even when I am afflicted. There will be redemption for the street kids. There is hope for Sophia. Sorry this blog is all over the place. I pledge to post picturers upon returning to Canada in only ten days. 

 

 

 dusk I found myself one of three on a motorcycle in an unfarmiliar African countryside. The rains had come that day like every other and I was wet and cold from disturbed puddles and dowpours. Lush plains stretched as far as I could see, scattered with typical Kenyan manure huts, cows and and goats. We were quite a sight really - mzungus with raincoats and little backpacks shouting back and forth trying to determinethe whereabouts of a pineapple  . We didn't actually know where we were suppose to go, only that we were staying with a pastor Haden. The motorcycle  befriended in the marketplace. The motorcylce taxi dropped us off at on a small property with a couple huts and we stood there hoping that we had found the right home. A mama came out from the smallest hut and welcomed us, in Swahili, into her house. Soon the pastor and the rest of my team arrived. We ate, danced with the children and the neighbours and curled up on the floor to sleep. In the morning neighbours came to visit so we taught them about the love of Jesus. We got the neighbourhood tour, including a sugar plantation, a small, gleefully muddy river, a dozen family friends and some beautiful countryside. We also walked by a primary school where we were invited in to teach the kids for a short time while they were on break. We chased them, taught them and sang songs with them. Once again, my heart was stirred and my mind was boggled with the extent of the poverty in that place. I don't really think that mud huts or carrying water is poverty. Poverty is the big malnurished bellies on the kids who cannot go to school for lack of a uniform. Their eyes seem empty and even though they laugh and play when you come over to them, you know they are plagued with suffering. But in a typical, heartbreaking fashion there was not much we could do that day when our loyalties were elsewhere. So, afternoon rolled in and after some photos we headed back to a nearby town to catch a van. 

About 3 towns, 3 kilometers in elevation and 3 hours later we reached the vilage famous for producing the worlds's best runners - Capsabet (1 hour from Eldoret). One of my teammate Michaela's best friends at home was born and raised there and we went to visit his family. They own this piece of land on the side of a hill overlooking a gorgeous valley. Different members of the family have different huts or houses along the hill between gardens, animal pens and a passion fruit vineyard. It is seriously like the shire - amazing beyond words. The family welcomed us so joyfully, feeding us mounds of rice, giving us tribal names, letting us pick fruit, milk cows and plant trees. They took us to the running track in town and we sat hours on end talking with them about faith, America and missions. Finally, on Wednesday morning we made our way back home to dusty Busia, making a a surprse stop to see one of the other teams in Bungoma.

Thursday we walked to no man's land in the morning near a notoriously raunchy Ugandan slum called Sophia. We prayed for that place and talked and prayed with some specific people. Then we spent the afternoon at a small crusade in a Busia outskirt. I reconnected with some friends there and got to encourage them. It was a moderately tough day, but I would have considered it easy if I had known what was coming the next morning. 

We started with an activity that has become normal. We invited the street kids from no man's land, who are now our friends, to a specific field to play soccer. When they showed up we confronted a serious and unexpected issue - some non-medical person had gone into no man's land and forced all the boys to be circumcized! They had no pain-killers, no beds, nothing to protect against infection or keep them clean. We brought crayons and paper, and the kids, even the older teenagers, drew eagerly. Intrestingly enough, they all drew pretty much the same thing - their homes. night at dusk I found myself one of three on a motorcycle in an unfarmiliar African countryside. The rains had come that day like every other and I was wet and cold from disturbed puddles and dowpours. Lush plains stretched as far as I could see, scattered with typical Kenyan manure huts, cows and and goats. We were quite a sight really - mzungus with raincoats and little backpacks shouting back and forth trying to determinethe whereabouts of a pineapple  . We didn't actually know where we were suppose to go, only that we were staying with a pastor Haden. The motorcycle  befriended in the marketplace. The motorcylce taxi dropped us off at on a small property with a couple huts and we stood there hoping that we had found the right home. A mama came out from the smallest hut and welcomed us, in Swahili, into her house. Soon the pastor and the rest of my team arrived. We ate, danced with the children and the neighbours and curled up on the floor to sleep. In the morning neighbours came to visit so we taught them about the love of Jesus. We got the neighbourhood tour, including a sugar plantation, a small, gleefully muddy river, a dozen family friends and some beautiful countryside. We also walked by a primary school where we were invited in to teach the kids for a short time while they were on break. We chased them, taught them and sang songs with them. Once again, my heart was stirred and my mind was boggled with the extent of the poverty in that place. I don't really think that mud huts or carrying water is poverty. Poverty is the big malnurished bellies on the kids who cannot go to school for lack of a uniform. Their eyes seem empty and even though they laugh and play when you come over to them, you know they are plagued with suffering. But in a typical, heartbreaking fashion there was not much we could do that day when our loyalties were elsewhere. So, afternoon rolled in and after some photos we headed back to a nearby town to catch a van. 

About 3 towns, 3 kilometers in elevation and 3 hours later we reached the vilage famous for producing the worlds's best runners - Capsabet (1 hour from Eldoret). One of my teammate Michaela's best friends at home was born and raised there and we went to visit his family. They own this piece of land on the side of a hill overlooking a gorgeous valley. Different members of the family have different huts or houses along the hill between gardens, animal pens and a passion fruit vineyard. It is seriously like the shire - amazing beyond words. The family welcomed us so joyfully, feeding us mounds of rice, giving us tribal names, letting us pick fruit, milk cows and plant trees. They took us to the running track in town and we sat hours on end talking with them about faith, America and missions. Finally, on Wednesday morning we made our way back home to dusty Busia, making a a surprse stop to see one of the other teams in Bungoma.

Thursday we walked to no man's land in the morning near a notoriously raunchy Ugandan slum called Sophia. We prayed for that place and talked and prayed with some specific people. Then we spent the afternoon at a small crusade in a Busia outskirt. I reconnected with some friends there and got to encourage them. It was a moderately tough day, but I would have considered it easy if I had known what was coming the next morning. 

We started with an activity that has become normal. We invited the street kids from no man's land, who are now our friends, to a specific field to play soccer. When they showed up we confronted a serious and unexpected issue - some non-medical person had gone into no man's land and forced all the boys to be circumcized! They had no pain-killers, no beds, nothing to protect against infection or keep them clean. We brought crayons and paper, and the kids, even the older teenagers, drew eagerly. Intrestingly enough, they all drew pretty much the same thing - their homes.