A Slower Pace

"Ahh, you have become very fat! Very fat now!"

The whole of his thin, frail frame laughs as he throws his head back in joy, while the men of Western influence chuckle nervously.

“Very fat now!”

He turns to the others and exclaims it again, and the laughter pours forth. Yes, life has been very good to me through the years, full of joys and hurts, tears and laughter, and little hands pull at my skirt. This patriarch of many laughs as he embraces, kisses, and greets all in the room.

It is a large, rectangular sitting room; wooden boards that cover the windows now open wide, allowing the breath of God to blow in and out, and His light is the only source to bring life out of darkness. The old wooden chairs that line the walls around the room tell the stories of visitors past, with dents and chips in the wood, and turquoise cushions peaking out from the shreds of the once brightly colored fabrics that cover them. Beat up wooden tables full of character and years fill the space in the middle of the room.

The walls echo of the lives that have passed through this room, grand and simple. 16 children were born and raised in this place, orphans have been taken in, visitors from afar have felt its welcome, all of their laughter and love now distant echoes in a room that now sits empty most days, save the elders who remain behind. The squeals of granddaughters from afar now awake the quiet memories, their giggles resurrecting the joy for all the years past. As I sit quietly here now and listen, murmurs of meetings, homework, children, laughter, families and life overwhelm my heart. This room has seen much.

And the matriarch stands, in quiet majesty, queen of this home for over 50 years, through births and burials, soft voice carries wisdom dealt out gently, patiently, in a tongue I do not know, this mother in love of mine. The face of this aged woman smiles as a whole as she tends to her man-son, granddaughters trailing behind her step. She serves him his favorite food, after all these years. With joy, she still knows how to make her son smile.

She prays to the God of us all, showing gratitude for years come and gone, for children come and gone, for visitors come and gone, and for the travels that bring them all home again. Wrinkled hands folded, calloused and tough by hard years of exhausting labor in the cools fields of this Kenyan village, the lines around her soft eyes speak of the smiles and squints for a lifetime.

She embodies beauty and grace.

She is clothed in strength and dignity.

She serves us traditional porridge in an old calabash and we drink in the warmth of family and home of his birth.

The brothers gather under the tree, the boardroom of this people, their lines speak of clan strength. Dirty kids chew on sugar cane and enjoy the freedom of spitting out the remains. And we pass the remains of the afternoon in this village out in the bush, the gentle breath of God blowing a breeze of refreshment over our travel-weary souls.

And we are reminded that contented simplicity far outweighs the bustle and noises that would otherwise lure and distract from this plain beauty, and that it is good to be home. 

Linking to beautiful Emily at in the hush of the moon.

Hakuna sheda

Hakuna sheda!

No problem!

There are no problems, indeed.

Hakuna sheda.

Horns sound, hoot in a friendly manner,

Alerting rather than cursing.

Cars weave in and out,

on and off the road,

Taxis and buses swerve in and out,

bicycles litter the road,

while pedestrians weave in and out of it all.

And in this disorganized chaos of Africa roads,

There is an understanding of humility,

Of seeing others as more important than oneself.

Hakuna sheda.

Right of way is forfeited,

Hands wave others to pass or cut in.

Intersections are meetings grounds where one slows down and rolls through,

Rather than cruising through with confidence of right of way.

Hakuna sheda

And with the release of fighting for rights

Comes the release of others,

Allowing each to navigate without judging or irritation.

You cannot offend me, 

as I have chosen to not be offended.

Hakuna sheda.

A man’s wisdom gives him patience; 

it is to his glory to overlook an offense.

There is a humility here, in this place,

That is unmatched anywhere else.

And I am learning the way of

Hakuna sheda.

Linking up to Emily at in the hush of the moon. Stop by for some amazing poetry.

On Coming Down from the Mountain

There is a stirring, a discontent. No, discontent isn't the right word. I cannot put my finger on it. A restlessness that I cannot define. 

We go home in 9 days. 9 days before we return to life stateside, to grocery stores and farmers' markets, preschool, Chipotle, girlfriends, walls and fences, rights and privilege, hot showers, reliable electricity, driving on the left side of the road, car seats, abundance, abundance, abundance.

9 days. Have I learned what You brought me here to teach? My eyes have been opened to MANY, many things, but I am slow to learn. My head is slow and heart is stubborn.

9 days. What I have heard, what I have seen throughout the past four months have been incredible lessons in community, what it is and how to live it. In grace; this has always been an ambiguous, churchy word to me, but I have seen it lived out and now know that it is much harder, and much more freeing than I ever imagined. In humility, which apparently I knew nothing about. It is freeing to know, and believe, that there is One who speaks on my behalf, yet incredibly hard to not open my mouth and fight. Learning to ask the questions, "Does it matter? Will this glorify God?"

Community, grace, humility.

There are things in my own life that I know must change, steps that I have taken that have hindered my growth, slowed my faith walk. Finding your way back to the path of God can be challenging, but He has promised that those who seek Him are sure to find Him. And so I seek, grasp, cry out, and know that He will answer.

I want to pray throughout the day, even fixed-hour prayer. I want to be sure to give You thanks before bites go into the mouth, because my eyes have seen and my heart has loved many who do not have such privilege. They have faces and names, bodies that I have held. They are not strangers to me, and I do not want to forget their plight, or the One who provides for us all. I want to be in the habit of feasting on the real Bread of life several times each day, and not when crisis or concern strikes, as that is what will nourish and grow me through all seasons. I want these things not for the sake of being a "better" Christian, but for the sake of knowing You more, walking more closely with You, living out this Christ-life and actually looking more like Christ. I want these to define my life with passion and energy, without becoming mindless routines.

Somehow, this status quo isn't enough. There is a void that has to be filled and my habit and flesh tendency would fill it with worldly things, such as food, or shopping, or just making myself busier to fill that void. But I have learned enough to know that those things don't fill the void, but only ease the pain of it for a short, short time. Here I have not had access to those "drugs" and so God has revealed Himself in mighty ways, as the Comforter and the One who heals.

How can I be truly set apart when my life feels so ordinary, so much like everybody else? How will anyone know anything about Jesus by looking at my life?

I have seen short-term mission teams come and go throughout the summer, so alive, passion burning. They are intentional and focused, set apart for a short season to proclaim the goodness of God. And I too have been a part of such a team, and remember standing at the mountaintop, bold for my Savior, wildly in love and wanting all in my path to receive His blessings of peace and life. But I cannot help but wonder, what happens when this short season ends and life goes back to normal? My summer began with a team, moving from village to village, but when the team left and everyday life resumed of raising up my family of little people, the excitement and passion of a focused purpose quickly waned. Daily trips to the market for food for dinner, sibling squabbles, diapers, upset tummies, temper tantrums replaced travel and interaction and being seen as important, relevant, needed.

And I wondered, "How now, will they know that I am His?"

When you travel with a mission team, life is a bit different. The standard is set a bit higher and everyone feeds off of each other, for better or worse, and the spiritual air is thick with anticipation of God's movement. With the demands of the mission field, it is know that one cannot survive a day, at least not well, without full reliance on the guidance, grace, and mercy of the Holy Spirit. There is much more reliance. There has to be.

And then seasons shift drastically and the excitement of work well done becomes the mundane of routine. And someone says with the best of intentions, "Just give it some time, and everything will go back to normal."

And somehow it always does, except that it is never quite the same ever again because I'm trying to fit all that my eyes have seen and my heart has absorbed into a box that wasn't prepared for such things. And it just doesn't fit.

What happened when Moses had to come down from the Mountain so beautiful and face so radiant, and deal with bickering, rebellious siblings, and squabbling families, and the chores of keeping the people focused long enough to not build golden calfs and call them god?

He threw his tablets on the ground and stomped his feet in anger.

Yeah, I know that feeling.

How do the passions keep from becoming mere smoldering coals?
Is it that we are to be set apart for a mere short season, a 10-week short-term trip, or set apart for life, day-to-day life lived out in sacrifice and humility and community? And in the "normal" day-to-day of life, what is my role in seeing that the hungry are fed, the thirsty are given water, the orphans are cared for and the widows are loved? What is my role in creating and contributing to community, that they may know that we are one?
And how do we do that when we are all seeking to move away from others, with walls that separate us to preserve our privacy and personal space?

I dont' want everything to go back to normal. I want the radical obedience and wild passion of following Jesus. I just need to know what it looks like.

As we are preparing for the journey back to the states, these are the questions I am struggling with, praying for discernment.
How now shall we live? For the next 9 days, I am pondering this with intensity.

What about you? What are your thoughts on community and humility and grace towards others? 

I have more thoughts to share on those things soon. They are a tornado in my heart right now, moving too fast to make any sense. Hopefully the winds will die down soon.

Touching Base

So, I haven't been around the blogosphere quite as much this past week or so. Today marks two weeks left in Kenya until we fly back to the states, so we have been trying to make like tourists and soak up as much of what we can do around Nairobi as possible. So we visited the Karen Blixen museum and coffee plantation. For those not familiar, she is the author of "Out of Africa," which became a movie in 1985 with Meryl Streep and Robert Redford. Good movie, actually, if you haven't seen it.
We visited the elephant orphanage and had fun watching the silly elephants nurse from bottles. Toria was bored within a few minutes though and ready to move.
So, while we enjoy our remaining time in Kenya, I will try to post some photos so you can see too. Here are some for starters.

Elephant orphanage

African sister love

Always in motion

Spying the elephant in the bush

Peaceful as a flower...

Salt of the Earth

This is a follow-up post (#3) to a series on "Salt." To read the first two passages, feel welcomed to visit here and here. Thank you for stopping by. Karibu tena (Welcome again).

Our mornings in Kenya are ushered in with the giggles of waking girls to brilliantly painted African sunrises and traditional Kenyan tea, the sweet aroma of milk boiling, tagless tea bags steeping on the burner in the old aluminum teapot that spits out drops of tea like a camel spitting at tourists who get too close. The milky brown joy is then poured from the state of bubbling bliss into a deep blue thermos, where it remains piping hot until being poured out like an offering into the waiting altar of mugs. It is the custom of the Kenyan morning. If there is nothing else, there is tea.

I gingerly sip on my second cup for the day, having jaunted to the market in between the first and second. As I am chopping the vegetables that will escort the softening beans for dinner, my teacup sits faithfully next to me on the counter, steam twisting and dancing toward the heavens. I think of worship and being salt and being alive in Christ, reveling in the freedom that only He provides, pondering all that the freedom has done for me, wondering how now I shall live for the freedom, all the while curling the fingers under the bell peppers so as to not chop off the tips.

My hands are stained with the perma-scent of fresh cut purple onion and marvelous cloves of pungent fresh garlic, as that seems to be a staple of most everything that is prepared in this kitchen. Into the pan, chopped pieces of crystal-colored onion with a deep royalty clothing the outside. Bits of garlic cling to it as a true BFF, that they may go through the fire together.

Mark 9:49 says, “Everyone will be salted with fire.”

I ponder this phrase as I light the fire under the vegetables for a quick sauté, the sizzling of the oil and browning of the veggies telling a story of their own.

We will be tested, sprayed and dashed with fire at different points in our walk. If we are to become the salt of the earth, as Matthew 5:13 says, then some refining has to take place so that we are of good flavor to our surroundings, and not spoilers.

Bell pepper, onion, garlic, and a dash of olive oil over the blue-orange flames of the burner create an aroma that is inebriating. The lungs expand fully, taking in the scent of a meal worthy of royalty. After the veggies have reached the perfect shade of golden brown, they are dumped into the pot of half-softened beans, along with diced carrots, a healthy dash or two of cumin, and a generous sprinkling of salt over the top. Tenderly stir it all together to allow the salt to pull out the very best of all that has been thrown together. That is what salt does.

When we enjoy the feast in the evening of all that has simmered throughout the day, it is not the salt that is applauded. Nobody comments on how wonderfully salty the salt is, but rather how delicious the beans are, how the vegetables and spices have combined so beautifully, how the garlic is so rich, how the carrots are so sweet, how the soup is perfectly flavored. Nobody comments on the salt. But if it is missing, it is surely noticed, as one by one, hands reach for the shaker resting in the middle of the table.

Shake, shake, shake, shake….slurp the soup…roll on the tongue….not quite there…shake, shake, shake…tongue dips to soup, roll around….perfect.

The beans are divine!

When the salt is present, when the right amount has been added, the brilliant flavors of others are brought out enhanced. The entire lot shines because the salt has done its job, without reward or mention. Its humble station is to lift others up and make them better.

You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt loses its flavor, how shall it be seasoned? It is then good for nothing but to be thrown out and trampled underfoot by men.

You, dear sister, dear brother, are called to be the salt of this rock; the seasoning that brings out the best in all those around you; the flavor that needs no recognition on its own other than to see all those who know you be built up and blessed to the fullest potential.

It is a humble lot to work for the betterment of others, without craving applause. But we have been called to be the salt. When we are missing, when we have not shown up in the humility and servanthood that was demonstrated for us, it is noticed. It is felt. It might not be verbalized, but the hearts have recognized that the salt is not there.

Shake, shake, shake, shake…toss a warm, friendly smile at a hurting soul…see the eyes lift at the thought of being seen by another….shake, shake, shake, shake…touch the arm of the homeless woman asking you for money…see the hardened shell crack at the power of a gentle human touch…shake, shake, shake…send an encouraging note to sister on your heart...see a heart encouraged to persevere in difficult times...shake, shake, shake...cook dinner for a family experiencing hard times and drop it off anonymously...see a family giving gratitude to the Maker for providing...shake, shake, shake...see your world seasoned with love and kindness.

When the salt is there, in gentleness, in humility, in quiet servitude, not seeking self exaltation, but longing to see the hearts of others lifted, when the salt is there, it may not be called out in recognition or gratitude, but it is noticed. It is felt. And the Father is ever glorified.

You are the salt of the earth.

How are you flavoring your world?

Today I am linked up to wonderful Beth's site, I should be folding laundry, who challenged us this week to capture "in the kitchen" photos. Hop over to check out some really stunning photography. 

Don't Forget the Salt

This is Post #2 in a series on "Salt." Please feel welcome to slip over here and here to read the other posts in this series. Karibu tena (Welcome again).

I walk to the local market, at least a few times a week to get our fresh kill or straight from the garden produce for dinner that night. I buy a bag of dried red beans, a few small purple onions, several  plump garlic cloves, deliciously green cilantro, fist-sized bell peppers and hot, red tomatoes from a lady named Royce at a shanty kiosk that sticks out a bit into the road. Her kiosk is one of many that have been shabbily built up on government land along a road that can barely be called a road. Built of stolen/borrowed planks of battered wood, sheets of tin, and cardboard to fill in the holes, each of the kiosks are illegally occupying the land on which they stand, and so can be bulldozed by the government at any point in time. Everyone knows. But for now, local farmers run their businesses out of these roadside huts, seeing the temporary benefits far outweighing the potential risks. 

Royce teaches me to speak some Kikuyu words as I fumble to buy our goods, her warm smile welcoming us back over and over again. She pulls off a couple of bananas to hand to the girls who are clinging to mama’s side as cars inch behind us on the narrow dirt road. The girls thank her for the bananas and then we all smile and wave at each other, the language barrier preventing much further conversation.

“Roishio!” she yells. Tomorrow, we will see her again and bid goodbye in the language that she taught us. The basket weighs heavy in my hand as we make our way back home along the rough dusty road, just wide enough for two cars to barely fit side by side. The potholes make it a challenge to drive down, so cars weave in and out and around each other to make their way, dodging the many pedestrians bustling up and down the street all the while. The goats lazily scoot off the road as the roar of an engine approaches, and then makes it way back to whatever trash it was consuming. I understand why the ladies opt to carry their baskets on their heads rather than allowing the rough straw handles to cut into the palms. One doesn't have to walk very far before the weight of the fresh produce really settles in. 

As we make our way through the street on the small journey home, we hear the shy whispers of nearby children, “Mzungu! Mzungu!” as they tap their friends on the back to be sure everyone gets a glance at the white women and her somewhat white children. They laugh, gazing in wonder and awe, peeking from behind corners or mothers' skirts.

A woman in brightly colored dress and braided hair stops me as we are walking, basket growing heavier by the moment. “You don’t have a helper in your home to do this shopping for you? It’s unusual to see someone like you here.”

I smile and laugh, not really sure how to respond, other than to assure her that we enjoy getting out and meeting the people in the community.

“Are you sure you don’t want a helper?”

“Asante sana, mum. We are doing ok with it. Tutuanana.” I know we will see her again, as many faces are becoming more familiar as we walk through the community.

“Habari asibuhi, Mama!” We wave to the gentle, old mama at the end of the row. She doesn’t speak a lick of English, but has a smile that could save the world. She is usually hunched over a massive pot of maize boiling over hot coals. 

"Mzuri sana, rafiki! Mzuri sana!" She says she is doing very well, and we buy a large bunch of bananas from her. She bags up some boiled maize to carry home. The men will enjoy the maize. We fumble through the language to agree on payment.

“Bei gani?” How much is it?

She responds in a soft Swahili and I have no idea what she just said, so I hand her a few coins, hoping it will be enough, and she passes a few coins back in change. We laugh and I bid her goodbye for now.

“Asante sana, mama. Tuonane kesho.”

“Karibu tena, na tena!” she responds. Yes, we are welcome again and again.

We stumble over rocks and trash, stepping wide to avoid the holes and divots in the road, passing ladies sitting inside of ruddy kiosks having their hair braided. I see a foot sticking out of another one with the toes being painted, by a man no less. Fresh chapati is being cooked next door and the smell is just downright intoxicating. The air is full of such a potpourri of aromas, from the row of butcheries with fresh goat hanging in the windows, to the leg that is roasting just out front, to the various fruits and vegetables that are expertly lined up out front of each kiosk. This small strip of road is busy, crowded and full of life. 

A small girl with braided pigtails on her head toys with a plastic bag, blowing it up in the air and chasing after it as it floats away. A roar of boys pours down the street, dragging behind them juice boxes that have been cut in half with four wooden circles added all around. A boxcar derby has been created and the boys are racing to the finish to see which juice box is still intact by the end, scattering goats and dogs along the way. For some reason, an old, beat-up bathtub has made its way to the side of the street, sitting just outside of a broken down wooden shanty structure, now being used to hold supplies for the vendor inside. And the street has become a veritable graveyard for broken down buses. Currently there are 5 lines up on either side of the end of the street, just past the end of kiosk row. They are stripped of doors and window, tires long gone, just empty shells of a structure. I have seen them cut down and taken apart, small bit at a time. A plate of steel cut out by one group of men, bumper stripped by another, hood lifted by yet another, until it is cut down to not much of anything. Then a fire is started and an empty space revealed until another bus dies. 

We wave to everyone and greet all those we pass as we finally make it to our gate.

The security guard unlocks the black steel gates and greets us as we pass. “Karibu, mama. Good to see you again.” The girls run ahead and play a bit more carefree now that we are inside the confines of the neighborhood. Once we finally make it back to our house, I reach in to unlock the padlock and we all file through the door.

Time to get to work on dinner. It’s ten o’clock in the morning.

I set the water to boil over our two-range gas burner. Red beans are added to the water, as veggies are being chopped and sautéed.  All is thrown into the pot to simmer for the day. Knife and cutting board are washed by hand in the cold water and set on the rack to dry. I turn to walk out of the kitchen, and pause. I have forgotten something.

The salt.

Without salt, all the fresh deliciousness and amazing flavors that are simmering in that pot for the next several hours will remain unlocked, hidden from the taste buds to enjoy. I walk back to the burner and reach into the cabinet just above it to pull out the small bag of salt. Pour some in my hand and sprinkle it around and around the pot, eyeballing and guestimating the amount that will bring out just the right flavors.

Now we wait until the evening.

Join me over at So Much Shouting, So Much Laughter to hear the stories of other pilgrims and sojourners.

Called By a New Name

There was a time in June when I met with a group of amazingly godly Maasai women. These women had been trained previously by other Kenyan women in biblical storytelling, and I was there to follow up with the women and hear their stories. I have written previously about the experience here. It was humbling and beautiful and inspiring and sad and challenging and so much more, all at the same time. These women toil, often in places where there are no other Christians. They alone are the pillars of the Church, carrying the torch of salvation to regions who have not yet seen the Light yet.

When our session came to a close, the ladies were milling around, chatting and gabbing as only women can, (that doesn’t change from culture to culture) when it was asked if I had been given a Maasai name. When I answered an honest, “No,” it was decided that today was the day that I would be called by a new name.

And so they stood and discussed for a moment, and then announced.

Nassirian, meaning “Woman of Peace.”

At first I was taken aback, humbled, embarrassed.

In my head, I heard this: “It’s only because they don’t know you. If they knew you better, they’d take it back. Your life is full of turmoil, strife. There is no peace in you about anything.”

And yet the name was spoken, and in all grace, I received it, holding back the welling up in my eyes for fear that they might be misunderstood. My heart swelled, suddenly blocking my throat, making it difficult to swallow, as it thumped louder and stronger there.

I smiled humbly. “Thank you for that name. I am greatly honored. I will treasure it for life.”

And the conversation quickly moved on to name others. But me, I was stuck there. My world paused. No one knew it but me. They will never know how that one moment in time will forever be memorialized in my heart. It will forever be a stone that I carry with me, just as the Israelites carried a stone up out of the Jordan River.

Thus far has the Lord brought me, and I have this stone to show for it. Nassirian.

One other name was given, and then the rain began to fall. Gently, softly, big cleansing drops pouring forth from Heaven.

He has heard the name. Nassirian. Woman of Peace.

He ordained the name, and though I am not yet who He has created me to be, He is doing a new thing, and new Name has been given, so that I too know where He is taking me.

The water of Heaven baptized my hair, running a stream down my cheeks, dripping off the end of my nose. It has been washed. I have been washed, and He is doing a new thing.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God.

I have read it often. I have pondered what it would be like to be called a peacemaker, and not in the sense of pleasing man, but in the sense of embodying grace and mercy, letting gentleness be evident to all. I can see her, the woman who God is calling out. I can almost touch her, and on good days, I feel my heart consumed by her. She is gentle in tone. She speaks with wisdom, and faithful instruction is on her tongue. She demonstrates mercy to all other fellow sojourners, knowing that not one of us has yet reached our destination. Her hurts have been many, her bruises in various stages of healing. Because she knows the pain of mankind, and knows the comfort of the Comforter, she is able to offer comfort to all others in her path. A safe place to land.

I can see her.

And on quiet, dark mornings, when I beat the sun and children in rising, and I greet my Savior with crusty eyes, bare feet, opens hands, and moldable heart, He welcomes her to the day, this woman of peace.

He calls me by a new name. And I will ever praise Him.

Today I am linked up to ShoutLaughLove, as we journey to joy together.

You Capture: Summer

The You Capture theme for today is summer. 7 out of the last 10 summers for me have been spent somewhere in Africa, so my summers tend to look a bit different from the typical summer. This is a brief snapshot of my summer thus far. Enjoy!

Our local market, a few minutes walk from our house. 

The amazing African fabric.

Some of the most beautiful dresses in the world have come out of fabrics such as these.

Beautiful Maasai women, doing their dance.

And of course, my African princesses. Aren't they gorgeous?

Check out Beth's blog, I Should Be Folding Laundry, to find other amazing photographs of summer. 

What did you capture this week?

You Capture: Black & White

Yea! I'm so excited to be able to do "You Capture" once again. The theme for this week is "black and white" so I had fun with some of the pictures that we have been taking over the last couple of months here in Africa.

Bridging the Gap

The Beauty of Culture

This sweet little orphan boy claimed my lap as his own.

But my girls were not having any of that, so they climbed on as well.

Our family by Lake Victoria

We are doing well here in Kenya, missing friends and family, but praising God for what He is doing everyday. If you want to see more Black and White photos, cruise on over to "You Capture" at I Should Be Folding Laundry.


What did you capture this week?