One of our greatest pre-field training components took place over the course of a month in Colorado. At the time, Eli had just finished a job in an ER, we just had a baby, and we had just moved from Minnesota to Michigan as part of our eventual transition to Africa. In other words, our life was in utter chaos as we arrived at training. I personally was an exhausted, bleary-eyed mess, nursing an infant round-the-clock on top of managing a toddler and preschooler. The information we acquired during that month was only minimally heard and understood by my malfunctioning brain at the time.
There were, however, some nuggets I did hear and understand and have carried around with me ever since. One of those nuggets was a statistic from someone somewhere. (You'll have to excuse the fact that my postpartum, transition-ladened brain wasn't able to process or remember the someone somewhere this statistic came from.)
We were told this: that a person living cross-culturally is, on average, only capable of functioning at 60% of their normal, living-in-my-own-culture capacity.
60%
I was shocked to hear this. That's a ridiculously small capacity to be functioning at. That's also a huge frustration to deal with daily, especially for folks like ourselves who come from a work-driven culture. We know how to work hard, how to make the most of our day, and how to push through till the job is done.
Except when we literally can't because the normal energy we conjure to do said things simply doesn't exist.
I had a hard time wrapping my mind around this concept. I wasn't sure if I believed the statistic. I certainly didn't want to believe it. Especially because it meant sacrificing so much to live overseas and only being able to accomplish 60% of what we set out to do on any given day.
That's discouraging. That's defeating. That's frustrating.
So I did what a lot of pre-field missionaries do. I told myself that it probably didn't apply to me. Surely that statistic is not true for everyone. It can't be! It's only a statistic and statistics, by nature, don't apply to everyone.
Well, that is true. Statistics don't apply to everyone, and I have some missionary colleagues who this doesn't seem to apply to.
But it didn't take long of living overseas for the inclination of "that doesn't apply to me" to come crashing to the floor.
That was discouraging. That was defeating. That was frustrating.
That was also humbling (as were so many things in those first weeks and months of life on the mission field).
It wasn't that I had notions of grandeur, thinking I'd be some kind of superhero missionary. I really didn't. I knew I'd make a million mistakes on the way to glory, as many missionaries have quipped before. And I was totally okay with that. It's just that I really thought I was a highly capable person, certainly more capable than functioning at a mere 60% capacity.
But it turns out I'm not. I am a rather average missionary whose brain feels muddled most days and who tires out way earlier than I ever imagined possible before living overseas.
And here's why:
Whenever I go into town in Kenya, my mind is racing with energy-sapping thoughts. Should I greet that person? Should I not? How will they perceive me if I greet them? If I don't? Do I speak in Swahili at the market? What's that one Swahili word again? Will I confuse them with my blundering language attempt? How will I answer if they speak Swahili back but it was too fast for me to understand? Why is that man calling out to me? Is there a rational reason and I should acknowledge him, or is he just another creep who finds a mzungu woman novel and attractive? How are my actions (or lack thereof) affecting the general perception of missionaries in this community? All of these thoughts swirl through my head before I even reach the market.
Conversely, whenever I go into town in America, I never think about how to interact with those around me. I inherently know what is and isn't appropriate behavior without even thinking about it. I also don't have to wrestle with language hurdles while inquiring about tomatoes.
Here's another example:
Whenever someone requests financial assistance from us, we have a lengthy discussion about what to do. Even after we make a decision, we usually have a lengthy discussion about whether we did the right thing. Why are they asking for money at this particular time? Is their need genuine? Have they asked for help from anyone else yet? What kind of relationship do we have with this person, and therefore what role would we assume if we choose to help? Are we helping as a friend or a sponsor? What ramifications will our assistance have on this person within their own community? If their family or neighbors find out that wazungu provided help, will it cause problems and throw the community equilibrium into upheaval? How much is an appropriate amount to give? Whatever we give sends a message - so what message are we sending? Who can we talk with and seek advice from? How do we know what to do???
Conversely, if someone was to request financial assistance from us in America (and I say if because that hasn't happened yet), we'd still have a discussion about what to do and maybe even question if we made the right decision, but we wouldn't have to do mental gymnastics about the cultural implications of whatever decision we might make. It would simply be an easier thing to manage within our own cultural context.
And that's the thing. Everything is easier within our own cultural context. Communication is easier. Conflict is easier. Decision-making is easier. Everyday life is easier!
But because we spend our days living cross-culturally, we also spend our days expending an incredible amount of extra energy just to get through these days.
That's why I'm often totally spent by lunchtime.
That's why answering the door sometimes feels like the hardest thing I do all day (and the biggest achievement).
That's why I drink so much Coke - to give myself a kick of energy to get through the afternoons and evenings.
That's why I haven't succeeded in my goal of writing a blog post here every month - because writing takes so much creative energy, and creative energy is a hard-to-come-by luxury in the 60% functionality I'm capable of.
Experiencing the reality of this statistic is hard. But experiencing the reality of this statistic has also helped me have grace for myself. Since it's true that I simply cannot function at full capacity while living cross-culturally, it's also true that I need to have extra grace for myself and to be satisfied with whatever I am capable of.
The fact that I can scarcely get out of the compound let alone have next to no ministry outside the home? Oh well. My responsibilities on the homefront and within the compound are more than enough for me to handle. I will rejoice in what I am able to do within the walls of my own home and within our compound community.
The fact that my writing life creeps along at a frustratingly slow pace? Well, that's frustrating, but whatchya gonna do? I can't pull creative energy out of nothing - and I truly mean there is nothing to pull from some days - so I will rejoice in any writing I am able to accomplish, like this blog post here. Major victory!
I've come to accept the 60% statistic, even though it still irks me at times. Oh how I wish I could be more productive in this cross-cultural life! But apparently I am limited, severely limited. And thankfully that's normal.
So I choose to have grace for myself when I routinely set out to accomplish more than I'm able to and routinely fail at it. And I have grace for myself when I choose to give up before getting started because I already know how my limitations will impede whatever task I've got in mind.
Grace, grace, so much grace is needed. I pray not only that I will continue having grace for myself in this, but that others will have grace for me as well.
Thursday, May 14, 2020
Friday, April 24, 2020
Entitled to Suffer
Several
years ago, a missionary friend of mine made the difficult decision to leave the
mission field because of serious health concerns that couldn’t be addressed in
her host country. She had spent a long
time enduring physical suffering and attempting to find answers locally before
her condition became so complex and so unbearable that she was forced to return
to the States for medical help. Once in
the States she still endured a long and painful journey of recovery. In the midst of all that, my friend
reflected, “In order to attain a theology of suffering, one must suffer.”
I have never forgotten those words.
They’re particularly poignant coming from an American worldview. The American psyche does not accept suffering well. Our culture feels entitled to not suffer, as if all the hard work and thinking and planning and determination and zeal that were instilled and passed down by our forebears grants us a “get out of suffering free” card. This is our American Theology of Suffering: we have the knowledge and willpower to combat and defeat suffering if we choose to. We get confused at best, offended at worst, when we suffer anyway.
That perspective doesn’t seem to line up with a biblical view of suffering.
Living and working at a mission hospital in Africa has given us an opportunity to see how other cultures view and understand suffering. While Americans (in general) experience comparatively little suffering and fight against it at all costs, Africans (in general) experience a lot of suffering and accept its existence in their lives as normal. Death is known here. Death is fairly understood and even expected. And although death is greatly grieved, somehow it’s also accepted. While we struggle sometimes with how easily it’s accepted – we fail to understand the lack of “Why God?” in so many situations – we’ve also been learning something from our Kenyan brothers and sisters that is so hard for us as Americans: how to identify with our Savior through suffering.
Because of Covid-19, the entire world is suffering right now and disciples of Jesus in this present age have an opportunity. We have an opportunity to draw closer to Jesus and to know Him more by willingly walking down the road of suffering.
I would argue that “to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings” (Philippians 3:10, emphasis mine) is best done by suffering willingly. I don’t mean welcoming suffering in a masochistic sense or never fighting against sickness and disease. I mean that it’s beneficial to acknowledge that suffering is a part of this world and no one is exempt from it, and that for followers of Christ it’s beneficial to invite Him to use our suffering as a way of connecting with Himself – the man of sorrows who was familiar with suffering (Isaiah 53:3).
No one saw a global pandemic coming and no one saw the acute, increased suffering in our present world. No one saw the sickness and death, the separation and isolation, the stress and anxiety, the financial failures and economic disasters. No one saw a world imploding and crying out for answers.
Answers may elude us, but opportunities do not. Opportunities abound for displaying kindness and compassion, for increasing our prayers and study of the Word, for choosing to connect and encourage each other in an era of social distancing, for giving of our limited resources because someone else has even more limited resources. And another opportunity has presented itself: to identify with Christ through our suffering.
Most of Paul’s writings on suffering refer specifically to suffering for Christ, for the Gospel. “For it has been granted to you on behalf of Christ not only to believe on him, but also to suffer for him” (Philippians 1:29). The average world citizen suffering in this pandemic is not suffering for Christ, for the Gospel. But that doesn’t exclude the reality that suffering for its own sake is opportunity to identify with Christ. Paul tells of a time when his “brother, fellow worker, and fellow soldier” Epaphroditus became ill and nearly died, a circumstance that no doubt caused Paul great anxiety since he acknowledges that a deadly outcome would have spiraled him into “sorrow upon sorrow” with grief for his friend (Philippians 2:25ff). God had mercy on Epaphroditus, and on Paul too. The life of his dear friend was spared. Yet I’m sure his experience of stress and anxiety (and for a time the loss of his fellow worker’s presence) caused Paul to lean heavily on Christ, the Savior who also knew stress and anxiety and the loss of His fellow workers’ presence. I’m sure Paul turned to Christ for help and for comfort, and I’m sure Paul understood his Savior a bit more too.
Even for the times when our suffering is granted by God (such as Paul’s thorn in the flesh and of course Christ Himself who submitted to the “the Lord’s will to crush him and cause him to suffer” (2 Corinthians 12:7-10; Isaiah 53:10a), we can take heart that God’s grace is sufficient for us. His grace sustains us, it teaches us, and it helps us to know Him more.
Charles Spurgeon, who was no stranger to suffering, once wrote: “Will the Head be crowned with thorns, and will the other members of the body be rocked on the dainty lap of ease? Must Christ pass through seas of His own blood to win the crown, and are we to walk to heaven in silver slippers that stay dry? No, our Master’s experience teaches us that suffering is necessary, and the true-born child of God must not, would not, escape it if he could.”
As we walk this road of suffering during Covid-19, let’s acknowledge the opportunity before us. It’s not an opportunity to fight against our current suffering because we’re entitled to not suffer. Conversely, we have the opportunity to endure suffering as people who are entitled to suffer as followers of Jesus. And maybe, if we’re willing, there’s an opportunity to develop a biblical theology of suffering as we lean into this time of identifying with and understanding our Savior, the Man of Sorrows.
I have never forgotten those words.
They’re particularly poignant coming from an American worldview. The American psyche does not accept suffering well. Our culture feels entitled to not suffer, as if all the hard work and thinking and planning and determination and zeal that were instilled and passed down by our forebears grants us a “get out of suffering free” card. This is our American Theology of Suffering: we have the knowledge and willpower to combat and defeat suffering if we choose to. We get confused at best, offended at worst, when we suffer anyway.
That perspective doesn’t seem to line up with a biblical view of suffering.
Living and working at a mission hospital in Africa has given us an opportunity to see how other cultures view and understand suffering. While Americans (in general) experience comparatively little suffering and fight against it at all costs, Africans (in general) experience a lot of suffering and accept its existence in their lives as normal. Death is known here. Death is fairly understood and even expected. And although death is greatly grieved, somehow it’s also accepted. While we struggle sometimes with how easily it’s accepted – we fail to understand the lack of “Why God?” in so many situations – we’ve also been learning something from our Kenyan brothers and sisters that is so hard for us as Americans: how to identify with our Savior through suffering.
Because of Covid-19, the entire world is suffering right now and disciples of Jesus in this present age have an opportunity. We have an opportunity to draw closer to Jesus and to know Him more by willingly walking down the road of suffering.
I would argue that “to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings” (Philippians 3:10, emphasis mine) is best done by suffering willingly. I don’t mean welcoming suffering in a masochistic sense or never fighting against sickness and disease. I mean that it’s beneficial to acknowledge that suffering is a part of this world and no one is exempt from it, and that for followers of Christ it’s beneficial to invite Him to use our suffering as a way of connecting with Himself – the man of sorrows who was familiar with suffering (Isaiah 53:3).
No one saw a global pandemic coming and no one saw the acute, increased suffering in our present world. No one saw the sickness and death, the separation and isolation, the stress and anxiety, the financial failures and economic disasters. No one saw a world imploding and crying out for answers.
Answers may elude us, but opportunities do not. Opportunities abound for displaying kindness and compassion, for increasing our prayers and study of the Word, for choosing to connect and encourage each other in an era of social distancing, for giving of our limited resources because someone else has even more limited resources. And another opportunity has presented itself: to identify with Christ through our suffering.
Most of Paul’s writings on suffering refer specifically to suffering for Christ, for the Gospel. “For it has been granted to you on behalf of Christ not only to believe on him, but also to suffer for him” (Philippians 1:29). The average world citizen suffering in this pandemic is not suffering for Christ, for the Gospel. But that doesn’t exclude the reality that suffering for its own sake is opportunity to identify with Christ. Paul tells of a time when his “brother, fellow worker, and fellow soldier” Epaphroditus became ill and nearly died, a circumstance that no doubt caused Paul great anxiety since he acknowledges that a deadly outcome would have spiraled him into “sorrow upon sorrow” with grief for his friend (Philippians 2:25ff). God had mercy on Epaphroditus, and on Paul too. The life of his dear friend was spared. Yet I’m sure his experience of stress and anxiety (and for a time the loss of his fellow worker’s presence) caused Paul to lean heavily on Christ, the Savior who also knew stress and anxiety and the loss of His fellow workers’ presence. I’m sure Paul turned to Christ for help and for comfort, and I’m sure Paul understood his Savior a bit more too.
Even for the times when our suffering is granted by God (such as Paul’s thorn in the flesh and of course Christ Himself who submitted to the “the Lord’s will to crush him and cause him to suffer” (2 Corinthians 12:7-10; Isaiah 53:10a), we can take heart that God’s grace is sufficient for us. His grace sustains us, it teaches us, and it helps us to know Him more.
Charles Spurgeon, who was no stranger to suffering, once wrote: “Will the Head be crowned with thorns, and will the other members of the body be rocked on the dainty lap of ease? Must Christ pass through seas of His own blood to win the crown, and are we to walk to heaven in silver slippers that stay dry? No, our Master’s experience teaches us that suffering is necessary, and the true-born child of God must not, would not, escape it if he could.”
As we walk this road of suffering during Covid-19, let’s acknowledge the opportunity before us. It’s not an opportunity to fight against our current suffering because we’re entitled to not suffer. Conversely, we have the opportunity to endure suffering as people who are entitled to suffer as followers of Jesus. And maybe, if we’re willing, there’s an opportunity to develop a biblical theology of suffering as we lean into this time of identifying with and understanding our Savior, the Man of Sorrows.
**********************
[I wrote this article for A Life Overseas and it was originally published on their website earlier this week. I've had a few other articles published there, but haven't always re-posted them here. To see the other articles I've written for A Life Overseas, click here.]
Sunday, March 29, 2020
A God Who Redeems the Worst for Good
[This is from a newsletter I sent last week, giving an update on our life in the midst of the coronavirus pandemic.]
A God Who Redeems the Worst for Good
First things first: we are doing well here in Kenya. The world is in chaos, and Kenya itself has now identified its first cases of coronavirus, yet we are doing well. Thanks be to God.
Current world events have brought to mind the likes of Joseph, Naomi, and David. The current crisis has reminded me that our God is a God who redeems the worst of events by bringing good out of them. God helped a hated brother who was sold into slavery become a powerful leader in Egypt who went on to save countless lives during a severe famine and be reconciled to his family. God helped a devastated woman who'd buried her husband and both sons to find incredible joy through the kindness of a relative and the birth of a grandson. God helped a shepherd boy running for his life to escape danger time and time again and eventually sit on the throne of his enemy and oppressor. Our God is a God who redeems the worst of events by bringing good out of them.
My prayer for the world right now is that God would bring good out of this, specifically that minds and hearts would be turned toward Him and that fear would be replaced with peace.
My prayer for Kenya is that God would bring good out of this, specifically that this culture still in need of greater understanding of proper hygiene and sanitation would be awakened to that understanding. I also pray that fear will be conquered by love for our neighbors.
My prayer for ourselves is that God would satisfy us each morning with His unfailing love, and that we would be glad in these uncertain times. Such an outlook would be a very good thing to come out of all this.
The severity of the current crisis should not be minimized. And neither should the capacity of our God to do marvelous things in the midst of calamity.
Loving Our Neighbor
When I had typhoid in 2017, the Body of Christ took care of me. Our community checked on me daily, prayed over me, posted Scripture verses on the door of our house, watched our kids, made meals for our family, and literally set up an IV in our house so I could battle my sickness from the comfort of home. That horrible experience was enveloped with love and compassion and kindness from so many people around me. I will never forget how the support of our community built a foundation for my recovery.
Even though social distancing impedes personal interactions, I encourage you to routinely check in with those in your community. They may not be suffering from the coronavirus itself, but many are struggling with isolation and anxiety and having kids at home round the clock (which is a very real struggle!). Check in with each other. Encourage each other. Do whatever you can to love those around you even as you remain physically distant. And receive encouragement from others too. Be the kind of community member who builds a foundation for all of us to climb out of this pandemic together.
Q: Will you be coming back to the States during this crisis?
A: No. Even though the U.S. State Department has encouraged all traveling Americans to return to the States immediately, we do not feel the need to do so. We are not traveling Americans - we are Americans who live abroad. Our home is in Kenya, and since we are safe and well here, we do not intend to leave before our next intended Home Assignment (which will be in 2021).
Q: Is it safe for Eli to continue working at the hospital?
A: Yes. Even though Kenya does not have the same infrastructure in place to deal with a global pandemic like America does, strict safety protocols have been put in place. We remind ourselves that Eli is regularly exposed to all manner of sickness and disease, and he is well equipped to face other contagions like the coronavirus (should it come to that).
Q: Are you being quarantined?A: No. Kenya is not in lockdown mode as of yet. All unnecessary travel has been put on hold, and we are prepared to stay in Chogoria for awhile. We recently stocked up on supplies in Nairobi and are extremely grateful for a refrigerator and freezer! The average Kenyan has no electricity or running water, let alone modern conveniences like fridges and freezers, and therefore is not able to stock up like we are. We consider it an incredible blessing to be able to stock up on supplies at all!
A God Who Redeems the Worst for Good
First things first: we are doing well here in Kenya. The world is in chaos, and Kenya itself has now identified its first cases of coronavirus, yet we are doing well. Thanks be to God.
Current world events have brought to mind the likes of Joseph, Naomi, and David. The current crisis has reminded me that our God is a God who redeems the worst of events by bringing good out of them. God helped a hated brother who was sold into slavery become a powerful leader in Egypt who went on to save countless lives during a severe famine and be reconciled to his family. God helped a devastated woman who'd buried her husband and both sons to find incredible joy through the kindness of a relative and the birth of a grandson. God helped a shepherd boy running for his life to escape danger time and time again and eventually sit on the throne of his enemy and oppressor. Our God is a God who redeems the worst of events by bringing good out of them.
My prayer for the world right now is that God would bring good out of this, specifically that minds and hearts would be turned toward Him and that fear would be replaced with peace.
My prayer for Kenya is that God would bring good out of this, specifically that this culture still in need of greater understanding of proper hygiene and sanitation would be awakened to that understanding. I also pray that fear will be conquered by love for our neighbors.
My prayer for ourselves is that God would satisfy us each morning with His unfailing love, and that we would be glad in these uncertain times. Such an outlook would be a very good thing to come out of all this.
The severity of the current crisis should not be minimized. And neither should the capacity of our God to do marvelous things in the midst of calamity.
Loving Our Neighbor
When I had typhoid in 2017, the Body of Christ took care of me. Our community checked on me daily, prayed over me, posted Scripture verses on the door of our house, watched our kids, made meals for our family, and literally set up an IV in our house so I could battle my sickness from the comfort of home. That horrible experience was enveloped with love and compassion and kindness from so many people around me. I will never forget how the support of our community built a foundation for my recovery.
Even though social distancing impedes personal interactions, I encourage you to routinely check in with those in your community. They may not be suffering from the coronavirus itself, but many are struggling with isolation and anxiety and having kids at home round the clock (which is a very real struggle!). Check in with each other. Encourage each other. Do whatever you can to love those around you even as you remain physically distant. And receive encouragement from others too. Be the kind of community member who builds a foundation for all of us to climb out of this pandemic together.
**********************
Q&A: Coronavirus
Q: Will you be coming back to the States during this crisis?
A: No. Even though the U.S. State Department has encouraged all traveling Americans to return to the States immediately, we do not feel the need to do so. We are not traveling Americans - we are Americans who live abroad. Our home is in Kenya, and since we are safe and well here, we do not intend to leave before our next intended Home Assignment (which will be in 2021).
Q: Is it safe for Eli to continue working at the hospital?
A: Yes. Even though Kenya does not have the same infrastructure in place to deal with a global pandemic like America does, strict safety protocols have been put in place. We remind ourselves that Eli is regularly exposed to all manner of sickness and disease, and he is well equipped to face other contagions like the coronavirus (should it come to that).
Q: Are you being quarantined?A: No. Kenya is not in lockdown mode as of yet. All unnecessary travel has been put on hold, and we are prepared to stay in Chogoria for awhile. We recently stocked up on supplies in Nairobi and are extremely grateful for a refrigerator and freezer! The average Kenyan has no electricity or running water, let alone modern conveniences like fridges and freezers, and therefore is not able to stock up like we are. We consider it an incredible blessing to be able to stock up on supplies at all!
Tuesday, February 11, 2020
Glory in Death
O Death, I have felt your sting. I have seen you take Life again. I have been surprised, sorrowful, enraged, and numb because of your recent incursion.
Yet because of you, I have seen Victory. Not your victory, but His victory. Which became her victory. Because of you and your taking of life, I have seen again that New Life is the end of the story.
Even you, O Death, are being used for a greater purpose. Even you are playing a part in the grand plan to bring New Life to us. Even you submit to the Victor. Even you cannot foil what He purposes.
I will grieve and cry and sleep in sorrow because of what you've done, yet I will rejoice and sing and rise in hope because of what He has done.
One week before Sarah died, we were visiting with her husband and rejoicing in the good news that she was responding to meds and had finally turned a corner. We thought she was out of the woods. We thought she would soon recover. We thought we'd be gathering again in the near future to hear the testimony of how God had healed her.
Instead, one week later we gathered at their home to mourn her death and that of her unborn child.
It was shocking, to say the least. Even though she'd been in the hospital for awhile, no one saw this coming. We woke up on a Wednesday morning and heard the news. The burden of grief weighed on us immediately, and it felt like a stone around our necks.
Sarah was our colleague, our neighbor, our friend. She and her husband are an integral part of our community here, and the entire community felt the enormity of the loss. Not only did she die, but she died in our hospital, under our care. The loss felt personal. Sarah was given incredible care, but her condition was too advanced and she eventually succumbed to it despite everything we could possibly do being done.
How do doctors grieve the loss of a patient who is also their friend?
How does a community grieve the loss of a neighbor we greet on the sidewalk and sit next to at Bible Study?
The answer is together. We grieve together.
This is what love looks like. This is a community of people gathered together, leaving their shoes at the door, to be present with one another in a culture where no one grieves alone.
Yet because of you, I have seen Victory. Not your victory, but His victory. Which became her victory. Because of you and your taking of life, I have seen again that New Life is the end of the story.
Even you, O Death, are being used for a greater purpose. Even you are playing a part in the grand plan to bring New Life to us. Even you submit to the Victor. Even you cannot foil what He purposes.
I will grieve and cry and sleep in sorrow because of what you've done, yet I will rejoice and sing and rise in hope because of what He has done.
**********************
One week before Sarah died, we were visiting with her husband and rejoicing in the good news that she was responding to meds and had finally turned a corner. We thought she was out of the woods. We thought she would soon recover. We thought we'd be gathering again in the near future to hear the testimony of how God had healed her.
Instead, one week later we gathered at their home to mourn her death and that of her unborn child.
It was shocking, to say the least. Even though she'd been in the hospital for awhile, no one saw this coming. We woke up on a Wednesday morning and heard the news. The burden of grief weighed on us immediately, and it felt like a stone around our necks.
Sarah was our colleague, our neighbor, our friend. She and her husband are an integral part of our community here, and the entire community felt the enormity of the loss. Not only did she die, but she died in our hospital, under our care. The loss felt personal. Sarah was given incredible care, but her condition was too advanced and she eventually succumbed to it despite everything we could possibly do being done.
How do doctors grieve the loss of a patient who is also their friend?
How does a community grieve the loss of a neighbor we greet on the sidewalk and sit next to at Bible Study?
The answer is together. We grieve together.
This is what love looks like. This is a community of people gathered together, leaving their shoes at the door, to be present with one another in a culture where no one grieves alone.
On the morning that Sarah died, our community immediately gathered at her house to collectively grieve with her husband, Daniel, and their families. That initial grief gathering was raw. Lots of tears and wailing. The loss was fresh and acutely felt by all. Later that evening we gathered again, cramming people into every corner of the living room and hallway to support each other and to pray and to fellowship in the aftermath of death.
That first evening of fellowship led to another, and another, and another. Our community gathered every single night for fellowship at Sarah and Daniel's house until the funeral 10 days later. Someone would give a devotion, we'd worship and pray, and somehow find ourselves laughing with joy in the midst of such sorrow. Those nightly fellowship gatherings were beautiful and life-giving.
I will admit it felt counter-cultural. Americans would never do this. We grieve much more privately and individually. Yet spending time together each night was a powerful source of healing. As a community who collectively suffered a loss, choosing to connect with each other every night in order to worship our Lord was a balm for the wounds of grief.
In the midst of this, we learned more about the African perspective on death. It was eye-opening and challenging for us Americans. We continually heard people say, "God has done it" or something similar. It was God's will for Sarah to die at this time. That's the reason she died. We must, and do, accept God's will in this.
Such a perspective offers great comfort to the African worldview.
It also goes against the grain of my own worldview.
My response to such tragedy is Why? It isn't fair! She was too young! She had more life to live! Why did You allow this, Lord?
My response was to weep with an American friend at the injustice that Sarah and Daniel will now never have what we have: years ahead of them and children in their midst.
My response echoed these lyrics by Bebo Norman:
Your broken body, it cannot weather
The years your youth still longs to spend
So go down graceful, sleep with the angels
And wake up whole again
'Cause it was not your time; that's a useless line
A fallen world took your life
I agree that a fallen world took her life. The Fall left us in a world where everything dies. But I also agree that God has done it. He at least allowed Sarah's death, as He allows all death. And I must wrestle with these truths.
As I wrestle, I also rejoice in another truth: that Sarah's death brought glory to God. I was reading through Philippians when Sarah died, and Paul's profound words regarding death rang out: "...now as always Christ will be exalted in my body, whether by life or by death" (Philippians 1:20b).
Whether by our lives or our deaths, Christ is exalted.
It was not only Sarah's death, but her baby's death, that brought glory to God. This is a really hard truth for the American worldview. The death of an unborn child bringing glory to God? The idea rankles. It's wrong, unjust, unfair, wholly inglorious.
But Daniel's perspective, which he earnestly expressed in the days following Sarah's death, is true: Sarah did not die childless, as some might assume because the baby was never born. (Bearing children is of preeminent importance in this culture.) Rather, Sarah and her baby are both in heaven together, and someone is calling Sarah "mom" even now.
I wept when I heard him say this. I wept because it's true. And I wept because my entire being still cried out against the unfairness of it all. I wept because there's a tension in my response to Death.
That tension remains, but I am grateful for it. The tension allows both grief and joy, exhaustion and rest, angst and peace. It allows room for the mysteries that surround Life and Death.
**********************
In the midst of the grief process, Philippians 4:8 struck a chord with me:
"Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble,
whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely,
whatever is admirable ⏤ if anything is excellent or praiseworthy ⏤
think about such things."
Sarah loved the Lord and followed Him, and she and her baby are in heaven with Jesus right now. That is true.
The doctors at this hospital did everything within their power to try healing Sarah. That was noble.
Our community gathered around Sarah and Daniel and their families during her sickness. We supported them and encouraged them as best as we could. That was right.
There were ceaseless prayers being offered for Sarah's protection and healing. Those prayers were pure.
The memories of Sarah as a kind, loving, compassionate woman fill us with gratitude and joy. That is lovely.
The greater community, including hospital staff and our church community, worked together to raise funds for funeral expenses and the outstanding hospital bill. That was admirable.
Our community gathered every night to worship together and to remember God's goodness and faithfulness in the midst of death and sorrow, forsaking other commitments in order to do so. That was excellent and praiseworthy.
So we are thinking about such things. We are thanking God for a life well lived, a life that was devoted to serving Him, a life that gave glory to God even in death. We acknowledge God's sovereignty over all things, including death, and we stand amazed at the truth that "Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints" (Psalm 116:15).
There is glory in death. Glory to God.
Wednesday, December 25, 2019
Our History and the Hope of Christmas: Part Two
"Only be careful, and watch
yourselves closely so that you do not forget
the things your
eyes have seen or let them slip from your heart
as long as you
live. Teach them to your children
and to their
children after them."
~ Deuteronomy 4:9
Knowing our past informs the present and gives hope for the future. At least that's how it ought to be. We look back and reflect and then consider our way forward.
We cannot know the past unless we learn about it, unless we choose to engage with whatever is known of our history. Not everything is known, but often a great deal is. Knowing history has many uses and I like to think that it, like Scripture, is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness, so that the servant of God may be thoroughly equipped for every good work (2 Timothy 3:16-17). When we learn about what was done wrong in the past we can hopefully find a better way forward. When we learn about what was done right in the past we can hopefully find ways to replicate that goodness.
History is a powerful and earnest teacher if we're willing to be her student.
I am an ongoing student of the history of missions in Kenya. I am learning both about what was done wrong and what was done right in the past, and hopefully finding solid ground to both reject what was done wrong and replicate what was done right as I live here now.
One of the greatest things I've learned that was done right, over and over again, was the faithful obedience of so many pioneer missionaries here in Kenya. I can only hope that my level of faithfulness will amount to even a fraction of theirs. Their stories have inspired me and moved me to tears, and I am eternally grateful to be following in their footsteps.
This is Johann Krapf, the first Protestant missionary to Kenya.
We cannot know the past unless we learn about it, unless we choose to engage with whatever is known of our history. Not everything is known, but often a great deal is. Knowing history has many uses and I like to think that it, like Scripture, is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness, so that the servant of God may be thoroughly equipped for every good work (2 Timothy 3:16-17). When we learn about what was done wrong in the past we can hopefully find a better way forward. When we learn about what was done right in the past we can hopefully find ways to replicate that goodness.
History is a powerful and earnest teacher if we're willing to be her student.
I am an ongoing student of the history of missions in Kenya. I am learning both about what was done wrong and what was done right in the past, and hopefully finding solid ground to both reject what was done wrong and replicate what was done right as I live here now.
One of the greatest things I've learned that was done right, over and over again, was the faithful obedience of so many pioneer missionaries here in Kenya. I can only hope that my level of faithfulness will amount to even a fraction of theirs. Their stories have inspired me and moved me to tears, and I am eternally grateful to be following in their footsteps.
This is Johann Krapf, the first Protestant missionary to Kenya.
He wrote this: "God bids us first build a cemetery before we build a church or dwelling place."
He also wrote a letter to his mission society afterwards and said this: "Tell our friends at home that there is now
on the East African coast a lonely missionary grave. This is a sign that you have commenced the
struggle with this part of the world, and as the victories of the Church are
gained by stepping over the graves of her members, you may be the more
convinced that the hour is at hand when you are summoned to the conversion of
Africa from its eastern shore."
After this horrendous beginning, Krapf continued on alone for the next two years before someone else came to join his efforts. He spent 13 years in Kenya (or British East Africa, as it was called then) and left with one convert to the Christian faith. A book published in 1906 explained it this way: "Looked at from a
human standpoint, Krapf’s life would seem to have had the word failure written
around it. Thirteen years in Africa,
years of privation and suffering, and those at Mombasa of the deepest sorrow,
and what was there to show for the sacrifice?
A broken-down body and a shattered constitution, two lonely graves on the
hillside at Mombasa and one African convert.
But God has ordered it that no effort for good in this world is ever
lost."
As God would have it, approximately 30 years after Krapf's wife and child died, a mission station and church were built on the plot of land where they were buried. Krapf never saw that particular fruit of his labor. He saw other successes, like compiling a Swahili dictionary and translating the New Testament into Swahili, and of course his one convert, but he never witnessed the joy of seeing a church built in the end.
I look forward to meeting Johann Krapf in heaven and saying thank you for his faithful obedience, for remaining in this land after it stole his family's lives, for not cursing the ground he stood upon but rather turning it into fruitful soil for the future - soil that we now stand upon and are continuing to reap the seeds that were sown by him 175 years ago.
I've been sharing his story with people who I know will be interested. And I intend to share his story with our boys someday, so they will know our history and remember it, and be grateful for it.
The person who joined Krapf in Kenya was this man, Johannes Rebmann. A fellow German, he remained in Kenya for 29 years without a furlough.
By the time he left Kenya, Rebmann was weak and nearly blind and yet had to be convinced to return to Europe for his health. This is a photo of him and his devoted servant Isaak Niondo.
I look forward to meeting Johannes Rebmann in heaven and saying thank you for his faithful obedience, for coming in the first place even while knowing the dangers and hardships, for working so diligently to learn several languages and preach the Gospel to the nations.
I could tell you stories about others who came after these men, who saw little or no successes, who battled diseases and rinderpest and famine, who laid down their lives, some of whose names are forgotten to history although their presence was known. There are too many to write about here, but I am learning about them so I can remember them and tell my children about them. We are standing on their shoulders, just as others will stand on our shoulders in the future.
And although so many of their stories include incredible heartbreak, I am encouraged. I am encouraged by their determination and resilience, by their absolute faithful obedience to Christ's call on their life.
They did what they did because of Christ.
Because He came, they went.
And I am reminded on this day of all days why we choose this life, why we spend Christmas halfway around the world from our families, why we reach across cultures to build the Kingdom in the here and now.
It is because of Emmanuel, God With Us.
It is because of Hope Come Down.
All the struggles and sacrifices of the past, present, and future are given worth in the Christ child and the hope He brings to the world.
Sunday, December 22, 2019
Our History and the Hope of Christmas: Part One
During grad school at Wheaton, I had an assignment for a cross-cultural research class that required us to explore the Archives in the Billy Graham Center and write a simple report on something we found.
I didn't realize it before, but the Archives are laden with missions history.
Missionary journals, newspaper clippings, old photographs and more fill the carefully catalogued collections. Not only that, but the grad school library connected to the Archives is full of books on missions. It's basically a one-stop shop for all things missions-related!
For my assignment, I wound up reading a journal written by a woman named Florence who moved to Kenya in 1906. At the time we had no idea we'd also be moving to Kenya. Eli was still in medical school and we were years away from moving overseas. We knew Africa was in our future, but the specific country was still unknown to us. Regardless, the journal was fascinating.
Florence wrote a small entry every single day. She wrote about leaving America on November 1, 1905, and journeying on a ship across the Atlantic. She landed first in Liverpool, England, where she was delayed for four weeks because of diphtheria, but eventually continued on through the Mediterranean Sea, through the Suez Canal, around the Horn of Africa, and into the port of Mombasa. She landed in British East Africa (as it was called then) on January 9, 1906.
Florence's ministry included teaching Bible lessons, reading, writing, and sewing. She married a long-time friend a few months after arriving - his arrival in Kenya predated hers by a couple years - and together they worked among the Maasai tribe. Her husband, John, compiled a dictionary of the Maasai language and also translated their language into Scripture. They spent decades in Africa and had a fruitful ministry, and I am inspired by them.
I'm inspired not only because of their successes, but also because of their day-in, day-out reality. What fascinated me so much about Florence's journal were the non-ministry details, the behind-the-scenes daily living that is so much of life. She wrote about ants in the house, about ruining the bread, about her husband being sick much of the time, and about an elephant destroying their garden one night. She wrote about going for walks and enjoying picnics, and about looking for colobus monkeys to send back to the Field Museum in Chicago! This was their life, their faithful walk as they spent decades working to build the Kingdom of God in Kenya.
And I am inspired.
I, too, have battled ant infestations in our house. I, too, have ruined the bread. I, too, have suffered from extreme sickness here. And although we've never had an elephant in our garden (thank goodness!) we know well the battles of trying to keep our house and garden intact just so we can keep on living here. Some things, apparently, don't change much in a hundred years.
But many things have changed. Living here is infinitely easier now than it was for Florence and John. We have electricity (most of the time) and quick transportation. We have modern technology and the ability to communicate easily with family and friends back home. We have lots of options for food, even some Western goods, and access to basic medicine.
More importantly, though, is how much has changed in the last hundred years in the Church. The ministry that we are able to do now, at a mission hospital that openly shares the Gospel with patients, is only possible because of the foundations that were laid by pioneers like Florence and John. They advanced the Kingdom here. They shared the truth and love of Jesus and they discipled many. They prepared their generation for pouring into the next, which poured into the next and the next and the next... And now we are here, nearly 114 years later, walking on the foundations laid for us long ago and doing our part to keep advancing the Kingdom here.
It wasn't until we'd been in Kenya for awhile that I remembered reading Florence's journal in grad school. I wanted to look at it again and learn more of the history of missions in Kenya. So, on one of our trips through Chicago during Home Assignment last year, I took the opportunity to spend a couple days at Wheaton and look at Florence's journal in the Archives again. Furthermore, I took the opportunity to look through several books that pertained to the history of missions in Kenya. The more I learned, the more humbled and encouraged I became.
The missionary pioneers I read about (which I'll highlight in the next post) endured much suffering and seemingly little success. They sacrificed a lot and gained very little. Sometimes I feel like that too, because something that's remained the same over time is how slowly things change. We invest in time and energy and money and emotions and prayer and relationships...and the growth and change we came here to participate in happens very slowly.
When I, as a time-sensitive American, get frustrated or discouraged with the pace of change in our ministry, it helps significantly to remember where we've been. Not just where we, the Horns, have been, but to look even further back to those who have gone before us.
Florence wrote this at the very end of her journal in 1906: "What this little book contains of joys and sorrow, struggles, and smooth sailing - may never be seen by other eyes. Yet it has been a comfort to record them. God has kept a better record for which we praise Him and are happy to leave ourselves in His hands for the next 365 days."
I am so grateful to Florence for writing a record of her ministry in Kenya. I have read it and now I know and can remember what God has done. I can remember and be encouraged by God's work and God's timing. He intended to bring Florence to Kenya in 1906 and He intended to bring me here in 2016. We are both part of a bigger story, a story of ages past filled with people crying out for a Savior, and of a God who provided a Savior who embodied eternal hope. We are part of a story that declares "Christ has come" and "It is finished" and "Let the nations be glad."
I am filled with hope at this time of year as we reflect on all God has done this year. And I think it would serve us well to remember beyond this year - to years past, to ages past - and remember what God has done in times and places beyond our own that have made our own time and place of ministry possible.
I didn't realize it before, but the Archives are laden with missions history.
Missionary journals, newspaper clippings, old photographs and more fill the carefully catalogued collections. Not only that, but the grad school library connected to the Archives is full of books on missions. It's basically a one-stop shop for all things missions-related!
For my assignment, I wound up reading a journal written by a woman named Florence who moved to Kenya in 1906. At the time we had no idea we'd also be moving to Kenya. Eli was still in medical school and we were years away from moving overseas. We knew Africa was in our future, but the specific country was still unknown to us. Regardless, the journal was fascinating.
Florence wrote a small entry every single day. She wrote about leaving America on November 1, 1905, and journeying on a ship across the Atlantic. She landed first in Liverpool, England, where she was delayed for four weeks because of diphtheria, but eventually continued on through the Mediterranean Sea, through the Suez Canal, around the Horn of Africa, and into the port of Mombasa. She landed in British East Africa (as it was called then) on January 9, 1906.
Florence's ministry included teaching Bible lessons, reading, writing, and sewing. She married a long-time friend a few months after arriving - his arrival in Kenya predated hers by a couple years - and together they worked among the Maasai tribe. Her husband, John, compiled a dictionary of the Maasai language and also translated their language into Scripture. They spent decades in Africa and had a fruitful ministry, and I am inspired by them.
I'm inspired not only because of their successes, but also because of their day-in, day-out reality. What fascinated me so much about Florence's journal were the non-ministry details, the behind-the-scenes daily living that is so much of life. She wrote about ants in the house, about ruining the bread, about her husband being sick much of the time, and about an elephant destroying their garden one night. She wrote about going for walks and enjoying picnics, and about looking for colobus monkeys to send back to the Field Museum in Chicago! This was their life, their faithful walk as they spent decades working to build the Kingdom of God in Kenya.
And I am inspired.
I, too, have battled ant infestations in our house. I, too, have ruined the bread. I, too, have suffered from extreme sickness here. And although we've never had an elephant in our garden (thank goodness!) we know well the battles of trying to keep our house and garden intact just so we can keep on living here. Some things, apparently, don't change much in a hundred years.
But many things have changed. Living here is infinitely easier now than it was for Florence and John. We have electricity (most of the time) and quick transportation. We have modern technology and the ability to communicate easily with family and friends back home. We have lots of options for food, even some Western goods, and access to basic medicine.
More importantly, though, is how much has changed in the last hundred years in the Church. The ministry that we are able to do now, at a mission hospital that openly shares the Gospel with patients, is only possible because of the foundations that were laid by pioneers like Florence and John. They advanced the Kingdom here. They shared the truth and love of Jesus and they discipled many. They prepared their generation for pouring into the next, which poured into the next and the next and the next... And now we are here, nearly 114 years later, walking on the foundations laid for us long ago and doing our part to keep advancing the Kingdom here.
It wasn't until we'd been in Kenya for awhile that I remembered reading Florence's journal in grad school. I wanted to look at it again and learn more of the history of missions in Kenya. So, on one of our trips through Chicago during Home Assignment last year, I took the opportunity to spend a couple days at Wheaton and look at Florence's journal in the Archives again. Furthermore, I took the opportunity to look through several books that pertained to the history of missions in Kenya. The more I learned, the more humbled and encouraged I became.
The missionary pioneers I read about (which I'll highlight in the next post) endured much suffering and seemingly little success. They sacrificed a lot and gained very little. Sometimes I feel like that too, because something that's remained the same over time is how slowly things change. We invest in time and energy and money and emotions and prayer and relationships...and the growth and change we came here to participate in happens very slowly.
When I, as a time-sensitive American, get frustrated or discouraged with the pace of change in our ministry, it helps significantly to remember where we've been. Not just where we, the Horns, have been, but to look even further back to those who have gone before us.
Florence wrote this at the very end of her journal in 1906: "What this little book contains of joys and sorrow, struggles, and smooth sailing - may never be seen by other eyes. Yet it has been a comfort to record them. God has kept a better record for which we praise Him and are happy to leave ourselves in His hands for the next 365 days."
I am so grateful to Florence for writing a record of her ministry in Kenya. I have read it and now I know and can remember what God has done. I can remember and be encouraged by God's work and God's timing. He intended to bring Florence to Kenya in 1906 and He intended to bring me here in 2016. We are both part of a bigger story, a story of ages past filled with people crying out for a Savior, and of a God who provided a Savior who embodied eternal hope. We are part of a story that declares "Christ has come" and "It is finished" and "Let the nations be glad."
I am filled with hope at this time of year as we reflect on all God has done this year. And I think it would serve us well to remember beyond this year - to years past, to ages past - and remember what God has done in times and places beyond our own that have made our own time and place of ministry possible.
Sunday, October 27, 2019
Jesus Was Not a Mzungu
The Swahili word for "white person" is mzungu. The word for "god" is mungu. With only one letter difference between them (the z), they sound very similar.
Recently I went to a local shop for bread and other staples. There were several school children outside the shop and I heard a couple of them saying something with the word mzungu in it. We hear that word all the time. We are an anomaly here, and children in particular like to point out the fact that we have white skin.
So it was not unusual to hear children saying, yet again, mzungu as I entered the scene. At least, I thought I heard the word mzungu. As it turns out, in actuality they were saying mungu. Two words that are so similar in sound, and yet sooooo different in meaning.
The children were saying that I was like a god.
I didn't understand the situation at first and I smiled at the kids as they called me mzungu, which is what I understood to be happening. But thankfully another woman who was standing outside the shop decided to address the very erroneous implication that I was like a god.
She called for one of the boys to come and see me, then told me directly, "They think you are like a god. I am telling him you are just a person. Let them come and see you are just a person."
And suddenly I realized the truth of the situation. They were using the word mungu, and I had been smiling at them as if it was funny at best, truth at absolute worst. I thank God for the woman who chose to speak up!
When I realized the situation, I also called for the boy to come. "Kuja, kuja. Habari yako?" He came obediently but skeptically, and we shook hands. The woman said something else in Swahili that was too fast for me to catch, and then the boy went on his way.
The woman was clearly upset and disturbed. She came into the shop with me and repeated herself, "They need to know you are just a person. I wanted them to know you are just a person." She relayed what had transpired to the shopkeeper and I wanted to encourage them both that I was in agreement.
"You're right," I said. "We are just people, the same as you."
"Yes! You are the same as us!"
"It can be confusing because there are so many pictures of Jesus as a mzungu, but Jesus was not white."
"Jesus was not white."
"Yes," I said. "Jesus has usually been portrayed as a white person with light skin and light hair. But he was born in Israel. He had dark skin and dark hair."
That caused a pause, but I charged on. "So it's easy to be confused, which is unfortunate, because Jesus was not a mzungu. I'm glad you said something. I also want them to know that I am just a person. I am just like them."
There was a general agreement with that, and somehow we moved on to making our purchases and I left for home.
But I was mortified. Those Kenyan children thought I was like a god? Just because I have white skin? There is no worse thing they could have imagined me to be! I was absolutely mortified.
I was reminded of Paul and Barnabas in Lystra. Paul healed a crippled man and immediately the people thought they were the gods come down. "The gods have come down to us in human form!" they said. They identified Paul as Hermes, and Barnabas as Zeus.
Needless to say, Paul and Barnabas were horrified. So horrified, in fact, that they tore their clothes. They shouted, "Men, why are you doing this? We too are only men, human like you. We are bringing you good news, telling you to turn from these worthless things to the living God, who made heaven and earth and sea and everything in them."
Granted, they were likened to gods because they did something miraculous while I was likened to a god only because of my skin color, but the erroneous falsehood remained. There is only one true God. Period.
As for the misconception of the school children here, it's easy to understand their line of thinking. They have most likely seen pictures of Jesus like this:
Not only is our Savior usually depicted with white skin, but often His salvific work on the cross has been portrayed with a Savior that's as white as a Scandanavian in the middle of winter. Look at that pasty whiteness! It's blinding.
The idea that Jesus was white gets ingrained in us from childhood. What else would we expect when, on top of images like those above, we produce and read children's Bibles with a white Jesus?
Based upon my experience with the school children, it apparently remains necessary to continue spreading this truth.
I was also reminded of a story I heard a couple years ago. A Kenyan friend was telling me about the first time she saw a mzungu. She was a child at the time and a German missionary had come to the area. When she saw the white man she immediately thought she was seeing Jesus. She even went home and told her mother that she had seen Jesus. As my friend told me this story she was laughing, because she knew how ridiculous it was, and I laughed too. But my heart ached at the same time. The perception that Jesus was a mzungu was, and still is, needing to be squashed.
So let me add my emphatic voice: Jesus was not a mzungu! Jesus was not a white man! He was an Israelite, a Jew, who came to seek and save the lost, which includes all of us whether we are white or black or anywhere in between.
Recently I went to a local shop for bread and other staples. There were several school children outside the shop and I heard a couple of them saying something with the word mzungu in it. We hear that word all the time. We are an anomaly here, and children in particular like to point out the fact that we have white skin.
So it was not unusual to hear children saying, yet again, mzungu as I entered the scene. At least, I thought I heard the word mzungu. As it turns out, in actuality they were saying mungu. Two words that are so similar in sound, and yet sooooo different in meaning.
The children were saying that I was like a god.
I didn't understand the situation at first and I smiled at the kids as they called me mzungu, which is what I understood to be happening. But thankfully another woman who was standing outside the shop decided to address the very erroneous implication that I was like a god.
She called for one of the boys to come and see me, then told me directly, "They think you are like a god. I am telling him you are just a person. Let them come and see you are just a person."
And suddenly I realized the truth of the situation. They were using the word mungu, and I had been smiling at them as if it was funny at best, truth at absolute worst. I thank God for the woman who chose to speak up!
When I realized the situation, I also called for the boy to come. "Kuja, kuja. Habari yako?" He came obediently but skeptically, and we shook hands. The woman said something else in Swahili that was too fast for me to catch, and then the boy went on his way.
The woman was clearly upset and disturbed. She came into the shop with me and repeated herself, "They need to know you are just a person. I wanted them to know you are just a person." She relayed what had transpired to the shopkeeper and I wanted to encourage them both that I was in agreement.
"You're right," I said. "We are just people, the same as you."
"Yes! You are the same as us!"
"It can be confusing because there are so many pictures of Jesus as a mzungu, but Jesus was not white."
"Jesus was not white."
"Yes," I said. "Jesus has usually been portrayed as a white person with light skin and light hair. But he was born in Israel. He had dark skin and dark hair."
That caused a pause, but I charged on. "So it's easy to be confused, which is unfortunate, because Jesus was not a mzungu. I'm glad you said something. I also want them to know that I am just a person. I am just like them."
There was a general agreement with that, and somehow we moved on to making our purchases and I left for home.
But I was mortified. Those Kenyan children thought I was like a god? Just because I have white skin? There is no worse thing they could have imagined me to be! I was absolutely mortified.
I was reminded of Paul and Barnabas in Lystra. Paul healed a crippled man and immediately the people thought they were the gods come down. "The gods have come down to us in human form!" they said. They identified Paul as Hermes, and Barnabas as Zeus.
Needless to say, Paul and Barnabas were horrified. So horrified, in fact, that they tore their clothes. They shouted, "Men, why are you doing this? We too are only men, human like you. We are bringing you good news, telling you to turn from these worthless things to the living God, who made heaven and earth and sea and everything in them."
Granted, they were likened to gods because they did something miraculous while I was likened to a god only because of my skin color, but the erroneous falsehood remained. There is only one true God. Period.
As for the misconception of the school children here, it's easy to understand their line of thinking. They have most likely seen pictures of Jesus like this:
And this:
And this:
Not only is our Savior usually depicted with white skin, but often His salvific work on the cross has been portrayed with a Savior that's as white as a Scandanavian in the middle of winter. Look at that pasty whiteness! It's blinding.
It's actually quite normal to think of others from our own frame of reference. Therefore, I think it's natural for white children to think of Jesus as white because they're identifying Him with what they know - their own white skin. But unless they are taught otherwise, they will grow up thinking the falsehood that Jesus was white. In reality, because Jesus was born in Israel he "would have looked like a Palestinian or Sephardi Jew, with brown skin and black hair."
Which means He probably looked more like this:
Or this:
I was also reminded of a story I heard a couple years ago. A Kenyan friend was telling me about the first time she saw a mzungu. She was a child at the time and a German missionary had come to the area. When she saw the white man she immediately thought she was seeing Jesus. She even went home and told her mother that she had seen Jesus. As my friend told me this story she was laughing, because she knew how ridiculous it was, and I laughed too. But my heart ached at the same time. The perception that Jesus was a mzungu was, and still is, needing to be squashed.
So let me add my emphatic voice: Jesus was not a mzungu! Jesus was not a white man! He was an Israelite, a Jew, who came to seek and save the lost, which includes all of us whether we are white or black or anywhere in between.
Tuesday, September 10, 2019
Culture Charts and Navigating Culture
This came about because of the day I inadvertently traumatized two of our three children. What I thought would be a good cultural experience for us all turned into one anxiety attack and one peak of frustration that culminated in two sobbing little boys desperate for an escape from said cultural experience.
Talk about a parent fail.
We had only been in Kenya for a few months, and our gardener mentioned that the nearby school was having traditional dance performances. I was intrigued and wanted to see this for myself and take photos. Better yet, I could take all the boys with me and we could learn about this cultural tradition together! I explained to Caleb and Kai what we were going to do. I told them there'd be singing and dancing and people dressed in costumes, even with paint on their faces. It sounded so fun and exciting to the boys. Costumes? Face paint? Who wouldn't want to see that?
So I strapped the baby on my back, and off we went with our gardener leading the way.
We could hear the singing before we entered the school compound, and it was loud. Music is usually loud here, so I wasn't phased, but once we entered the compound it was nearly deafening. That should have been my first clue that things were about to go south, particularly because Caleb struggled with some auditory sensory issues at that time.
The second clue, which was less of a clue and more of an in-your-face realization, happened about one minute after we arrived and the group of students which had finished performing came streaming out the side door of the school, right to where we were standing. They were dressed in traditional African attire and had various designs painted on their faces with white paint. It was an impressive sight. Or a terrifying sight, as it turned out to be for my boys. Without skipping a beat, the whole group of students literally surrounded us and squatted down to peer into the faces of my sons at an extremely close range.
Caleb instantly began crying, and I mean crying, deep and anxious tears. Kai buried his face into my side and clung to me like his life depended upon it.
I couldn't blame them. It takes a lot of strength to bear the stares we receive as a minority here. Our white skin attracts a lot of attention, and white children garner an even greater amount of attention.
But to have that kind of attention literally in their face and without any prior warning? It was too much. My boys simply fell apart.
Except for Asa, who sat content on my back, oblivious that anything was amiss.
But while the baby was blissfully ignorant of the complete invasion of our personal space, my two other boys were acutely aware and utterly overwhelmed. So I told our gardener that we needed to move to a different spot. He took us to the back of the building where we could be alone and catch our breath a bit. I successfully calmed Caleb down and detached Kai from clinging to my skirt, then asked if they'd be okay standing with our gardener for a minute so I could take some photos. They agreed, and I went inside the school for literally two minutes to take some photos and a video. When I came back outside, I discovered that another group of students had descended upon my children and were doing the same thing as the first group: squatting down at eye level and staring at my children. They, too, were dressed in traditional dance attire, with face paint, and an intimidating presence. No one was speaking to my boys. They were just staring at them. And so both of the boys were now a sobbing, hot mess. Caleb was having an anxiety attack and Kai didn't know what to do with these people who wouldn't leave him be and so just resorted to crying about it.
And my inner Mama Bear came out. For better or worse, I couldn't contain her. I swept forward and threw my hands out to create distance between my children and these youth who didn't seem to understand the situation. I wasn't angry at them, per se, since I know that personal space doesn't really exist in this culture, but I was definitely defensive of my babies and needing to protect them from the turmoil I'd unwittingly dragged them into.
We left immediately and the boys refused to let go of my hands until we were a good distance away from the school. Eventually they both recovered from the trauma of being on display for a group of people dressed in traditional dance costumes. But I felt terrible for putting them through that experience and wanted to reward them somehow for surviving through it.
And that's when I inaugurated their Culture Charts.
The concept was simple: for every new cultural experience, they would earn a sticker. When they filled out a chart, they'd earn a prize. It was as simple as that. And I decided to backtrack for all the cultural experiences they'd already had, so they filled up their first charts pretty quickly with experiences like:
Learning how to greet people.
Going to church.
Shopping at the store.
Visiting someone at their home.
Traditional dances.
Other experiences included going to the U.S. Embassy, visiting the dentist, meeting Maasai women on safari, and drinking chai.
Some of these things seem so simple. Going to church, for example. They've been going to church since they were born. But going to church in Kenya is not the same as going to church in America. There are a lot of differences. Visiting someone at their home? Definitely not the same here as it is in America. The first time we visited someone in the village, Caleb couldn't go into the house. It was just different enough that he couldn't do it. We let him play outside and he was fine, and several months later he eventually he made the huge step of going into a Kenyan home and not batting an eye, but it took extra time for him.
It was a new cultural experience, and he earned a sticker for it. Which was rewarding and affirming and motivating for him. Which was exactly why I chose to do Culture Charts in the first place.
Talk about a parent fail.
We had only been in Kenya for a few months, and our gardener mentioned that the nearby school was having traditional dance performances. I was intrigued and wanted to see this for myself and take photos. Better yet, I could take all the boys with me and we could learn about this cultural tradition together! I explained to Caleb and Kai what we were going to do. I told them there'd be singing and dancing and people dressed in costumes, even with paint on their faces. It sounded so fun and exciting to the boys. Costumes? Face paint? Who wouldn't want to see that?
So I strapped the baby on my back, and off we went with our gardener leading the way.
We could hear the singing before we entered the school compound, and it was loud. Music is usually loud here, so I wasn't phased, but once we entered the compound it was nearly deafening. That should have been my first clue that things were about to go south, particularly because Caleb struggled with some auditory sensory issues at that time.
The second clue, which was less of a clue and more of an in-your-face realization, happened about one minute after we arrived and the group of students which had finished performing came streaming out the side door of the school, right to where we were standing. They were dressed in traditional African attire and had various designs painted on their faces with white paint. It was an impressive sight. Or a terrifying sight, as it turned out to be for my boys. Without skipping a beat, the whole group of students literally surrounded us and squatted down to peer into the faces of my sons at an extremely close range.
Caleb instantly began crying, and I mean crying, deep and anxious tears. Kai buried his face into my side and clung to me like his life depended upon it.
I couldn't blame them. It takes a lot of strength to bear the stares we receive as a minority here. Our white skin attracts a lot of attention, and white children garner an even greater amount of attention.
But to have that kind of attention literally in their face and without any prior warning? It was too much. My boys simply fell apart.
Except for Asa, who sat content on my back, oblivious that anything was amiss.
But while the baby was blissfully ignorant of the complete invasion of our personal space, my two other boys were acutely aware and utterly overwhelmed. So I told our gardener that we needed to move to a different spot. He took us to the back of the building where we could be alone and catch our breath a bit. I successfully calmed Caleb down and detached Kai from clinging to my skirt, then asked if they'd be okay standing with our gardener for a minute so I could take some photos. They agreed, and I went inside the school for literally two minutes to take some photos and a video. When I came back outside, I discovered that another group of students had descended upon my children and were doing the same thing as the first group: squatting down at eye level and staring at my children. They, too, were dressed in traditional dance attire, with face paint, and an intimidating presence. No one was speaking to my boys. They were just staring at them. And so both of the boys were now a sobbing, hot mess. Caleb was having an anxiety attack and Kai didn't know what to do with these people who wouldn't leave him be and so just resorted to crying about it.
And my inner Mama Bear came out. For better or worse, I couldn't contain her. I swept forward and threw my hands out to create distance between my children and these youth who didn't seem to understand the situation. I wasn't angry at them, per se, since I know that personal space doesn't really exist in this culture, but I was definitely defensive of my babies and needing to protect them from the turmoil I'd unwittingly dragged them into.
We left immediately and the boys refused to let go of my hands until we were a good distance away from the school. Eventually they both recovered from the trauma of being on display for a group of people dressed in traditional dance costumes. But I felt terrible for putting them through that experience and wanted to reward them somehow for surviving through it.
And that's when I inaugurated their Culture Charts.
The concept was simple: for every new cultural experience, they would earn a sticker. When they filled out a chart, they'd earn a prize. It was as simple as that. And I decided to backtrack for all the cultural experiences they'd already had, so they filled up their first charts pretty quickly with experiences like:
Learning how to greet people.
Going to church.
Shopping at the store.
Visiting someone at their home.
Traditional dances.
Other experiences included going to the U.S. Embassy, visiting the dentist, meeting Maasai women on safari, and drinking chai.
Some of these things seem so simple. Going to church, for example. They've been going to church since they were born. But going to church in Kenya is not the same as going to church in America. There are a lot of differences. Visiting someone at their home? Definitely not the same here as it is in America. The first time we visited someone in the village, Caleb couldn't go into the house. It was just different enough that he couldn't do it. We let him play outside and he was fine, and several months later he eventually he made the huge step of going into a Kenyan home and not batting an eye, but it took extra time for him.
It was a new cultural experience, and he earned a sticker for it. Which was rewarding and affirming and motivating for him. Which was exactly why I chose to do Culture Charts in the first place.
We don't use Culture Charts anymore. The boys have acclimated enough that they're not necessary, which is a good thing. I had almost forgotten about them until I found them while unpacking here at Chogoria. It warmed my heart to see the charts again and be reminded of how far our boys have come in navigating their way through this culture. They're still navigating their way through it, as are we. But now we can simply have conversations with the boys about culture. Culture charts are no longer needed to encourage and affirm these kids in their journey through cross-cultural living, and I'm thankful for that.
Sometimes, though, I wish they could still earn stickers. It was a tangible reminder of what they've learned, and how far they've come.
And sometimes I wish I could have a Culture Chart too. I wish I could've earned a sticker for the first time I ate ugali and sukumawiki. And I would've given myself a sticker for the first time I heard Swahili and understood what was being said. And for learning to drive on the left side of the road, with cows and goats and zebras in the way. And for trying and failing to make chai on my own. And for learning the difference between geckos and skinks. And for having my hair pulled during church because some kids were curious what long, blonde hair felt like. And for suffering through typhoid. I actually would've given myself two stickers for that one...or maybe three...or maybe ten...
But there was no tangible way for me to mark milestones in navigating culture. There was only the awareness that I had done something new, sometimes succeeding and sometimes not. And knowing that I had done something new was an achievement in and of itself.
The only way to acclimate to a new culture is to do all the new cultural things that come your way. And once you do them (or in some cases, once you do them over and over again), then you have the hope of mastering them and being more grounded in this new culture. And eventually it doesn't all feel new anymore. Some aspects of this culture begin to feel familiar. And that is an amazing feeling. That feeling, in fact, is the greatest prize I could ever hope to earn as I navigate my way through this cross-cultural life.
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