The other morning we went to a school to encourage the students and teach them about Christ and also the importance of education (of course this is the plug that the teachers wanted us to make).

We walk on the grounds and hundreds of giggling elementary school children race by to catch a glimpse of the mzungus (white people). After the teachers gather them into an assembly outside then we traipse out in order to talk about education and our hearts. We introduce ourselves and sing some songs. Then, Chad teaches on wisdom and God while the children listen attentively.

After the scheduled events we asked the students if they had any questions. They asked about the burning bush and other bible knowledge. Then, the teachers asked their questions. They weren't as easy and lighthearted to answer as the ones that the children asked.

"What do you do with orphaned children in education?"

"How do you deal with the issue of AIDS in school?"

We answer the questions as best we can with the limited knowledge we have on these issues. And I'm disconcerted and they prompt me to ask questions. I ask one of the teachers in a whisper, "How many children are there at the school". "350" is the response. "How many of them are orphans", I ask. "Over 100", she replies. "And how many of them have AIDS?" "Many, many have AIDS", she says matter-of-factly with a frown.

Many have aids. Many are orphans.

So many children in the US deal with loads of issues daily as elementary school students, but how many deal with the reality of AIDS? How often do we complain about how our parents react to situations when we should be grateful that we have parents we can complain about?

 

Why do we live with such low expectations? Are we not equipped with the same spirit who guided in healing, feeding the five thousand, casting out demons, and raising the dead? The spirit isn't absent. No, we are just stagnant. We have to release the spirit within. Are we trying to limit the spirit? Pressing it down unto submission by our flesh? Awake oh sleeper and engage in Him! He's what we need. He's all we need.

Do we really think there are things outside of him that can quench our thirst and satisfy our souls? That's like trying to feed a flame with water. It doesn't bring life it douses it. Draw near to Him. It's not too late. He weeps for his wayward brides. He wants true intimate relationships. And if you think for one pure moment that's all you want too. What does he offer? The question is what thing that is good does he NOT offer? He gives abundantly unwavering, unconditional love. He is consistent. He is perfect. He gives blessings and provision, peace and forgiveness.

 

I'm not a great writer and I get nervous when people read my thoughts. There is something vulnerable about it that makes me squirm but its unfair to leave things unsaid and unshared. Here are some new blogs from Kenya. Enjoy and feel free to comment or question. I know my words can go on and on or meander around the point so let me thank you in advance for your patience.

I'm sorry that I tend to write more about what God's teaching me than actual tangible events-So here are three stories from Kenya: Entitled "God Can Heal", "White Wash", and "Elementary My Dear Watson."

As Chad has mentioned, we worked this month evangelizing house to house. Our objective was to bring the kingdom whether that means salvation, healing, prayer and more. This particular story is emotional for me and I know I'm growing and learning through this situation.

My team, Jen, several churchwomen, and I, find ourselves in a mud-hut home. It is remarkably cooler than the sweltering sun of midday. The thatched roof creates this breezy atmosphere. After doing a tiny "Yay I'm cooler now" dance I look around to adjust to my surroundings. About ten women meet my gaze with a look of expectancy and await the words that we are going to share. I gulp. After some introductions we tell why we've come from America: to share the word of Christ, to invite people to have a relationship with Him, to encourage and pray for those who already do. They listen attentively and entrust us with prayer needs after assuring us that they were also believers. After several prayers are requested she gives us the big one. She drops the healing bomb.

My stomach leaps to my chest and begins thumping wildly off beat with my heart. I gulp again. You've got this God. I know you can do this. I push up my spiritual sleeves and walk hand in hand into the room where the daughter who needs healing is lying. I exhale. I didn't realize I had been holding my breath.

The woman had frail limbs, thin, and lacking muscle. Her arm was covering her eyes but I recognized the tear stains streaking her dirty cheeks. I feel really conscious of my breathing and how it breaks the silence. And then the issue at hand---My eyes linger on her cause for pain: a protruding belly. Her stomach was round and disturbing in contrast with her fragile body as delicate and breakable as porcelain. It looked as though if I touched her limbs that they would crumble like a relic or artifact discovered by an amateur archeologist.

I struggle between touching and not and then quickly decide that in laying hands I feel like God can use me better. Perhaps his power could drip from my fingertips. I know it sounds as if I was nervous and the truth was that I was nervous with expectancy and excitement not with doubt. I turn to Jen, my partner in crime and we begin praying. We don't know what is wrong aside from what we see. She's not pregnant because her belly is of a different type. As we pray there are about ten Africans praying aloud with us at the same time. It is very INTENSE in a great way.

It's obvious that everyone in that hut wanted her to be healed, and expected it to happen. Everyone was weeping and interceding on her behalf. I found myself with tears flowing freely on my own face. After what could have been anywhere from five minutes to five hours we stop praying.

During the prayer we could feel movement similar to an intense grumble dancing around. Surely, the Holy Spirit was moving within her body setting things straight and bringing kingdom into her body in ways of health, wholeness, and restoration. It's not that her stomach moved to normal size when we opened our eyes but I'm also suggesting that even though we couldn't see the healing manifested in front of us that He still did a redemptive work in her body.

 

 

 

First, she rubs my skin vigorously- like a carpet burn. She closes her eyes for affect and when she opens them a look of indignant surprise lingers on her face just moments before determination is newly etched in. She takes a new approach-wiping the top of her hand onto my arm as if to wipe the brown onto my desperately pale skin. My skin looks promisingly pinker. We meet eyes and snigger for a couple of minutes.

Her grandfather and my translator obviously missed the endeavor at hand: "cure my whiteness". They were not amused. We immediately stopped laughing out loud but our continued sloppy grins revealed the mischievous giggles we were hiding. Despite her efforts I'm still white although I have acquired a minor tan from hours of scuffling down the road in the sun.

I'm a lanky little girl with knobby over-sized knees and the clumsiness to match my awkwardness (think baby camel taking it's first steps.). PS: This has nothing to do with the story, but it makes for a funny mental picture? So, there I am a fresh Christian (as far as my mind could grasp) and I'm flipping through the channels on the TV.

I'll add some background info so it makes more sense why I'm doing what I'm doing in this story. To be frank, I was a weird kid. I had been cooking on the stove since I was six. During the summers (when this story takes place), I would occupy myself with the usual reading and games but I also just as often used my creative gene. I liked to draw, paint, and make stuffed animals by sewing with scrap fabric I had found. I turned dryer lint into paper mache. I actually got into trouble a lot for using "trash" (It was clean, people) as an invention. All these projects usually began when my A.D.D., distractible mind would get off task (of cleaning something) and find something obscure to have fun with-thus my existence as a child.